Adaptive Curmudgeon

I like to examine how much I suck (or rule?) at prognostication. I’ve started to use PredictIt to detect if I’m for real or full of shit. This is the first update of 2019.

Win-shutdown: In December I made a minuscule (but good ROI%) on “will there be a shutdown”. I bid “NO” for a deadline of December 10th. (If the event resolves as a NO I’d get $1, if it resolves as YES I’d get $0. I can also buy in and out anytime before the resolution.)

There was no shutdown on December 10th. I win!

I bought 4 shares at “NO” at $0.62 and then a few weeks later I bought another 10 at “NO” for $0.72. I rode it all the way to $1. Profit wasn’t quite enough to buy a six pack.

After that I looked at the next “shutdown” market and stayed clear. Everyone went nuts and I couldn’t make head’s nor tails. Gotta know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em. Or in my case, I detected the complete absence of logic and predictability and stayed far away.

Lose-Trump Testify: I took a micro-bath (<$1) on “will Trump testify in 2018“. I bought 2 shares of “NO” but on December 18th it resolved to $0. I don’t recall seeing Trump swearing in at a court of law or a congressional setting but the arbitrator thinks it happened and I won’t disagree. Presumably there was some wiggle room involving maybe a written memo or something? I was bummed out because I felt like I called it right; I never saw Trump with his hand on a bible swearing in. But I’m sure “the ref” carefully defined things and made a call in accordance with the rules. (On a related note, when there’s an election and I don’t like the results, I refrain from running around the streets screaming and breaking things. That’s just how I roll.)

Win-Trump Jr. Charges: I had two shares of “NO” for “Will a federal charge against Donald Trump, Jr. be confirmed by year-end 2018?” Unsurprisingly, the market resolved to $1. I made more on this than I lost on the Trump testify market. Again, were talking such a small amount I can barely use my winnings to buy a couple postage stamps.

Win-Baby It’s Cold Outside: This next move was just as I’d planned but I bailed too soon. I bought some shares of “Will NASA find 2019’s global average temperature highest on record?” I bought “NO” at $0.52. (See a pattern here? I like to buy “NO”.) This one should be an easy steal deal because any record is by definition rare. Unfortunately, it’s not an unbiased event. I have doubts about NASA cooking the numbers on an aggregate planetary index.

I played this as a market about how people confuse “weather” and “planetary climate index”. I bought “NO” and planned to wait until it was cold and snowing in the northern hemisphere. Everyone who just burned their Whole Foods reusable shopping bag to stay warm in a blizzard would be thinking “NO” and I’d make bank. It was a very hot December so this was a gamble. When it turned cold, as it always does in January, I bailed out at $0.62 for a tiny but effortless profit.

Then the polar vortex killed every living being in Chicago and my backyard was so cold my nuts won’t thaw until March. Damn!

The price is now $0.71 for “NO”. Whoops! It’ll probably stay that profitable (for “NO”) until it’s August when everyone in the northern hemisphere is shocked to discover that summer is hot (maybe just before that I’ll buy some “YES”).

Oh well; I didn’t lose, I just missed the extra profit I could have squeezed from a huge storm.

Waiting But Confident-Ginsberg: I’m sitting on a handful of shares of “GINSBERG” for “Who will be the next justice to leave the Supreme Court?” I’m keeping those shares until resolution. They’re not for sale y’all!

I bought in at $0.73 after the nearly unkillable Mrs. Ginsberg broke three ribs. I wish I’d bought before the ribs but, as the Rolling Stones once said, you can’t always get what you want. Before, during, and after the rib event, the press was reporting on Mrs. Ginsberg like she was lifting weights in preparation for an MMA match.

A few weeks later Mrs. Ginsberg had “unexpected” cancer surgery. By “unexpected” I mean “totally expected but not reported to us peons”. The cancer was detected during the broken rib event. That means it was “expected” for every moment after that day. Nobody said jack squat for weeks. It’s almost like the crack investigative reporters in the press were too busy doing everything they could to not know about it. Of course, the press discussed her cancer surgery like it was an awesome way to spend an afternoon. In fact she was wrestling alligators and doing pull ups to the sound of crossfit training tapes.

After that, Ginsberg vanished. Last confirmed public sighting was around December 21st. Check your calendars folks, that’s seven and a half weeks without a single photo of her merely standing upright. There are text reports that she was mobile on February 4th but no photographic evidence to back it up. I’m suspicious of a press that says she’s chopping wood with an ax and climbing mountains but can’t dredge up a photo of a SCOTUS justice just standing. Oh yeah, there’s the fact that she hasn’t showed up at work (which is understandable, but not an indicator of good health.) She’s actually “voted” a few times and by “voted” I mean “someone somehow conferred her wishes”. How’d that happen? Was it through legitimate means like a notarized document or do they send an intern to do interpretive dance at the Oracle at Delphi? Given the press, how am I to know? More importantly how do you know?

Seriously, how do you know that Justice Ginsberg isn’t tits up in the flower garden? I’ve seen Trump’s Orange face and Pelosi sucking lemons at the SOTU speech. This is evidence that those two freaks are healthy. But Ginsberg never shows up to a republican President’s SOTU and (as I mentioned) seems to impossible to photograph. What’s a guy got to do? Setup trail cams in the Supreme Court Building? How does any American citizen know that Ginsberg, who’s a very important person, is still at the wheel?

Also, Ginsberg remains a ghost but the price is still only $0.75. WTF? How is that the correct risk analysis? Melania Trump was out of the spotlight a few weeks in 2018 and the press speculated all sorts of exciting things. Meanwhile, a Supreme Court Justice is MIA a month shy of her 86th birthday and there’s nothing to see here. Really? What’s she doing? Backpacking across Europe? Doing bong hits in Guam? Side gig as an Uber driver? It seems due diligence to show America a photo of our paid leadership standing and breathing at least once a week.

Sadly, there’s not a lot of profit to harvest at the ride from $0.75 to $1. At least I got a few shares. I reiterate my belief that the press will report she’s healthy and running marathons until she suddenly and unexpected died two weeks ago.

On a more personal note, I honor Mrs. Ginsberg’s resilience (which is incredible!). I sure as hell wont be working that hard when (if!) I reach that age. However, unless Nancy Pelosi can do a resurrection spell or Clarence Thomas is hit by a meteorite, Ruth Ginsberg is the next to go and that’s that. I’ll make a sawbuck when it happens. This is why I’m in a prediction market. Unicorns don’t exist but true believers do and I’m hoping to fleece the latter.

Uncertain but Trending Well-Vaginal Preference In Judges: I bought some shares of “YES” for “Will Trump’s next Supreme Court nominee be a woman?” A coin flip would be $0.50. I bought in at $0.52 and today it’s riding at $0.53. Honestly, that’s still basically coin flip numbers.

I don’t like the bet because in a fair world it wouldn’t matter. There’s no reason on God’s green earth that the quality of a judge should be based on whether they sit down or stand up while taking a piss. But bets are about what is, now what should be. We live in a time of madness. Replacing a female with a female will annoy the left (which identifies humans not based on the content of their character but on skin color and genitalia). Trump’s no dummy. He’ll try hard to pick someone that’ll force Nancy Pelosi to Vaginasplain to us how we should “believe all women” but burn a female Trump nominee at the stake. It is just too easy to put her on the horns of a dilemma. All he needs is one suitable female candidate. So I bought a few shares. It’s like making popcorn when a redneck says “hold my beer and watch this”.

Losing Ground-Recession: I bought some “YES” on “Trump 1st term recession?” because America’s economy (as with most nations) is a house of cards. I figured the roaring growth since 2016 can’t go on forever. Cycles happen. So far I’m waaaaaaay wrong. Trump’s economy is winning so hard I’ve lost a brutal $0.12 a share (that’s 12% of all possible value!).

I like having a nicely growing economy. This is a bet I’m delighted to lose.

That said, I’m holding it. I have until 2020 and a black swan could shit on us at any time. Side note, recession is two consecutive quarters with a negative annual growth rate. That means the shit has to hit the fan likely in 2019 just to give time for a followup bad quarter. Ah well, I’ve predicted 8 of the last 3 recessions. Maybe this is my own bias I’m detecting?

[Warning: this post takes a hard turn in the middle… it just happened. You have been warned.]

About a year ago I acquired an old bucksaw. I estimate it’s about 100 years old, though I can’t be sure. It has no particular value. (Old bucksaws aren’t rare and they’re functionally the same as a bow-saw which can be purchased new for $20 or less.). The one I had was rusted and unusable. Everyone hangs them on the wall as decoration.

I don’t roll that way.

I declared it worthy of restoration. After a few false starts where I over-analyzed the situation with saw-blades , I finally decided to punt: I swapped out an $11 replacement I got on Amazon. Voila, a saw that’s as good as new (if a bit heavy). Here’s the links:

• Old Timey Saw Blade
• Old Timey Saw Blade: Part 2
• Old Timey Saw Blade: Part 3
• Old Timey Saw Blade: Part 4
• Old Timey Saw Blade: Part 5
• Old Timey Saw Blade: Part 6: SUCCESS!

Before:

After:

The thing with a bucksaw is you might as well have a sawbuck. Yep, those are two words that legitimately mean two different things. (They were parsimonious with their vocabulary back then.)

A sawbuck holds the wood so you can efficiently use your bucksaw. This is the sawbuck I built:

The design and assembly is dirt simple. Though I did get the idea from here. I don’t think you need to drop $20 on a set of “plans” (I didn’t) but if you’re going to build a sawbuck, go ahead and click over there. They did a good job with the instructions and deserve as many hits as I can send their way.

As you can see, I used pressure treated green wood. I think this was unwise. It might make it last longer but it also made it heavier. If I did it again I’d use regular kiln dried studs and try to protect it by slapping on a coat of whatever paint I’ve got lying around (every garage has a couple cans of old house paint). Then it would be lighter but still rot resistant. Definitely treat it with something or it’ll be toast in a year or two.

All you need is a handful of studs, cut to length (with an angle on one end). It’s not rocket surgery.

If you don’t over-tighten the bolts it folds very nicely. Cool eh?I tested it with my bucksaw and some cants from a sawmilling project. The saw chews though pole sized shit like it’s a light saber but the little stuff was half frozen and sloppy. Don’t do what I did. Don’t pile small stuff like this because it’s a hassle. The pieces shift to and fro and it binds the saw. I got the same effect when I tried my battery powered reciprocating saw (with a coarse blade I use for demolition). I’m sure a chainsaw would vaporize anything you put in the sawbuck, small diameter or not, but I’ve been having health issues and didn’t want to breathe two stroke chainsaw fumes in a cold garage. 

Of course the whole point was to fuel Betsy… my beloved stove. For heat (which is desperately needed) but also atmosphere… which is the soul of a good workshop.

My dog inspected the sawbuck and found it adequate. My dog is OPSEC with fur and hates cameras. There aren’t many photos of it.

After I got the fire going and took a photo with my dog, I thought long and hard. The last time I took an important photo of the dog was right here.

[Warning: if you don’t get dogs or don’t have one… just tune the fuck out right now. I’m serious. It’s OK to go now.]

It was right here… this place. Right in front of this very stove. Last year in late spring. I thought my dog was going to die. It seemed a certainty.

This month and indeed all of 2019 so far has been a bit rough, but the spring of 2018 was a whole different dimension of misfortune (and some poor planning on my part too!). The whole thing nearly killed me. There came a day when I was very ill and my dog, which is (in dog years) older than dirt, just couldn’t move. That was a hard cold morning. I wasn’t up to facing another death. Not that particular day. I would have been crushed.

It all led to right here, this very space, not a full year ago.

That same day was a moment of grace. My dog, which is a big deal to me, laid down to die… and didn’t.

There’s no other explanation. I was spared. Not the dog. Me. It was me that was spared.  The dog is ready to go. It’s never been afraid of anything.

Actually, that’s a misstatement. The dog, like any being, is afraid of things. For example, as a puppy it feared the UPS truck like you couldn’t imagine. But it’s almost constitutionally unwilling to let fear affect it in any way at all. When it was a ragamuffin puppy it was more than willing, eager even, to go to the mat against a 12′ tall, five ton truck that scared it to death. Why? To defend… me. Because it had to be done. Because the dog was born to protect and anything less would be unthinkable. No hesitation. How many of us can claim the same bravery? All dogs are good but I’ve grown a deep respect for Great Pyrenees. They aren’t particularly bright, they’re too huge for convenience, and they shed on everything… but the chest of a Great Pyrenees holds the heart of a dragon.

I spend a lot of effort trying to be as good and worthy as my dog.

Long story short, the dog ain’t in pain but it’s not going to live forever. I’m sure when the time comes, it’ll simply drift off. It’s not one for dramatics. It’ll got for a walk where I can’t follow and that’ll be it.

Anyway it didn’t happen then and it hasn’t happened yet. I’m lucky. I was spared a loss at a time when I couldn’t handle it. I never stopped being thankful.

With that one photo, the day turned on a dime. It was time to honor my good friend. I set down all my tools and made sure the dog had a place of honor by the fire. For me, I mixed up a cup of hot cocoa that had more bourbon than cocoa. For the best dog in the world, I put down a cool whip dish of melted snow and a treat.

I sat there with my dog all afternoon; moving only to keep the fire going and heat more warm drinks. I burned up and wasted most of that pile of scrap cants. I was very cold out. I can barely keep the shop warm enough to work. But right at the fire… just within arms reach… it was perfect.

I have a shitty old chair I keep for just these moments and it was a good time to use it. The dog likes the fire. We two sat by the fire and we rested. It’s not going to be much longer. The stove is going to last (it’s older than me). The saw isn’t going anywhere (it’s older than me and the dog and my truck all rolled up in one). But the dog’s clock is ticking. So I paid attention to it.

Last year I was given a reprieve. There won’t be a second one. I try to make sure to appreciate every moment. It’s hard to remember but for once I got the universe’s clue. I remembered. I didn’t get shit done all afternoon because I was petting my dog and doing nothing else. It was a good day. 

A.C.

P.S. In case you’re wondering the story is here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 3.5, and Part 4. This is last year’s photo:

Winter is never easy but some are worse than others. Sometimes it’s a mere inconvenience. Sometimes it fights dirty. This winter is a groin kicker.

Take firewood. Firewood is a gamble where you pit your own brawn and brain against the mountain of BTUs needed to heat a house. Do it well and you’ll get summertime exercise, a cheery fire, and a significant amount of savings. Plan badly and you’ll be Jack Londoning your ass into icy misery.

[RANT] Don’t let hippies give you shit about wood smoke either. Wood is among the most ecologically sound of many options. The material is relatively cheap too. Wood is so commonly that it… well… grows on trees. Also for the Tesla fanboys out there, electric heat is a joke. If you heat with electric you’re not too far north of the Mason-Dixon line. Besides, most electricity is just remotely burned coal. [/RANT]

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, the trick with firewood is to use your big monkey brain to avoid overusing your weak monkey muscles. I use all sorts of mechanized force multipliers. Unfortunately, a hearty winter and decrepit machinery are slowly closing out options.

My main system is a nice little wood carrying wagon towed behind my ATV. Love that little wagon! Holds about a half a face cord. A few trips with it each week and all is well. The labor saving is huge! I move wood from a pile to a wagon that’s a few feet away. Then from the wagon to the house that’s a few feet away. It’s the most efficient way to do an incredibly hard job.

Alas, the wagon just plain wore out. You can buy all sorts of ATV trailers and a replacement is on my “to do” list but I’m currently light on funds. (Good ATV trailers are worth the price but they’re not cheap).

Earlier this winter I fell back to plan B. Plan B is a “real” trailer; I use it for on the road towing behind my truck. It’s a smallish trailer (I think it’s 5’x 8′) but it’s bigger than the ATV wagon and that’s a drawback. It takes a much wider track so I need to plow a much bigger path. That’s precisely what I’ve been doing. I have to invest more labor keeping the path open but wasted labor is the nature of sub-optimal solutions. I also have to be careful to only half load the trailer. Otherwise I’ll overwhelm my 20 year old ATV. That said… it works.

Until it doesn’t.

The ATV died. Or rather it keeps failing to engage 4×4. It’s intermittently useless for plowing. Plowing is how I keep the firewood hauling lane open. Plus the ATV is how I tow the wood. The ATV is mission critical and it’s unreliable. This too shall pass but not before spring. Getting an ATV repairman to look at my ATV is a multi-month affair. He’s busy making bank off the snowmobile owners right now. I don’t blame him for his priorities. (As with buying a new trailer, a new ATV would be nice but it’s cost prohibitive.)

I muddled through for a while but finally the wood hauling lane was snowed in. In current conditions no ATV in creation has enough oomph to plow it. That’s how homesteading works. An ATV is not a truck. An old ATV is not a new ATV. Do not dwell on what you wish, accept what is.

Plan Z is to man up and just haul wood by hand. I hate Plan Z! Pick up a great armload of wood, hike it across the driveway, through the house door, through the living room, step on the dog, track snow everywhere, stumble down the stairs, drop the pile in our rack… lather rinse repeat. You can work to exhaustion and it gets nowhere. Compared to a trailer it’s a tiny amount. I did it for a few weeks but I hate it. Nobody wants to get beaten that hard!

A man’s got to know his limitations. In order to haul all the wood I’d need using that level of crude brawn I’d need to the physique (and possibly the dumb brute patience) of a draft horse.

So I created Plan C. I got myself a nice but smallish ice fishing sled and planned a narrow hauling lane.

Ice fishing sleds are plastic but pretty cool. They’re a million times stronger (and somewhat heavier) than a kid’s sled. Ice fishing folks use them to haul 200+ pound loads of ice auger and beer behind a snowmobile or ATV. Some of the more dedicated fishermen just pull the sled on foot or with snowshoes. They do this in blizzards. They do it to kill fish. Think about that when someone in the media is all fluttery about politics from the DC point of view. Politicians who can’t change a car tire are meddling in the lives of people who haul great loads of fish killing shit onto frozen lakes in blizzards for fun.

I carefully chose a smallish sled. The large one would probably weigh too much when fully loaded.

Then I geared up to bust out the snowbound trail. I have a snowblower but I very much prefer to not use it. Plowing with ATV is strenuous but the snowblower is a wrestling match. Also it’s very loud and sometimes sucks up rocks that bind its impeller.

My kid came out to see me futzing with our snowblower in the freezing cold. I’d stored it with an empty tank (on purpose!) so there was the search for a gas can. Then the obligatory flat tires (when it gets real cold unused tires will go flat). This led to wrestling the compressor out of a different building. Then stretching the air hose, which was as flexible as lead pipe.

I clicked on the compressor and promptly tripped the circuit breaker. Sheesh!

The kid assessed the situation and, teenager that he is, decided I was a moron.

“This is a lot of steps.”

“Yes it is. I’m having cascading failures at the moment.” I said this while rummaging in the cold dark barn for a flashlight.

“We should just use the sled without all this stuff.”

OK folks, you’re adults. You can maybe see all sorts of logic to my more sophisticated approach? Should I explain it? Nah, it’s a teenager I’m talking about. Plus, why not let him try?

“Knock yourself out. I’ll keep at this and you haul with the sled.”

Ten minutes later I’d reset the breaker, wrestled an extension cable to a different outlet, fired the compressor up, and was topping off the snowblower’s fuel tank. Another five minutes and the tires were inflated.

Now I had the blower running and it was game on! I roared into the gloom with the great beast hurling snow like a gas powered tornado. I marched slow and steady through waist deep snow while wondering how the kid was doing. He’s a precocious lad. Competitive too. Given the slightest chance, he’ll show you up and make you look like an incompetent dumbass. (I wonder where he got that from?) I half expected him to be standing there with a grin of smug superiority. Ready to report he’d moved six face cords to the house while I was banging my knuckles on the air compressor.

He was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t have muscled hundreds of pounds through deep snow that fast could he? I had a moment of doubt.

Finally, I found him a couple hundred feet away; collapsed in the snow and exhausted; halfway from the woodshed to the house. The loaded sled buried in a 3′ snowdrift near his feet.

I roared up to the prone teenager and very carefully said nothing mean. I’m awesome like that.

“Snow… Deep. This isn’t going to work!” He panted.

I’d known that all along. The sled had at least 60 pounds of payload and he’d wallowed that pig though drifts to almost literal collapse. Brave but stupid. I didn’t say anything discouraging.

“Nice try. You rest and I’ll see how it goes when the snow’s cleared.”

I wrapped the rope around my waste and pulled it through the cleared path. I’d made sure to clear a level path. The sled rode on a half inch of snow over the frozen soil like it was on greased skids.

I trudged around the house and unloaded it. I gave the kid many compliments when he got to his feet and helped again. We did just a few loads with the sled. Each one was many multiples faster and easier than carrying the wood by hand. Not as easy as the wagon… but not too bad either. We moved perhaps half a face cord. A few day’s worth depending on the weather.

Word to the wise, friction is a thing to be managed, not ignored. Pulling a hefty sled in an inch of snow is at least 90% less effort than churning the same load on top of deep drifts. The kid has learned and will remember. Or not.

Thanks to the wood, the house is nice and warm. We’re fine… until, I suppose, the sled breaks.

Exhibit one in the chronicles of why my lawn is half dead in the spring.

Of course, I lost all of my firearms in a tragic canoe accident. However…

For some reason I like the .38 Special / .357 Mag pairing of ammunition. I don’t know why; maybe they’re easy to reload? Maybe they’re old and tested? Maybe I’m biased for no good reason whatsoever. Who knows what makes the heart want what it does.

Anyway, I noticed this and liked the idea:

The 2019 SHOT Show saw the release of the latest cartridge from Winchester—the .350 Legend. The new cartridge is a .223 case blown out to have straight walls, making it a perfectly viable choice for those states which require the use of a straight-walled rifle cartridge for deer hunting. The bullet diameter is listed as .357″, and the rimless design will require the cartridge to headspace off the case mouth.

For no logical reason, that just looks like the bee’s knees to me. Pretty sure it’d be a fine big game rifle (provided, as always, the operator is up to the shot).

There’s a bit of discussion at The Captain’s Journal that relates to this shiny new caliber:

It would appear that the idea is a straight-walled cartridge that isn’t quite the punch in the shoulder that the .450 Bushmaster is, but still with a lot of power. I confess that I had thought before about the possibility of a carbine chambered for .357 Magnum. This is a step up. For the 150-grain bullet they get 2350 FPS, whereas by comparison, for the 300 Blackout at 125-grains, it’s pushing 2215 FPS.

I need a toy in a weird caliber like I need a hole in the head, but I like that straightwall case for reloading. Also, I just never got into the .300 Blackout. I mean it’s pretty darned cool but a .300 Blackout without a suppressor is like putting shitty tires on a hotrod. It’s got the engine but the performance you wanted is denied. And I have to admit, doing the paperwork on a suppressor is a turn off. I would like to spare my hearing and I’ll do paperwork if I have to but the BATFE / suppressor thing is like doing taxes as a hobby. Boooooring.

Also, I’m not sure about the whole “legal betterness” of a straightwalled case. I’m have mostly escaped the universe of “this gun is ‘good’ and that gun is ‘dangerous’ due to some dumb fucking technical difference that nobody in the right mind would care about”. I realize the depth of the related political shitstorm but it’s just not a thing I have to worry about. Apparently straightwall versus necked case is a thing in some places? Who knew? Arbitrary regulations are fuckin’ weird.

For the hunter who has always wanted to hunt with an AR-15 rifle but has been unable to because of local straight-wall cartridge restrictions, this rifle is for you.

Then again it’s a personal goal to avoid “flavor of the month” calibers when possible. Also, and far more importantly, I’ve blown all my “wiggle room” keeping the house heated this winter. A wise man would stay the course and keep his money in his pocket.

Besides, if I were wandering the woods looking to put a .357 bullet into something edible I’d definitely prefer something a bit more old school and suitable for a Curmudgeon:

Oh well, it’s fun to look at the new toys anyway.

I don’t know if my readers have been exposed to the media (which is like being exposed to malaria) but the weather has been rather interesting lately. Yeah, sure interesting.  Lets call it that. Or maybe these: Exciting. Extreme. Invigorating.

Harrumph! I can’t do it. It’s verbal nonsense trying to sum up this kind of cold snap in a single word. The weather has been more than a minor hindrance. It has been a gold plated pain in my ass.

This isn’t my first rodeo. I know that “cold snap” is not Armageddon. I’ve ridden them out before and will ride them out again. However, at a certain temperature, quantity has it’s own quality. It becomes the most important thing happening right at that moment. For me, the cutoff is somewhere near -30.

When the temperature hits around -30 (Fahrenheit) all forward motion in my life stops. We here at Curmudgeon compound go from “keep on truckin'” to “hunker down and stay wary”. It’s just common sense.

Also, I don’t want to hear any puffed chest bravado from folks who think they’re tough and tell stupid stories that deny simple facts of physics and nature; “In my day we played pond hockey in t-shirts at -80. Millenials should be out there playing lacrosse in a blizzard or they’re just wimps.” WRONG! Even Paul Buynan knew when to sit by the fire and wait. Either you have a faulty memory or you’re a dumbass who barely escaped the clutches of Darwin.

Somewhere around -30 is when the technological accoutrements of civilization begin to fail. I don’t care if you’re a mountain man messing with oil lamps, a homesteader trying to keep the chicken waterer thawed, a suburban commuter jump starting your Honda, or a hipster barista whining because your Amazon delivery is delayed… at some temperature it’s no longer “routine”.

Vehicles stop starting. This is the best barometer. It happens according to a predictable progression of brand names. Starting somewhere with Dodge and Chevy and chewing its way up the reliability ladder until a Honda is dead. If a Honda won’t start you’d better watch your ass!  (Note: Mrs. Curmudgeon’s Honda needed a jump start. That means I jumped up and went out there with a battery charger to get it started.)

Once you start whatever machinery you’ve got, you must fret over what you’re doing to it merely by using it in that weather. There’s a heightened risk you’ll break expensive plastic bits off the dash. Why? Because cars have plastics and rubber seals and grommets and shit. If it’s too cold for the material in question, things get tense. Ask the guys from the Space Shuttle Challenger about brittle materials.

All week long, everything (including me!) was near the limits of its design criteria. I could almost feel the power grid groan under the strain. The woodstove and furnace worked 24/7 but the house’s insulation wasn’t up to the task. (My farmhouse is not very modern.)  It’s just the nature of the situation: Pipes freeze, trees are “popping” in the forest, obsessively counting livestock is due diligence, and (in my case) my lungs ached every time I was outdoors.

Some folks might not get the whole “everything stops for a while” zeitgeist. Here’s a hint; if you’re checking every water fixture every two hours to make sure the pipes are still thawed you’re not free to focus on the normal tasks of an average day. This isn’t to say other places don’t have their own drama. Nobody’s mowing the lawn the day before a hurricane hits Key West; they’re nailing up plywood and wishing they lived in Kentucky.

I decided to get photos of my outside thermometer as a bit of photojournalism. Sadly I’m still recovering from bronchitis. Every time I ventured a few feet beyond the back door I’d have a coughing fit. Life is like that.

I started taking screenshots of weather reports. This was kinda’ lame but it’s the only idea I had. Then my dog pointed out OPSEC failure I was courting, so I wound up with cropped numbers that mean nothing to nobody. Enjoy:

I got this.

I wonder where the outdoor cat went?

Would a different media source give different results? Nope.

One of the faucets isn’t working! Get on it!

This isn’t funny anymore!

IT IS THE END OF DAYS!

This went on for quite a while. Days sorta’ blended into each other. Eventually it went just below the coldest I’ve ever personally witnessed.

You know how I rip on people who tell bullshit exaggerations? I hate those people:

“This is nothing, I remember once it was -70.”

“You live in Houston.”

“It’s not the cold, it’s the humidity.”

“Fuck off.”

In my never ending desire to counteract fake news, I very carefully remember actual facts. The fact is that once I stood in front of my outside thermometer and it read -40. It was a real honest -40 and not some windchill inflation “feels like” voodoo. It was the genuine article. If I’ve ever been in colder weather I didn’t document it.

Last week there was a morning when it was colder than my previous low. Mrs. Curmudgeon was up and sipping coffee. She was sitting within 10 feet of the fire and wisely planned to stay right there. I tried to take a hot shower and it was tepid. Our hot water heater just couldn’t make the water hot enough. (I hate cold showers!)

After my shower Mrs. Curmudgeon mentioned that it had been -42. The dog had refused to go outside and probably wouldn’t take a dump until March.

-42?!? Wow. I threw on eleven layers of clothes and ventured out to verify it on my physical thermometer. The sun had just risen. It might already be “warming up”! I endured my obligatory coughing fit (bronchitis is a bitch) and then snapped a photo.

Damn! It was already a little warmer. With the first sun’s rays it had “heated up” all the way to about -35. No “new low” photo for me. I didn’t bother to get a screenshot from the media either. I was focused on “real world verification”. I didn’t care about the nearest airport, I cared about my backyard.

Back in the house I complained to Mrs. Curmudgeon. “Darn it,” I groused, “no photo. You know what they say; pics or it didn’t happen. I missed a new personal low. I wish you’d taken a photo.”

“Take a photo?” She growled, “Go fuck yourself!”

Yeah, my bad. I had it coming. Two personal lows in 20 minutes. I’ll be a lot nicer from now on; or at least until it thaws.

What I call “rich people doctor” is different. It’s a new thing and I want to give them a hug every time I go there! It’s a direct response to Obamcare and it’s a desperately appreciated limited workaround as everything else becomes the third world medical monopoly that controls this region. It costs roughly twice what it costs to get ignored and infected in the land of tattooed freaks and dirty floors.

It’s worth it. What is money for if not to take care of yourself?

Repeat after me, health is important. It’s a big fucking deal. When it’s gone, nothing else matters. Doctors are worth more than Jet Skis or whatever the hell else you were going to buy.

Especially if you fancy yourself a survivalist, think of the relative value of a proper doctor visit right now as compared to that next brick of ammo you’re storing in your closet. Flu, pneumonia, and other boring dumb shit kills a lot more people than you think. In fact, it’s a lot more likely you’ll die from a broken toe that gets infected at the ER than it is you’ll go out in a firefight on top of a pile of spent brass. Proper health care is a survivalist asset too.

[Rant] If you’re going to give me a sob story about how cheap medicine is awesome… stop. This is my value system and I’m sticking to it. Bad health care is only a great deal until it fucks you up. Life is cruel, nothing is free, if cheap is what you pay cheap is what you get, nobody wants to be sick in the first place anyway, etc.… I get it; the vagaries of health are sad and it sucks to burn a wad of cash because someone sneezed on you. But it is what it is. You don’t always get what you want. Bad medicine can kill ya! Regardless of what should be, the doctor either works for you or you’re just an expense to the system. Finally, nobody bleeds out at the ER thinking happily about the money they’re saving. [/RANT]

Rich people doctor is a miracle. I love those guys. They’re a new development. Weren’t around just a few years ago. They’re NOT owned by the local monopoly. They actually care if you live. The wait is 20 minutes or less instead of hours. The waiting room is empty. The doctors seem to actually know medicine. They want my money and they try to cure me to get it. I’ll play ball if I can get healthy faster!

They figured out tout sweet I had bronchitis. (Which I’d guessed.) For the cost of double expense (even with insurance) I got in there and out of there in an hour instead of half a day. What’s the market value of sitting half a day in a fetid cesspool of germs while they whine that I’m not an oppressed Guatemalan and bitch about guns in my house?

The real doctors at rich people medical care treated me like a human and wrote prescriptions for meds. They can sell meds right on site (for a fortune) but they told me I could get the prescription filled cheaper at the local pharmacy (which is linked to the local medical monopoly but is an actual company and therefore has nominally acceptable service). As a non-monopoly company, they couldn’t get access to send the prescription electronically. I had to carry a paper Rx myself. They apologized for the inconvenience.

I drove a few miles away and bought all the stuff they recommended (some of it wasn’t cheap, but I’m worth it). Then I headed home. God bless you, rich people doctors!

Back at home Mrs. Curmudgeon hadn’t moved. Hard to say if all the money and effort I’d expended was worth it.

I changed into jammies and immediately the fuel oil guy arrived. I dressed again while the dog started barking and so forth.

Wow, he arrived when he said he would! The second miracle of the day. I like the fuel oil guy. He’s a nice (and very overworked) fella.

I got the shakes bringing the check through the cold to the oil delivery guy (and in the process my checking account went into overdraft).

So now it’s a few days later. We have electricity, fuel oil, proper medical care, and I’m slowly shaking off bronchitis that sucker punched me hard. Same for Mrs. Curmudgeon if somewhat slower. It seemed too hit me meaner and faster but (due to care or not) it’s fading quicker and easier. On the other hand, I have an unknown electrical bill, pissed lots of money on meds and care, and dropped a huge wad I didn’t have on furnace fuel. As for the ATV, that’ll just have to wait until it’s not -30 and I’m feeling better. I hope it doesn’t snow!

What was meant to be a frugal week of self-improvement became a shit show. Winter is hard.

While I convalesce, the internet (via my old backup Wi-Fi router) tells me I should be upset over some douchebag non-Vietnam vet who claimed he was an oppressed victim hammered a drum at a teenager in a MAGA hat who didn’t do anything but smile. Really? Drums and smiling? People tweeting about smirks and demanding woodchippers? This is news? Let’s cut the shit right here… nothing on the news is news; hell, it’s not even the truth. Healthy breathing and a heated home… that’s important news. It’s what matters. I had three miracles, an electrician, oil delivery, and good medicine. I’m blessed! I missed my joyously anticipated once a year event but that’s life. I’ll try again next time. Maybe I’ll write a country music song about it.

Now you know what the heck I’ve been doing instead of blogging. Stay healthy y’all.

A.C.

The next day I was even sicker. I didn’t even set my alarm. My workout regimen had been nuked from orbit. What a bummer. I’d been so excited but there’s nothing you can do if you can barely breathe.

On the other hand, the furnace had electricity. It was still almost out of fuel but one step at a time. Glass is half full and all that.

Of bigger concern was that whole… “I’d like to keep breathing” thing. I’d been hit very hard very fast and was determined to do something about it lest it get worse. The next part of this story is just my personal experience with local medical care; if you wanna’ get all political and call me a Deplorable on the wrong side of history that’s just fine. This is my actual world and not a theoretical one and it probably applies only to my area. Beyond that we’ll just have to talk about tractors instead.

What I chose to do was run off to what I call “the rich people doctor”. In the nearest town all the medical facilities (save one) are owned by the same monopoly. The town used to offer roughly average American quality care but it’s been going steeply downhill for about a decade. By now it’s amazingly bad. So bad that Mrs. Curmudgeon refused to go (even to the “rich people” doctor). She’d rather suffer on the couch than tilt at windmills of the local medical bureaucracy. I don’t blame her. We chose different paths and will compare notes in the end.

Most medicine in our area is simply unacceptable nowadays. Mostly it’s cheap but the quality is haphazard, worse than laughable, worse than it once was, just fuckin’ terrible. It’s impersonal, annoying, largely ineffective, and possibly descending into the range of third world quality. It’s delivered by people who don’t care if you live or die, can only diagnose something big and obvious (I’m talking something like a farm tractor accident or a gunshot wound), and any properly skilled doctor flees the scene as fast as they can. I assure you they’ll be moving on to a better gig as soon as they can ditch this rural shithole. Like I said, it wasn’t always like this, but there’s no point in denying what it is now.

The transition between adequate and craptacular has been remarkable. Aside from the fact it may someday kill me, it’s an interesting study of a real life “Fall of Rome” effect.

It’s an ugly situation. You can try for a doctor’s appointment but that’s just a joke. You have to schedule several months in advance. “I think I’ll be sick in June, how about a general medical visit in June.” If you schedule such a visit, it may not happen anyway. The doctor will probably be gone before then. (“If you like your doctor you can keep your doctor.” Remember that? It was gold plated bullshit.)

The emergency room is worse. It’s a horror movie. I’ve been there done that and frankly it’s terrifying. Luckily, I wasn’t that ill. ER would be overkill and I wouldn’t go near those ghouls unless I was damn near shaking hands with the grim reaper.

So, the only game in town (within the ubiquitous medical monopoly) is a clinic. The clinic is cheap but horrid. It’s the main front gate to the monopoly which controls every nearby medical practice (with one exception) that isn’t dentistry or optometry. Welcome to my personal world of Obamacare 2019. Your mileage may vary, it might be just great where you are. Maybe my misery is just an irrelevant rounding error in some “fuck those hicks” calculation that favors population centers. Who knows? I only know what I experience. I also know the only way to find a clinic beyond the reach of the monopoly is to drive further than I had the health to drive. Such is the way of the world.

At the clinic, which is admittedly cheap and open pretty generous hours, folks will be stacked up like a crowd trying to score free concert tickets. It’s always busy. Always has been, always will be. You’ll wait in a room with some seriously messed up people. It makes you wonder what you’ve done wrong in your life to wind up in this sorry state. The crowd is garish and sometimes freaky. Many folks look like they failed “Taking Care of Yourself 101”. There will be a couple dozen snot nosed and impatient screaming kids associated with a dozen odd equally impatient and swearing women… some of whom aren’t actually patients (you’d need a score card to ascertain what kid goes with what person). Given the overall situation it seems like a great way to make sure six siblings are for sure guaranteed to end up with the pinkeye that generated one kid’s visit. The saddest are the really sick kids. They sit silently starting at space (that really worries me, nobody wants to see a sick kid just pining away). In addition, there will be tattooed freaks, meth heads, folks who desperately need a shower, and at least three random extras from Mad Max. All of whom are staring at their phones. I don’t see a lot of geriatrics there… they must have an “in” somewhere? Every time I go to the clinic I wonder where all the normal people are. The whole world can’t be “People of Walmart” or possibly “Cops” can it? Regardless it’s a horrid place when you’re already suffering.

And suffer you will, for hours:

After 3 hours of them coughing tuberculosis on you and you coughing bronchitis on them, interrupted by an occasional toddler shitting itself in the seat next to you, or maybe someone bleeding on something; you’ll get your turn at the grinding maw of the database. A perky non-doctor will process you through fifteen different non-medical forms. This includes lots of stuff that seems to relate to voting districts and welfare statistics. They’ll take your blood pressure and write it in the computer. They’ll ask if you want to be enrolled in a smoking cessation program and write it in a computer. They’ll ask if you have guns and write it in a computer. (Tragic canoe accident.) They’ll check with your wife to see if you beat her (as if Mrs. Curmudgeon would put up with that kind of shit!) and they’ll put that in the computer. They’ll pry into all sorts of demographic data to see if they can hit today’s quota of one armed, Islamic, LBGTXYZ, Urdu speaking, heroin addicts.

There is only one thing they don’t care about. They don’t give a shit why you’re there.

“Ma’am, I’m here because I’ve been vomiting blood and my toe fell off.”

“That’s nice. Do you smoke?”

They’re always comically but genuinely disappointed I’m not helping their “statistics”. I’m depressingly normal. I have insurance. I’ll happily meet the co-pay right now. I’ll pay cash. I’m not high. I usually (and thankfully) have only a minor illness. I’m a good patient that will do my best to get healthy asap. There’s just not a lot of “statistical value” in my reality as a mostly healthy white male. They’re not fishing for me.

Yep, it’s really like that nowadays.

All this non-medical bullshit gets typed into the computer. Once the computer database is filled out, their job is done and they practically forget you’re still there. In fact, they seemed annoyed you insist on treatment. You can almost feel the lack of concern: why the heck do you persist in hanging around bothering them after the all-important database has been satisfied.?

After a while, they’ll grudgingly put you in a different and slightly less crowded room where you wait some more. Then you’ll see not an actual doctor but some sort of “semi-doctor like person”. He or she may have adequate training for my piddly little problems or he or she may a quack who barely managed a gentleman’s C at the worst medical school on the planet. When I’m sick, I can’t tell the difference. This individual will ignore you while they spend a few minutes (tops!) reading questions off a computer screen and typing your answers in the form. They will not look at you. They barely notice you’re there.

I knew it would go like this:

“Have you been sick a week?”

“No only 4 days, I think I have bronchitis.”

“Do you smoke? Take illegal drugs?”

“No, I think it’s bronchitis.”

“C’mon man, look at that beard you’ve got. You been tweakin?”

“No! I’m not even sure what ‘tweak’ means. I’m generally healthy. I was working out before this thing hit me. I’m having trouble breathing. Cough a lot. It’s very painful.”

“Sure, whatever! Come back after it has been a week. After a week we’ll give you whatever the computer says to give you.”

“I already have bronchitis. It’s pretty obvious. What’s the point of waiting? Is there some advantage waiting for it to become pneumonia?”

“The computer says seven days. If you can’t stand it, go to the emergency room and wait there while car crashes and heart attacks come before you.”

“So, the point of treatment is to wait exactly seven days?”

“The computer says a week.” Glancing at a timer on the screen. “In fact, I’ve been talking with you too long.”

“You’re only here for a few years until you can get a better job, aren’t you?”

“Hell yes, this place is a shithole.”

“Nice talking to you Medical Practitioner Hajieesh Pumbar Plxuminothinoth. By the way, where did you go to school?”

“Bangalore, hell of a lot better than this dump. How can you idiots live in this icebox?”

“I wonder that myself.”

“Bye. Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”

Like I said, that’s how it really is. Some things I exaggerate. Not this. It sucks that bad.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to end on a down note. Conclusion to follow…

The next day I had the pre-dawn alarm on but I clearly had bronchitis. All night I’d been hearing Jethro Tull’s Aqualung in my head and I’d coughed enough I probably had black eyes.

I was pissed. If I’m going to have a respiratory system this weak, I should at least have the fun of being a chain smoker!

Once again, the furnace gave out. It was -30 that morning. Mrs. Curmudgeon and I were both shivery. “Well, it’s been a good run,” I thought, “but now we’re gonna’ die.”

Instead Mrs. Curmudgeon cranked the stove (I’d forgotten I’d hauled the wood!). We both sat near it. Barely warm enough and totally miserable.

After a while, I bravely went back into the basement. There was still a trace of fuel oil. A puzzlement.

With more investigation I discovered the laundry room lights, kitchen lights, and the freezers (!!!) were kaput. Also, the oven’s clock was reset to 12:00 and the fan in the bathroom didn’t work.

What fresh hell was this? We had some power but not no power and not all power? Is not home AC power a binary construct. What the hell is indicated by “half power”? I was baffled.

Back in the basement I started mucking about with the circuit breakers. None seemed tripped. Yet checking appliances and two dozen staggering trips up and down the stairs verified that some circuits which were ostensibly ON had no power but others (which were also ostensibly ON) did.

I flipped circuit breakers and checked lights and couldn’t figure it out. No heat or smoke from any threatening places. No clearly tripped circuits, it was very windy outside but that would cause a “power outage” not unspecified localized inside-the-house brownouts.

My working theory was that the -30 morning had chilled something somewhere and that shrunk it just enough to sever a few contacts. It seemed a stretch but I had no better ideas.

Mrs. Curmudgeon told me to call an electrician. I complained that I’d never yet coaxed an electrician come to my house without weeks of begging and I’d tried many times. She made the call. I went back into the basement and swore a lot, then the furnace and the lights went on. All hail the power of swearing!

One of the kids showed up, sussed out that the heat was on (which matters not one bit to the lad) but the Wi-Fi was down (which is a DEFCON 4 tragedy). He grabbed the car keys and fled. That’s how it’ll be in the zombie apocalypse. Me and the dog will try to hold the fort against overwhelming odds (and fail), Mrs. Curmudgeon will be trying to call for help from a service guy that’ll never come, and the kids will split for a Starbucks somewhere.

Clearly out of my league, and too sick to rally either body or brain, I collapsed in the chair by the fire.

Later, something interesting happened: I fixed everything. I cleaned mouse droppings out of the breaker box with my shop vac and was having a fine game of pitch with my loving family. This made no sense because I was about to play a joker on Trump and there’s no earthly reason why you’d play pitch with wildcards. Also, my shop vac is out in the shop beyond snowdrifts and I was in no shape to brave -30 to get a fucking vacuum.

Then I woke up. So much for that. Even in my dreams I work like a dog.

Once again, the furnace was off. So were some (not all) of the lights.

Careful to make sure I was awake lest I set something on fire, I lit one of my many oil lamps. (It’s better to light one in the daytime than try it at dark.) Then I muttered something about poltergeists and crashed in bed.

Relative time of 90 seconds passed (4 hours by the clock) and an electrician came. An electrician came to my house! Holy shit! Mrs. Curmudgeon came through again!

I took him to the panel and explained the anomalous information; no power to the furnace, no tripped circuit breakers, no pattern to the dead circuits, intermittent power on and power off.

We heard a sound.

“Does that sound like sparking to you?” I asked.

He whipped off the panel cover and we both got a clear view of the 100-amp main breaker sparking. I was delighted! The easiest diagnostics you could ask for.

He explained that interrupting the “B” leg of the A/B 240 line in would affect “every other” circuit. The sparks were on the B leg and not the A leg. Bingo! I love simple explanations!

It’s a ten-minute job to replace a breaker and he was costing a mint just standing there. So of course, he didn’t have the part. We spent an hour working the phones (him and me both… cell phone only because my landline phone was off it’s rocker due to power surges). Eventually he procured something and installed it. I haven’t yet gotten the bill but I’m sure it’ll cause a coronary.

The situation had nuked my main Wi-Fi antenna. I still have (and run) the old router though. (Two Wi-Fi routers in my house! Two is one, one is none!) With the old Wi-Fi running, Mrs. Curmudgeon had Netflix which is a key component of her healing process. The kids had YouTube which is more necessary than air to a Millennial. Sadly, my squirrel stores were off line. I keep the squirrels on a NAS/RAID and had unplugged it in the middle of the electrical issues. It’s on a surge protector but so was the newer better Wi-Fi router that died. Also, I didn’t trust my addled self to reboot the precious NAS/RAID in my condition. All this is fine, keeping the family happy was highest priority and I couldn’t think straight anyway.

Things went from bad to worse. Mrs. Curmudgeon staggered off to work; where she’d either pick up more germs from the original sources or spread hers back into the environment. I’m convinced offices are tailor made to spread germs. They’re probably less safe than skinny dipping in a ditch in the Calcutta slums.

Meanwhile I was toast. I called in a day off work and promised myself I’d “beat this thing” in time for the afternoon session. Denial is not just a river in Egypt.

I was suffering. It took hours to work up the head of steam needed to brush my teeth! Holy shit was I floored.

I wound up sitting at my computer with bits and pieces of the Squirrels story scattered everywhere. I was making no progress and had paper printouts spread on every surface. I don’t even remember what I did or wrote.

I was shivering. Very slowly I realized my shivering was NOT just a fever. I’d let the woodstove go down to coals and the furnace wasn’t picking up the slack. WTF? That’s why we have a furnace… for times when I’m too messed up to play with firewood (or away traveling).

In jammies and slippers, I ventured into the basement. The furnace was cold. I checked the tank. Holy shit! I’d meant to call for a fuel delivery on Day #1 but in the rush of the day I’d plum forgot. I had 1/16^th a tank left… tops.

Even so, a furnace, like a real (non-electric) engine, runs until it doesn’t. Almost out of fuel is no biggie. Like the Federal debt it’s a problem that’s not a problem until it is a crushing one. The tank would inevitably run dry in the near future but everything should work fine right until the last minute. Thus, the dead furnace was a mystery.

Ten minutes of flipping switches and messing with the thermostat and it roared back to life. Huh!?! I didn’t really know why it had gone out and I didn’t really know why it had started. I wasn’t thinking clearly anyway.

I enjoyed what heat we had and called for a delivery of fuel. After some verbal begging they promised to come the next day… which they almost certainly wouldn’t do. (I gave 1 in 5 odds of a delivery in less than 3 days.) The alternative is I fill up with #2 off road diesel from the pumps at the nearest town. This works fine but is labor intensive. I didn’t want to mess with it while I was feeling feverish. (Imagine dragging a five gallon can of fuel through a snowdrift when you can barely brush your teeth.)

By mid-afternoon Mrs. Curmudgeon showed up. She’d tried mightily but had to bail on her work too. She arrived with juice. What a hero!

There was regular orange juice and a wildcard: cranberry-pineapple (two fruits that shouldn’t exist on the same continental plate). It was surprisingly good. I’ll try it with vodka when I’m feeling better. Honestly, in my condition I’d drink anything either hot or with sugar to soothe my throat.

I made weak motions that I was going to fire up my truck and head for the sunset workout. Mrs. Curmudgeon is a genius. She didn’t argue with me (which wouldn’t have worked). Instead she handed me a 16-ounce fuzzy navel. It was delicious and soothed my throat. I practically passed out after the first sip. By the time I woke up, it was too late to tilt at windmills. She’s a keeper!

I recently mentioned I’d been “blogging” using an Alphasmart Neo2 (a used obsolete $30+/- “teaching tool” word processor that runs on AA batteries) in a room lit by oil lamps. You may think I’m exaggerating. Nope. I’m not making this shit up!

These handy tools bear mention, for they’re useful old friends that I trust

First and highest ratings go to my “Bit Shovels”. I’ve mentioned the Alphasmart Neo2 and it’s sister product the Alphasmart Dana before. Check out: Buying A Spare Bit Shovel (which discusses my “upgrade” to the cruder and ironically superior Alphasmart Neo2 in 2016). This came after A Belated Acknowledgement Of An Elegant Device (discussing the Alphasmart Dana I purchased in 2011).

The point is that both devices work. They work now. They work if I’ve left them in a freezing truck all night. They work if left them in the barn. They work if I forgot to charge them (oddly the AA battery option is better than the rechargeable batteries). They work if Godzilla chewed them up and spit them out. I toss these hearty bastards in backpacks, saddlebags, tool boxes, and everywhere else… and they just keep working. Try that with a decrepit old laptop… which will age in OS if not in function.

A Hammer and a Bit Shovel. Both are cheap, utilitarian, and reliable. These are mine, get your own.

There is a modern “alternative”. The Freewrite is hipsterific eye candy that looks great but isn’t necessarily superior. I do like the looks but for the price differential I can live with my childish “toys”. They work with no muss / no fuss. Here’s a link to the “Freewrite” which for only $500+ more than a humble Dana, includes “screen savers”. How much do you like screen savers?

It’s pretty but is is $550 worth of pretty?

More mundane but just as handy are my oil lamps. I have several but my “go to” lamps are a pair of dirt cheap “Montana” oil lamps. They’re perfect! The best feature is that they hang on the wall (removable of course).  This is an important feature because they’re always ready. Fill ’em up, dust ’em off once in a while (or don’t), and they’ll be there when you need them. This is key: my other lamps wind up on shelves, pushed into closets, etc… (Also, lamps that aren’t wisely secured to a wall are more likely to get broken by getting jarred or dropped.)

I highly recommend these lamps. They’re about $30 a pop. They’re not built super strong, like a lifetime lasting family heirloom, but for $30 what do you want? They work well, look pretty, and never need batteries.

Don’t let the picture fool you. They come with a wall hanger that serves admirably to keep them readily available and you can light them while on the wall. They’re pretty too.