Driving While Brown

/ jlambright / Leave a comment

Yeah, it’s been a while. Maybe no one reads this. But that’s OK. My life has been crazy, because these are crazy times. Please read on.

Ok, so I said I won’t talk about politics on this site. It still holds true, I won’t. I won’t tell you how to vote, or what to believe. What I can and will do, however, is point out gross injustice that directly touches people I give a shit about; most of my extended reader base has no idea about what is happening in Indian Country. However, maybe you are curious. If so, read on. If not, maybe skip this post until I get back into topics that fit into your comfort zone. 

Over the past month or two, two nieces of mine have been directly threatened with physical violence through no fault of their own. I guess I must define “physical violence.” By this, I mean armed men threatening them directly with death, injury, or legal sanction. Hopefully, that is clear. 

Women, fucking women, unarmed, in one case with an infant in close proximity. 

In the first case, as I related earlier on my paywall site, a girl in my community had people show up at her house because they were pursuing a DoorDash driver who happened to be a Hispanic lady. By the way, you can’t work for DoorDash unless you submit proof that you are legally authorized to work in the US. The DoorDash lady ran into my thožaŋ’s (niece’s) house in a panic; a tense, armed standoff ensued. My niece prevailed in that case; the poor middle-aged lady was not detained. 

I’ll get into the second case in a bit. But first, I’ll talk a little about why I was just in Mnísota, in Dakhóta country. 

A man who helped me, who made a difference in my life, passed away at the age of 44. When I heard the news, I did not question whether I should be there for the family. No. I threw my clothes into a trash bag, made arrangements for my cats (it’s a thing), and loaded the truck with my dog. Thirteen hours later, I was chilling in my hotel in Inver Grove, close by the Twin Cities. 

Early that same day, I cruised through the places where some people had recently been shot in the street, and many arrested. Minneapolis has a seriously weird vibe. I’ve felt that before in other places, not in the US. There is a palpable feeling of anger and danger there; you can see it in how people walk; their heads on a swivel. It’s as if the whole city is just waiting for something to happen. You don’t ever want to feel that, and I didn’t think I ever would, again. Not in the US! Oh, ok, here we go again, I thought. 

I drove through the city because I wanted to “wipe down,” to attend a sweat lodge. The man who conducted the lodge is a blood-related cousin; he is a gentle man, a good man and father. He expressed a fear to me that he or his family would be detained, unjustly. I’ve learned that this is not paranoia or misplaced fear; it’s a real thing amongst American Indians in Minneapolis. 

Driving While Brown; shorthand for being fucked with by…people of unknown origin, who operate with no identifying badges, faces covered, and apparently, a license to detain and kill. 

If you think I may be unhappy about this, you would be correct. 

As an aside, the trope about women being “the weaker sex” is complete bullshit. Throughout history, the record is replete with women who have spoken courage into the men; who have led and died for what they strongly believe, and what they wish to protect. 

The reason I am writing this piece is a direct result of a conversation I held with a woman I respect, who called me out for not wanting to publically express my displeasure regarding these gross violations of the rights of my people. I wished to be cautious, to not draw the attention of the bad people who are shitting on the US Constitution, and the safety of my Dakhóta family in the West. 

She said, in essence, that I was being a pussy, if you’ll excuse my French. She cited her situation where she refuses to live in fear of being fired; she teaches history and refuses to adjust her curriculum to please the gods of reverse PC. 

Her words singed my ears a bit; I thought about it, and decided to write. I have a platform, albeit small. What is my excuse? There is none. 

This morning, having returned from Minnesota yesterday at 0500, I sat down and composed this piece. Maybe I piss some of you off: it’s OK. The truth hurts. Here is wówičakhe, truth. A Dakhóta man must never shy away from truth, so I will speak it this morning.

Agents of the federal government directly threatened two of my relatives for no good reason. This is truth. You can watch one incident in the link above. 

I’ll talk about the second incident below, after having described how I came to learn of it. 

So, to back up in the timeline a bit, I sweated with my cousin and others from the community, and I returned to my hotel to clean up for the memorial. I passed through a city under siege on the way; I didn’t enjoy it, and I know, in my balls and guts, what it is like to be under direct threat from militias who come in the night. My anger built. 

After washing, I traveled to the Rez with my faithful companion, the crazed Aussie cattle dog. 

I arrived at the site of my home lodge, the Black Horse Camp. From there, I won’t describe the sequence of events; suffice to say our departed was honored and returned to the earth in a good way. 

Hence the pic of the cigarettes; a bowl laid upon each table at the memorial. It is the only picture I took; cell phone use is not tolerated during ceremony, nor should it be. Tobacco, čhaŋdí, is one of the sacred medicines. Therefore, it was made available for the people.

Laughter is also a medicine; there was a lot of it. Kids ran about and played; it gladdened my heart to see that. The people were fed, the ladies made totally delicious buffalo meat fry bread one evening! Lord, how I ate. If you ever come to a Dakhóta thing, you will eat. Period. 

On the penultimate night, I spoke to another niece, a good-looking and kind Ojibwe girl I like a great deal. She’s smart as a tack and has done much for my community. 

I heard she had been threatened. So, I asked her what happened. She told me. 

I guess she was driving to work, right? Just another day during this weird siege of her city. 

A note about my niece: she looks Capitol “I” American Indian. I guess that’s good enough for a Kavanaugh Stop; if you don’t know what that means, you can read my link. 

Well, she picked up a “tail,” or a vehicle that surrepitiously followed her. It was a white Jeep. Locals have gotten wise to ominous black Suburbans (as an aside, wtf is up with these people cosplaying supervillains? But, I digress). When she parked at her place of employment, the white Jeep boxed her into the parking spot and THEN the Suburbans shot to either side of her car.

She freaked out; she was carpooling and knew she was about to be in trouble. It was just another day, as she commuted to work. 

I’d like to point out that BOTH of my nieces hadn’t been “poking the bear” (although that is perfectly legal under the FIRST AMENDMENT OF THE FUCKING US CONSTITUTION). No, they were just going about their lives. 

And there she was, fumbling with her phone, rolling down her window (she didn’t want it shattered, which is a thing), and…

Having a goddamn loaded weapon jammed in her face.

The weapon promised lead and copper, at high velocity, to violate her head and leave her life to trickle upon the floor of her car, or splattered across the interior. 

Yes, that is graphic. No, I don’t care. This could have been the reality if she’d twitched just a little bit; whoever the fuck it was could have drilled her, with zero consequence, and for no reason. 

This, at least, has been made overly clear. An agent of the state, with his face covered and in plainclothes, could have robbed her of her life, with no questions asked. And this time, there wouldn’t have been any witnesses present. There was a security cam, which she saw footage from later on, that was all.

In the moment, all there was were mortally scared brown people who hadn’t done Jack Shit. For some reason, she wasn’t detained; perhaps there wasn’t room in the Black Ravens. But they sure as hell nabbed the people in her car, with violence. She told me most didn’t wear any sort of uniform. She did see one dude in a greenish outfit with a “Police” patch, but that was it. All of their faces were covered; it could have been a mob hit for all that she knew. 

Shitting herself, the attackers, the creeps, left a pretty Ojibwe girl, 100 percent born and raised in the USA, a card-carrying member of a sovereign Native American nation, trembling in their wake. 

Guys, this is the definition of tyranny. If you can’t see that, if you can somehow justify that, I don’t know what to say. 

Is this what we are? In a place where it’s totally cool to round up and brutalize people who vary just slightly from an imagined American ideal? In thrall to a murderous ideology that should have died in the ashes of the Second World War, or the US Civil War?

My people fought and fucking died to defeat these ideas, and many of your ancestors did the same. 

This, guys, is my hill. 

In everybody’s life, there is a hill. A place that you will defend against all comers. Many shy away from the hill, and they disgrace themselves and their relatives. The measure of a man, or a woman, is what they will do for those they love and care about. All of us will die one day; it is our common fate. You don’t get a choice; death is not optional. 

Where the choice lies is how you die, and what legacy you leave behind. 

I choose not to stand or be complicit with those who jam fucking loaded weapons into the faces of my relatives! 

That’s how it is.

I have spoken wówíčakhe, the truth. It is all that I can do, and it is a symptom of the sickness in our land that I hesitated to do so earlier. 

Let the chips fall where they may. 

2025 AWD Hybrid XL Ford Maverick review; breaking my strange hiatus.

/ jlambright / Leave a comment

Hey, all. I know it’s been a long time; my longest break from this page since 2017, when I started it. I have good reason for this. I’ve told the people behind my paywall site some of my reasoning, but certainly not all. While you guys are my crew, I remember this is a free-access, public-facing page, so I must restrict information here. I’m sure you understand.

I will put out that I’ve been heavily involved with my relatives in Minnesota, and I’ve experienced life-changing events over the past few months. In addition, I’ve been busy with a medium-scale construction project which has been creatively and physically demanding.

The good news is that I managed to mostly conclude the project without exacerbating my old wounds and injuries, and I’ve gotten to know my relatives out west far better than I thought I ever would. If you dig back through the archives, I’ve spoken a little about this process. It’s a hidden history rediscovered by this guy over the past five years; and it turns out that I had an entire family waiting in Minnesota.

They didn’t go anywhere. Once contacted, they instantly rekindled old ties, asking no questions beyond verification of specific facts.

Trust me, it’s been a lot. Some aspects have been so stunning that they stilled my tongue and my pen.

But here we are, and today I’d like to talk about my formerly new, AWD hybrid 2025 Ford Maverick in the basic XL trim.

Ho-ly crap, what a truck!!!

As I’ve stated in earlier posts, I’ve owned many American-style pickup trucks in my life. Some of my earliest memories are of those trucks. My dad had a ’59 Chevy stepside that I suspect was converted to 4WD at some point in its life. We had it until the late eighties. It was an ugly mottled reddish, and it would not die. I think Dad sold it for 800 bucks when we moved off the farm. There were many others, but that truck stands out.

I like full-size trucks. But, as I’ve passed over the fifty mark, I realized that I don’t need one for daily driving. I needed something smaller, and definitely better on gas.

Enter the Ford Maverick. I bought my first one in 2022. Due to weird circumstances, I am on my third one. This review is about the 2025 model.

All three of my Mavericks have been the XL model because I demand “steely” wheels in a work truck. Each was used and worked hard. Each had a different drivetrain. The first was gas-only, the second was hybrid, FWD, and this third truck was what I wanted back in ’22, an AWD hybrid with the 4K tow package.

Guys, all of my Mavericks have been…stunning. I’ll give the real-world gas mileage for each; I’ve never used anything but 87 gas.

The ’22 Ecoboost got an impressive 32.5 mpg average at 52,000 miles on trade-in. It was AWD with the 4K tow package. The ’23 FWD hybrid had an incredible, gas-sipping average of 42.5 (!) mpg when I sold it to a friend at 18K miles.

It was a serious question what this ’25’s mileage would be; there were many unknowns. Like the ’23, it was a hybrid. But, like the ’22, it was AWD with the tow package. I suspected the mpg average would fall between the two vehicles, and I was proven right, with one exception, which I’ll cover later.

Right now, at about 23K miles (so much for taking it easy on this truck, but I’ll explain later), it gets 38.3 mpg, honest mileage. YES, I am pleased!

I won’t talk about the cool base stuff this Maverick has, because I’ve covered that in my other reviews. I’ll talk about stuff specific to this truck.

First, allow me to say I wasn’t happy that Ford made me shell out for CoPilot 360. It cost about 800 bucks and was mandatory with the 4K tow package. However…allow me to eat some crow here. I discovered much later that the CoPilot is AWESOME when you are trailering. I’ll talk about this later.

Next, this was the first model year with an AWD hybrid ‘Mav. When I saw the EPA sticker mileage, I was displeased at the advertised 28 mpg overall rating. I shouldn’t have worried. After break-in, my truck is way better than advertised on gas. It does indeed fall in between the real-world mileage of my two earlier Mavs, and I am well-pleased.

Finally, I shelled out for the tri-fold, hard tonneau. Guys, I will never again go without this feature. No way, no how. It secures your load, keeps things dry, and is just plain handy as heck.

So…let me tell you how I have worked this truck. Mine is an extreme case, but I always tried to stay within its operating margins. 4K towing, and 1500 pounds haul.

Well, I tried, but I failed. Don’t rat me out to Ford, please.

I knew I had a tough nut to crack on the construction project over a thousand miles from my residence. This was the first step into the basement of madness. On a late April day, when the truck was about two months old, I loaded it with supplies, including a bulky roll of woven-wire ag fencing, two kayaks, and tools. I left, my truck loaded with about its rated capacity. I got slightly worse than average mileage on the trip out, and the Mav did just fine in terms of handling and power, which was in line with my expectations.

The worksite was where the AWD feature came in handy, as I had anticipated. The Maverick did just fine in rough-field conditions and excelled on unpaved roads, which I’d experienced with my ’22. By the way, the FWD versions aren’t terrible either. But I was very glad to have AWD again, and I loved the mileage. After doing some clearing work on a forested patch, I returned to my distant residence.

My next mission was a few weeks later, when I returned to the work site with my victims—uh, helpers, I mean. These were my old friend and his teenage son, whom he wanted to expose to manual labor. Laughs! Oh boy, did I!

Heavily loaded again, we took off, my friend in the shotgun seat, and his son in the back. I must point out here that the Maverick, all models, is a very comfortable truck. His son did fine on the backseat of the crew cab, and my bud and I rode in style in the front.

What followed in the next three weeks was a slaughter where the Maverick performed daily as a true worksite beast under very trying conditions in the Northern Boreal Forest. Ho-ly-shit was it a nightmare! We went from a lumpy, weedy semi-cleared patch to…a partially finished cabin in a fenced-in, mostly cleared, kind-of-yard amidst the towering pines, birches, and tamaracks.

We took a few breaks and did a little sightseeing, too. The ’25 Maverick handled all this with aplomb, and on the stock not-so-great tires. Exhausted, we returned to our departure point. As a minor miracle, we were all still friends, and no one died. This could only be interpreted as a plus.

But, what for some would be a very full summer, the games weren’t over. No, no, they weren’t. Yet again, I returned to Minnesota to work on the cabin some more and attend an event in the southern part of the state. This was probably the easiest phase of the total operation, and the Mav handled it with flying colors, of course.

Then, deciding that my Mahinda Roxor really belonged up there, I hatched a plan to transport it to the work site by that distant lake. I had a 4K tow package, right? I’d purchased the package with exactly this in mind, actually, and it SHOULD fall within my Mav’s design specs. However, I didn’t want to buy a car hauler trailer, as I would use it very infrequently, and once the Roxor was ensconced up there, I’d probably never use one again.

Therefore, a U-Haul trailer was the only feasible option. After jumping through some hoops, I planned my final Minnesota trip for the year and rented the trailer. As the mission start date approached, I went to pick up the trailer, which hooked up without any problems.

No problems there, at least, with the mechanical bits. No. The problem was the trailer GVW, which exceeded my expectations by about 1200 lbs (!). I will say this—U-haul trailers are no joke, and they tow very well. That was the good news. The bad news was that my loaded trailer GVW was now about 5200 lbs, and I didn’t like that, but I had little choice. True, the U-haul trailer had surge brakes, so I didn’t question the safety aspect. My concern was could the little truck tow the vehicle all the hell way to Minnesota at highway speeds?

I loaded up, and found out.

Here is where I must describe how awesome Ford’s CoPilot 360 is and how I’ve grown to demand it in future vehicles. When I hooked up the trailer, a first for this vehicle, a widget automatically popped up on the info screen and asked me some questions. It asked the trailer’s dimensions, and it asked me to name the trailer, which I thought was odd. However, I learned later that that is handy, and well designed.

The CoPilot automatically recalibrated the handy blind spot monitoring lights on the mirrors (a blinking yellow car icon that is VERY easy to see) to account for my trailer! How awesome is that? I can attest that this comes in very handy in rush-hour traffic in places like Indianapolis, for example.

Don’t do what I did. I miscalculated my overall GVW and was forced, at the last minute, to proceed with strong misgivings. But…observe.

The Little Truck That Could, did.

After 23 hours of sheer hell, I made it to the camp, brushed my teeth, and passed the hell out in the driver’s seat.

Once again, don’t try this at home. It was poorly thought out and asked too much of the vehicle. It was a white-knuckle trip the whole way, and if I’d had to go through big hills or mountains, I don’t think it would have been feasible. As it was, I mostly dealt with the plains and some rolling hills. The only true challenge was climbing out of the Ohio River Valley; as I pulled away from the river, I had to drop it down to 50 mph as I didn’t like how hard the engine was laboring. For the rest of the trip, I was pegged at 56 MPH, as the very large sticker on the driver’s fender of the U-haul trailer reminded me. 55 MPH MAXIMUM. There were no issues with power or handling.

This, along with other factors, made a 16-hour trip into a mind-bending 23-hour hell. I will always loathe the late-night fog I experienced in Wisconsin, which prolonged the agony.

In addition, the ‘Mav, which has great mileage, delivered full-size truck mileage on this trip, with a sedan-sized gas tank. More delays, but one can hardly blame the truck, of which too much was asked. I had it in tow mode the whole way, and my mileage was about 20 Mpg.

But—it got the job done, and I was never so glad as to drop off that stinking trailer that afternoon, as I was passed out behind the wheel until then. I did a few days’ worth of work on the cabin, and then I headed south to the Twin Cities area for a community event, a family reunion of sorts. The truck, predictably, breezed down the highway, mileage much improved (I reset my average after that exceptional hell trip).

Laughs. I should have known! Once on the event grounds, people noticed I had a truck. “Hey, could you haul some thìpi poles?” “I dunno. How long are they?” “Twenty feet.” “WTF?”

It was yet another stunning moment for the Ford Maverick. Assured that we didn’t have to go far or fast, I left with a small party and collected the very long poles. Ho-ly-shit, the little Mav did it again! We placed them carefully in the Mav-that-could, strapped them down, and then, slowly and carefully, we transported them to the grounds.

Another success. I did my thing at the event, and made yet another trip home.

But…the fun wasn’t over for the Mav. Reader, you may ask yourself what in Pete’s name else I could pack into this crazy summer, but I managed. Once home, some life circumstances changed, and I had to move some stuff around. The Maverick was a key part of this effort. I’m not sure how much cargo I moved over the next two weeks, but it was a lot. In addition, I made a few long-distance trailer runs with the magnificent Harbor Freight unit I have. I squirted the axles full of good bearing grease, checked the lights, and took off on a few runs.

The Maverick laughed at loads of garden equipment and other odds and ends. Hell, listening to the engine I didn’t even bother to switch it to tow mode; in my opinion, it didn’t need it, and my mileage barely suffered at about 62 mph on the interstate (I didn’t want to do 70+ with a little trailer).

At last, the summer of torment for the Maverick was done.

It passed with flying colors in every regard, and to say I am pleased would be a drastic understatement. I asked full-sized truck work out of a compact, supposedly light-duty truck, and it KICKED MAJOR ASS.

By all means, consider buying a Ford Maverick. I’ll bet I have more experience with these trucks than almost anyone in the US, across a range of models, and I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is a well-designed, sturdy, efficient, and comfortable ride across vast distances and under varying and trying conditions.

SIX FULL STARS, no exceptions.

My Strange Passion, Cheap Amazon Violins.

/ jlambright / Leave a comment

Long-time readers will know that I have an odd hobby: I work on violins. I’ve done almost everything to them, except a sound post crack repair, which is very difficult. I’ve had old violins in many pieces on my bench; to date, I haven’t destroyed one. There is a dark art to repairing them, which I enjoy. I’d like to think that I’m improving with time. Perhaps.

An outgrowth of these repairs is a minor passion for selecting cheap instruments on Amazon and seeing what I can do to improve them. One model that I’m very familiar with is the Cecilio MV300; it’s cheap, and the fundamentals are solid. I’ve also tried others. Some were good, some were worthy only of donations to local schools. You can make many improvements to help an inexpensive violin, but some things are a no-go.

I’m referring to paint, as opposed to varnish. I’m also talking about plywood plates: those are terrible. In addition, false beautifications such as painted purfling (the wood inlay around the edge), false character added to the wood (think airbrushed tiger striping on the belly and ribs), and anything that detracts from the natural beauty of the honest wood.

I’d rather plain-Jane but honest spruce and maple. You must have a spruce top plate and a maple body. It’s not just aesthetic; it’s about the violin’s performance. There are good reasons why violin makers have used those woods since the late Middle Ages! I say this to establish that ALL cheap violins I buy on Amazon have these basic materials and construction. They also must have full-length bass bars with an OK profile. You can see them through the left F-hole. It’s a performance thing. You can’t compromise here.

I’m astonished that you can find violins for less than 100 USD with everything I require. In addition, these violins come with a case, a bow, usually a polishing cloth with rosin, and they throw in a cheap tuner, too.

But here’s a cautionary note: these violins are seldom ready to play.

What do I mean? They come with everything you need, right? They do. However, the fitting and strings are terrible in most cases; I’ve seen exceptions, but as a rule, this is a fact.

If you don’t want to mess around with the fitting, spend some money and get this model or this one. These violins are ready to play out of the box. These are made by the same company as the violin I’m reviewing today, but they’re MUCH HIGHER GRADE. I know- I own one of each, and they are easily equal in quality to 1800 dollar violins that I’ve purchased from a well-known US-based violin specialty store. These are Cadillac, traditionally manufactured instruments! The catch is that they come all the way from China, and you may wait a while to receive one. However, it’s worth it, I assure you. While you must be judicious, Yinfente is a legit manufacturer, and their products, while not well known, can be great if you shop carefully.

But I’m not talking about those violins today. I’m talking about the “Yinfente 4/4 Acoustic Violin Kit,” which, after checking the well-known online violin retailer, I suspect is the exact same model as one of their low-end fiddles. Of course, the well-known retailer’s offering has a nicer case and is probably warmed over by their in-house luthier. Still, upon close examination, I believe it is the same base instrument for three hundred dollars more.

But I digress.

I had experience with Yinfente and came away impressed, so I decided to try their lowest grade offering for 100 USD. As is frequently the case with cheap Amazon fiddles, you get it all. A bow, a tuner, a case, rosin, etc. How can you go wrong? Well, you can if you order from the wrong company or the wrong model—many terrible instruments are available at this price point. Caveat Emptor, and all of that. But the models I’ve linked to above are OK with varying degrees of elbow grease. The Cecilio lots, the high-end Yinfentes almost none. How would this low-end Yinfente be, I wondered? I ordered it, and it came in faster than I expected—one must have been hanging around in a Stateside warehouse. This is not always the case; I’ve waited up to five weeks.

The big box arrived. This is always a moment with a tingle of excitement for me. What will I get? I busted open the box and opened the case. Here’s what I saw.

At first glance, it was a pedestrian instrument. I noted its genuine ebony furniture; violins at this price point usually have painted wood. The top was spruce. Before I flipped it over to check the belly, I looked at the bow, which was surprisingly nice. Actually, I shouldn’t have been surprised; just about all of the bows I’ve received from this manufacturer have been good. At this price point, you usually receive what I lovingly call AK-47 bows; they can charitably be called serviceable. Yes, the fiddle came with rosin, a tuner, extra strings, etc. They said it was a complete setup, it was. I didn’t like the bridge however, and I noticed the grooves on the nut would have to be deepened. However, the pattern was good, so that was a plus. It was time to flip it over and look at the belly.

I have to say I was disappointed; I’d hoped for at least a little figure or flaming. Sometimes even the cheap Cecilios have that; this one just looked ugly and brown. However, it was maple, and that is what matters. While I was at it, I checked the position of the sound post and was annoyed again. The stupid thing was in the arch; it was badly misplaced. This, of course, meant more work for me. A sound post must be placed just aft of the treble side of the bridge foot, preferably a bit toward the F-hole. This one was waaaaaay off! I shook my head, put away the case, and started the process. I knew what I needed to do.

And by the way, the strings were the standard Chinese factory junk. Chinese strings can be good—higher grades exist. These were not. I’ve learned the hard way to dump them in the trash immediately. I’m not sure why they even bother- it’s like playing on a cattle fence, and I’m hardly an elitist.

It was time to get out The Clamp- the indispensable tool for violin maintenance. Observe.

I stripped the fiddle down; you must remove the chinrest to put it into the clamp. Also, if you’re doing a bridge, you must remove the strings and tailpiece. Note, I removed the end pin as well; you have to if you reposition the sound post (GRRRR). You need to look through the end pin hole to see if you’ve set it straight, which is easier said than done. What should have been an easy job was complicated by carelessness; the sound post dude must have been in a rush to go on tea break or something. The piece of tape on the top plate is a visual aid I use; it indicates where the sound post SHOULD go, which was not how it arrived. Obviously.

I did the part I hate worst first, the sound post. See below.

These are the required tools. The weird cloverleaf thing moves the post around once it’s jammed in. It’s a friction fit. The clamp thing is the sound post retriever. You need it when you remove the post by knocking it over, and you need it some more when you inevitably mess up. The machinist’s scribe jams into the post; you need to stick it into the post when you install it. And all of this needs to be done through the treble side F hole. Does it sound like a pain? It is. And then, when you think it’s great, you look through the end pin hole and see…that it’s crooked AF and you need to adjust it, again.

Sometimes, it’s easy. Sometimes, it’s not. But I got it done.

It was time to move to the bridge. I selected a bridge from my handy stack of bridges, which I scored for fifty cents a piece. I fished through and found one with good wood grain (the long grains must go toward the player), then I gave it the bounce test to see how it sounded. This sounds stupid, but it’s not. You want dense wood in a bridge. Dense wood has a different sound from lighter, looser grain.

Bridges are an art form; I’m still unsatisfied with my bridges, but I’m improving. First, you must fit the bridge to the top plate. I use yet another special tool for this, which requires practice.

Ideally, the feet of the bridge should be about one millimeter thick and perfectly formed to the lid. You do that by clamping the bridge in this tool and then you move it back and forth upon a piece of 220 sandpaper until it’s close. Then, you switch to 600, and finish it off with 1000. Note: when done, the bridge must be at a ninety degree angle to the top plate, or you’re going to have trouble when you tune. In this case, all was well, and I moved on to carving and profiling.

Carving can be intricate; the point is both beauty and mass. The less mass, the better the resonance. I could go into detail, but I won’t. Suffice it to say that you have to work on the “ankles” of the bridge, and enlarge both the “hearts” and the “kidneys” of the bridge, and then make a few cuts with a razor knife. And of course, you must not weaken the bridge. Practice makes perfect, I guess.

I could point out a few less-than-perfect spots on this bridge, but I won’t bother. This is after I strung the instrument; it’s good enough, I suppose. Next time, it will be better, but it has improved much over what I received.

I did a bunch of other stuff, too. I wasn’t a fan of the rough texture of the fingerboard, so I sanded it lightly with 600 grit. Lightly! Fingerboards have a “hollow” of .7mm, you do not want to screw that up. A flat fingerboard isn’t good, it’s a resonance issue. After smoothing out the tooling marks, I added a very light coat of olive oil to the fingerboard only—so light, that it is dry to the touch. Then, I carefully deepened the string grooves for playablity, and penciled the grooves for lubrication.

The tailpiece was fine. It was a plastic student piece. If it were one of the cast aluminum ones, you’d be better off throwing it away; they are junk and will break every time. The saddle and endpin were good, too. I was impressed by the work on the peg box—the good-quality pegs were well-fitted, which is rarely the case at this price point. All I did was to add some peg soap and they were ready to string. Observe.

This is pretty nice for a hundred-dollar fiddle box! I also liked the end pin. I made an aesthetic choice to replace the perfectly good ebony chinrest with a rosewood unit. I think this adds a splash of color, and you may agree. See below.

I chose Fiddlerman strings because they’re what I have at the moment. These are good strings. While I wouldn’t go with expensive strings on this instrument (like Dominants), you can’t go wrong with a string upgrade here. Don’t spend more than about thirty bucks, however. Pirastros or Ascentes would be great too.

After prepping the tailpiece screws with a very light coat of bearing grease, I strung the instrument, taking care not to pop the new bridge (as you tighten the strings, the bridge will begin to lean forward). As usual, I took it easy and let the strings stretch as I went. After a few hours, it held tune and was ready for pics and a little play.

Of course, when the instrument was naked, I polished it with Supertonic, my personal fav.

This fiddle surprised me a bit; I think it dressed up fairly well. See the belly in sunlight, polished.

Huh. There is some faint figure to the wood. Amazing what different lighting and polish will do!

But the looks aren’t what makes a fiddle; it’s how it plays.

This fiddle plays pretty well; I took it for a stroll this morning. In addition, because of my few mods, it handles and feels good, too. Playability is important! A fiddle that doesn’t feel right doesn’t play well, either. A bunch of little stuff adds up, trust me.

Here is the final product, a decent little hundred-dollar fiddle.

Not bad, I say. And it was fun!

Peace.

Gold vs. Iron

/ jlambright / Leave a comment

The ancients knew a basic fact, and, at present, we are relearning it.

You can have all the money in the world, but iron, cold iron, trumps a bag full of gold.

Kipling, in his 1910 poem “Cold Iron,” says it best.

“Gold is for the mistress – silver for the maid” –

Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade!  

“Good!” said the Baron, sitting in his hall,

But Iron – Cold Iron – is master of them all.”

A great example is the Russian oligarchs, who often find that their superyachts and connections do not protect them from falls from windows, which they inexplicably seem to be drawn to.

A clear-cut case of a pile of gold, which does not protect from cheap, accurately applied steel, if you get my drift. There are many examples of this lately; a great one would simply be the picture of tech bros lined up in supplication behind certain leaders, who they hoped to buy off in one form or another.

Observe. These magnates, all of whom possess untold wealth, have been humiliated in turn. Federal charges were undropped against their pernicious websites, tariffs were applied to choke off their income, and positions of power granted were then snatched away. This was followed by rubber-stamped legislation that will cost their core businesses, well…everything.

All because these self-proclaimed geniuses and visionaries lost sight of the ball and basic facts—iron controls gold; always. Yes, you need gold for iron. But once you control the iron, the gold reverts to a supporting role.

Iron, indeed, is master of them all.

A cheap bar of high-carbon steel, funded by gold, attains a form that intimidates or destroys. In ancient times, a gladius was wielded by a Praetorian Guardsman. In modern times, an AK-74 is in the hands of an agent of the NKVD, the old name of the modern FSB.

Don’t pay attention to the gold; the flashy boats, or the private jets. Keep your eye on the iron.

As stated above, we are relearning this ancient fact. Personally, I never lost sight of this—I carried iron for far too long to forget. If the US Government paid me to apply my chunk of steel and plastic somewhere, I did so. To quote an old Appalachian ballad:

“No wealth, no land,

No silver, no gold—

Nothing satisfies me, but your soul.”

It’s a terrible mourn about the angel of death, the grim reaper. Why did people sing it back then? Because death was always close, an intimate companion seen on a failed birth, a sickbed, or at the hangman’s gallows. The spoiled children of the modern world have forgotten the so-called “good old days.”

Fun fact: they weren’t good.

So, here we are—recreating the world of iron. Congratulations. If I could, I’d opt out. In some ways, I’m doing so, and this is a reason I’ve been absent for a while.

I unplugged and did stuff, and I will again. I’ve lived in the world of iron, and I don’t wish it upon anyone.

However, some are relearning, the hard way, that no wealth, no land, no silver, no gold…will stave off the one who collects your soul.

Have fun with that, guys, and they are almost all guys.

“Iron, cold iron, is master of them all.”

Rough Camp

/ jlambright / Leave a comment

See this? I made it with the help of some friends and family. It’s a long story; a project I’ve been busy with for months. For details, you could always subscribe to my pay site and join the cool kids club; however, I’ll let you guys in on a little of it.

In short, we cleared a lot of brush before we could establish a small camp in the North American boreal forests of the far north (for us).

It was one hell of a lot of work. However, at night we could hear the loons and the screech owls—it was amazing.

During the day, we slaved over the little patch. In the evening, we’d start a campfire (conveniently placed upon an inconvenient stump) and eat. It turns out that my cousin, whom I hadn’t seen in decades (also military), has a superpower. He is an amazing field cook, and each night he spoiled me with delicious grilled meats.

Guys, we even had a field shower. It was great. After a week, we were ready to receive guests, and we had one heck of a lot of fun. I even showed him how to shoot the bow. Please see my last post. Observe.

I showed him how to do it and unleashed him on a pile of logs. Great fun! As a reward for helping out, I sent him home with the bow and arrows. It was great. If you want a quality learner bow, please consider this setup.

But seriously. Now that I’m home, I’m cranking up the writing machine again.

I’ll catch you guys.

The Longbow

/ jlambright / 1 Comment

I’ve had a thing for traditional weapons for a long time. I think it was an outgrowth of my old trade. I wanted to understand the tools of the past, to handle them, to know how they feel, to appreciate their pluses and minuses. Of course, this has helped me with my books, and it has helped me “feel” the books of others.

Honestly, I blame this on SM Stirling. I found his book “Dies the Fire” in a free deployed GI library; it was great. Reading it, it dawned on me that I knew nothing of the fighting styles and tools of the premodern era. So, upon my return to the States, I looked into it and bought a few things.

One of the items was a genuine English longbow made of yew, which is the style used at battles such as Crécy and Poitiers. I learned to tie a bowyer’s knot, and I taught myself the art. Well, a little. A real archer makes me look sick, but I’m probably better than 99 percent of those living, who have never put string to cheek. I guess that makes me weird, but I had fun doing it.

Recently, some friends have talked about teaching kids to shoot the bow and arrow, so I decided to look on Amazon and see if I could find a decent unit for cheap.

Don’t buy “cheap.” Buy inexpensive. There is a difference.

Well. Today, the bow arrived; I unboxed it and assembled it. I picked it for its simplicity, and I thought it was attractive and simple. I don’t like complex things. Complex things break. This bow, an underpowered version of what they used at Crécy, is a traditional longbow, materials excepted. I say underpowered because it has about a forty-fifty-pound draw weight, and proper warbows were over eighty. However, I guarantee you I can take a deer with today’s arrival, and under no circumstances would I want to be on its receiving end.

It is a weapon, and nothing but. It is not a toy.

It consists of two steel staves and a very comfortable central grip. The staves are bolted to the grip. Then, you mount the string using your legs and a quick flip of the string loop. Once you know how to do it, getting the string in place is easy. The string that came with this unit is a bit odd. I’ve never seen anything like it. It is many strands of thin nylon rope with a thick casing over the place where you nock the arrow. Also, the loops are coated, which certainly helps you when mounting the string. It’s an unconventional arrangement, but it works.

As an aside, I have a very old aluminium sporting longbow. I think it was my dad’s. It’s been mounted for many years with a chunk of 550 cord, and it works just fine. Today’s bowstring reminded me strongly of parachute cord—it should last forever.

It was time to test the rig out. I took a cardboard box into the back yard, walked ten yards away (it’s been a while since I tried my hand at archery), put on my brace (you don’t want string burn on your forearm), and nocked an arrow.

I tested the draw; it felt smooth. I eased off the string and brought it to bear in one motion. As always, I concentrated on the business end of the arrow, held over, and loosed. Too high, but not bad for the first time in a decade. Plus, the bow shot flatter than I thought. I tried again.

Whap! I nailed the box off-center and started to enjoy myself. Observe.

Not exactly superb marksmanship, and my draw was erratic, but I got the job done. I moved back to twenty, and did it again with decent results. Minute-of-man, we called it in the trade. I was confident in the bow, and I liked it a lot.

Here in the States, it’s a bit of a race against the clock to pick one up like this because it’s made in China. But for my readers outside of tariff-land, you have all the time in the world.

Try it, it’s a good product and a potentially useful skill to pick up.

I have no regrets.

In other news, this was probably the first truly enjoyable thing I’ve done in a long while. There’s a lot going on with this guy, and I’ll try to do better on this page going forward.

Kind of a cool thing

/ jlambright / Leave a comment

Hey, all. I’m aware I’ve been a bit of a stranger as of late; there are valid reasons for that. I won’t get into it except to say it’s been a tough spring.

My instigator in chief, John Birmingham, recently made me aware of something interesting—our co-authored novella, The Javan War, set in his Cruel Stars trilogy, has made it as a finalist novella in the Australian Aurealis Awards list. This is like a Hugo for Down Under.

That’s pretty cool. I’ve never been considered for any sort of award outside of military stuff, and I can say from firsthand experience that gongs are overrated. This is much better.

Most days, I feel like a modern-day Kilgore Trout, a maniac who sits and types for little pay or acknowledgment. So, a pat on the back like this is nice. It shows that my work does get seen from time to time and that unknown hands occasionally open my body of work.

That’s cool.

Right now, I’m busy with an interesting project, but it’s consuming a fair bit of my attention. This is one reason I’ve been a tad scarce around here. Another is simple opsec; much of my work isn’t in the public domain, nor will it be anytime soon. That’s OK. ‘Tis the season for a bit of security. It is what it is.

I’ll catch you guys, hopefully, sooner this next time.

It’s a Hard Thing

/ jlambright / Leave a comment

It’s a hard thing, it turns out, to get started again on a project you abandoned for good reason. Both ISOLATED and MAGIC are kicking my butt, but in different ways. A technique I’ve honed, for lack of a better word, over the years is to think about what I’m trying to do and then walk away and do something else.

This is why I keep a player sitting on my dining room table.

This month, it’s Joe, the violin you see above. Joe is a unique violin, one of a few crafted by an old pipefitter who made violins in his workshop for fun. He was a friend of a violinmaker I know over in PA. Mr. Joe Knight of Clarion, Pennsylvania, has since passed on.

I never met Mr. Knight, but I would have liked to have. I imagine his scarred old hands, battered by years in the mill, very carefully building the fiddle above, number 37 of a lifetime total of about fifty. BTW, it’s a great player. It easily matches my mediocre ability; I feel privileged to have had a chance to buy this wonderful instrument. It is made of local choice hardwoods, selected by Joe the Pipefitter.

It is a testament to a life after your chosen trade.

In his case, wrestling with monster machines deep in the guts of a steel mill. In my case, soldiering.

He built violins. I write. I do wonder if he had days when he threw up his hands and said, “This sucks.” I’d imagine so. Then, like me and others who feel as if they’re shouting into a hole dug in the forest, he returned the next day, picked up his tools, and began anew.

This is kind of where I’m at: Never quit, never surrender. This extends to all myriad hobbies and interests; keep chipping away because one day, you’ll succeed. The rock is there. It isn’t going away.

It might not be immediately obvious. Actually, it probably won’t be. Few things in life worth having fall into the category of “immediate gratification.” Whether that be my eternal struggle with those darn violins, building stuff for projects, or my prose.

Never quit, never surrender.

It’s a useful mantra for difficult things and situations—which, readers, I am in the midst of. As I sit here typing and enjoying my morning brew, I have a thousand things to do. All of them are somewhat important; each one screams for my attention. It’s a question of triage: which comes first? Some will be hard due to physical limitations, and others will be tough due to mental hangups.

But that’s OK. Nothing in life worth having is easy.

But you can’t always grind. Hence, Joe the Fiddle on my dining room table. I write or think, then pick him up and play for a minute or two. Sometimes it sounds good; other times, it sucks. Everything eventually frustrates: I take things in small doses. Then, I walk away and do something else.

Lately, my reward after a somewhat successful day has been to clean and decipher Roman coins, which I have purchased cut rate. I would also like to thank Doc Wetsman again for this most interesting diversion.

Observe.

Admittedly, they look like hell, but under the crust are some real gems. It’s a revelation for me to see the face of a long-dead Emporer emerge from the sludge; it’s addictive and mesmerizing. Of course, I can only mess with them for a bit; like so many things, I start to stiffen up after a few minutes, and then I need to do something else.

This is the price of a little combat years and years ago.

Amazing how a few moments of your life can color the rest of your days, for better or ill. Shrugs. It is, what it is.

The rock and the hill are there; they are not going away. You will get new content as soon as I get my stuff together and produce. The next chapter of whichever project represents a boulder. Sisyphus’s real problem wasn’t getting the rock over the crest. No. It was that as soon as one boulder tipped over the hill, a new one would appear. That’s my version.

But it’s OK. Oddly enough, collecting boulders is kind of fun. Is the glass half empty, or full?

It’s your call.

—J

The Ancient Pump

/ jlambright / Leave a comment

I guess I’m one of those guys who doesn’t throw away much if I think I can use something, seemingly useless, in the future. I am a not-so-wealthy guy from a very long line of not-so-wealthy people, so I guess I get this trait honestly.

Well, I live in my father’s house. I bought it during my service tenure when he no longer had a use for it. So, we have long decades of work and experience with this old house. It dates from the turn of the 19th century, so there were many antiques and odds and ends when we moved in, long decades ago. Back then, the old accouterments of the house weren’t the “antiques” that these days command a premium at junk sales. No, they were just outdated junk.

This is why antiques are expensive now, most were scrapped or thrown away. Originally this was a small farm with more land than it has now; unfortunately, the old farmland was sold to my neighbor in the seventies, and my dad bought what was left. It’s still a decent chunk of land; in the past, we had a very large garden, and I used to have a tractor and I plowed and disked it.

In any case, this small farm had neglected, rotten buildings when we first moved in. It was the work of my late childhood to clear them, usually by flicking in a burning wad of newspaper and standing back and having a beer or two. One of the buildings was the old goat barn; as a coincidence, we still keep goats, but in a much better barn. This is relevant because while tearing down the goat barn, Dad tripped over the old house pump. We dug what parts we could find from the dirt and set them aside in line with our thriftiness, or, as my spouse calls it, junk collecting.

The parts sat, forgotten beneath a shelf in the basement, for decades. At least thirty years, perhaps longer.

Recently, I’ve been doing some intensive handyman projects. I needed the basement room for a workspace; as a coincidence, it was the same room that held the forgotten parts. One of the items I need for this overall project is a shallow well pump; when I encountered the rusty old pump, it was a eureka moment. I looked the “junk” over, and I decided it could be rebuilt for a fraction of the price of a new pitcher pump.

As an aside, a pitcher pump is used for shallow wells, or water tables that are above twenty feet of the surface. To pump water for deeper wells, you need what is called a “sucker-rod” pump, which doesn’t use vacuum alone, like a pitcher pump. This house had both types, as we have a deep well (Not potable, clay pipe lined ((ancient)). I suspect this pile of junk was for the old cistern, as it would work well for that. They probably collected rainwater as many did in the past, and they only used the deep well during droughts.

Once I decided to rebuild the pump, I identified which parts it was missing, and I began the process. It took two weeks, working on and off.

The first step was to find the missing parts online. At first, I thought I only needed a new handle. As usual, the Beast was my first stop. You can find many things on there, and I sourced a handle for cheap that I thought would work; worst case scenario I’d have to do some cut-n-paste to suit my needs. Also, I knew darn well that I’d have to get new leather seals. I’d imagine the remnants still stuck to the pump piston had gone bad before I was born. Hell, maybe before my dad was born! The seals were easy to find as well on Amazon.

I thought I had everything, so the first thing was to free up the badly rusted, threaded parts, which were the jug bolts, the lid tension bolt, and, most intimidating, the threaded piston cup retainer. Per my usual custom, I hosed everything down with PB Blaster and walked away for a few days. Of course, for a device that handles drinking water, this can be problematic. PB is tough stuff, and if you don’t treat the parts after freeing up the rust, you’ll taste it for years to come. This is undesirable.

After the parts soaked in the penetrating oil, it was time to suck it up and see if I could break them free. Luckily, the well pipe connection threads were still in good shape (they must not have been submerged in the slop as they sat), but the piston assembly was another story. I dealt with that first, as I thought it would give me the most trouble. I got out some large pipe wrenches and gave it a whirl. Fortunately, it broke free, and I had the three parts that make up the assembly: the poppet valve, the threaded piston body, and the seal cap, also threaded. As a bonus, I didn’t break anything and the threads were in great shape. Chunks of the old seal and lots of rust flakes formed a pool around my feet, I worked on the crappy ancient square-headed bolts next. One broke off, but I didn’t care. The other ones freed up, and I was gratified to see that the threads on the cap securing bolt were actually a standard size, 3/8 SC. This meant that I could just use regular (pre-1986) automotive bolts in the rebuild, which was a serious bonus. Truly ancient stuff has blacksmith’s threads- individually cut. See my older post about my Brown Bess project. It wasn’t an issue for this child of the late Industrial Revolution.

I knew I had to remove some serious rust, the penetrating oil residue, and then I had to paint this. First, I used a wire brush for the very worst rust. A lot came off during this onerous chore. Then, I ordered some eco-friendly rust remover. It was lost in the mail. Of course, it was. This was frustrating, because it slowed me down, and I wanted to complete the project. Then, I remembered a jug of hydrochloric acid in my garage, tradenamed muriatic acid. It was left over from my dad’s tenure at a radiator shop when I was an infant. They used it to remove corrosion. I knew from experience that that jug was bad news: one time I tried to use it to descale a welding project and I almost burned out my lungs when I caught a good whiff. Needless to say, it sat, unused, for a very long time.

Would it work? I checked the internet. Yes, it would, with important caveats. One. It is dangerous to work with. No kidding, I thought. Two. You must thoroughly rinse the parts after treatment. Finally, it is a good idea to soak the parts in a neutralizing solution after treatment. A neutralizing solution can be the use of baking soda to counteract the acid with a base.

I won’t write a long section about this, but suffice it to say, with extreme caution on a windy day, I got the job done, and I made darn sure to stand upwind as the acid did its thing in the middle of my yard. Then I treated the parts as recommended. Untreated, the acid will continue its work until the iron is gone. This is undesirable, so I made sure to treat the parts. Afterward, I set the parts in the basement to dry. While not perfect, there was a lot less rust.

Around this time, I watched a YouTube video about rebuilding pitcher pumps. This was when I noticed I was missing yet another part, a cast iron weight that attaches to the bottom leather seal of the pump. It has two functions: One is to force the leather seal downward to trap water in the pump as you actuate the handle. Kind of important. The other is to allow water to drain rapidly in cold weather; you don’t want a bore full of water to freeze. This will irreparably damage the pump. It’s easy to prevent this; you simply leave the pump handle up, and the attached piston will force the weird little chunk of steel attached to the leather to open the crude check valve (A check valve only allows fluid to move in one direction) at the bottom of the jug, allowing water to drain back into the pipe. I ordered the part, once again on the Beast, and I was ready to assemble the pump when it came in. I used the two days to paint the pump with Rustoleum, the best outdoor paint ever. I did take care not to paint the pump bore: that’s not a great idea because the seal and piston will eventually cause tiny paint flecks to get into your water. The image below was that stupid little (but essential) part, assembled to the jug seal. Observe.

I have to say the pump chunks looked much better at this point, and my hands weren’t filthy for a change. This is as it should be. I began putting stuff together, and I turned my thoughts to the method I’d use to test it. Of course, before I tested it, I needed to first successfully assemble the pump. Laughs. Of course, it gave me some fits.

The piston was actually pretty easy, stupid proof. The YouTube video was great, after watching it, I had no questions. See pic below for how the piston goes together.

Here, you see the three pieces and how the leather seal is installed. There is the piston body, the poppet valve (laying on top of the seal retainer), and the threaded retainer. You stick the poppet inside the piston body, the nipple should be oriented downward. Then, after pushing the cupped seal into place, you thread the retainer onto the piston assembly. That part was easily done. It was the work of maybe two minutes. Then, it was time to assemble the lower pump by placing the jug on the check valve seal and snugging down the retaining bolts (Brand new! I NEVER reuse crappy, rusty bolts unless I must). This is where I ran into an issue.

Nothing in life is ever easy, not even supposedly simple tasks. See the image of the check valve weight installed upon the brand new, leather seal above. Note the sharp, square corners. This was the problem. Having done a mechanical project or two, I made darn sure I’d check the function of the check valve weight before I finished the pump assembly. I did this via a simple method: I pressed the lever side of the weight with a long screwdriver to ensure that the piston would open the valve if the handle was up.

The weight didn’t move; it was jammed against the bore by those stupid sharp corners. It could be that the pump it was intended for had a bigger bore and this wouldn’t form a problem for the correct application; however, this pump was a serious antique manufactured by the (Now legible after rust treatment and painting) Columbiana Pump Company over a century ago. Of course “some assembly required.”

With a sigh, I disassembled the pump, again. Then, I took the recalcitrant weight and subjected it to the caress of a bench grinder. After a minute or so, the stupid corners were rounded, and for good measure, I removed some of the length of the nose. Then, I reassembled the darn thing and tested it, again. It worked as advertised after the mod. I placed the piston assembly in the bore, and then I installed the lid by tightening the tension bolt on the rear.

I already knew the spacing of the Chinese pump handle’s bolt holes was good (A minor miracle), and I started putting it together. I knew that I could adjust the orientation of the handle via judicious use of washers to ensure smooth operation; however, when I tried to push the 3/8 shank bolt through the handle, I discovered that the darn bolt hole for the pump lid pivot point was slightly too small! The one on the piston was fine. With dark mutterings, I pulled the handle back apart.

The pump handle is stainless steel. Regular drill bits don’t like stainless. I ruined three of them trying to enlarge the hole. I needed a carbide bit and I knew it. For a moment, I tasted defeat and yet another delay. Then, I remembered that my milling machine has carbide bits! Out of sheer laziness, I’d even left a 3/8 bit in the chuck of the infrequently used tool. Hallelujah, I fired it up and it took about twenty seconds to punch out the offending hole to the proper size. Victory.

I got the spacing of the pump handle right (it should cause the piston to move straight up and down, not off to the side), and I snugged the bolts enough to keep stuff from falling apart, but not tight. The parts must move freely.

It was time to assemble the test bed. This was easy, and it helped that I don’t throw away useable scraps of wood. Some do. But, I digress. Using a plank from a closet rebuild I did a while ago, I cut a piece that would cover a five-gallon bucket (my simulated aquifer), and in the center, I drilled a hole big enough that a 1 1/4 PVC pipe (my proxy for a 1 1/4 steel well pipe) would fit through. Then, I clamped the board to the bucket using handy bar clamps, and I dropped the PVC pump pipe into the hole into the water that was waiting below for the test. See below for the rig.

This should work, I thought, but I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. In the pic, note the coffee can which is filled with water. For those who don’t know how to operate a pitcher pump beyond the obvious (moving the handle up and down), you must prime the pump when it is dry. On old homesteads, a common sight was a coffee can or small bucket filled with water sitting by the pump for this purpose. In use, after pumping the water you need, people always fill the prime can when done.

Why? If you come back the next day to pump water, the leather seal, which forms an imperfect seal, will have let the water in the jug slowly leak back into the well pipe, which will eventually leach back to what the potential energy wants, which is reaching stasis by following the pressure gradient back to the level of the aquifer.

If you understand this principle, you understand groundwater.

In short, you screw the next guy/gal by not filling the darn priming can.

What do I mean by priming? The leather seal alone cannot form a sufficient vacuum with its imperfect seal. It needs water added on top, as well as water to swell the leather to mate with the bore, to create sufficient vacuum to pump water from the well pipe. Remember what I said about how the groundwater wants to stay in stasis; you have to force it to go where you want, which is your waiting bucket. You do this by preparing the pump; by priming.

Dump the coffee can of water into the slot at the top; when it overflows, you are ready to pump. Did this work, on the first try? Observe.

Finally, something that went right! Yes, it did. I pumped the bucket empty quickly, this old girl works very well. I was satisfied. As I said, I have a use for this elsewhere, so I disassembled the test platform and set the pump aside.

I am confident that it will give decades of service after this rebuild; I’ve taken seemingly useless, rusty junk and created something practically new and useful. See below for the final image. BTW, I chose dark green as the color because after treating the pump for rust, there were patches of the original paint remaining. It was dark green from the factory. I thought, “Why change a good thing?” So, I didn’t.

I have a passion for this sort of thing, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about this mini-journey.

Cheers, J.

To Turn The Tide by S.M. Stirling, a review.

/ jlambright / 2 Comments

BLUF: FIVE STARS.

Hey, all. Yeah, it’s been a little sleepy around here lately. For a host of reasons, and I have them, it’s been a thing. However, it is time to wake things up with a return to first principles; a review of classic science fiction by one of my favorite authors, S.M. Stirling.

He’s written a lot of cool stuff, including many personal favorites. In fact, I’ve encountered little of his that I began and was like, “Nah, I’ll pass.” Many of his books I’ve read and re-read; I discovered his writing over twenty years ago during the dawn of the Iraq campaign. “Dies the Fire” was incredible, and that was the book I found in a GI library in a hot and dusty place.

I’ve been hooked ever since.

The other night, during a strategy session with my friend, during a discussion about a future project, he mentioned Stirling’s latest, “To Turn The Tide.” He gave me the premise and I was intrigued. As soon as we hung up, I found and ordered it.

Guys, it’s been nonstop ever since. On both of the first two nights, I was up crazy later than normal, and today, I finished it in the morning, which is highly unusual for me. Usually, I do my reading in the evening after all my other tasks for the day have been completed. Nope. Not today.

I’ve had a lot of trouble reading for a while. I’m unsure why. During my career, reading was a failsafe in bad situations. I always had a book out after taking care of the essential. But my lifelong habit has failed me of late, and I am unsure of why. But, it’s been a thing. This has left me unmoored; reading has always been a constant, since about five or six years of age.

Therefore, when I heard Stirling had a book whose premise I REALLY dug, I ordered it immediately after hanging up with my Australian friend.

I don’t do spoilers and won’t break my record now. You can read the premise on the Amazon homepage. It’s pointless for me to regurgitate it here.

I’ll give you my impressions of the read. You need to know that this is a time-travel book in Stirling’s style: action, believable characters, and bad baddies. If you’ve never read his stuff, please browse his catalog. If you have read his stuff, then you know his style.

This book is Stirling in spades. That’s a good thing.

You know this will be awesome from the first chapter, which punches you right in the nose. Nothing grabs one’s attention like apocalypse, that’s all I’ll say. It segues into the time-travel sequence directly with no letup. From there, we see the requisite world-building and more violence. Glorious violence, done in Stirling’s fashion.

While the action sequences were great and are possibly the biggest draw for readers, I preferred the world-building sequences. They were amazing and almost made me wish for a time-travel machine, myself. Except for zero antibiotics, stinky people with edged weapons attacking in the dark, and garum, which, while beloved by the Romans, is probably pretty gross.

What is it with Stirling and his descriptions of food? It’s almost pornographic how he makes you taste delicious breads! The guy really has a talent for this, and I’ve seen it in every single one of his books.

I knew three chapters into this book that it would rank among my favorites. By the end of this morning, I was dead certain. In fact, after eating, I plan to re-read this book, effective immediately. I missed things during the first read that I’ll pick up in the second iteration. That’s just how I read when it’s badass stuff—I burn through it without proper consideration.

However, my initial impression was more than enough to write this review.

Believable characters. Great history. A touch of romance. A desperate mission in a lost world. If you can’t love that, then I don’t know how to help you.

Get. This. Book!