Wonderful machines

My grandfather was an early power enthusiast. It is no wonder, having been born in 1904, the streets of Erie, Pa., were still crowded with horse-drawn freight wagons during his formative years. My Poppy relied on handsaws and hand braces (drills) and hand planes when building walls and roofs and cabinets. So when electric power tools, and more wonderfully, internal combustion lawn and garden tools appeared, he was enthralled.




A life-long love affair, Poppy would never pass up the chance to mow a lawn or rototill a garden or snowblow a driveway or rip a 2x8 with a power saw. He was captivated.

And that devotion was communicated to me. As the first boy in his family after three female daughters and an initial granddaughter, I was his dream come true. Poppy poured out all of his knowledge, all of his love, for things mechanical to me.

At six years old, I sat in his lap while we mowed the lawn on his small but beloved lawn tractor. The smell of the exhaust as the machine came to life, after carefully checking the oil, perhaps cleaning the sparkplug, and pulling vigorously on the starting rope, will never leave me.

“No, never step off until the blade is disengaged!” “Be very careful on a slide slope, do not turn abruptly uphill or you will overturn the machine and no one will be happy.” “Slowly, slowly, speed is not the goal.”

Eventually, I was signed off to solo and at the age of seven, nothing gave me greater pleasure than being handed the responsibility for mowing his great, hilly lawn, but safely, oh so slowly and safely.

My own love for power grew, and after our family moved to the country, the neighboring farmer recognized that spark. At eight years old, he had me stand between his knees and guide a huge farm tractor, steering at his command. At ten, I was allowed to perform simple tasks solo, such as parking the tractor or moving it to the fuel drum for replenishment.

By the time I was twelve, I was snaking logs out of the woods, plowing and discing fields, and driving the farm truck in the hayfields while the older teenagers hoisted the heavy bales of hay aboard. My Poppy’s love for things mechanical had been passed on, and I was hooked.

So what has just happened in Massachusetts? A law banning those under 14 years of age from operating ATVs. The State, collectively, has determined that individual parents (and grandparents and other responsible adults) are not capable of guiding and mentoring their young. The State, in its collective wisdom, had assumed yet another parental prerogative. You, the father, you the grandfather, you the scout leader, are not capable of teaching and recognizing the abilities and limitations of your charges. Only the State is competent to do so.

It is another sad usurpation of our individual freedom, committed by well meaning, but misdirected, busybodies.

Ruminations on D-Day

On June 6, 1944, the Allies launched an invasion to lift the Nazi boot from the neck of the European continent. Sixty-six years later, the aptly named Greta Berlin of “Free Gaza” instructs us that “What Israel needs to understand is that nothing is accomplished by force.”

This particular brand of liberal thought is in concert with bumper stickers commonly found on Berkley and Amherst and Cambridge Volvo’s proclaiming that “War leaves all children behind”. As the Allies advanced into Germany and freed large numbers of prisoners from concentration camps, the many children should have, apparently, abhorred the Allies’ use of force.

Now we have Helen Thomas, grand dame of the White House press corps, calling for Israelis to be forced from their homes and deported to Germany and Poland. The twisted, hateful, racist ramblings of a liberal icon will go unremarked, but Arizonans being assaulted by MS-13 and drug gangs must passively endure.

Yes, the mechanisms of the liberal mind remain a mystery.