Brad Nelson

It was well past “zero-dark-30.” It was winter. We were hauling hay south from the Mountain Home and Bruneau area in southwest Idaho to ranches south of Mountain City, Nevada.

By the time you’re reading this, I’m sure my grandson will have adjusted his previous “retire for the night and arise for the next day” schedule to something more to the liking of the U.S. Marine Corps.

Inside an engine, like the engine of your pickup or truck, is a crankshaft. As the crankshaft rotates, it ties together the rest of the engine to change the up-and-down motion of the pistons into the rotating flywheel at the rear of the engine that transmits the power generated to whatever that engine is mated to.

I visited with an old friend, seems like better than a year ago now. He’s since left this world. He’d lost both legs from complications of diabetes and was fairly miserable. But he hadn’t always been that way.

“Somewhere between giddily goofy and gloomy, you will find a happy medium,” I pontificated while attempting to quell a near riot in the living room.

’Twas not my best day. An apple harvest truck had a flat tire, and the best the truck shop had to offer was on the scene. They were having difficulties getting the wheel nuts loose so they could replace the defunct tire with a good one.