A Brake in the Action

While the guys were working downstairs on the drywall, I took a few minutes to look into the brake issue on my car. As you may recall, there was an issue with the brake pad which was jamming things up so that the car wouldn't go. After pulling the front driver-side caliper off, I discovered that the broken part I'd found on the ground was an exact match for the missing part on the outer pad.

The odd thing about the pad was the wear pattern when viewed along the side of the pad. Instead of being nice and rectangular, it was triangular, which seems to indicate that the caliper pistons were not aligned. This is most likely caused by excessive friction along the cylinder wall on one of the pistons, typically caused by moisture which had crept into the caliper from the seal and corroded the piston.

I pressed on the brake to see how far the pistons would extend, and one of them didn't move very far; it was kinda stuck. The other one was fine. This seems to be the problem.

The obvious solution is to head over to my nearest NAPA or AutoZone to purchase another caliper / brake pad set. But they want $50 for just the caliper, $75 for the caliper with the mounting hardware, and another $30 for the brake pads! And obviously I'm going to need to do both sides at the same time ... and might as well check the rear brakes as well ... and I already know the parking brake needs new shoes. So might as well do the whole thing at once, right?

Maybe after the basement gets the drywall and paint done. Which will be after Spring Break, after we get back from Texas.

Meanwhile, I have job interviews on Monday and Tuesday, and lots of other things to do in the meantime. Like Easter.

Drywall - Day 1

It was the smell that alarmed me. There's nothing in the world like the smell of Liquid Nails (or whatever the commercial-grade product is called), and it was wafting up from the basement where the two drywallers were busily cutting and drilling and attaching the sheets of boring-gray sheetrock to my precious framework. The smell jumped straight from my nose to my brain and shot me out of my chair like a bolt of lightning. I raced downstairs and caught them in the act, holding the offensive tubes of goop in their hands, while streams of already-dispensed adhesive slowly dripped down the studs I had so carefully cut and assembled.

Anger gritted my teeth. I was prepared to (metaphorically) tear their heads off, but it dawned on me that they were simply doing what they had been trained to do. Perhaps it was the more efficient method; perhaps it made things easier for them -- although I couldn't for the life of me figure out how -- but I simply stated through my locked jaw that I thought I'd made it very clear to their boss that I did not want any glue used on my walls. None. And, I added, get that glue off my wood. Right now.

I was livid, insensible with anger for quite a while afterward, even after sitting upstairs for a while listening to them as they moved on with the project (sans glue). Because I had not noticed the offensive scent until nearly an hour had passed since they had begun work, and as a consequence, the eastern wall of the smaller bedroom had already been completed. With glue between the sheetrock and my precious frames. They had cleaned it off the frames on which no drywall had been yet placed, but those other walls were already done, attached, complete. And now, should I ever need to remove them for the purpose of repairing a section damaged by moisture, mildew, water leaks, or electrical failure, it would be impossible to remove the 8x4 sections I had so carefully designed. And it would be necessary for me to scrape the cured product from the framework I had so carefully constructed, a process which inevitably destroys the wood, such is the grip on the fibers by the chemical compounds of the adhesive.

I had already experienced this when removing sections of the original drywall for the purpose of integrating the new bedroom walls and adding new outlets to the existing circuits. The drywall was damaged beyond re-use; the studs were gouged by my pathetic attempts to remove the quarter-inch beads of congealed glue.

If there is one thing inevitable about a wall, it is the need for eventual repair. Why do they seek to make it so much more difficult than it needs to be?

Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of it, though, is the fact that Dad and I spent so much time working on the basement during his recent visit, getting it ready. We had a great time working together downstairs, but the whole point was to move forward so that this basement could finally be done.

And then the drywall company put us off for nearly two weeks before they could get started. So we've been waiting, and waiting, and waiting ... and then when they finally get started, they do something that I had specifically told the estimater NOT to do.

Arg!

:::

Mom and Dad's visit was a happy surprise in the middle of a very sad time. We hadn't even considered that they might come all the way up to spend a couple days with us because we were already going to be seeing them down in South Bend for the memorial service (and then again in another month at Kel's wedding); but they came up early and spent Thursday and Friday night with us. Dad and I spent all day Friday working on the basement, which was more fun than I can even begin to describe; and then we all drove down to the memorial service, after which they stayed with other relatives down in Bloomington.

Some of my favorite memories of childhood are working with my dad, either on the house or out in the garage, on cars or cabinets, trying to pick up all the secrets of his carpentry magic. The best part of his most recent visit was that we got to spend time doing something that I actually knew how to do. I'm not a carpenter, but I do know my way around a 2x4. And house framing. And electrical. And plumbing. And drywall. And cars. Thanks to my dad.

Just don't ask me to build cabinets.

:::

One of the issues with Deb's "new" car was the exhaust system. The flexible section (about a foot past the end of the exhaust manifold) was rusted and leaking, which caused a bit of noise. Enough noise for some overeager cop to pull her over and give her a stern warning to "get it fixed".

I was annoyed because (1) my car is much louder and no one ever pulled me over; and (2) I'm convinced the cop was picking on her because she was a teenage girl driving by herself and he wanted to be intimidating. Jerk. (That's my protective Dad-mode talking.)

None of my DIY-fixes worked. The flex part was just too flexible and none of the patches or wraps covered it up enough. The best we could do was to reduce it by about 5 dB or so. Pathetic. We finally got tired of putzing around and so I called up my regular muffler guy and he said there was a ten or fifteen minute wait if I brought it in right now ... but I couldn't bring it in right now (due to some other things I was right in the middle of) ... so I said I could bring it in about an hour. Which I did. And in that hour's time, three other big jobs came into the muffler shop, so by the time I showed up, he couldn't fit me in. And I absolutely needed the car fixed right away.

So I drove a few miles to the next muffler place, which just so happens to be situated next to a book store (said store which just happens to be exhibiting one of Mary's art pieces), and there was a very nice man behind the counter who managed to fit me in. Which meant I could go sit over at the bookstore cafe while waiting for it to be finished and ready the book I had brought along (chock full of mystery/detective stories from the 20s, 30s and 40s). But I didn't get a chance to read much because after I'd only been there a few minutes, who should walk in but one of my favorite people, Carolyn Shapin? And she sat at my table and ate her late lunch and we had a marvelous chat about kids and colleges and graduate programs. And then she had to go, and then I read for a little while longer, and then it was time to go pick up the car from the shop.

Funny thing about the exhaust system: apparently the last person who repaired it, took off the catalytic converter and didn't put another one back on. In fact, they just put a straight pipe from the flex to the muffler, not even bothering to hook up the two oxygen sensors. The whole thing was a bit, shall we say, dicey. Naturally, the guy at Midas couldn't just fix the flex and leave it at that, so I authorized him to do the thing right, and he installed the catalytic converter and one of the oxygen sensors (but the other needs to be completely rewired, which takes more $$ than we have available right now). As it was, I was expecting a $200 repair; it actually cost us closer to $500.

Oh, well. At least Deb has a nice, quiet car now!

:::

With all these cars in my driveway (because there's so much basement junk in the garage that I can only fit one car in there), there's quite a bit of car-shuffling that goes on every day so that everyone can get to where they need to go at the appropriate time. Most of the time, I move the cars I don't need right away to the street so those in the family who need to go somewhere can use the driveway. And then I put them all back into the driveway at night because there is no street parking allowed overnight due to the necessity to get the snowplows through.

So the other day I was moving my green Subaru (Serenity II) from the street to the driveway, backing it up so I could line it up with the driveway, when it came to a grinding halt. As though the brakes had suddenly and inexplicably engaged. But I was not pressing the brake, nor was the parking brake on.

Back and forth, back and forth a couple times, but it stayed locked. And then, finally, something snapped, and it moved. Confused, I put it in the driveway and then took a good look at the wheels. Didn't see anything weird until I walked back out to the street. And found part of a brake pad lying there. About a third of one. And it was worn down at an angle, as though the caliper pistons were not pushing the same. As though one of them was perhaps jammed.

So apparently one of the brake pads had been wearing wrong and it suddenly broke off and jammed up the rotor until my back-and-forth motion caused it to dislodge. But which wheel?

Cheryl wasn't home so the garage spot was clear. I drove the car into the garage and jacked up the car and pulled off the left front (driver-side) wheel and - Bingo! There it was, the rest of the broken brake pad, and two misaligned caliper pistons.

Just what I need. A broken car. In a jammed-up garage. While trying to finish a basement. And find a job. And get ready for a trip to Texas. And plan a graduation.

I am so ready for a vacation.

Bob and Susan

It was only a week ago that we went on down towards South Bend to attend the memorial service for Bob and Susan, and it still doesn't quite feel real yet.

But I suppose losing loved ones never does feel real.

One of the nicest things about family is, no matter how long you've been away, you're always family. When we moved out here from Seattle in 2004, we hadn't seen hardly any of this side of the family since 1992 when we took the "Grand Tour" to the East. That was a long time ago, and a lot of things went on in this part of the family that we weren't a part of, or had no knowledge of. Quite frankly, we were so focused on the things that were going on in our own little corner of the sky that we didn't pay much attention.

I came out here ahead of the family in June of 2004 just in time to attend the Downs family reunion in July, and got the chance to re-acquaint myself with all the aunts and uncles and cousins. Everyone was kind and generous and welcoming, but most especially I remember going on up to Edwardsburg and hanging out with Bob and Susan and their whole gang, and how much fun it was. Seems there was an endless amount of food from Susan and stories from Bob. I could've sat and listened for days.

Bob, of course, took me out to the shop and talked for hours about all the plans he had for this, that and the other thing -- fixing up trucks and cars and RVs and making trips around the country, welding and electrical work, the structural mechanics of barns, and the joy of llamas. And dogs that dug trenches in the yard.

I wish now that we could've spent more time hanging out at their house over the ensuing years. We tried. Quite a few Thanksgivings we were planning on going down for a visit (and some food!) but that's about time the first snowstorms come rushing across the lake and shut down I-94 and 131 and 31 and just about all the other southbound traffic.  We did get to spend one near-Christmas down there, which was a total hoot!

One of my favorite memories of Bob was helping him with the wiring on a trailer. For some reason, the back lights weren't coming on, so we traced the wires all through that thing and tried for a couple hours to get it working. In the end, we didn't get it all working, but we had a wonderful time talking about trucks and trailers and tractors and driving cross-country and hauling fancy automobiles to destinations deep in the interior of crowded cities where there wasn't any room for mistakes. And then Bob always talked about these ideas he had - inventions of one kind or another that he wanted to flesh out. He had some really good ones. I just wish we'd had a bit more time to work 'em out.

As for Susan, it was always about the family, her children and grandchildren and what all they were up to. We'd sit at their dining room table and talk for seeming hours about all the goings-on. Always struck me odd that the family was so close by that they could see each other just about any time they wanted. That wasn't the way of my family; it was always a big deal to take a long trip to go and see our family. With her, they were only a phone call and a short car ride away.

Sure was nice to see 'em all again.

Uncle Bob

We got the news this morning that Uncle Bob had died.

Twelve years ago, we moved from Washington state to Michigan. Uncle Bob and Aunt Susan became our closest relatives, as they lived just down the road in Edwardsburg. I was able to visit them when I came out here in June of 2014, a couple months before the rest of the family showed up, and then again in July at the family reunion. The best part about visiting Bob and Susan was that they made me feel like I'd never left, like they'd just seen me a couple days before. No awkwardness (except when I couldn't remember the names of Mike's or Terri's kids). Just lots of good food (thanks to Aunt Susan) and hilarious hours of conversation and story-telling (thanks to Uncle Bob).

We haven't had the opportunity to go down and visit as much as we would've liked, but they didn't complain. Indeed, every time we did manage to come down, it was just like going home again.

Uncle Bob was always eager to show me his latest project, whether it was just an idea in his head that he wanted to make into reality (like those locking gas caps for those tractor trailers) or his retirement vehicle (a miniature RV in which he and Susan were going to drive across country), he was always a dreamer, always a schemer, always planning ahead to the next thing that was going to be fun, innovative, and valuable.

And when he wasn't scheming for the future, he was telling stories about his family, about the people he loved more than life itself: the kids who went through some heart-rending struggles, the grandkids who were smart as whips and twice as ornery, and his wife who took such good care of him that he never had to worry about anything. He loved to laugh. He had a huge repertoire of funny stories.

I'm gonna miss Bob. He was real and genuine and generous and fun-loving and hospitable.

Are We Done Yet, Mr Snow?

They said it was going to snow today. They weren't kidding. I spent almost an hour shoveling snow off the driveway, piling it all up into a berm that parallels the driveway. It looks like one of those civil war trenches we used to see all the time in and around Richmond when we went with Dad on those Civil War battlefield tours. Except these are all white and cold.

We watched the storm come in from the west. The radar showed a huge spinning mass of air that rolled across Lake Michigan, sucking the moisture out of the lake and rolling it around up in the cold, cold sky and then dumping it all over the land to the east. Which is us. It started out slowly in the wee hours of the morning (which meant I had to go out and brush off the cars before anyone could get going) and kept up the pace nearly the entire day, steadily piling up the powder in the driveway and the front yard and the backyard and the deck. Looking out the kitchen slider, we could measure the depth of the snow on top of the deck bench (which is where we store all the plant tools).

I was hoping that the effort spent on the driveway was enough to get me a pass on the basement work for the night, but it was not to be. So after dinner, Cheryl and I headed down to the basement to get some more of the pink foam insulation hung back up on the walls.

We got some of it up. But then I just got too tired and wanted to go to bed.

I'll work on the rest of it tomorrow.