Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967

I've heard that... mine don't fit!

Good topic! Thinkin' back to my teen days - don't recall if the tip came from some old timer or if I read it in Field & Stream (anyone remember "Tap's Tips?")... but on the topic of cleanup: "See that hole in the skillet's handle? Tie a line to that handle and toss that skillet into the lake. But be sure to tie the other end to something first! Anyhoo, when ya reel it in to cook breakfast, it'll be clean!" Danged if it wasn't! Dunno what "grazed" on the scrapings; don't know if I want to know ~ but it sure made skillet cleanup easy!

Boring Saturday evening. Resorted to turning on the tube ('cept it ain't a tube no mo', now izzit?) and browsed about a bit. Finally found something on Prime called "Heads of State," and settled in with a glass o' peach tea and watched it. Totally unrealistic (should've underlined unrealistic!) action film that was actually fun! I even got a few grins out of it - dunno if those parts were meant to elicit grins or not, but heck, they worked with me. 'Twas fun! (BTW - I'm glad I did not check out the trailer 'til after seeing the movie... likely would have not watched it; 'way too many spoilers!)

Two Hundred Forty-Nine Years and Two Days Ago...

I'd never even hear of Aldi stores before seeing this thread. And outside of airports have never encountered "quarter deposit" shopping carts. What's next... pay toilets?

Arguably the best Citroen ever, the Deux Chevaux~! 😄

https://citroenvie.com/was-teslas-brutalist-cybertruck-inspired-by-citroen/

And, as since the beginning of time, the standard length of any rope remains... one foot too short. (In the modern era this rule also applies to extension cords and garden hoses)

Sweet, sweet li'l revolvers. Here's mine, 1970 vintage. My late, dear friend "Doxna" bought it new, put less than a box of shells through it. She packed it on a few deer hunting trips, but never fired it again. When she passed about ten years ago, she left it to me. Although I've never shot it, I did have my son pull the bullet from a cartridge and pop the primer with it. So... why on Earth do such a thing? Well, the turn signal brush in his old Toyota pickup steering wheel was worn; the empty .22 case fit over it perfectly and function was restored. That was the only time the hammer was dropped in fifty-five years. Somewhere I have the original receipt. She bought it from a sporting goods store on Clement St, in San Francisco, and as I recall the price with the Hunter holster was something like sixty bucks. Edit: I just remembered... my old pard Half-Breed Pete had one. "Had." Back in the early 70's he was on a multi-day hunting trip on horseback in the Los Padres National Forest. At some point, he reached to adjust his Bearcat holster, and discovered it empty. Oh, NO! He retraced many miles of trail, searching for the missing revolver. No joy. So, unless some fortunate soul just happened along and spotted it, somewhere out in the woods a lump o' rust resides alongside an overgrown trail.

In the Star Wars franchise, the stormtroopers are notoriously poor shots. In fact... they rarely, if ever, hit their target. So, if Ruger decides to call a new model "Stormtrooper," there's an implied expectation that the shooter will always miss. I'm still trying to find out if this is for real or not!

As a long-time Ruger pistol fan, this took me a moment...

Ah is workin' on it. Most o' the stories are done; working on simple illustrations now. By the way ~ thinkin' 'bout putting a picture of the Kappa Phi Delta house on the cover ~ here 'tis~! Hank's room was to the left, on the first floor - I suspect it was originally the "library" in the old mansion; it sported a fireplace. Second floor was the living room, or "front parlor," which had a piano stage. Behind it was the second "parlor," which had another fireplace. Third floor was MY bedroom, originally the master bedroom. Three guys could comfortably share the room, with space for three beds, three dressers, and a sofa in front of the third fireplace. Several people could comfortably be seated at a round table in the bay window. Two more bedrooms were on that floor, along with a bathroom and separate shower room. Fourth floor was "Wynuts" bedroom, sometimes shared. I believe it may have originally been a servant's quarters. At the other end of a landing at the rear of the house was a walk-in attic. We called that the "Chalet Room;" quite rustic, right under the rafters and roof and quite popular. The old place was built in 1904. We leased the house for a whopping $300/month. In 1973, the lease expired. The realtor who owned the place said he did not wish to renew the lease, but said we could continue to rent the place month-to-month, or we could buy it outright for $35,000. We were so insulted that we disbanded the fraternity and bailed. Zillow now has the house valued at $2.4 million, down from a high of $3.5 million in 2022. Hank's room, minus furniture and cat Hank, aka Jim Borton, and Ray Gee Hank impressing the bejabbers out of some sorority gal at one of our "Western Parties..." A young Hardpan... And... Hardpan and Hank years later; mebbe forty years ago. And just for the heck of it, Half-Breed Pete hisself!

The Treasure Hunt The men of Kappa Phi Delta were men of tradition. And, as such, we had many. Of course, not all involved partying; we did have a collective philanthropic bent. We were, after all, a Social and Service fraternity. Consequently, we were both individually and collectively altruistic, benevolent, and magnanimous – to the point of even getting ourselves arrested in the pursuit of such endeavors a time or two. Okay, now that that’s out of the way, back to the “social” part. But again, not all our traditions involved partying, per se. There were competitive ventures! Intramural sports! Inter-fraternity challenges! And even internal team competitions between the Brothers and the Pledges! Elsewhere, we explored the mysteries of the Sneak, an escapade wherein every pledge class would kidnap two of the brothers for a twelve hour period, and the remaining members of the brotherhood body would attempt to pursue and “rescue” them. Great fun. And we never lost a soul. Came close, but we all survived. There was a similar competition between the two groups – the Treasure Hunt. A true team-building exercise. And here’s how it went: The Pledgemaster and his assistant were tasked with organizing the Treasure Hunt. As with the Sneak, the losing team was charged with paying for a fresh and full keg of beer – the “Treasure.” The symbolic Treasure, which was the actual subject of the “hunt,” was an empty beer keg hidden somewhere within the boundaries of Golden Gate Park. Much more practical; hiding the actual full keg would be impractical – the keg would weigh over 150 pounds, making it much more difficult to handle than a 27 pound empty. Besides, the beer would get warm and be shaken up – of which neither situation would be desirable. Next, the PM and his assistant would prepare two separate but parallel in difficulty sets of secret clues. These were similar to the clues used in the Sneak, with each directing to the next, and both sets ultimately leading to the empty, stashed treasure keg – hereafter to be referred to as the “TK.” In timed trial runs the two required nearly identical lengths of time to execute. The contest would be won by whichever team had the more clever, ingenious, and athletic members. Upon recovery of the TK, the successful team would race back to the Kappa Phi Delta house. If the winning team crossed paths with the opposing team en route, they would advise them and the game was over; off to the House to tap the fresh, cold keg, collect payment, and celebrate. If paths did not cross, the Hunt was over after two and one half hours. Interestingly, there was never a failure to find the treasure within the allotted time. A good game indeed! Fall semester 1969 I was a freshman and pledge. Still quiet and somewhat timid at that point, and pretty much clueless. I really don’t remember all that much about our game, other than we the 11th pledge class – won. In fact, I was the one who found the keg! One of the “bossier” guys in our bunch had assumed command and had been barking orders all evening. After chasing clues for the last two hours, we arrived at a wooded section of the park, and whoever the self-appointed General was sent guys off in different directions to search. I was tired, borderline grumpy; I’d had my fill of playing serf, and told myself “Nuts to this!” and in disgust headed off on my own. I came to some sort of a drop-off, and hopped off the edge to the bottom and Py Yimminy, there it was! The TREASURE! An empty Burgermeister keg, right in front of my astonished eyes! When I’d recovered sufficiently to realize what I’d done, I gathered up my twenty-seven pound prize and proudly marched toward the cars where the other fellas were beginning to reassemble. Someone spotted me, gave a shout, and ran over to relieve me of my evidently burdensome load, then somewhat pompously declared that “WE WON!” and carried the trophy to his car. *Grump!* Oh well… a good time was had, and we got to share an evening of boisterous camaraderie – and all the free beer we could drink! But by fall of 1970 Hunt Time, I was a full “Brother,” and pretty much into the swing of things. And all of us active members were determined to not allow some upstart pledge class the opportunity to repeat the Victory of ’69! Nosiree Bob! As I recall, Tom Corbett was the Pledgemaster that semester; as such, he and his assistant – whotheheckever that was – had assured both teams that the clues were challenging, equitable, and bound to be fun. So, after lubricating ourselves sufficiently at the house, we set off at the designated time. Don’t recall that either, but it was late and quite dark. And a jolly time we had! Most of the details of the evening are lost to history. But a few nuggets worthy of mention have settled into my memory and remain after nearly fifty five years. First, I still chuckle at the recollection of one clue ~ hidden somewhere on the Golden Gate Park Golf Course. A pleasant little nine-hole par 3 course near the west end of the park. Somehow, someone figured out that it was likely in one of three spots, and the most likely was the third hole. Well, to hell with decorum! Three guys hopped into Bill “Wynuts” Wyant’s midnight black 2-seat Triumph TR-4A and literally headed out ‘cross country – right across the golf course! OH my, but some groundskeeper was going to be RIGHTOUSLY pissed off come morning! Divots are one thing, but when that little auto zoomed off it was leaving twin rooster-tails of grass on the fairways; I shudder to think of what the greens looked like. But they were successful! My li’l brain retains a spring-water clear image of that little roadster zooming back, literally flying over a hilltop, three grins visible in the moonlight, Wynuts driving, whoever was in the passenger seat triumphantly waving a scrap of paper, and the third gentleman sitting on the top of the rear deck (legs behind the seats), victoriously waving a long-handled pennant with a “3” prominently printed on it. A souvenir! Ah well; I reckon the City of San Francisco could afford a replacement. Who knows… they might’ve even had a supply of ‘em. As an aside, I’ve on occasion pondered whether the fella with the pin flag ever felt a pang of guilt ~ he later went on to become a well-known and decorated police officer and detective in a neighboring city. But moving on, two of the more memorable events involved none other than Hank hisself. That boy was in his prime that night, and in fact found and retrieved the prize hisowndangedself! And no wonder! NOBODY else was brave enough, dumb enough, or drunk enough to venture into the middle of the Buffalo Paddock to fetch back the stainless steel vessel. But I'm quite sure he was at least two of the three. It seems that when Tom and his assistant “planted” it, they simply gave it a “team toss” over the fence and let it roll into the center of the arena – where it came to rest, and was shortly surrounded by a mob of inquisitive bison. Well, we followed the clues to the ultimate destination, and there it was. Gleaming dully in the pale moonlight. With a bunch of forlorn Kappa Phi Delta brothers gazing with bewilderment through the fence, quietly discussing any possible means of recovery. Suddenly, the fence quivered a mite, and Holy Smoke! There he goes! Now, ol’ Bort (Hank) was never known for being fleet of foot. And he had been medically discharged from the Army for bad knees, both of which were pretty much trashed after years of football. In fact, when he got back from Fort Polk, he announced that if he ever again in his life had to go more than ten yards, he’d drive. But there he went! Right over the fence and charged into that herd of buffalo! (I know; properly, they are “bison.” But that night they were BUFFALO!) Without hesitation, ol’ Jimbo hurtled (at moderate speed, at best) into that furry scrum, snatched up the cylinder, and reversed course. I think he actually did manage to put on a bit more speed in his endeavor to make the fence and safety; the mob of critters in hot pursuit may have given him a bit of incentive. In retrospect, I honestly do not believe they intended him any harm; he was fuzzy and hairy enough to have possibly been suspected of being a relative of theirs, and all in all, they were probably just enjoying the game themselves. He made it! Over the fence the keg sailed, followed in short order by himself – just before one of the more ambitious four-wheel-drive fur mountains crashed his wooly noggin into the fence. Victory! And no casualties – yet. Quick… Saddle Up and zoom back to the Kappa Phi Delta house! That should have been the end of the exercise, and nearly was. But there was one more minor misfortune before we could celebrate. As we were making our way East through the park, we had to pass the Park Police Station. And amazingly, just as we neared the facility, some fool – NOT of our party! – managed to crash his car. Right in front of the po-leece station. And with a runaway engine, rear tire spinning and filling the area with smoke, police officers poured out of the station house, all focused on the catastrophe unfolding in front of them. Which was quite fortuitous indeed, as not a single officer noticed when Hank bounced out of the back of the pickup truck he was riding in, and actually skidded and bounced a couple of times on his butt before coming to rest in the middle of the road. Right in front of the Golden Gate Park Police Station. A few guys bailed out and managed to get him loaded back up before we attracted any attention, and we made it back to the house without further incident. Hank was a mite bruised on his bum, but was so well anesthetized by the bottle of Old Crow whiskey he’d been nursing all evening that he experienced little or no pain. He survived, none the worse for the wear, as the saying goes. And we collected from the Thirteenth Pledge Class the price of a nice, fresh, frosty cold keg of Burgermeister. Which we had undoubtedly stolen from the brewery.

Just to clarify, the "spark plug tire inflators" do NOT fill tires with a fuel-air mixture. They use the engine's compression to power a small piston pump that draws in air from outside the engine, not from the combustion chamber, and then compresses and pumps it into the tire. I've had a couple of 'em, 50+ years ago; biggest challenge was using one to fill an 8-man raft. Took a while, but got it done!