humbled

We went fishing, Soren and I, down to the public pier just north of downtown Seattle and away from the tourists. 
"Do you think Terry will be there, Dad?" Soren asked, a pole in each small hand.
"I don't know, Son, we'll have to just wait and see."
I knew who Soren was referring to.  Terry was present at the pier last time when Soren pulled up a starfish.
"What IS this thing?" Soren asked, eyes full of wonder at the bright orange creature, the size of a dinner plate.
"That's an eighteen-legged starfish, boy."  Terry stated, coming over to show Soren how to take him off the hook.
And that was the start of an afternoon full of Terry showing an eight-year-old boy how to fish salt water for ling cod, salmon and the occasional cabazone.

When we arrived pier there was no Terry.  Sor pretended not to be disappointed.
"Maybe, he'll show up later." I offered as we baited our lines.
And he did.  Pulling up on his bicycle, pit bull on leash and pulling a homemade trailer contraption filled with garbage bags came Terry.  He sported a fishing lure on his baseball cap and a snap swivel as an earring.
"Hey there, Kid!"  And so another afternoon of teaching started.
I gave them some space and went over to fish on the other side of the pier next to a couple of other guys.

"Terry wouldn't ever tell you this," said an older guy with a bent over nose, "but he lives under that bridge over there in a tent.  That's why he's here all the time."

About that time, Soren came over to proudly show me both the pocket knife--every fisherman needs a pocket knife, Terry told him--and a fishing pole--both presents from Terry.

A homeless person gives his fishing pole and a pocket knife to a kid.  Freely, easily, without a second thought.  I grip my stuff so tight my knuckles are white from lack of blood.

over my head

Fathers' Day.  There's been a bunch of good ones marked by after-lunch naps, not-so-excellent suppers prepared by newbie cook's hands of my children, crayoned cards expressing love.  Not so this year.

I've got a thirteen-year-old daughter who's at a moment in her life where the freight train of adolescence is meeting up with her father having to make some tough life decisions that directly impact her.  I am "selfish."  I don't "have a clue."

And she is pissed.  And I am, both fairly and unfairly, the bulls eye.

So this Fathers' Day...not so good.

Enter in one of those little tragic occurrences that provide the turning point on which such bigger things can pivot.  Anna went swimming with her cell phone.

Such teeth-gnashing, such despair you have never seen (unless you, too, are closely related to a teen with a smart phone that gets broke.)

I took a deep breathe and put out the offer to fix it.  Now those of you who know me know that I have a knack for fixing most anything, especially electronic...but a smart phone that went swimming? 

As I laid it out on the dish towel next to my tools at the kitchen table I paused and considered.  If I fix it, great, Anna will have a bit of faith restored in her father's wisdom and perhaps even find a doorway in her hardened heart thu which we can begin to heal.  And if I cannot?  Stony silence, and much more foot stomping lay, ahead.  And what if I not only cannot fix it, but also make it worse?  Not being able to get it exactly, perfectly back together will be confirmation of my ineptness in handling my life and my daughter's future.

Within an hour, I had stripped that cell phone to little piles of tiny screws, four circuit boards, touch screens and membrane switches.  Parts so tiny that I needed reading glasses to see, and tweezers to manipulate.

Fortunately, I found the fault in a tiny switch that no longer made electrical contact when pressed.  But, how to fix this?  Our relationship wouldn't be moved the slightest in a positive direction by being able to proudly announce that I had figured out what was wrong, and then present her with a table-top full of shiny electronic bits.  No, success would only be measured with a bit of tinny music and a welcome message on the screen.

Using a magnifying lens and a razor blade, I slit open the membrane switch and sprayed contact cleaner inside where the lake water had oxidized the contacts.  Three hours of tweezers and jeweler's screwdriver work later I had it all back together.  Just so.

And it worked.

Does our relationship work?  Absolutely.  Always did and will.  Gizmos break and that's the end of them.  Human beings, built by the great master inventor, have a circuit of hope, an assembled program code of family, and are powered by love.

father and son

"Dad, are those your initials?"  We both looked incredulously at the two letters, MF, scratched on the door along with the year 1971.

I was up at Holden Village for a few days.  Hidden away in the bosom of the Cascade mountains, it is an old copper mining town turned Lutheran retreat community where I had lived as a boy for a year or so.  My father had brought us here from the Midwest.  And the contrast of this little village was as big as the mountains that surrounded us.  From flat dull yellow corn fields to fresh glaciers and sharp black granite peaks that sawtoothed the sky.  Tight-lipped staff at a Missouri Synod Lutheran grade school to the Hinderlie era of 1970's free-thinking young theologians and artists.  From a family who's dinner guests were depression and alcoholism to a wide community table filled with laughter and diversity.

And here I am now as a fifty-something with my young boy out for a day hike to show him where I tramped when I was his age.

All boys want to see old mines.  It's in our make up.  So, when he jumped at the chance to peer into one of the old access portals, we set out.  It took awhile to get there and my memory was a bit fuzzy about the exact path to take.  But even my pulse quickened when I saw the gray ventilation tunnel doors.

"Here it is, Soren" I said pausing to catch my breath.

"Wow, how cool is this!" as he ran over to look at the double door air-lock, swinging the heavy wood on stiff hinges.

And, then we saw it.  Actually, he saw it, even though the letters were right in front of my face.

MF, 1971.  So 40 years ago, as an eleven-year-old boy, I was off by myself exploring around this mountain side, my interest piqued by the mine tunnel.  And now, here I was with my young boy showing him the same things.

I'm tempted to try to explain what this poignant occurrence means.  We both felt it's richness.  But I didn't pick at it then and I won't now, either.

I can't even begin to compare how much different, let alone better or worse, my son's childhood is than mine was.  It all is what it is.  And what it was.

I felt my boy's hand slip warmly, comfortably into mine.  "Let's keep going, Dad."

I met myself on the road this morning

Up and out the door extra early this morning to get my daughter to the field-trip bus.  Five am provides a different group of people: students waiting for the link bus to Wenatchee, migrant workers, some on tractors, some on foot...and a homeless woman.  Driving by fast on the way into town, I recognized her as the woman I had met down in town several weeks prior and as I came back up the road thirty minutes later, there she was still trudging up the road, a blanket roll jammed out the top of her pack, a staff in hand, hood up against the morning chill.

The human being in the ditch and me wondering if I could, should, would live up to the roll of the good Samaritan.

I drove past.

I've been thinking lots about aspen trees.  There's a beaut of a grove when my boy and I hunt for morel mushrooms this time of year.  Biologists say, they are all interconnected down under ground and, as I snooze on my back looking up at the gentle canopy of green, I imagine all those roots intertwined in a crazy pattern of give and take.

It wasn't far up the road before I pulled over and turned around.

Her name is Nina and she's from California.  Thru my rolled-down window I offered her camping anywhere she'd like on my land and she accepted.

Dropping her off in a quiet grove of pine in a turn in my road, I suggested that this would be a good spot to spend some time.  Her eyes didn't look away from my gaze and her hand was small but firm in mine, our clasped fingers briefly feeling like those aspen roots.

Now I get it: it's part of the design

I had been haunted by this short little guitar piece on, of all things, the newish movie Cowboys and Aliens.  Haunted by it, so much so, that I sat down and learned it.  Somethign about it was so beautifully simple and the melody really moving.  It took quite a bit of practice on my part to get the notes to ring clear and the playing of it to be simple and uncomplicated.  Then I decided to play it as an introit at church today.  I second-guessed my decision for a bit--it's not a religious piece, it came from a stupid movie--and then just told myself to shut up and trust my instincts.

Now to the point of why I am writing about it.  I am sitting in the back of the church waiting for things to get real quiet so that everybody will be able to hear this quiet, simple little piece.  It is all of 30 seconds long, mind you, so I need there to be some focus.  I pause..and then start in.  Right after the first couple of notes, I hear this high-pitched whining that's going up and down, over and over.  I keep playing, but I, and most everybody else is distracted.  An elderly woamn gets up and starts walking towards the back, straight towards me and then, as I still try to salvage the piece, I realize that the awful sound is coming from her hearing aid which is over-amping and feedbacking.

Oh, boy.  Such timing.  There went my couple hours of practice to learn and nail down this music.  I hope this doesn't read like I was upset because I didn't sound good to everyone.  It' really isn't about me.  Truly.  But, I did really work hard at creating this piece for everybody to hear, and I really did want them to hear it because it was such a beautiful piece of music.

But, in my frustration, a great thing happened.  I had this sudden ahha.

I believe, no count on, God's grace to make good the on-going damage done by the chuckle head named yours truly.  I believe that I am forgiven for all the crap I have done and will do.  I apologize over and over.  I wish it were not so.  I feel bad about it.  Especially when it comes to my hurting other human beings around me.  But here's the deal: I think that I work way too hard at trying to make everything perfect.  I don't think that I've ever really been okay with the notion that I am a human being.  I feel bad about myself.

One of my Dad's favorite metaphors was describing himself as a cloudy glass lens and that his job was to polish out the scratches in the lens so that God's love can shine thru better and brighter.  True to being a father's son, so have I.  Blisters on those fingers from polishing.

But, maybe, maybe, God's love get's thrown around in lots of crazy directions as it goes thru my lens.  Maybe I should not be so quick to curse and clean out the imperfections.  That this thing is not so linear as I work at being better and God is pleased, but rather that God works thru my imperfections.  Can I dare say publicly...even put them there?  That screwed up events, messed up plans, and people at their not-so-best create even more depth to the Mystery.  Maybe instead of just feeling relieved that grace can exhonerate me and my Lutheran guilt, I should not be so quick to clean it all up.  That our shortcomings, indeed some (all?) of sin itself, IS part of the plan and that I can let it be just what it is.

Cue the Leonard Cohen line: "Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." 

coming along

The tower is coming right along.  I am busy sheetrocking the interior.  My octogonal room is easy compared to the kids' rooms.  There I need to bend 4 x 8 panels of 1/2" sheetrock to the tank's round walls...not an easy task, but by spraying the backside of the sheets with water, and alot of patience, they bend enough to make the curve.  Here's the look of my room up top.

More importantly, though, I just want to be a proud pappa today.  Check out these two videos.  The first of my seven-year-old son, Soren, who's been playing the violin for two years:

The second one here is of my daughter, Anna, twelve, who's been playing the violin for nine years.  I would say something, but this speaks for itself....

the things we have

What do you have, that you did not receive?
And if you did receive it, why do you boast
as though you did not?

1st Corinthians 4:7

the light shines in the darkness...

Saturday night came in clear and bright, a good moon casting shadows off the trees.

"We want to sleep outside tonight, Dad." Anna announced with Soren nodding enthusiastically.

"But, my cold's so bad I don't think I can do that, sweetie." I said apologetically.

"Yep. I know. We want to do this alone."

Considering the size of our mountain area, I asked where they thought they'd like to go.

"Up on the very top of that hill." Anna said, pointing out south to a wind-swept knob over-looking Lake Chelan.

I thought about winter-hungry coyotes that would be sure to be out on a moony night such as this one. I considered how this was still January. I rubbed my jaw over their insisting to not use a tent.

"Sure. I think it is a great idea!" I said, hiding the hesitancy in my gut.

I helped them pack up sleeping bags and ground pads. I gave them each their choice of flashlights, told Anna to call me on the cell phone once they got settled down, and gave the dog strict instructions to stay with them through the night.

On impulse, I reached into the camping box and pulled out the hunting knife my dad gave me, and presented it to Soren. His eyes widened as he slid it out of the leather sheath.

"Poppie gave this to you?" The blade shown in the porch light.

"Yes. And someday I'll give it to you, but, for now, I just want you to keep it safe--in case you need it."

He nodded his head and caught my gaze sheepishly.

They--my two little kids--shouldered their light packs and left. I stood in the upstairs window watching the pair of lights from their headlamps flickering, sometimes bright as they looked back my way and then dimmer as they looked ahead, until there was no light at all.

"In case you need it..." I had told Soren. How would a seven-year-old boy know anything at all about how to fight a cougar or, worse, a pack of hungry coyotes. Could he hold the blade tip up and wait until the coyote jumped up, and let steel find soft belly? Could he show resolve enough to unnerve a pack of hungry varmints?

No. Of course not.

I can teach him things. I do; I will. Flu shots will happen. Stranger danger talks have been had. But there are so, so very many coyotes out there. And so much darkness. And I am so powerless. But the light shines in the darkness, though it, and the darkness does not overcome it.

My phone rang. Two excited little voices told me about how snug and warm they were.

"See you in the morning, Dad."

Helping without thinking

Little kids do it naturally. Automatically. Some adults I know are great at it. I have better days than others and work at it.
What I am referring to is the giving of oneself. The un-calculated, un-conditioned, un-manipulated act of helping others.
When someone you love pleads...sure, we respond. When a casual friend looks you in the eye and asks...yep, most often we'll honor that one, too.
But what about a stranger? Or what about when we're inconvenienced? Or when there's nothing in it for us? Or when there's difficulty or even danger associated with the helping?
I'm often humbled by chance encounters I have with strangers who go out of their way to help. Sometimes I'm the recipient; sometimes I'm just an observer.
There's a guy I know--well, not really since I've never met him--who will always take the time to email me long answers to my stupid questions about metal fabrication. He's owned a welding shop for many years yet still has no problem, in his off ours after a long day in the shop, sitting down in the evening and patiently explaining to me how to solve whatever problem it is that is stumping me.
My friend, Terry, will come up pretty much any time I ask, and lend a hand, a back and an afternoon heaving on a block and tackle line or driving the road grader to tow my tired old crane.
And then there's yesterday: I was searching for the music score to Psalm 27. I had dug up a recording of a cantor singing what is thought to be the oldest, and perhaps original, Hebrew chant melody to this Psalm. I'd like to sing this in church Sunday as the Psalm is 27, but it's too tough for me to memorize, and too arduous a task to write out and score.
I traced the source of this particular transcription back to a website (very interesting stuff, by the way and here's the address)
http://www.rakkav.com/biblemusic/
Seeing an email address to contact, I thought I'd give it a try and see if there was something he could do to assist me. Within the hour he not only had written back, but had pulled a copy for this Psalm out of his personal collection and attached it to the email.
I'm sure he receives lots of emails and, amongst the email calls to increase our bank account, various parts of our bodies, and proposals to send us money from someone in Nigeria, he spots my email and responds.
Like those great souls who pull over on a busy highway to help someone on the roadside, the great engine of our humanity is these myriad little acts of love.

doing what's right in front of you

I was looking for a picture frame at Goodwill. Gotta be the size 12 by 17. Found one for a couple of bucks. Back at home, I was getting ready to strip the picture out of the frame when I noticed the backing was glued on. Realizing that this had been professionally done, I gave the picture a closer look. It was a child's watercolor of the nativity scene...big smiles on the three wise men's faces.
I inspected the backing closer and saw that there was a bit of faint writing in the corner. "Drawn by Peter Schmeltz, age 5." And the framing shop was in Detroit, Michigan.
Well, given the fact that I had purchased this frame to frame a picture from my childhood that I had just stumbled upon, I paused. What the heck--I'll google this guy's name and see what comes up.
And, I found him: Peter Schmeltz, a music professor at a university in St. Louis. And an email address, too.
Hi Peter,
This probably will rank as one of the more unusual emails you'll probably receive...
I recently purchased a picture at a Good WIll store. Bought it for the frame. The picture is a hand-drawn self=portrait of a young boy and, on the back, it says Peter Scmeltz, age 5, and was framed at a shop in Michigan. I was just going to throw it away, but then got to thinking....so I googled it and found you. Thought I'd mention it in case you are this boy all grown up and in case you're wanting the picture. I'll wait a day or two until I hear back from you.
~martin

And I waited--more than a day or two--and he wrote back. He was surprised, of course, and couldn't imagine how something he drew as a kid could end up out at a Good will in Eastern Washington, but mused that he did grow up in the Detroit area, so he thought that it might be his.

I offered to box it up and send it to him, just in case in might be. And it turns out that it was. He recognized it right away as something he drew in first grade and gave to his teacher....

So, let's connect some of the dots here: I'm searching for a frame to frame a drawing from my childhood when I come across a picture from someone elses childhood. It's of baby Jesus in the manger, and here we are in the middle of Advent.

So what's this mean for Peter? I don't know. Perhaps he's estranged from family and this will bring healing. Maybe he's grown away from the religion of his childhood and this will remind him of the true meaning of Advent. Maybe this won't mean much of anything at all.

Most likely, this won't be revealed to me. That's okay. I am just supposed to do what's right in front of me and trust that there is purpose in the way God has woven the fabric of our lives together.

Just in time

I'm not sure how one smells it in the air or feels it in the bones, but, there it was, that feeling: Snow coming. Big snow coming.

I was pushing hard to get the windows in. Windows that, by rights, I shouldn't have been trying to lift solo, let alone hoist up a 30 ft tower and then out on a cat walk and heft and nail into place. But, there was that feeling about the snow, so seven four ft. by five ft. thermopane windows in custom, just-made casings got lifted up the tower by block and tackle. After squaring them and making certain of plumb, I nailed them off with wedges and 10 penny galvanized finish nails.

Three hours later the snow began. Overnight we got 14" and the tempature dropped to single digits. Autumn is over and Winter has begun.

The race is on

"Snow in the upper elevations" caught my ear on the morning radio.

Dang. I am so close. Trying to get the roof done, I have one more day cutting boards and then still need to get 30# roofing felt down to keep things dry thru the winter. We'll see.

Millie, the crane is shut down for the season, but she doesn't mind me using her boom to set up an old-fashioned block and tackle to hoist building materials up top.

Setting the principal rafters--eight of them coming to a point at a 12/12 (45 degree angle) pitch took quite a bit of head scratching. The rafters themselves are 2 1/2" by 5", 10 ft. long, sawn old-growth dough fir and are heavy as all get out. And to make matters worse, they all come up to a center metal bracket that I fashioned out of a 3 ft long chunk of 12" well casing. I welded sixteen 1/4 steel brackets with double thru holes for 1/2" grade 5 bolts around the circumference of the pipe to hold the rafter ends securely. The goal here was not to have to have any collar ties messing with the upwards view of the roof in my room.

But, how to get all this heavy stuff 12 ft. up in the air? I decided to use a 16 ft. long piece of 2" pipe with a pulley up top and a rope coming back down. My buddy Terry (all dicey projects of mine must involve Terry) and I pulled the 70 lb bracket assembly up the pipe like raising a flag on a flag pole. Once we got it up and suspended, then we began lifting up the rafters and bolting them into place.

As all of this is happening, the welding, the hammering and sawing, the figuring, and chance-taking and dreaming, I realize that this project is what I am supposed to be doing right now. There's this dead-on rightness that I can feel if I stop and become aware of it. This feeling that I am doing just what I am supposed to be doing.

simple pleasures

Pine has a smell all its own. And old-board pine even more so. That's one of the simple pleasures that comes from using hand tools. No screaming powered saw, no ear plugs, no safety glasses. Just the smooth even cuts of a 12 point Disston cross-cut with a sharp blade. Thumb guides the first few strokes and then long even pulls, letting the saw do the work--your arm just guides.

I am putting the roof boards on top of the newly-set rafters. These tongue-and-groove boards were rescued from the Park View Motel right before they tore it down. Beautiful knotty pine milled up in Twisp, Washington in the 1950's. A deep amber color made that way by time, varnish and sunlight.

As I measure and saw boards, I think about all of what these boards have seen over the years in the motel...families on vacation, lonely business men trying to be less so with a bottle, kids jumping from bed to bed, late-night rendesvous. And now it is my roof. Hopefully, the boards will look down at an equal amount of living in their new location.

Ears to Hear

Today I was downtown Wenatchee walking along the railroad tracks and I came upon a nice looking old Mack tractor with a flatbed trailer behind it. Getting closer to the rig, I saw that a homeless person or people had built a shelter of sorts underneath. A mattress or two, a jumble of dirty clothes, cooking pots. I didn't want to intrude, so I kept walking.
Twenty feet away, I realized that I needed to go back. Go back and leave some money there. I grabbed a rock from the railroad ballast and a twenty out of my wallet and stooped down into the opening of the shelter. Nobody home. Amidst the beer cans and the other debris, I left that 20 under that rock.

And later today, I saw a family that I know was just returning from a cancer consult in Seattle. After battling it several years ago, her cancer has returned. I could feel the heaviness in the air.

"This time it looks particularly bad," she simply said, as if talking about tonight's weather forecast. "And chemo is no longer an option--only surgery."

So, this evening I'm thinking. Praying, actually, before my meal. "So, why, God, do I get to be golden boy with so much going for me and so many cool things happening in my life, and she, (my friend) has a very sucky day. And the homelss person a very sucky life?"

This wasn't a rhetorical question--I really wanted to know. I mean I raised the tower yesterday successfully. I get to go to London tomorrow for a week. I've never gone hungry. I have two incredible kids...the list could go on for pages.

So, I got the answer. Really. It was God talking to me. It's kinda hard for me to write this. Kind hard to share about this, but truly. God talked and I heard the whisper. Not out loud, not Charlton Heston's voice, but there, there back somewhere in my head or heart or somewhere.

"You got the life I gave you so you can help others." That's what God said.
And I think I get it more than I ever have before. It's not that I am supposed to be Mother Theresa. That was her job. My job is to be Martin. A rather peculiar guy who makes a difference in his own quirky way. Working as a counselor as I did for many, many years--certainly. Giving workshops to help other social workers and counselors develop good kid skills--of course. Inspiring Americorps members to be sin boldly--yep.

But also in other subtle ways, ways that don't allow one to draw a fat magic marker line from cause to effect. Ways that just are part of the big picture and God's incredible rich and funny and preposterous plan. Even tank towers, even 20 dollar bills under rocks for a homeless alcoholic who might just spend it on booze.

The Tower is Up!

Yesterday afternoon was my day. I had to work until 3, and then we were to try to lift the tower after that. A last-minute call cancelled my work day so we could start the lift after lunch. A blessing because, since the project required 5 hours, we never would have made it had we started at 3.

Only Terry could come, all my other helpers were busy. Terry and I thought we could do it alone, but turned out there was no way we could. We needed help and, what do you know, Mark and his son Sam showed up.

As I crawled the crane over to the foundation, I could have easily been off to the right or left by inches or even feet, but things were lined up perfectly.

And, lastly, the myriad things that could have gone wrong that I wasn't even aware of...didn't.

Well, most everything didn't. We had one false start: After getting everything hooked up, looked over and ready to go, I proceeded to begin lifting the tower. I got it up halfway, about 45 degrees, and, all of a sudden, the end of the tower on the ground began rolling. Being round, and there being just enough of a slope, it took off, cartwheeling downhill. And the top chain connection between crane boom and tower has a pivot in it, so it merely spun 'round and 'round, letting the big long cylinder of a tower do whatever the heck it wanted to do. I sat there in the crane, jaw agape watching the unimaginable take place before my eyes.

Then things go exciting. Since the tower end was now rolling downhill, the momentum of the whole thing was swinging my crane boom over sideways. This put my weight out over the side of the tracks rather than in the front. Now I was too heavy and began to tip--not over completely, but enough to really get my attention.

Well, after we began breathing again and took a break to assess the situation, we lowered the tower top end until it was just barely off the ground, and then used the backhoe to push the tower base back up to where it was supposed to be. And you can bet that we also made sure the base would not do the big roll again.

After that it was pretty straightforward. A little iffy traveling the crane with the tower suspended in the air. But, slowly, slowly, we got it there, in place and down on the bolt stubs.

Here we are using the back hoe to hold the back end of the crane down because, as we needed to boom out a bit more, the tower was too heavy for the crane and, without the extra weight of the backhoe, we were getting pretty darn tippy!

Much cheering, back-slapping, and time for dinner.

Soren and I went back out and climbed the tower by flashlight to watch the stars come poking out. A perfect finish to the day.

Oh, so close

All the welding is done. All the boards cut. All the screws placed. It's time to get the tower up in the air. We were scheduled for 3 this afternoon. And then I woke up to wind. It blew hard all day long. Terry came up and we faced the facts: you just don't want a 9,000 lb steel can swinging in the breeze like some big wind chime. Especially if you're going to try to set it down easy on 8 bolts sticking up from the concrete slab.

Still not sure how it's going to go getting all those holes lined up....

I hope to find out tomorrow when we give it another try.

killer hill

Welding. Welding. Welding. Welding. Welding. Welding. Welding. Welding. Welding.

I never thought I could get tired of welding...but I am. There's been so much to weld and there's still so much to get done. It's tempting to just slam it all together, but I can't--lives are at stake if my welds were to fail and people fall from way up high atop the tower. This adds tension to the work and an intensity that makes for exhaustion at day's end.

Still, it's really good and satisfying work, this making stuff is. As I've mentioned early in this project, I've had this dream of a tower fortress, and here it is becoming real right before my eyes. Today, when I was breaking for lunch, I stopped and looked back behind me at this thing I am creating and was struck by how so very cool this thing is and how fortunate--how blessed--I am. Crane, welder, hundreds of dollars of free steel, the skills, the time, the guts...all this is gift, all this was given to me so that I can be who I am.

Soon, it will be time to lift this dang thing upright. Soon.

Millie made it home

That last 100 ft was a killer. As discussed in a previous post, I almost rolled the crane off the edge of the road when she sank her outbound track into the soft road edge. BTW, how many times do I need to learn the lesson of soft road edges before I stay well away? I'm now recalling the time I had my loaded water truck sink down off the edge....

Anyways, Terry came up this morning and we got to work. Seemed like an easy plan: swing the crane house around so that the rear counterweight was inboard and far away from the road edge, which would put the weight off the outward track. Then let Millie roll backwards down the road a bit until she was back to the center and then proceed back up the road on solid roadbed.

Well...

We couldn't swing the house around because the swing clutch is shot. We then proceed to pull the house around with Ol' Blue, the back hoe, but the swing brake was also shot and wouldn't hold the house from swinging back out precariously over the cliff edge! So we pulled the house around as far as we could and then Terry got underneath the crane and set a chain from the track base to the house bottom so that she couldn't swing back.

Then we were going to roll Millie back, but instead of rolling back, the outward track just started settling in deeper into the soft shoulder. Arghh.
We ended up setting out a bunch of timber planks in front of the outward track and I winched myself up on top by connecting my boom hoist rope to the road grader set on up a head on the road. Once I got up on the timbers, things were looking better, but, I gotta tell you, there was a period of time there where I was really scared that the crane was going to roll over and off the road and take me with her. But, it worked. And Mille got to the middle of the road and then it was an easy drive up the rest of the way to the saddle and the safety of the shop.

The crazy situations I get myself into require just as much craziness to get out, I suppose, plus tenacity, guts, luck, and being watched out for from up above.

Somebody recently sent me an email that speaks to this and was the very best of compliments:

You’re also an inspiration to others....’never before have we seen one man do such much---with so little! You’ve got real grit, which isn’t seen much, anymore.

tower progress

Welding. Lots of welding. I've got the support joists that cantilever out under the catwalk in place and now I'm working on the railings. It's been difficult getting all the geometry correct, but, so far, I'm right on the money. I'm doing first pass with 6013 to get deep penetration into the weld and then following up with 7018. The vertical and upside-down welds, though, are pushing my limits. And always, in the back of my mind, is the reality that these welds must hold well since they will be supporting people 30 feet up in the air.

Terry sent a new pulley down lake on the barge from Holden Village. Man, it's a big one...some 100 lbs or so of old steel. It'll work well for getting Millie, the crane, up the rest of the road and then also for a hook block for Millie when she's lifting heavy loads.

millie's big adventure

I've been trying to get my old Northwest Engineering crane up my road to my mountain top. There's several strikes against this being a successful project: one, the crane dates back to 1953; two, the clutches are worn and she can't pull herself up much of a grade; three, the machine weighs 46,000 lbs; and four, my road is a mile long, steep, and with 5 switchbacks in it.

Nonetheless, I set out to do this with the help of several friends and Alice, my road grader.

It wasn't off to a good strat when I was re-torqueing a few track frame bolts and I felt one snap off. Granted, I was putting 200ft. lbs on it, but it should have handled lots more than that. A minute later, Terry showed up. I thought we were done for the day, but Terry said "Why don't we head up to your shop and see if we can find something to make a new one." Well, we did and we did.

The first attempt didn't work out and I had to back down the road after 4 hours and only 400 ft. But I learned a lot. I found out that the crane cannot pull travel herself up the road and that the grader cannot pull her--the grader tires just start slipping. We did find out that what did work was paying out the wire rope off the drum that is used for lifting objects (She is a crane) and attaching that the the grader. Then I have a buddy drive the grader up the road a ways, set the brakes and blade down i nthe dirt and then I winch myself up to the grader. And then repeat. Many times. Here's us coming up....

Unfortunately, when the road gets steep, the winch is not strong enough to pull the entire machine. Terry, my best idea man had a good one: use a snatch block pully on the grader which would set up a 2:1 mechanical advantage when winching. And here's us going back down...

Our second attempt, several weeks later, used this approach. Worked like a charm. Got up the road, up thru the steepest parts, round the switchback corners and were just about to crest out up top when I happened to notice some metal fragments in the road. I stopped to check. Luckily, because it turns out that the pully block was just about to come apart as the bearing had failed.

We were just about up--and really wanting to get up after working on this all day out in the 100 degree heat without hardly any water--so, we tired to winch me the last stretch without the 2:1 mechanical advantage. I wasn't paying close enoug attention and I drifted too close to the edge of the road. The soft shouldler sucked me down and my right track started sinking and the entire crane house began listing over the edge. There's a big steep drop-off there and the crane was way too close for comfort.

Here you can see how she is itching to pop a wheelie. Notice how the track frame is lifting....

We began wrestling with options and strategies and ideas. All I could visualize was a quart of ice water. I listened to that little voice in me saying "Martin, time to shut it down. Now, before things totally come unraveled..." I surprised myself by listening to that voice this time. SO, now Mille sits--almost home--for several weeks until I can get a new pulley block and a plan for getting her off of the soft shoulder.