OUR WONDERFUL CUSTOMERS PART III

WARRANTY WILLIE


The biggest Achilles Heel of any service department is that dreaded 'W' word. Most new cars, trucks and farm equipment are covered by warranty, full coverage for (usually) a year, then specific components (basic engine and powertrain) for the next period. The trouble with most customers was that all they heard or read was the 2 or 3 years; they didn't bother to think that the warranty was limited after that. JC got so sick of the forbidden W that he bristled every time he heard it. A customer would phone and make arrangements to bring a pickup or a tractor in to get some work done. The work would be done in an efficient, timely manner then when JC was presenting the customer with the bill, he'd get a response: 'Oh no, that's under warranty!'  Now, the vast majority of customers were pretty good about repairs but that small minority could be extremely trying because to them, the warranty should never end. JC once attended a customer satisfaction workshop. The first question asked by the instructor was: 'What do your customers expect?' There were a lot of laughs around the room then first response was: 'Twenty years warranty.'

I sometimes blame large companies because they would come out with comprehensive campaign changes that would encompass half of the tractor and the factory would include any parts that failed because of the faulty parts that were to be changed in the first place. During one such campaign change JC filed warranty claims for upwards of $20,000.00. That gave some people the attitude that all the tractors--even those not covered by the campaign--should be covered by warranty indefinitely. They would expect normal wear and tear items, such as lights, switches, air-conditioning components and hydraulic couplers to be repaired/replaced without charge. When JC was confronted with that and he refused then the angry customer would traipse into the boss's office and tell him what jerk JC was for refusing a legitimate (?) request for warranty. Still, JC would hold his ground, explaining for the fiftieth time that the warranty did not apply to the faulty component and the factory would flatly refuse the claim. Of course some customers would have the audacity to suggest that the job be put onto someone's machine that was still under the first year of warranty. And then there were the totally fraudulent.

Willy bought a tractor new back when the series came out. He used it over the years, maintained it as it needed to be and then, long after its Best Before Date, traded it in for a new model. Now Willy didn't seem the type to expect a lot because he had previously owned a tractor, the warranty of which, expired long ago. But he bought the new unit at a time when the shop was filled to the rafters with larger tractors undergoing the aforementioned comprehensive campaign change. For the first year there were few problems; a cab relay here and a leaky hydraulic coupler there. Willy just used his tractor and enjoyed the extra features it offered.

Well, the first season was over and the second one began. Willy went to work but when the heat of the day hit, he soon realized that the air-conditioner wasn't working. And with those new super quiet tractor cabs one could not stand it when the A/C quit. JC handled the job himself as it was on his way home and he could bring what he needed. The problem was nothing more than a bad seal at the evaporator connection that had caused all the Freon to leak out. Willy was happy and back to work. JC went back to the shop and did up a bill for the call and sent it to Willy.

JC had always thought of Willy as a super conservative individual and a reasonably good customer; consequently he sure wasn't expecting the barrage of nasty words that Willy unloaded at him when the bill arrived. JC was quite offended if the truth be known. He tried to explain that Willy's full coverage warranty had expired at the end of the last season; this was six months later. He might as well had been talking to a post because Willy wasn't backing down; he had two years of warranty and flatly refused to pay the bill. And since his tractor was at the farm and not at the shop where JC could simply drop the door and keep the tractor inside until the bill was cleared, he had little choice but to deal with it another way.

One of the service manager's roles, in addition to attending to customer's needs and the shop's business, is that of Peace Maker. When confronted with an irascible customer, the service manager was to try to calm him down and take control of the situation, even when JC's attitude about keeping the peace was: 'Peace on you!' JC simply credited the bill and put it into what he referred to as a Revenge File, a place where all contested workorders were kept. there would come the time when Willy would need some more major work done--out of warranty. An extra gear or shifter fork would find its way onto the new workorder and it would eventually be settled. Not entirely legal but morally acceptable--the bottom line: Willy was responsible.

Later that year, Willy phoned JC and complained about fuel leaking around the fuel tank sending unit. JC told him that he couldn't send anyone out but since Willy was just down the road, why not just drive the tractor in and they'd fix it in the shop? Willy was there within half an hour and luckily the fuel level was low enough to remove the sending unit without having to drain off some of the fuel. A quick check revealed a flaw in the solder. It could've been soldered but a new unit only cost $44.00 and JC told him that; he didn't tell Willy that he'd install it for free. Willy said: 'You might as well replace it; it's under warranty anyways.'

'Afraid not,' JC countered, 'you're almost finished your second year (he didn't bother to dredge up the A/C problem).

'Well, just solder up the hole then.' JC soldered the hole shut, reinstalled the unit and billed Willy for $40.00 labor. Willy paid it, thinking that he got a bargain. I might add that later that year, Willy ran into some problems with the two-speed rear axle of his 3-ton truck. Some 'extra' parts cleared up the A/C dispute.



SIGMOND FRAUD


The thing about Willy, and many others like him, is that he was up front and open about his attitude; it wasn't all that hard to take. And most times, it doesn't hurt to ask. But there are (fortunately) a relatively small number of those who think that warranty is an entitlement, and they'll stop at nothing to get what they've convinced themselves that they're entitled to. The following story is about one individual to whom everything was legal as long as he didn't get caught. Trouble was: his own arrogance was his own undoing, especially when he thought he was smarter than JC.

If a person wants to indulge in a world of deception and fraud, he should at least maintain an aura of honesty. That way, the party about to be compromised isn't aware that such unlawful tendencies exist. That was Sig's undoing. He was rather loose-tongued about his fraudulent acts. Disconnecting the speedometers in his trucks was one thing; he also liked to hook the electric drill to the speedo cable and wind it in reverse to roll the odometer back. Of course he had to be careful with the latter as an overheated drill almost burned his truck to the ground. When Sig bought a new pickup at JC's place of employment, JC had an idea of what might happen.

Back then warranty was 12 Month/12,000 miles. The customer could buy an additional warranty, which was actually an insurance policy with a deductible but that was so much hassle that most customers decided it wasn't worth the trouble. Sig looked at it but decided against it, much to the pleasure of JC and all who might have to get involved. Sig brought his pickup in for some small repairs which didn't amount to much at all. A faulty fuel tank selector switch, and a diode trio in the alternator which were readily approved by the manufacturer. JC noted the mileage as 9800 on the warranty claim and all was well.

Two months later, the truck came in to get a leak at the transmission repaired. JC looked at the odometer and saw that it was 9400. He also saw that the truck no longer had the original tires. JC never said a word, he just had the leak fixed, noted the mileage at 10,800 and processed the claim. He also checked the speedometer connection at the transmission and saw that the cable was fouled up with road dust. He cleaned the cable, lubed it up and secured it to the transmission connection. With the truck still up on the hoist, he cleaned up the outside of the connection with ether, dried it thoroughly then took out a tube of sealing lacquer and placed a bead across the connection. If the connection was ever broken, the bead of lacquer would shatter thus telling whoever was working on the truck that it had been tampered with.

JC never saw Sig again until the initial year of ownership was almost over. Sig showed up one day with a lot of mechanical noise coming out of the engine as well as some popping back through the intake. JC determined it to be with the valve train (it turned out to be a flattened camshaft). JC also looked at the tires and determined that it had gone through another set (Sig lived about thirty miles from any place and the distance to JC's shop was more like fifty). A check of the odometer showed just over 10,000 miles. Before any work commenced, JC put the truck on the hoist and checked the speedometer connection; the lacquer was broken. Sig was busted!

JC told Sig that his warranty was void and that the shop would perform the necessary repairs but at Sig's expense. That didn't ride well with Sig. In fact the pits and dents on the metal siding of the shop, left there from the gravel spray of Sig's spinning wheels as he roared out of there, are still in plain sight. JC was going to highlight them along with a sign identifying the culprit.

Sig headed to another town about 40 miles away. But warranty was turned down there as well. Sig obviously didn't think that JC had phoned the zone office and officially voided the warranty. Anyways, since the shop wouldn't perform the warranty, Sig decided to do something else; he'd simply trade the truck for a new one. He even brought his dad with him to buy another truck at the same time.

Problem was: he didn't think that service departments between dealerships talked to each other.

JC got a call from the second dealership regarding the truck and the reason the warranty was voided. JC explained the situation to him and how he caught Sig with his hand in the cookie jar, so to speak. Brian, the other service manager, told JC that Sig and his dad were dealing on a pair of new pickups. JC cautioned him on what was likely to happen. Brian held up the servicing of the new trucks while he dispatched an employee to drive down to JC's place for a couple of tubes of sealing lacquer.

JC didn't hear anything regarding Sig for the better part of two years. Neither Sig nor his dad hung onto the new trucks for very long so JC had an idea that they had attempted to extend the warranty on their new units and got caught.

Well, JC was now at a new place of business and was checking out a problem at a local tractor dealership when he overheard one of the sales reps talking to the bookkeeper. Sig's name was mentioned in this great wonderful deal that was transpiring. When JC heard that he burst out laughing; it got the bookkeeper's attention and JC was quizzed.

It turned out that Sig was renting a couple of new large tractors for the season and the dealership was getting them ready. JC told him about his experiences with the fraudulent ass. 'Mike, that guy will unplug the hourmeters,' JC cautioned him. 'I'll bet a thousand bucks that he'll find a way to do it.'

Mike, (the bookkeeper) summoned the owner of the dealership and had JC explain what was likely to happen. JC added: 'Back the engine oil filters off half a turn and carve the date and hours onto them, and retighten them, then put a bead of sealing lacquer on the engine drain plugs; there's no way Sig is going to service those engines if he intends to return the tractors at the end of the season. If the lacquer seal is broken, then I'm wrong, to a point.

The dealership procured a couple of reliable (read expensive) vibration-detecting hourmeters and secured them to the top of each tractor's transmission then sent the tractors out.

October rolled around and Sig returned the tractors. He had things figured out that he'd be charged a couple thousand dollars and all would be well. To ensure that he was on the up and up, he had one of the farm flunkies wash and detail those tractors to look like they had barely left the dealership.

The tractors were unloaded and run into the shop. Sig headed into Mike's office to settle up, and that's when he saw the two vibrometers sitting on the desk. He sat down and opened his official farm checkbook and began writing.

'Now you take the readings off the hourmeters on the dash panels and it shows about $2,000.00 you owe us,' Mike began. He then held up the vibrometers. 'But these tell us something a lot different,' Mike continued. 'We mounted these on top of the transmissions and they tell us you owe us $14,000.00 apiece.' Mike paused to let the news sink in before he moved in for the kill.

'Now you cut a check for $28,000.00, plus the bill for servicing the tractors--you didn't change oil for service the hydraulics either--and you get your ass out of here, and never come back. Try to fight us and I'm calling the police.'

Sig didn't say a word. He cut a check for just under $30,000.00 and headed for the door.

The years went by and JC heard very little from Sig. He bumped into him at a major machinery exhibition a couple of years ago. Sig wasn't impressed when JC referred to him as Sigmond Fraud, and even introduced him as such to a couple of friends. But everyone wonders who Fraud is going to try to take next.






















 

OUR WONDERFUL CUSTOMERS Part II

SNOWBIRD STEVE


First of all, one must be kind to the snowbirds. After all, for the majority of the year, they are home, working the farm or other businesses, and then, when harvest is done, they start making their plans to fly south for the winter. JC could never blame them. In later years he has even opted to work toward similar goals. Places like Mesa, AZ, or Needles, CA, where the winter weather is favorable, and there is a car show every weekend, has a lot more appeal than shoveling snow and scraping ice off the windshield just to be able to get to work. Back in the day, JC envied snowbirds to some extent, although there were times he locked horns with them.

The trouble with snowbirds is that, when they close the door to the machine shed, all thoughts of what might need to be done to the tractor (or truck) to have it ready for the spring season seem to vanish--out of sight; out of mind, so to speak. So many repair shops in the country are all but devoid of work during the winter while hundreds of hours of potential revenue are languishing in the sheds on the farms in the region. Spring comes around, the equipment comes out and then, when it's needed the most, the grim reality of what should've been done during the off-season sets in. And the tractor, truck, or whatever is rushed to the shop, only to find a lineup of broken-down equipment ahead of them.

A television ad from fifty years ago comes to mind: Why wait for spring; do it now...

Well, Steve (his real name was Howard but that doesn't matter right now) and his wife had spent yet another glorious winter in Mesa, taking in that wonderful desert air; going to the massive market; eating pizza at the Organ Stop; square dancing (they weren't into collectible cars so BJ's auction was out), and just taking in the winter months with easy strides. Of course all good things must come to an end and come spring, it was back to the real world. And so, farming had begun for the year and Steve was busy getting tractors ready, and trying to motivate a couple of unmotivated boys who had spent the winter at the home Forty, doing very little other than party throughout the winter. The tractors and equipment were pressed back into service and it wasn't long before the memories from last season came flooding back.

The big four-wheel-drive tractor's clutch resumed slipping until it would barely pull itself downhill with a tailwind. The smaller tractor resumed its rhythmatic clunk-clunk-CRUNCH, clunk-clunk-CRUNCH, emanating from the depths of the front driving axle. To make a long story shorter, both tractors were soon lined up at the shop awaiting their turn to get repaired.

Now, I might add right here that Steve was also one of the original shareholders in the shop where JC worked--there were ten originally but when one shareholder bought the business from the others, it was under the condition that he alone called the shots. No longer real participants in the daily operations of the business, all the founding shareholders still had privileges of buying their cars, trucks, and farm equipment at cost. And they all expected a little bit of priority when they needed work done.

Seeing that he was about to get put off for the better part of a week, Steve went to JC and told him the situation. JC told him the truth: Steve was likely a week away before repairs to his tractors could even begin. Steve countered with a typical story where he absolutely had to have his tractors running because he had fertilizer coming; he had seeding to do; I'm sure that if it would've done any good, he'd have told him that his wife needed to get to the hairdresser and he couldn't take her because his tractors were broken.

JC apologized and told him that he already had everyone in the service department spoken for and even had some work going on outside because they couldn't fit it all inside the shop. That didn't sit very well with Steve; there might be other ways to influence whose machine came into the shop next.

JC was in the shop attempting to stem the tide of small jobs by spending time at the bench repairing starters, alternators, hydraulic control valves, fuel injectors and whatever else needed to be done; that also kept the rest of the crew working on the larger jobs. Evenings would find him in his office closing out work orders, writing up warranty claims and generally handling the administrative duties of a service manager. It was a demanding time of the year and he was doing his best to stay on top of things. What he didn't need was interference.

JC saw Steve and GL coming through the shop and heading his direction. Actually he wasn't surprised because many customers, thinking that they could gain extra consideration, made it a habit to talk to the boss, maybe even cry on his shoulder: my family is starving; my kids need new shoes; I can't afford to replace my three year old RV so I'll have to suffer through another winter in Arizona with my old one; my wife has to get to the hairdresser...

'Why can't you get Steve's tractors in the shop?' GL demanded, not caring that he had butted in ahead of two other customers.

'Because we're backed up solid,' JC said a trifle irritably. 'I've already got things double-booked.'

GL took a look around the shop. 'We're gonna have to bump somebody!' he said in a commanding voice. He pointed to a tractor in an adjacent bay that appeared to be mostly together. 'What about this one?'

JC quickly apologized to the customer he was waiting on and went over to deal with the boss. 'Jimmy's tractor? The water pump had young ones and the fan went through the radiator. Rob's pulling it out as we speak.'

'What about this one?'

'Matt's? Final drive is out. Tell you what, why don't you pick any one of those tractors that are in here. I'll get the customer on the phone and YOU can tell them why Steve deserves priority over them. Maybe we can get Steve on the phone with you and you both can tell them why they've got to be sidelined.'

JC didn't give GL a chance to counter. Patience completely worn through, he pressed his attack:

'All winter you've threatened to lay everyone off because there's no work in the shop, and I've been begging you to keep everyone on, just to keep control of things when spring work started.' He gestured around the crowded shop. 'Tractors and trucks have been locked in sheds all over the country; they've all had problems but we couldn't get in touch with anyone, or there's been a massive pile of grain in front making it impossible to get the machine out! Whatever the reason, we had an empty shop all winter and now I've got guys working overtime to get everything fixed up!

'I can't help it if Steve is down in Arizona basking in the sun while his kids are partying up a storm up here all winter. Last fall Steve mentioned that he should get his tractors in for some work but then he was off to Arizona. I spent half the winter trying to round up someone on the phone so we could go out and pick the tractors up, but I failed to do that. Consequently I had to put up with threats of layoffs and closing the shop down!'

JC turned and headed back to the workbench. GL called after him: 'We've got to do something to help Steve out--.' Steve, realizing that JC was right, grabbed GL's arm and pulled him away. 'No, GL, JC is absolutely right; it's entirely my fault and I'll have to wait. It will never happen again. Steve continued to steer GL away and they both left the shop.

Three days later, JC succeeded in getting the larger of Steve's tractors into the shop and make the necessary repairs which took an additional couple of days. Steve went home and raised supreme hell with his two boys, one of whom called it quits and now works at a tire shop in the city. The other one took his lumps and is still on the farm, the sole operator of that establishment to this day. Steve no longer has to worry about the problems that life has to offer as the Big C took over a couple of years later; he is now off to his eternal reward.

And putting off repairing broken machinery on Steve's farm during the winter has never happened again.



BROKEN TAILLIGHTS


There's always someone who is trying to get something for nothing. Often times he (or she) is moderately successful and that only gives him the confidence to try it again. Each continued success gets them in a little deeper until they get mired down in their games of deceit, and eventually has them convinced that they are in the right. It's too bad because all too often it lands them in a great deal of hot water. If that doesn't happen, having someone confront them with their devious plot often provokes a heated argument. The upside of this is that the perpetrator realizes that not everyone is about to fall for their fraudulent acts.

For some reason attempts at fraud seem to happen quite frequently in a service department. Maybe it's just because of so many staggering repair orders. My good friend Kurt, who worked in a shop out in New England, told me how he was accused of ruining a customer's radio while performing a brake job (could no longer tune into his favorite radio station). My other friend, Ernie, who worked in a shop on the west coast told me that he was accused of substituting an entire engine while performing a tuneup--the police were even summoned for that one. I might add that some of those investigative programs on television, showing how fraudulent repair shops can get, tend to go viral and have everyone in the world thinking that all mechanics are crooked. The best way to counter such claims is for the service department to be accommodating and honest. But also to stick to its guns when a customer isn't willing to hold up his end of the bargain.

We met Elmer a few stories ago when he took his relatively new 3/4 ton pickup ice fishing. As a second truck, he had a one ton pickup that was probably fifteen years (or so) old at the time. It had once belonged to the power company and therefore got used a lot during its tenure there. Elmer had purchased the truck at a dispersion of surplus vehicles and was content to use the truck around the farm as a fuel truck/service truck. As such it was more subject to neglect than anything else; it didn't get all that many miles in a year so routine maintenance kind of got forgotten until something went wrong.

Springtime and a busy time of year for any farmer. Crops had to be sown in order to have a good chance of growing and maturing so that harvest could be accomplished and a living derived. Elmer was as busy as any other farmer, working long hours and trying to beat the calendar, not to mention the weather. One day he was heading to the field with the old tried and true one-ton when suddenly there was a clunk, followed by an ear-splitting screech from somewhere in the engine compartment. Seeing steam come out from under the hood, accompanied by the smell of antifreeze and Elmer pretty much knew what was wrong.

JC watched as the older truck was being towed to the shop by the newer, super clean, farm truck. It was dropped off at the shop entrance where JC helped the guys push it inside. It didn't take long to determine that the water pump bearings had seized necessitating replacement of the pump itself. The fan belts had suffered severe damage and would've been replaced anyways because they were cracked and frayed from normal use over the years. In fact, the radiator hoses, heater hoses and the thermostat were replaced because of age and if they failed, it could cause further damage. Of course JC knew Elmer well enough to know that if anything else failed he'd try to hook the shop for damages. JC also ensured that the antifreeze/coolant was replaced because it was likely the same age as the truck itself.

Well, the repairs were completed in less than half a day. Elmer was presented with a bill that he thought was completely outrageous and told JC so. Elmer also knew that he couldn't get a better job done elsewhere for that kind of money; he also knew JC well enough that attempting to argue with him would've been totally futile. He simply paid the bill and stormed out and back to the farm.

It was about three days later when JC was in his office finishing up some warranty claims when Elmer burst through the door. He held a crumpled yellow paper out to him. 'You guys wrecked my taillights and I got a damned ticket!'

JC took the ticket and examined it. Sure enough the ticket was issued the day after the truck had been in the shop. The truck had been pulled over on the road less than a mile from Elmer's farm and cited for non-functioning taillights. Fair enough but a question came to mind.

A typical truck is of the front engine/rear wheel drive variety and has been that way almost since the beginning when the tongue was pulled off a wagon and someone stuck an engine into the works. Now in Elmer's case, the engine was in front where it was supposed to be, and that's where the work was done. The taillights are way the heck and gone in the back; let's see, the bed of the truck is nine feet long; the distance from the back of the cab to the firewall is a good five feet and the engine is ahead of that. The work took place at the front of the engine--well they did replace the heater hoses, so the work actually went as far back as the firewall but that was still--fifteen feet from the taillights? The question still remained: How the hell would the work performed on the engine affect the taillights? No point in arguing, just get the truck back in the shop and find out what happened.

JC did just that. He also opted to be there himself, dismantling and checking; maybe he'd actually learn how something like the Process of Osmosis might have wrecked the taillights. He first noticed that the red plastic lens on the right hand taillight was broken and that the cavity was half filled with fine sand. He removed both lenses and blew everything out to have a closer look.

The bulb on the right side was broken, leaving a jagged shard of glass still attached to the brass base of the bulb. The socket was jammed, requiring a great deal of pushing and twisting to get the bulb free. The left side was almost as full of dirt as the right, probably due to a long failed gasket. The bulb itself wasn't in any better shape than the right except that the glass was intact. JC switched on the lights and was rewarded with two evenly matched headlight beams on the wall of the service bay. He tested the tail lamp sockets and found that there was no power. He had the mechanic step on the brakes and operate the turn signals, which resulted in no power in those contacts either.

JC laid down on a creeper and slid underneath to inspect the wiring. He was rewarded with an almost total lack of wire or harness from the bulk head on the firewall, along the frame and back to the taillight assemblies. The taillights had quit working years ago!

Of course JC confronted Elmer with that. Elmer predictably responded with a blast of profanity that would've made the average sailor blush (probably make the average teenage girl swoon but that's for another story). Suffice it to say that Elmer told JC that he was lying and was merely trying to get more money out of him. JC held his ground: 'Elmer, those lights haven't worked in years.'

'Those lights were working when I brought that truck in here for that damned, overpriced water pump!' JC kept his cool. 'Elmer, they weren't.'

'They were working the last time I checked them.' Elmer's story was (again, predictably) beginning to show some cracks.

'It was obviously a long time ago because they haven't worked for at least five years,' JC maintained.

'You calling me a liar?' That was always the final attempt from a customer trying to get something for nothing.

'Elmer--.' JC gazed at him, not in an accusing manner but just to show the customer that JC was in charge and wasn't about to cave in. The broken taillights were due to a total lack of maintenance on the part of the owner; nothing more, nothing less.

Elmer started to give in. 'Well, I guess they've got to be fixed, but I still think that something happened to them while it was in the shop.' These types never completely give in.

JC had the mechanic replace the entire rear harness and replace both sockets as well as lenses and gaskets. When they were through, the taillights worked, and so did the brake and turn signals. Even the backup lights worked.

Elmer grudgingly cut another check for the repairs then, shoulders slightly stooped, ambled out and drove his truck home.









 

OUR WONDERFUL CUSTOMERS--Part I

Anyone who is involved in public service is going to encounter all kinds of people. Happily, most of the customers encountered in the service department of a dealership are relatively easy to deal with. In many cases customers evolve to become friends who are always welcome and often bring a special atmosphere to the shop. Of course there are others who about as welcome as a turd in a swimming pool; they are their own worst enemy and tend to drag everyone down with them. Unfortunately the service department hasn't got the ability to pick and choose whose unit the work on; they have to take on each on individually. But through the years, guys like JC have few regrets as to his choice of profession. He often said that the few undesirable customers just made him appreciate the desirable ones all the more. The following posts are part of a series in the collection of customers that JC had to deal with from time to time. All too often the personalities blend with others so there might be some similarities but still there's enough uniqueness to show what place they are in.



BILLY BIG RIG


Everyone in a service department has had at least one run-in with one of these. Billy is usually someone who has been put down most of his life so he surrounds himself with expensive toys, almost always drives a large diesel 4X4 that never gets used as a 4X4. He usually is height-challenged so he has some of that Small Man Syndrome (big mouth) and has had someone install (what I would call a masculinity enhancer although there are a lot more explicit terms) a lift kit to jack his truck up at least six inches. He's got a fairly good job, or at least very good credit; he desperately needs it because the wheels, tires, lift kit and performance chips will set him back in the neighborhood of ten grand. His truck owns him; not the other way around. When he drops his truck off to be left overnight for service the following morning, he's completely adamant that his truck be put inside.

There was a time when he might have driven a Class 8 truck around the block or into a service bay at a shop where he once worked, and since then he's become a full-fledged trucker. To this he'll talk trucks with anyone who will listen (and half of those who won't) and knows a lot more about them than anyone in the service department. He doesn't think he's got any power unless he sees black smoke pouring out of those exhaust pipes faster than the stacks of a Chinese factory. He usually has some moronic label across the rear window of the cab that says: 'Hybrid Exterminator' or something to that effect. And to prove it he floors the accelerator at every green light in an attempt to obliterate the vehicles behind him by engulfing them in a cloud of black smoke.

JC once talked about one particular Billy who wanted a Jake Brake installed in his Dodge/Cummins diesel truck. JC got out some information and tried to explain the two kinds of engine brakes that were available.

Now the term Jake Brake (Jacobs Engine Brake), over the years, has been loosely attached in the trucking industry. No doubt everyone who has been near a freeway, highway interchange, or truck stop has heard them deploy; they make quite a racket and have thus been banned by most municipalities. Developed by Clessie Cummins (yes, that's him), it uses engine compression to slow the vehicle down in an attempt to preserve the wheel brakes. It was first available on the Cummins engines on large highway trucks, but was later adapted to Detroit Diesel and Caterpillar. Variations of this have been built by Cummins (itself) and Mack. For lighter applications, manufacturers have brought out exhaust brakes which essentially close or highly restrict the exhaust passage in a deceleration condition. Not as effective as the good ol' Jake but still worth it.

Back to our story: JC tried to explain what was available. However Billy wasn't interested in that Pansy stuff, he wanted the real thing; he wanted to be able to turn it on and let it blast away just like the big rigs. Long story short, JC didn't sell him an exhaust brake and Billy would spent many years vainly searching for a real live Jake Brake.

Well, Billy Big Rig, and all the variations to the theme, is here to stay. Like it or not, he's going to be stopping in at some unsuspecting service department where he'll not only request a job be done but will also instruct you on how to do it.


LOOSEY LOVE MUFFIN

Imagine a cartoon showing the man of the house scanning a bill from the repair shop. He scowls at the bottom line and says: 'Those guys down in the shop are stupid; they only charged you five dollars for a new transmission.' He hasn't seen it yet but his wife is in the bedroom getting undressed and her dress is covered with greasy hand prints. The smirk on her face tells it all: the World's Oldest Profession isn't always on a street corner late at night.

Believe it or not, in the forty plus years that JC has been involved in the service business, that has happened to him more times than he'd care to mention. Most of the time the women were sort of single; that is, living with someone. The majority of them gave the impression of Rode Hard and Put Away Wet. The singer, Jim Stafford, made the famous comparison: 'Would make a freight train take a dirt road.' JC ran into them time and again, picking up their boyfriend's/common law husband's truck then offering a way to take something off of that astronomical bill. In those cases JC just politely sent them on their way, minus their money, and fringe benefits aside, and thanked his lucky stars that he wasn't so stupid and desperate that he might've gotten a communicable disease, or a busted head. But the real shocker was yet to come.

Think of a well-respected family; active in the community, good kids. The man of the house was a decent customer and always dealt at the dealership. JC always thought of them as pillars of the community, and always gave them the respect they deserved. Now just imagine that image; that aura of strong family values getting shattered when the wife suggested that maybe they could get a sizeable discount on the work order if she offered something like a personal service to help out. It first happened to JC after he'd been in the business about five years. Of course in trying to be a gentleman, he first ignored it. When the proposition was repeated, JC just chuckled; just a friend teasing. But then, by the third time he suddenly realized that she wasn't kidding; she was downright serious!

Now JC was no prude but that was the last straw. No, if the lady wanted to jeopardize her marriage that was her problem, and she'd have to proposition someone else. JC refused to even consider it. The interesting part of all this was when he attended some update courses. He was in for quite the surprise when it was revealed that some of his colleagues actually gave in to that.

Well, Loosey, I just told the world about you, but I kept your real name a secret.



MILTON MILQUETOAST

Anyone who has read the works of James Thurber knows who this character is. Very, quiet, humble, soft-spoken, polite. Never expects any miracles, and never asks for anything special. Overall, a nice guy to do business with. A typical service department isn't likely to take him for a ride because he exudes honesty; sort of akin to one of those 'Support Your Favorite Egg' ads on TV from forty years ago, where a monk says: 'Hello, I'm soft-boiled and I'm a candidate to be your favorite egg...' That's all well and good, BUT, this guy is usually married to someone like Zelda from one of my earlier posts.

His wife is capable of taking the paint off the walls without using a scraper or sandpaper. All she has to do is open her mouth. She calls him down, telling him to develop a backbone, and any other insult she can come up with.

For this post we'll Borrow a name from James Thurber; she'll be known as Ulgine. And we'll refer to Milton and Mr. Martin.

There was an incident in JC's shop where Mr. Martin brought a garden tractor in for some major work on the transmission. It was a time when, luckily, JC had someone who could get right at it. The tractor was tested, a diagnosis was made, the mechanic stripped it down, and parts were ordered. JC advised how long it would take, and Mr. Martin left, happy that he'd left the fate of his tractor in the hands of a qualified crew.

Monday morning came around and Mr. Martin phoned to inquire about the job. JC told him that they wouldn't have parts until the next morning but there was a very good chance that it would be completed on Wednesday. JC also advised him to call ahead and make sure that nothing had gone wrong.

Well, as luck would have it the parts didn't come in till Wednesday. The mechanic, knowing that the owner needed to get his machine back to work as soon as possible, went right at it and by noon, had the transmission reattached to the tractor, and had managed to test it before his lunch break. All that was needed was to put the operator's platform and seat back on, and connect the wiring. Just before lunch hour was over, Mr. Martin walked into the shop.

'Ahem, is my tractor finished?' JC told him that they still had some final reassembly to do and that the mechanic would be at it shortly. He also reminded Mr. Martin that he should've phoned ahead. Mr. Martin appeared satisfied and headed out the door. JC thought all was well and proceeded to organize the shop for the afternoon's workload. The sound of high heels on concrete told JC that things might not be all that good after all.

'Who's in charge?' a female demanded. JC turned around to see a rather attractive, fairly well-dressed woman facing him.

'Can I help you?'

'Why isn't our tractor ready? You promised us it would be ready on Wednesday!'

'We're just finishing it up, Ma'am. We'll have it out in half an hour or so.'

'You promised it on Wednesday!'

'Yes, ma'am, I did,' JC said wearily, 'today's Wednesday, and it will be ready. Now I advised your husband to phone ahead, which wasn't done. So you'll have to wait.'

'We shouldn't have to wait around no damned filthy shop!'

That one got JC's dander up. 'Ma'am, we're doing the best we can,' he said shortly then turned and headed back toward his office.

Obviously, that didn't satisfy Mrs. Ulgine. She had more to say. Don't turn your back on me when I'm talking to you..!'

JC stopped. What was wrong with this bitch anyways? Did she have to go to the bathroom that bad? He turned again. 'Ma'am, I told you that we're working on it! You'll just have to wait!'

He turned his back again but she reached out and grabbed his shoulder. JC spun around and pointed his index finger at the bridge of her nose, between her eyes. With his finger almost touching, he half-snarled. 'Ma'am, don't even think about it! Now, get yourself out of here and and wait!' He turned and headed back to the office.

Less than twenty minutes later, the job was done. JC even went out and helped load the tractor into Milton's truck. He noticed that Ulgine was sulking in the passenger's seat. No doubt Mr. Martin got many an earful on the way home.

JC felt sorry for him.



BOBBY BLOWHARD

This kind of customer isn't exclusively attached to the personnel in the service department; they are found everywhere retail sales happen. One might even equate Bobby with the aforementioned Billy but Bobby is usually above average in height and somewhat on the stocky side. A bully in every sense of the word, he loves to boast about the deals he made and came out on top, smiling. One such individual showed up at JC's place of business and his attitude rang loud and clear.

The secretary/service writer noticed that his truck was fairly new and asked him about it. 'Ha!' Bobby responded in a voice that probably carried on to the next town, 'those guys in that dealership thought they had me where they wanted me but I showed 'em. I got the price of that truck down almost six-thousand bucks when they finally said they couldn't go any lower. I sort of let it go, then when I cut that check I dropped it down another thousand; told 'em that was all they were gonna get. And they fell for it--stupid bastards!'

That show of arrogance really got JC's dander up. He'd seen it time and again, always with the Bobbies of this world; they were convinced that they could bully anyone into giving in. Besides that, JC had worked for a dealership long enough to know that there wasn't a lot of mark up between cost and retail of a new vehicle--the complete opposite of what the average car-buyer thought. If it was well-optioned then the margins were higher; but JC had seen with some, especially compact cars, where the margin could be as slim as $800.00. Maybe the dealership made out OK with Bobby, but JC had his doubts.

He continued to eavesdrop as the conversation turned to other things. 'Who owns that old red Ford pickup off to the side?' He was referring to a '47 Ford pickup that JC had used as a parts truck for his current restoration project.

'I don't think it's for sale,' Bona responded, 'JC is planning to haul it home when things dry up later this spring.'

'Everything's for sale!' Bobby said confidently. 'Let me talk to him.'

Bona went back to the shop and asked JC to come up front. JC frowned and reluctantly followed her. He preferred to avoid what was about to happen but he also had to admit that he enjoyed tangling with those arrogant asses. Bona introduced JC and added that he owned the truck that Bobby was interested in. JC also noticed several others hanging around the reception area awaiting their turn to be helped.

'How much for your truck?' Bobby's question sounded more like a demand. 'It's not for sale,' JC responded evenly.

'Oh c'mon, everything's got a price!'

Not for you, buster. JC never said that aloud even though he was tempted. 'I told you it's not for sale,' he repeated himself.

Bobby pulled out his checkbook. 'What'll it be? Five-hundred, maybe six?' JC smiled grimly and stood his ground. 'Maybe after I'm dead and gone, my kids might want to sell it--.'

'Whaddya mean, after you're dead and gone? I want to take it home now; I've got plans for it.'

No doubt he had plans for it. Butcher it into something barely recognizable, with a small block Chevy engine to add further insult to injury. JC hated this guy and there was no way he was willing to sell it to anyone, especially this jack-ass. But he knew that the guy wouldn't take no for an answer. The only way out of it was to give the guy no place to go. He pulled his mouth into a tight line and leaned across the counter to glare at Bobby.

'You--haven't got enough money!' he half-snarled then slowly backed up, keeping his eyes leveled at Bobby's. Bobby was the first to turn away, his face an expression of shock and defeat. JC turned around and strode back into the shop. He could hear Bobby muttering something to Bona but couldn't make out exactly what was said. But then, JC really didn't give a rat's backside either.

ENGINE FAILURE

In learning to fly, we all have to spend a minimum number of hours practicing emergency landing procedures, the most common of which is an engine failure. If your engine conks out, you just cannot coast to the side of the road then try to investigate the problem or call a tow truck. Oh, there are tow trucks specifically designed and built to tow aircraft but they fall short of picking up that stranded airman at the edge of Cloud 901, just off the intersection of Luminous Lane and Cumulus Crescent. No, if you encounter an engine failure, you have to find a place to put the plane safely on the ground (rather than let the plane do that because the plane itself isn't all that fussy), then call your tow truck.

When we do our Flight Test, which is showing the examiner that we are indeed capable of handling an aircraft and all the hazards that come with it, we have to show specifically that we can handle an emergency. For example, you'll be on a cross-country flight. The examiner will ask you to note your checkpoint then point it out to him both on your chart (map) that you have either strapped to your leg or on a clipboard located between the two front seats. The moment he is satisfied, he'll suddenly shut the fuel off, feather out the prop, and tell you that the engine has seized. You'll notice that the prop is standing still, which is unnerving in itself.

Well, the first thing you do, is try to find a safe place to put down. In farming country, a stubble field or a smooth pasture will be first and second choices; summer fallow or a road would be your last resort. You keep the airplane straight and level while you set yourself up to land. You then get on the radio and notify Flight Service that you are declaring an emergency, and give the operator your location. From there on, it's concentrate on lining up your airplane, keeping it level and making sure that you're going to actually make it to that selected spot. You may have to use the ailerons, rudder, and elevators to lose altitude quickly if you may be too high; but you were taught how to do that--right?

Your field is all lined up, and it looks like you're going to actually succeed in landing with what is often termed: a Dead Stick. You're getting into the ground effect and you think that your examiner is really expecting you to go through with it, then suddenly he moves the fuel control to Full Rich, hits Start and the engine spins back to life. You 'firewall' the throttle and you begin to pick up speed, and soon ascend back to regulation flight altitude.

You passed the test, except when the examiner tells you that maybe the stubble field would've been a better choice than the summer fallow field that you did choose, right beside it. At any rate, the examiner is confident that you are capable of landing--Dead Stick--and staying safe.

After several hours of classroom time, dual time and solo time, you have successfully met the requirements of a Private Pilot and received your wings. Then you have the opportunity to fly whenever and wherever you want. The flying hours add up and your skills increase even more. Sometimes, in order to keep your skills sharpened, you simulate many more engine failures and are happy with the outcome. The passengers you have with you might not be willing to share your enthusiasm but that's their problem. At any rate, you know how to handle an emergency but you never think you're going to face the real thing.

There are two kinds of pilots: those who have experienced an engine failure in flight, and those who are going to.

Scotty received his wings back in the 50s. Being a farmer in the Milk River area, he flew planes for a number of owners, doing a number of things such as counting livestock or finding out where the cattle all went, but that type of work was sporadic and didn't support owning a plane of his own. One day he decided to embark on a more stable (read: lucrative?) business involving flying. Since he already flew for Aime, spraying crops, Scotty made a deal to buy Aime's Piper Super Cub, which was already equipped with spraying apparatus and do it all for himself.

For years Scotty's Cub could be seen from early June until well into the fall. He sprayed field after field, and then even found some time to remove the sprayer tank and use the back seat for a real live passenger. His continued flying added up the hours, and of course, after so many hours, certain maintenance requirements are needed to keep the plane in the air.

One of the most major parts of aircraft maintenance is an engine overhaul. During the war, that often meant that the engines had to be gone through as often as every 250 hours. Peacetime might have stretched them out to 750. Most civilian planes needed engine majors every 1,000. Modern private planes can run up to as much as 2,000 hours before they need to be done. The bottom line is that government regulations dictate that the engine must be completely disassembled, inspected and rebuilt to original specifications at the specified hours of use as stipulated by the manufacturer or the airplane will not be allowed to fly again.

Now just think if those rules of maintenance applied to our regular family cars?

The engine in Scotty's plane needed to be overhauled every 1,000 hours of operation. Having accepted that, Scotty made arrangements to get the job done, maybe over the years, three times. In this case it seems to me that the engine had been overhauled before, at least once. Anyways, he flew his Cub up to Taber, to Ray's shop, where the propeller was removed, the engine pulled and the two of them sent to the repair shop--the engine for its scheduled overhaul and the prop for its certification.

I might add right here that Ray was qualified to perform engine overhauls himself but with other maintenance procedures that needed to be done, sending the engine to the repair shop allowed him time to work on other parts of the plane.

In due time, the engine came back, all signed and certified, and looking very much like a new engine. Ray installed the engine, the prop, then started it and took the plane for a couple of circuits (take-offs and landings) at the local strip. Everything OK, Ray signed it off and called Scotty.

Scotty got in, gave it his own checks then waved to Ray and flew away south.

Everything checked out as good as could be expected. Oil pressure, cylinder head temperature, all gauges showed where they should be. Scotty flew across Highway 3 and using Highway 36 as sort of a guide, continued along his way.

About twenty miles south of Taber is Chin Coulee, which also contains an irrigation reservoir called: Chin Lake. Not a heck of a lot of imagination there but at least it got named. Approaching Chin Lake, one can see the Wrentham elevators about five miles south. Scotty had seen this same sight countless times, and it hardly registered anymore. However, this time would be a little different.

Just as he cleared Chin Lake and was 'feet dry' over the farmland again, the engine started to labor and lose rpm. Hardly before Scotty could read his gauges or attempt to see what had gone wrong, the engine let out an ear-splitting squeal and seized, causing the plane to lurch sideways. The prop stood still, the blade listing maybe ten degrees past center.

Scotty was shocked. He stared at that frozen prop blade in disbelief, trying to understand what had just happened but when the airplane began to lose speed and altitude, reality began to close in fast. After over four thousand hours in the sky, he had just witnessed his first engine failure, and his next major task was to get the airplane on the ground. Safely!

Being springtime, a lot of stubble fields were there for the choosing. Scotty picked a suitable place, not too far off the highway, lined up for the landing, and called it in. He touched down exactly where he thought he would and allowed the plane to roll to a stop, miraculously close to an approach then waited for the rescue party (parties) to arrive.

Now I'll have to add another little tidbit of information here: Scotty was an experienced sprayer pilot and flew like a typical sprayer pilot. Flight regulations dictate that you must fly at a specified distance AGL (Above Ground Level) which is in the neighborhood of a thousand feet up. That helps to ensure that you clear most obstacles on the ground (most big cities would still pose problems there). It also helps you to safely find a place to land your plane--and actually land it--in case of an engine failure. Unfortunately, since sprayer pilots are used to flying at about cattail elevation, they have a little less time to execute emergency procedures. Yes, they can clear a fence and fly under a powerline at the same time but flying at Circuit Height? Na, takes too long to get up there, and too long to get down.

Back to Scotty, the fire department, ambulance, police, air rescue, ground rescue, local peeping toms and maybe even some local dogsled teams all converged on the airplane. Scotty was checked over and deemed to be only a little shaken. The crew removed the wings from the airplane and it was towed back to Taber.

The engine was removed and sent back to the repair shop which determined that a main bearing had spun causing the seizure. Repairs were done, the engine shipped back, installed, tested, and Scotty was notified.

Once again, everything went quite well, Scotty was flying home, at a little higher altitude this time and he was ready to take on his customer orders...

Well, just across Chin Lake and that same loss of power, followed by that same screech, the whole aircraft shuddering and the prop stood still--again! Only the prop was at maybe a 45-degree angle, but I never heard of anyone taking a protractor and measuring it.

Once again, Scotty had to pick a place, line up the plane, call it in, land the plane, and wait for all the officials and rescue crews to arrive. Once again, Scotty was checked up and deemed to still be a little shaken up but there was also a little bit of an angry demeanor as well.

Once again, the plane was partially dismantled and hauled back to Taber; once again the engine was sent to the repair shop, which, once again, determined a spun main bearing and consequently, a second destroyed crankshaft.

Once again, the rebuilt engine was installed, tested--more vigorously this time--and Scotty was, once again, on his way home.

The first engine failure scares you to death; the second one has you a little on the apprehensive side; but the third in a row has you saying things to flight service that might not be deemed appropriate for proper communication. No doubt, there were some adjectives directed to the repair shop, toward Ray, and probably to the founding fathers of this nation.

When Scotty experienced the third failure he was determined to take that engine to the shop himself and give it to the mechanic more as a suppository. He was angry!

Maybe a good thing he wasn't Irish or he might have made good on that promise. Of course I've known a few Scots who could be just as irascible...

This time the repair shop prepared a complete new engine and sent it down. The failed engine was completely dismantled and inspected by a team, who, the first time over, couldn't determine why that one main was seizing up. Oil starvation was behind it but the gauge showed full pressure right up until the engine seized. It was finally determined that an oil bypass valve had inadvertently been installed backward, causing it to block off the flow of oil to that one bearing when it got hot.

Some red faces; many apologies, and maybe a few more descriptive terms and the airplane flew home safely to resume its role as sprayer. In reflection, Scotty understood what happened, and when his plane came up for a final major, the services of that same shop were engaged.

No lasting hard feelings...

BEAR TRAP

I've always been brought up with the attitude that the law enforcement community is to be respected; to be looked up to. The police and sheriff's departments are in place to keep the peace, thus often given the title: Peace Officer. For most of my life, I've done my best to remain on the right side of the law, even if I thought that the law enforcement officers weren't doing their best job. Fortunately, the vast majority of them were good dedicated officers who performed their duties to the best of their abilities and thus had the respect of the community and the county. I was able to befriend a few of them as they passed through our region, even to travelling down to pistol shooting practices and events together. But there were some who didn't seem to measure up and consequently weren't all that welcome.

Enforcers, they were often referred to as, usually male, single, usually fresh out of boot camp (or the police academy), and usually with an attitude. They weren't assigned to a post for long as their arrogant, hard-nosed approach quickly created hard feelings that could result in some form of retaliation.

There is a story about an officer who was going to restore law and order, and in doing so, riled up a truck driver to the point where the trucker, obviously a lot tougher and a better experienced fighter, got the upper hand, beat up on the officer then stuffed him into the back seat of the patrol car, and when a safe distance away, put in an anonymous phone call to tell the base that an officer needed help. There was one where the officer was female, whom most of us would still normally respect as a qualified law enforcement officer, but in this case, all attitude, especially toward the male of the species. She got ambushed and ended up handcuffed with her own cuffs and forced to stand outside the car with her head thrust through the window, the glass cranked up enough to trap her head. As an added message, her pants were pulled down.

Of course the latter has turned up on several different chat sites and has been heard all over the United States and Canada so one would almost have to call it an Urban Legend. But on the other hand, the story had to start somewhere. At any rate, the so-called bad officers are usually transferred to another post long before things get to this point.

In this case, the new officer was fresh out of the academy, full of attitude but also lacked some basic intelligence which included reasoning.

The boy was an avid off-road enthusiast. His personal vehicle was a four-by-four pickup that had been jacked up, and fancy wheels with oversized tires installed. It was one of those vehicles that stood so high in the air that the driveshaft of which would go through a 24 pack of universal joints in less than a thousand miles. He subscribed to all the Off-Road magazines and attended all the mud-bogging, rock-climbing, cross-country competitions, and truck shows that he could take in while off-duty. A simple visit in the coffee shop found you listening to him rattle off all the latest off-road equipment and tell you all about hill-climbs and how his truck wasn't just for show; it was mostly go.

Boring...

Just east of my hometown was the local junk collector. Dick, as he was known to everyone, had a farm with several hundred derelicts on it. On the south side of his place, between his farm and the neighbors, was a drainage ditch that had been dug to hopefully collect excessive runoff water and route it back to the river further to the south. The ditch, about six feet deep at one time, had been dug in the twenties and thirties but didn't see much use because--especially during the thirties--about the only runoff was dust. The banks of the ditch slowly eroded away and the natural grass grew in. As time went on, one could actually drive a vehicle through it in some places; a four wheel drive truck had no trouble negotiating it.

This young officer was cruising through town one Saturday night and spotted a familiar four-by-four pickup parked in front of JB's Lounge. Mostly innocent except for the fact that the truck had been parked there for several hours, which meant that the owner (driver) was likely several sheets to the wind and would no doubt try to sneak home without getting caught driving under the influence. The officer kept up his patrol but concentrating on that particular truck. As luck would have it, he was several blocks away when he saw the taillights come up and the truck back out of its stall. Police lights flashing and the smell of blood in his nostrils, the officer floored the accelerator and took up the chase.

Larry, the driver who shouldn't have been driving, wasn't so drunk that he didn't notice the police lights come on. As a matter of fact, he had been gazing out the window of the bar for some time watching the officer make too many passes down this side of town. He had to make this chase worthwhile so he pushed hard on the gas and headed down the street.

One thing that was in Larry's favor was that, when the chase began, there were several blocks between them making it impossible for the officer to make a positive ID of Larry's truck. Determined to keep it that way, Larry shot down a couple of alleys, emerging out a block from the easternmost extremity of town and headed for the park. Two and a half miles east, he switched off his headlights then turned and headed south down the graveled road toward the river. Just to the south of Dick's place he swung off the road and onto the trail between Dick's and Gerry's farms.

The young officer followed the dusty trail, and spotted Larry's truck by its brake lights. Seeing an approach, the officer turned off the road and onto Dick's hayfield. Being no stranger to off-roading he drove at high speed across the hayfield in an attempt to cut the fugitive off. Keeping an eye on the approaching truck in the moonlit field, he sped off at an angle to cut him off. The shadow of the truck grew larger. He was almost to the place--

Well, he didn't know about the drainage ditch. And he definitely didn't know about the places one could drive through it without damaging the car's undercarriage. That full-sized Dodge sedan shot over the edge of that ditch like something from Dukes of Hazzard. Engine racing and tires clawing vainly for traction, the patrol car almost floated through the air, coming to an abrupt halt after encountering the bank on the opposite side.

In a perfect world he might have made it but the heavy car's front suspension caught the edge of the bank, the crossmember shaving at least a foot of dirt off the top of the opposite bank. The car was going fast enough to continue forward for several feet and come to a stop with the rear wheels dangling over the edge of the ditch. The chase over, Larry continued across the ditch--in a safe place to cross--and headed over to Dick's place where he had Dick phone it in.

When the smoke was cleared, the officer suffered some whiplash, and needed some dental work when the abrupt halt in forward motion caused him to take a large bite out of the steering wheel. He also suffered a few bruises which cleared up in no time at all. I guess you could say that the most damage was to his pride; after all he was a qualified off-road racer in his own mind. It wasn't long before he was packed up and on his way to another post to resume his duties as an officer of the law, maybe just a little less gung-ho now. The patrol car, less than two weeks old at the time of the crash was bent like a giant pretzel. When sitting on the ground, one rear wheel was completely in the air. Larry was charged with DUI, attempting to flee, and dangerous driving, none of which stuck because, as was mentioned before, they couldn't prove that it was Larry's truck, let alone that it was he who was driving.

The only lesson that could come out of it was maybe know the terrain before heading off into the darkness. And always understand that the local residents just might know more about the country than you do.

APPEARANCES

They say that appearances are everything; always look your best and people will think the best of you... Or so the saying goes. But appearances aren't always what you think. There are a lot of men who look their best at all times, not a hair out of place, footware that's so shiny one would swear that he was in the military; a wardrobe that rivals the American Gigolo,

But under the surface lies the real man. Oh he's got personality that can charm a dozen women into the sack but it isn't long before that polished exterior cracks and the real person steps out. After taking the woman for everything she has--and often leaving a kid or two for souvenirs, he's out the door and on his way down the road where he gets polished up again to make his move on the next one.

I believe that the British term for that type is Alfie.

Still it is necessary to look your best when looking for a job, or playing the field, either in the nightclubs or on the internet, as appearances are still a necessity. Of course a little common sense should be practiced as it wouldn't be all that necessary to dress up in a suit and tie if one is applying for a job cleaning out sewer systems for eight hours a day.

But there are times when appearances might not be the best way to judge a person. What if it simply doesn't matter how you look? What if you had it made so well that people would show you every courtesy if you looked like a tramp? JC once told Mattie that when (more like if ) he finally had it made in the shade, he'd head uptown clad in lounging pants, bathrobe and slippers. Everyone would greet him as if he was their best friend.

It's doubtful that Mattie agreed, or Kammi for that matter because both laughed almost as hard at him as they did when JC tried to don his old motorcycle jacket.

There was a story that was told at the old coffee shop a few years back that had almost everything to do with appearances and what could happen if one acted too quickly. We'll begin this story near the end and work our way forward:

Police Chief West was summoned to the station late one night. Two of the duty officers had picked up a vagrant and required West to conduct the investigation. West showed up, clad in lounging pants, moccasins and a--jacket, and walked through the cell block. All he saw was a couple of drunks in one cell, sacked out in the bunks, sleeping off whatever it was they were on at the time, and a couple of cells over sat an old man, clad in a moth-eaten wool coat, ragged pants and worn out rubber boots that were liberally coated with cow manure. The old man was so disheveled and filthy that he made the two drunks appear well-groomed.

West merely gave the old man a cursory glance then headed up to the front desk where he was greeted by the duty sergeant. The two arresting officers were there as well and they came right up.

West gazed at them quizzically. 'Do you know who you've got locked up back there?' he asked reasonably.

The officers shrugged. 'We just saw him walking down the street on the south side of town,' said the first patrolman.

'Did he say anything?'

'Mostly muttered,' the second officer said. 'We fist thought he was drunk but we couldn't smell anything, other than he missed a date with a bar of soap a long time ago. We just brought him in here to get him off the road. It's quite chilly out there tonight.'

'Do you know who he is?' the first officer enquired.

'Sure do,' West responded. 'He probably couldn't talk to you because he likely hasn't got his teeth with him. He's on the downhill side of ninety and he's a little shaky. But let me tell you something: That old man could cut a check for a million dollars and wouldn't have to go to the bank to clear it. He owns in the neighborhood of fifty thousand acres of farm and ranch land south of here.'

The officers were incredulous. How could a disgusting old man like that be a multi-millionaire? He didn't look like he could afford a downpayment on a free meal but here, Chief West was telling them that they had just arrested one of the richest men in the country for vagrancy.

Back in the days before the First World War--the Great War to some--the Canadian government came out with The Homestead Act, a deal (some called it a bet) whereas for the princely sum of ten dollars you could receive a quarter section (160 acres) of land. The only catch was that the homesteader had to prove up on it; break and plant so many acres per year, and commence building. If he defaulted he would have to move off and the land would be turned over to another homesteader.

Well, Mr. Rheinfelter, the old man in the holding cell, had come from somewhere in Minnesota and made his way to Alberta along with other homesteaders. They settled in the Jefferson region near the international boundary and proceeded to put down roots. The only difference between Rheinfelter and the rest of the homesteaders was that Rheinfelter had a little bit of money. He bought a quarter section and proceeded to break sod and prove up. Soon after, a neighbor fell upon hard times and had to leave for something more attainable than scratching a living out of that unforgiving prairie. Mr. Rheinfelter offered to buy the neighbor out with a generous offer to assume the debts plus cover the neighbor's initial expenses.

The neighbor was ecstatic. He was ready to sign papers immediately and wasted no more time loading up his family and heading for the bright lights of the big city where he and his family would live happily ever after, or so to speak. A short time later another neighbor decided that he wasn't cut out for this farming stuff either so he approached Rheinfelter and got the same generous, life-saving bailout. It wasn't long before Rheinfelter accumulated three full sections of land; he was on his way.

Then came the guys who fell upon hard times but wanted to keep farming. All they needed was a little boost of capital to cover expenses, for a short term anyways. The banks weren't all that eager to lend money to farmers but Rheinfelter was. Of course the collateral was always the land; if the farmer defaulted, measures were taken to foreclose thus forcing the farmer out of his only home.

I might add that there were a lot of farmers that Rheinfelter helped out who were able to pay the loans back and stay in business.

Enter the Thirties--the Dust Bowl--a time when it got so dry that the grasshoppers had to carry a lunch. Farming methods at the time left a lot to be desired and with the drought, the parched land began to blow, drifting like snow around buildings, abandoned vehicles and farm equipment; it buried fences and the fences that were built atop where the old fences had been. Heart-broken farmers often packed up and left without a word while some at least attempted to sell their farms for whatever they could get. Some offered their farms to men like Rheinfelter for as little as a dollar an acre with nothing down and so much a year. That helped grow a lot of empires in the south.

You would think that people with Rheinfelter's means would tend to dress up and show off a little but Rheinfelter, and his two sons, who were schooled on the same tight-fisted methods of the old man; use only what was needed and nothing more; new clothes were frivolous when what they already wore covered them properly. They ate like homeless people, sometimes having nothing for lunch but stale bread sopping up the morning's bacon grease in a frying pan, and washing it down with black coffee that was far stronger than anything the airlines could serve.

It's amazing that they found women who would put up with their miserly practices but oftentimes, especially during the hard times, their wives traded their wanted luxuries for security and simply put up and shut up.

The Rheinfelter empire grew throughout the Second World War and well into the fifties before things began to slow down. But then, Rheinfelter, and even his sons were beginning to feel the effects of age. One of the boys became so crippled (mostly from malnutrition) that he had to be hoisted up on the tractor, or swather, or combine, where he would spend the entire day before he was hoisted off at day's end.

Obviously they were all accustomed to hard work and could be found in the fields working almost around the clock. And so it wasn't surprising that the old man was found walking along the road into Lethbridge late one evening.

He was hauling grain in one of the big trucks he owned. Unfortunately he had run out of gas and since this was long before the age of cellphones, he was walking into the city to find a payphone so he could call his boy (collect of course, and if you finished the call soon enough there was no charge at all) to come out and bring some gas.

But the police found him first, out in the cold, clad in dirty dilapidated clothing, staggering (because he was crippled) like a homeless wino. I'm sure that old Rheinfelter was enjoying himself immensely, especially when the police chief told those two officers who they had arrested.

They say that you can't take it with you, and obviously, even Rheinfelter knew that. In the end he wasn't all that stingy as he left a five-million dollar endowment to the local university and community college. One thing you've got to agree with is that he didn't die broke. But was he really that happy?

LOTTERY, THE SECOND STORY

Through the years, and for at least the time that lotteries have been around, there has always been a negative connotation about it. Stories about how winners' lives get completely upended with their families destroyed and friendships dissolved abound when the topic comes up. People suddenly finding themselves wealthy beyond their wildest dreams do undergo a lot of changes whether they like it or not. There was a man who won close to five million and troubles for him and his wife began even before the lights from the reporters' flash bulbs went out.

A greedy and conniving realtor hastily built up an acreage to at least look appealing and sold it to the winners for a price far more than the property was worth. Almost immediately there were problems with the house which was discovered to be way short of passing building regulations (the realtor was able to skirt the codes because the property was in his own name and he was merely remodeling and thus wasn't subject to so much scrutiny). It cost the winners a small fortune to get the house rebuilt so it could pass inspection then their lives were disrupted by freeloading family members and (now ex-) friends.

They didn't properly consider large purchases and often suffered severe consequences, like the pedigreed (?) racehorse they paid over $.9M for, only to see it die two months later.

The couple's new found fortune was gone almost before it was received and it gives credence to the statement: A fool and his money are soon parted. They did manage a second kick at the can when they won a million and a half about five years later. They did the right thing this time; they packed up and left the country for several months and when they came back, they were living in another neighborhood.

Another couple of cases happened close to home: The first was when a couple moved into my hometown and purchased the local drug store. They paid too much for it, and their house, and were backsliding into a major financial abyss when a relatively small lottery jackpot ended their troubles. They won just enough to pay off their debts and thus were allowed to carry on life and prosper, although they still had to fend off nearly every freeloader and con-artist in the country for the better part of a year.

The other one close to home wasn't quite that lucky. The couple had won just under a million dollars and their lives got so disrupted that they cleared out in the middle of the night and moved away, never to be seen again.

The problem to this is largely publicity. Winners have to allow their names to be published and allow their mugshots to be plastered in every major news publication across the country. The late newsman, Andy Rooney, once said that if he could work his will, he would make it illegal to publish a winner's name or picture in anything, even the lotteries' own publications.

The druggist, and the couple that had to leave town were a couple of stories that inspired me to write the novel, Lottery. A friend and I were seated on the deck late one hot summer night, enjoying a cold beverage and we discussed the plights of those two winners and how we'd set things up if we'd won. That had my thoughts going wild and I came up with all sorts of possibilities. I had things nailed down pretty well and then, while up in the Athabaska Tar Sands, I became acquainted with a rock truck driver whom I'd have sworn had read my manuscript and duplicated the way my main character cashed his ticket in. That only reinforced my own idea and thus my first novel was born.

But how does all this tie in with the story I'm about to tell? Well, it just provides some background and tells some of the bad things that can happen to lucky but still good people. A lot of people regard the lotteries with disdain and for the most part, their thoughts are well qualified. Con-artists and long lost family members come out of the woodwork. So often friendships are strained and even lost, but there are times when a lot of good comes out of good fortune.

The first one would be the druggist in my hometown; the second would be a group of four co-workers who had worked for a local foundry for many years. The latter group won $16M and they were able to retire debt free and, by planning carefully, were able to enjoy (and are still enjoying) their lives. And the one I'm about to share is another true story about luck in its tenderest of mercies.

Max had suffered with Angina since he was in his late thirties. By the time he was in his sixties the chest pains could get almost unbearable. What he needed was bypass surgery but none of the specialists were willing to perform that operation because the risk in this case was too high. However one specialist on the west coast said he could do it and Max was given a five-way bypass.

Surviving the operation was a miracle in itself but it gave Max a lot more years than he originally was given. He had a new lease on life that enabled him to travel to the far ends of the continent to see his family and share some good times. He would spend over ten years enjoying life until the chest pains returned.

Another bypass was too much of a risk but with proper medications Max was able to at least have a full life. Even after his beloved wife was called home to her Maker, Max still kept up his activities and was able to do so many things he enjoyed.

But there were times that Angina wasn't fair.

Max's oldest boy was an engineer at the Hoover Dam. He lived on a modest acreage in Logandale which isn't far from Lake Meade and thus Jeff was able to drive back and forth to work quickly. Just after Jeff and his wife moved into their new house, Max flew down for a visit. They toured Las Vegas and saw many programs, and ate lots. They might have even gambled a bit but no one is telling. They went back to Logandale and settled down for the night. It wasn't long before things went bad for Max.

He was awakened in the middle of the night with horrible chest pains which couldn't be controlled with Nitro. Jeff called the EMTs and they rushed Max off to the hospital where his condition was treated with fairly good success. The pain was brought under control and the specialists were discussing further treatment. Unfortunately heart disease was a pre-existing medical condition so Max's insurance wouldn't cover his situation. Unable to pay for the bills that were sure to ensue from the battery of treatments, Max checked himself out of the hospital. He found out that the airline wouldn't allow him to board because of his condition so Jeff loaded him up and began to drive north.

JC headed south while Jeff continued to drive north and they met somewhere in between. JC proceeded to take Max home and put him in the hospital there. Max soon recovered and was able to resume his life of retirement. He was back in his workshop, building clocks and attending Coffee Row with his buddies. But he knew that there was bad news on the horizon.

An envelope eventually arrived from the hospital in Las Vegas and not surprisingly contained the bill. For those few hours as a patient, Max was charged in the neighborhood of two thousand dollars. For a man on a fixed income, that was a burden that was very difficult to pay. JC and Mattie even contemplated helping out although they would have to do that surreptitiously because Max had that pride thing.

One day JC got a phone call from Max. Without hardly a greeting, Max asked: 'JC does five matching numbers mean anything on the lottery?'

'It's a lot better than four,' JC replied, 'not as good as five plus the bonus and definitely not as good as all six.' There was a pause then JC asked: 'Why?'

'Well, I was picking up a prescription at the drug store the other day and I had some change so I bought a ticket. I just checked it out and it looks like I've got five out of six.'

'Dad, you did good,' JC said with genuine enthusiasm. 'If you look on the back of your ticket, you'll see a toll-free phone number. Call that and give them the serial number off your ticket and they'll tell you how much you've got coming.'

Max did just as JC had told and it turned out that he'd won over two-thousand dollars. He cashed his ticket in and received a check that was enough to pay his hospital bill, make a charitable donation to his church and take his lady friend out for a nice dinner. Nothing left but a feeling that a tremendous weight had been taken off his shoulders.

Now, people are cautioning us about lotteries and gambling and the evils that games of chance spawn. Church leaders, financial planners, parents and spouses sometimes vehemently oppose taking chances. Despite that nearly everyone dreams of hitting the big one and what new frontiers can be achieved. Unfortunately the percentage of those who actually make it big is very small. But sometimes one doesn't have to make it big; just making it enough to keep the wolves from your door is often sufficient.

Go ahead and have some fun but as the lotteries themselves advise: Set a limit and say within it.