We're Finally Somebody!!!

 

I imagine that most of us in North America take a mailbox for granted.

It's just something that's there. Important only when a special treasure is expected. Begrudged when the bills roll in. Cussed at when stuffed full of sales crap, (Thank you very much AARP and medical insurance shills!) or you're trying to mow around it.

But The Wife and I have been living without a proper mailbox for so long we had forgotten just how special having one of these tin boxes out on the street at the end of the driveway really is!

OK, I was going to post a photo of an official document here but by the time I finished redacting all the incriminating evidence that might point to just who and where we are it looked like some approved release of an accounting report from a Trump business entity.

You see, 16 years ago we moved onto a previously unoccupied piece of land and received an official address from the county office of emergency services. A 911 address if you will. This comes with an entry in the county records, an update to the emergency dispatcher's map, an officially stamped document for our records, and a reflective fiberglass address plate.

First we fastened the address plate to the fence near the gate as instructed and carefully installed an official USPS mailbox as per USPS rural mailbox regulations. (X number of inches off the road and the bottom of the door between Y and Z inches high)

Then, continuing to follow instructions, we confidently swaggered in the door of the post office that services our area with our official embossed document in hand.

Within 5 minutes, 4 of those waiting on the postmaster (it's a small office so other than the two actual letter-carriers that's the extent of the staff) to acknowledge that we were standing at the service counter in the otherwise empty building and grudgingly heave himself out of his chair with the universal long-suffering sigh of the useless, we were slinking back out the door in defeat.

Not only did he refuse to accept our new address and tell us that if we didn't remove our newly installed mailbox that very day he would sic the law on us, he also informed us that he wasn't going to let us rent a PO Box within his little domain.

The former might have been because the address assigned to us by the county entity that does these things was out of sequence, but that's not unusual in this county. It could be that the county where we live is not the same county where his post office resides, again, not unique. Or maybe he was just a mean son of a bitch. I don't know. I also don't know why he refused to let us rent a PO Box. (Our old address was about to go away because we were selling that house so coming up with an official address was kinda urgent!)

So we went to the next nearest town, more than 3 times farther away, and had no trouble renting a PO Box, which has been our increasingly more expensive mailing address ever since. 

In other news, UPS had no trouble finding our new street address and delivering our Omaha Steaks orders once every year or two, nor did The Mattress Store when we had to replace our old one and figured it would be a lot easier on us for them to haul the old one away, and two different lumber yards found us just fine with the supplies for a couple of the larger projects. But since FedEx is pretty much in bed with the USPS, since the address wasn't officially recognized by the USPS they couldn't find it either.

It took Mapquest and Google maps a while, but about 7 or 8 years ago they started showing us in the right place as well, (Google's pin even lands right on our barn some 600 feet in from the road.) but that's still not good enough for the USPS and FedEx.

For 16 years we have made the 34 mile round trip to our mailbox about once a week.

For 16 years we have struggled to get anything with an installed battery, or sometimes just because you could install a battery in it, delivered to us since the post office marks stuff like that as hazardous. (They can put it in their trucks along with all the "benign" letters and packages, they can receive it at the local post office sorting room to be divi'ed up and handed off to a letter-carrier to be crammed into the confines of their overstuffed vehicle along with all the rest of the mail for delivery along their route, but it "can't" be shelved for pickup at the service counter.)

To add just a little more spice to the situation, drivers licenses and credit cards have to have a street address associated with them, even if it "doesn't exist", which is a pain since we have to make sure they don't send renewals and credit card documents to the "address of record".

I've even had stuff delivered to my brother's place some 1300 miles away because it was too big for the USPS to handle and the only other option was FedEx who would always just return our shit to the sender rather than admit we existed.

We did try once again many years ago when we heard the original postmaster got moved to a new location, but the new postmaster wasn't any more willing to accept our official document.

Then one recent day as I was coming back from a post office run along the winding county roads, (In addition to the usual wild-life, I've had to stop at various times and herd a gaggle of domestic turkeys, a goat, a grumpy bull, and two small herds of cows off the road.) I saw a Prime truck trundling down the rutted lane of a ranch not more than two miles from our place.

Hot Damn! The Amazon fleet has made it out to our area!

The next Prime eligible thing I ordered off Amazon I had shipped, with some excitement, to our official/un-official street address.

Because we normally keep the gate closed, and this was, at best an experiment, I watched the tracking info carefully so I could make sure the gate was open when the driver came along.

I watched that package leave some east-coast distribution point, show up at a centralized air hub and be sent on out again, turn up at a regional hub and then go back out the door on a truck. I kept checking, expecting to see an "out for delivery" update, but what I saw instead was that at 0632 Prime handed it off to the "local post office" for final delivery.

Oh Crap!

The USPS letter carrier comes past our place about mid-day but I didn't have to wait that long to see what was going to happen because by 0900 tracking showed my package listed as "undeliverable"

Not expecting to be successful but willing to try anyway, I made sure I had my ID in pocket, the tracking info in hand, and on a whim, I also opened the safe and grabbed a couple copies of our official address document, before heading on over to where my package was languishing in the limbo of the unaddressed.

Well it turns out the local post office is now on its third postmaster and when I explained to her about my package she remembered seeing it in the back and handed it over with no problem. I then explained why our address doesn't show up on their books and she said "no problem, just let me get you to fill out a form". I pulled out my official document and she put the form back down, took mine and said "this is all I need. When you get your mailbox put up just fill out this postcard, put it in the box with the flag up and you are good to go."

And we were! A decade and a half of being nobodies and it was that easy!

It could be that, unlike the previous two, middle-aged male postmasters, the current postmaster couldn't resist my good looks and charm, but, given that I don't have either - looks or charm - I think it's far more likely that men, especially petty men with Napoleon complexes, just suck.

When I got home with my wayward package I pulled the old mailbox off the high shelf where it has wasted away for the past 16 years, dusted it off, tracked down some fresh stainless steel screws and, since we had never removed the post, just the box, had our mailbox installed within the hour.

I know it probably sounds silly to the properly mailed,

but there's something very satisfying, and exiting, about actually getting mail up at the end of the driveway! About going into our Amazon account and making our street address the default ship-to address. (Amazon continues to hand packages off to the post office even though I just saw another Prime truck turn down yet another nearby ranch entrance the other day.) About gradually changing our address over with various entities and seeing stuff show up at the end of the driveway instead of 17 miles away in a small box with a sticky lock. (Since it's paid for for quite some time yet we'll keep the PO Box for a while so there's no rush to get it all done right away.)

It's hard to explain, but there's such a feeling of lightness and well-being associated with being able to walk up to the end of the drive (OK, it's a bit of an uphill hike so The Wife actually drives) and collect our mail like normal people.

On top of that, now we can send mail out by simply walking up to the end of the driveway and flipping the flag up.

¡!How cool is that?¡!

Using some concrete blocks I had laying around, a wood stand left over from other projects, a sawed off fence rail, a little bit of paint, and a new deck box,  

we have also installed a package-drop box near the gate.

We are officially somebody now!!

Update on the Pike Trail Gaiters

A while back I wrote a post reviewing the Pike Trail Gaiters

 I had been using for about 8 months while hiking the property to protect my legs from all the pokey things that had been tearing them up.

Well it's been about 10 more months and the gaiters are a little bit funkier now, but they still serve, almost daily, to keep my legs looking pristine and youthful.

OK, that youthful bit might have been going too far - - - In fact, pristine might be a bit of an exaggeration too - - - Oh well such is the hubris of vanity.

 

But yesterday morning, as I was putting them on, (to get back to the point)

I noticed an issue with one of the foot-straps.

In my original review I remarked on how my biggest concern, durability wise, was the foot-straps that, as I pointed out at the time, "are down there getting ground between my boot and the trail with every step"

Back then I estimated I had put about 300 miles on the gaiters and still couldn't find a nick or even a scuff mark on the straps.

Well now I've easily got 600 or more miles on the gaiters and the straps are not quite nick free anymore and one of them had failed, or almost failed, at the stitch-line.

But we're not the kind of household to give up on possessions that easily. I mean, it's a little worse for wear now, but I'm still wearing one of my old office-shirts every evening after I get out of the shower (It's been 10 years since I retired) and when my sister saw the battered and  taped-together folder I keep my Sumoko puzzles in while we were at the family reunion last summer she handed me a brand new folder - which I tucked away in a safe place for when I really need to replace the current one. 

So instead of panicking and hitting the "add to cart" button I dug the first-aid kit out of my backpack.

No, not because I'm going to fix it with a band-aid

but because that's where I keep my big-ass needle!

Which I threaded with some dental floss. - From my bathroom drawer. No sense in using up what I keep in my first-aid kit after all.

Strong stuff dental floss. Far stronger than any of the "normal" threads we have for the sewing machine.

With supplies ready I cut the strap the rest of the way loose, but not before marking where on the gaiter the strap went and which side of the strap faced up with a bit of chalk.

Then I began re-sewing the fresh, undamaged end of the strap back onto the gaiter.

Driving that needle through many layers of tough fabric wasn't easy

so I used the narrow slot between my bench-vise and bench to support the work while driving the needle down through the gap

with the help of the little wooden block I use to protect the tip of the needle when it's stored in my kit.

To help even more I also soaped the tip of the needle before every stitch.

And before long I had box-stitched the strap back onto the gaiter, not only along the two original stitch-lines but down both sides as well because - well, overkill is a hard habit to break,

and the gaiters are functional again! - If this photo looks harsh around the edges it's because the sun wasn't up yet this morning when I set out on my laps so I had to use the flash.

This whole process probably took me a half hour to do. Since it would have cost me $25 to replace the gaiters with a new set I figure I earned myself the equivalent of about $50 an hour there. And I don't even have to report it to the IRS!

Not bad for a retired old fart!

Henderson Depot

 I've noticed that the posts I write about museum visits tend to be the least read, and that's saying a lot when only a handful of my 750 posts have managed to claw their way up into the lower 2-digit page-hit level. (My last museum post just barely made it halfway up the 1-digit ladder!) But then again, it's my blog so I'm going to do another museum post so you'll have to turn it off, tune it out, or just plain ignore it.

And I will try to keep it short. (But we'll have to see how that goes!)

As I was heading home after a week of making myself dizzy hiking the same 5 miles of trail in Martin Creek State Park I passed through Henderson Texas, and prominently displayed on my map was the Henderson Depot Museum. A click on the map-bubble for the museum showed that it had opened not quite 30 minutes ago. (Ain't technology great?!)

Being a sucker for all things railroad - and trying to be a little less isolationist - I decided to swing by and see what the parking lot looked like, congestion-wise.

Turns out it was just my kinda parking lot. Mostly, but not completely, empty.

Just enough vehicles that I won't be the only one in there and on display, being judged the whole time by the staff, (one of the curses of introvertism) but not so many that I'd be mingling too closely with the other patrons. (OK, we can blame a little bit of that on introvertism but these are is still COVID times! No matter how many of us are trying to ignore the facts.)

So I decided to check it out and tied down my train - OK Yeah, I don't really have a train (I wish!) so in reality I parked The Van.

Speaking of trains,

with the exception of its name, the depot, which I'll get to in a moment, and this single caboose, which was locked up and inaccessible, both doors (I tried) there wasn't much railroad to this museum. 

Disappointing to a train-geek, but not a disaster to a history-nerd.

Like many of these community style museums funding and exhibits are mostly through local donations and volunteer labor. Yes, that can make things a little quirky but I've visited several of these types of museums that have turned out to be be really interesting. And since they tend to focus on local stuff, I have often learned things I'm not likely to come across otherwise. 

For instance, where else would I learn that the handful of houses located just outside the entrance to the State Park I had been staying at are sitting on the site of Harmony Hill?

Quite a little town in the mid 1800's that, in addition to nearly a dozen shops and a furniture factory, included a Masonic Hall, a race-track (horse) and a number of thriving taverns. (apparently even the Mercantile did a booming "adult beverage" business out the back door on race days!)

An assortment of butter-making equipment

At $3 a pop, $2 for seniors, this museum certainly isn't supplementing its funding at the door. In fact, when I pulled out the single $20 bill I carry folded up between my credit cards, where it will stay for months, even years, since I pretty much always use cards for everything, the woman at the front just waved me on through saying it wasn't worth dealing with the change. (I offered my card but she didn't want to mess with that either. - I know. I know. I've got so much charm and good-looks I'm dangerous! - See! I told you I'm dangerous! At least one of you just laughed so hard you nearly choked!)

The museum is called The Depot because that's what they started with, but now they've expanded and most of the inside displays are housed in a new building while the depot itself is used mostly as a community gathering space and class room.(They actually have another classroom in the new building too which tends to suggest a lot of school field trips.)

The new building houses an eclectic array of exhibits

that tell and illustrate the local history

as well as the lifestyle

 

of anywhere from a couple centuries to a couple of decades ago.

And yes, when I saw this dress, which was apparently worn by one of the early 20th century school teachers, I had to look behind it to see if they had pinned up the fabric back there.

Nope.

Like this outfit displayed elsewhere in the museum, what you see is what you get.

Those were some svelte women!

But as this 1930 photo shows, not everybody was skinny back then! - Just more of us than today - - -

Outside the main building some displays, such as an open-air, steam-powered saw-mill and this carousel, are fenced off waiting on the slow process of volunteer-driven restoration.

 Others, like this typical 5-room dogtrot home, are open and ready for self-guided exploration.

I'm not sure what it says about me, but when I walked into its 1900's kitchen I was struck by how comfortable I felt in there and that got me to looking around and thinking, and I decided I could manage very well, and happily, in a space like this.

No soft-close drawers, automatic ovens, exotic counter-tops and back-splashes. All the things that, based on the house hunting and renovation shows of today, we just can't live without!

There's also a complete cotton gin sitting on the museum grounds and this is the two- cylinder Anderson oil engine that ran everything in the gin through a series of leather belts.

You can get a sense of the scale of this thing from the cut-down milk jug and the pails.

Those two tubes on the top are the cylinders,

each of which produces 55 hp!

Elsewhere on the grounds are an assortment of 'town' buildings such as the doctor's office, a general store, and a printer's, along with a covered area full of old farming tools and implements, but in a (clearly failed) attempt to keep this post short I'm going to skip all that.

Except for this.

This is the remnants of a small broom-making shop opened in 1933 by Jesse Rogers, 20 years old at the time, after completing a course at the Austin school for the blind.

Here he supported himself, and eventually his family, making brooms, whisk brooms, and mops by touch day after day right up until he died in the mid 1980's

Anyway, I think there's a lot of value to be found in these little community style museums and though posts about them don't seem to generate much interest, whenever I can force myself into one of them I expect I'll continue to spit into the wind - I mean post about it.

Cheating or Really Intelligent Use of Resources?

 

A few months ago I included this photo in a post.

In that post I mentioned that this tree, which is laying across one of the trails on our property, has been slowly settling and now I can't get under it without ducking. I also mentioned that for now, instead of doing something more permanent to resolve the issue, it would be just one more place where I'd have to learn to duck while doing my laps.

Well apparently I don't learn very well.

 A few days ago, with weighted pack on my back and head down as my little feet chugged along trying to keep up with the brisk pace, I ignored the need to duck and for my insolence promptly got knocked flat on my ass.

There was an exceedingly loud crack as my skull was driven back into my neck. Like an encore this was followed with stars, some one-sided, less than family-friendly discussion, and a healthy dose of dumb-ass-you-deserve-it pain. But yet again, with some unfathomable stubbornness, I just carried on without doing anything about the situation other than resolving to do a better job of remembering to duck.

Then yesterday, after making it past the spot unscathed on my outbound trip, that damn tree reached out and dope-slapped me upside the head again on the return trip. Thankfully it was just a light, glancing blow this time, but unless I was ready to start wearing my hardhat and a neck-brace when doing laps, clearly something had to be done about this!

Soo - - - Nope, trusty pruning saw, which even though it hardly ever refuses to start when I need it to, is 10 inches.

Tree: about 14 inches.

Damn! The math, even new math, or whatever confusing crap they're experimenting on our kids with nowadays, just doesn't want to work.

No problem.

I have two chainsaws, both of which are large enough for the job.

But neither one of them is a Stihl, (Ever notice that almost all the people on those off-grid shows that rely on their tools for survival have Stihl chainsaws?) and both of them fight me in different ways.

The small one's carb is all out of wack (I suck at carburetors!) so it is very difficult to start and then keep running.

The big one starts fine, though it idles like crap, but I can't seem to keep the chain properly adjusted. If I don't stop every couple of minutes to re-tighten the chain it throws itself off the bar creating a hell of a mess.(Yes - the chain gets all tangled up too, but mostly it scares the crap out of me every time!)

Besides, with 2-stroke fuel and bar-oil both these saws are stinky and messy and noisy and heavy.

But hey!

I've got a 6 ounce roll of surveyors tape sitting right there on my computer desk! (Doesn't everybody?!)

So back up over the ridge with tape in my pocket

And, with a surplus of intelligence and trail-smarts, problem solved!

I left the tails long enough that even if I'm leaning wearily into my pack with head down as I crank out the steps I'll be able to see it in plenty of time to duck.

At least that's the plan - - -

This is a 34 second video, with narration, of me successfully negotiating the downed tree this morning on the outbound trip.

If that's too long for you here's a 14 second quick-action version of the inbound trip. (Actually I hope one or both of them actually works. I haven't figured out how to test the embedded videos. Maybe after the post is published?)

Now y'all might be wondering why I put up with a less than perfect trail. Why don't I just put on my big-girl panties and get out there and clear things out properly?

I do go out there maybe once a year and trim some of last year's growth back, but not by too much. You see, I'm under the delusion that all the weaving and twisting and turning and ducking a less than perfectly cleared trail forces me to do is better for me. That it works a broader range of muscles, improves my flexibility, and keeps my sense of balance tuned up. (If I'm wrong please don't tell me! Just leave me with my happy delusions.) 

Alright. Much as I'd like to ignore it and leave y'all thinking I'm a genius, here's the reality edit: 

I wrote this a few weeks ago and in a perfect world I'd be able to say that was the end of it, but - - - well - - -

Just to remind me that I'm not quite as smart as I think I am, over the next couple of weeks I picked up a few more divots in my head.

Not on that big tree! That fix has been working great. But apparently, now that I don't have to worry about the big stuff, there are a few smaller obstacles in head's way that feel like they can make themselves bashly (brashly?) known.

Fortunately the small stuff - such as this one which, even though it's right at eye-level where it can hardly be missed has still clipped my hat off a few times - doesn't hurt quite as much, but it is still annoying.

So, if a fix works once it should work again - right?

I hope so!

And since I'm not quite as dumb as I look, I've stashed a supply of head-knocker-tape in my GPS case where I can quickly get to it whether I'm stopping to pick up my hat, busy rubbing the pain out of a new head-divot, or laying flat on my back wondering what the hell just happened.