It’s Day 268 of 15 Days to Flatten the Curve and Day 28 of Ohio’s 21-day WuFlu Curfew.
Deb and I are ok this wintry Wednesday, expecting another dusting of snow.
If someone had told me when I was a kid, or even as recently as 20 years ago, that I’d be devoting so much attention to charging batteries, I’m pretty sure I would’ve called bullshit. Truly, it’s approaching the absurd.
There was a time when the idea of rechargeable batteries was kind of appealing. I mean, buying and replacing batteries of various sizes was a colossal pain in the ass, so I longed for a day when I could just toss the depleted ones on a charger instead.
What I thought would be a convenience has turned into an occupation.
Cell phone. Laptop computer. Tablet computer. Smart watch. Flashlights. Power tools. Vape. And now the coach batteries on a trailer and a motorhome.
The best I can do, I’ve learned, is to turn my charging duties into a routine. Most of it is a daily exercise, at bedtime, when ‘most everything gets plugged in. Vape batteries are swapped out and the waning cells thrown onto a charger.
Things like flashlight and power-tool batteries don’t get charged as often, of course, at least not the way I use them. I set reminders (on my phone) to tell me when I need to check and charge those. Likewise the RVs.
In the end I suppose it is a convenience. Just making a cranky observation here.
This spell of colder weather has slowed our progress on the bus. Morning temps in the low teens mean a later start and, by the looks of it, I won’t be puttering outside much ’til the first few days of next week.
I know it’s the inevitable changing of the seasons, here to stay for a while, but it still pisses me off.
Fortunately I’ve managed to busy myself with small sub-projects, most of which I can do in the basement workshop. Yesterday, for example, I pulled out the homemade jack pads that Ernie’s previous owner had left behind — three 15″ x 32″ sheets of 3/4″ HDPE, each with a six-foot cable and a large flat-steel handle for easy retrieval from under the coach.
The pads themselves definitely are worth keeping, but I didn’t much like the cables or the heavy steel handles.
The solution was as easy as it was obvious. I picked up a hank of 3/8″ high-viz rope from my favorite local cordage company, Atwood Rope Mfg, and replaced the fraying cables with four-foot lengths of the made-in-USA rope. A figure-eight stopper knot on each end makes sure the tethers stay with the pads, and the bright-orange rope should be conspicuous enough to catch our eye when we do our pre-flight checks.
Another cheap and functional fix. Simple pleasures.
There’s little doubt now that a Daffy-Chuckles administration is a fait accompli. Irrepressible optimists — “So you’re telling me there’s a chance” — who continue to deny that cast themselves as the Black Knight — “It’s just a flesh wound” — as King Arthur lops off one limb after another.
I take no pleasure in saying that. I remain convinced that the 2020 presidential election was the target of coordinated corruption by Democrat operatives and that Daffy was awarded millions of fraudulent votes. I simply don’t see a legal avenue for Trump and his allies to overturn the result.
I hope I’m wrong about that. But since hope is a lousy strategy, I acknowledge reality and direct my attention toward what’s important — and right now, what’s important is the outcome of the U.S. Senate runoffs in Georgia.
More generally, we should be paying attention to how the Daffy-Chuckles “transition” is unfolding. Forget about the players — we already know they’ll be appointing a slew of wretched, anti-American progressives to cabinet posts — and focus on the rhetoric.
There’s a difference, at least superficially, between what the official “team” is saying and the language being used by its surrogates. The former is straining to appear gracious, calling for the perfunctory “unity,” while the latter don’t even try to disguise their glee at having taken down Trump.
Apparent from both is a simmering hatred for what true Americans represent. And considering that these leftists spent the last four years trashing what we hold dear, there’s only one proper response to their calls for “unity”:
Kiss my ass.
The Real America is in trouble. We’re headed for a rough patch.
No one is coming — it’s up to us.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay free.