No Smoking, Please

As a parent of a ten year old I make a conscious effort to evaluate the world as a ten year old might. More specifically how I remember evaluating the world when I was a ten year old.

I spent most of my childhood years in a small Swiss-decedent town of Berne, Indiana. Like many small towns, it was full of charms that invoke the "good old days" sentiment, but really, had I stayed there all my life, I know my view of the world would be much different than it has become. For better or worse.

One of the things about being a kid in this little town is that you owned it if you had a bike. Riding my bike within a radius of about 1.5 miles from my home would pretty much cover the entire "town" section of Berne. I loved it. As I became 11 or 12 years old my freedoms increased and my parents granted permission for me to ride across town to the park, to the swimming pool, and even to get my hair cut.

I mention the hair cut because I have specific memories of going to get my "hairs" cut. My dad always took me to McKean's Barbershop. Bill, I think was his first name--though I was never allowed do address him as such--was a "sponsor" of one of my little league baseball teams. I think that meant he paid to have his shop's name mentioned with the team name, i.e., the McKean's Barbershop Rangers, and maybe he paid for the team t-shirts we wore.

Anyway, I have distinct memories of his shop. He was always very friendly to me. I had a booster seat I sat in. His shop had that hair spray-aftershave-shaving cream smell There was always the hair on the floor, AND when kids were done with their hair cut, we were awarded one of those Bazooka Joe bubble gum pieces with "1 cent" printed on the front. There was this ridiculous piece of gum, which lost its flavor after exactly five chews, and a Bazooka Joe comic inside that was never funny.

When I finally came "of age" to ride my bike to his shop by myself, carry the $3.00 he charged for a kids cut with me, and declare I wanted a "tapered" cut--even though I had no idea what that was, I felt I had arrived. I was grown up. I even locked my bike up on his little bike rack he had out in front--like some one would actually try to steal MY five-speed bike.

I went into the shop and waited my turn. I don't remember much of who was there that day, except for one man. I remember him because he was a large man. With a beard. It was probably his motorcycle out front too. He seemed friendly, but he looked mean. And most significantly, to my sheltered mind, he smoked.

I don't mean I thought he smoked because I was close enough to smell it on his clothes or in his breath. I mean he was sitting there in this little room smoking.

Did he know that was bad for him? Did he know it was probably--no--it WAS a sin? Who's gonna tell him he really shouldn't be sucking on that cigarette? I wanted to be offended by the smoke, but it was kinda cool the way it streamed out of his mouth--and nose. It intrigued me that the smoke could come out of his nose as well as his mouth. On TV, I had only seen it come out of people's mouths. This was new information. Could he achieve the "inhale" portion of the cycle by sticking the cigarette in one of his nostrils? I didn't know,

It was my turn to get my hair cut. I sat facing him, at least as long as Mr. McKean pivoted my chair in his direction.

It was building up inside me. I had to say something. He has to be told the truth about his habit. But he's not going to listen to me. A kid. A kid who just rode to get his hair cut on a bicycle. I have to be funny. I have to be direct. But I have to sound convincing, authoritative, and maybe intelligent. Maybe I'll shame him into quitting his habit right here. I'll say something so pithy, I'll put it in such a way that he's never thought of or imagined before thereby prompting him to squash out his smoke stick and vow to never take it up again.

So this was my chance. I thought long and hard about what should be said. So I mustered up the courage. I watched as he sucked in the smoke and exhaled through his nose.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like a fire-breathing dragon when you do that?"

What followed can hardly be described as a chuckle. Not even a laugh. Maybe more of a guffaw. Not just from him, but from the others waiting for their hair cut.

"No," he said. "I don't think anyone has ever told me that."

I did my duty. Judgment had been handed down. He'll have some things to think about now.

Mr. Fix-it

Most kids, when they dream of and look forward to Christmas think about the snow, or the lights, or putting up decorations, or opening presents. I looked forward to those things as a kid too, but the thing that Christmas meant more than anything to me was that we got to set up the train around the tree.

This was dad's train, a collection of Lionel engines, tracks, and cars accumulated since the time he was a kid (and we know that was a very long time ago). Somewhere about the time I was 12 or so I was allowed to take over the annual "setting-up-of-the-train." I enjoyed it a lot. Probably because of the fantasy of running the machines, pretending I was actually in the engine and making it go, the wires, the set up, the layout. It was kind of the analog version of Sim City.

So fast forward a couple of decades and now I have the train, though the excitement has worn off a little, it's still fun to get excited about seeing it run yet another year, especially through the eyes of Reece, who just can't get enough of it. Anyway, crawling around on the hardwood, trying to assemble a couple of tracks, and get wires to plug into the right things, and set the wheels just right on the track to avoid a short, and don't touch things or you'll get a little shock just didn't have the same appeal it used to.

One of the set of engines that we had was this diesel model. A Union Pacific engine that just never quite worked right. I have memories of it roaring but not moving. Seemed it didn't have the weight the cast iron engines had to pull a lot of cars. Even when the load was lightened, it still moved reluctantly. I can remember dad taking it to have it worked on. I think this happened more than once. A little lubrication, an adjustment here or there, and it at least moved again, but still didn't compare to the robustness of the locomotive models.

Well today I ran the train for a while--Reece and Lindsey couldn't wait for me to do it! and all of the sudden the U. P. train just stopped. Light stayed on, but the train made no sound and went nowhere.

This happens occasionally. Tracks become separated, or the engine is sitting on a dirty part of the track, making a poor electrical connection, but nothing I did could get it moving again. So I picked it up and examined it. I found a loose wire underneath where the gears are. OK, that could be something--question is, do I want to get into this tonight? I figured out how to pop the top off and when I flipped it over on the inside, I discovered a different loose wire which had broken from the top of the motor.

I decided to operate. I found my little soldering pen, some solder, got my wire strippers, and went to work.

Reece just couldn't stand it. Totally beside himself with curiosity. Using that iron again brought back all the memories of breathing in that second-hand lead-rich smoke.

Anybody who has ever done any soldering will tell you it's a three handed job. I was having a hard time getting the iron hot enough....

..So I switched from the 10-watt iron to the 75-watt gun. THAT did the trick.

Put it all back together, and the final result: