OCTOBER 18, 2024 – Last spring in a three-part series—Zen and the Art of Dock Installation (See 5/12 through 5/14)—I described my engineering project up at the lake. Today I reverse-engineered it. That is, I took out the dock and staircase that I had so carefully installed last May. I’m 70, mind you, which means I’ve taken the dock out over 50 times, usually by my own wits and muscle. You’d think this annual fall chore would grow more taxing as I advance in age, but today’s effort was the easiest dock takeout I’ve ever experienced.
The reason was simple: I didn’t have to slog around in a pair of heavy ancient ill-fitting waders from yesteryear. Don’t ask me why I’d burdened myself with these for much of the last half-century. My dad had purchased them for himself, but as he aged and I took on more, then most, then all the work of installing and removing the dock every year, the old waders wound up at our cabin. Since I used them only twice each year, I wasn’t sufficiently motivated on a constant basis to spring (or fall) for a new pair. I found it much easier to curse the d_ _ _ things two days a year than to research and procure a replacement set.
Over Labor Day Weekend, however, our guest Perry Wilson, an avid fly-fisherman, showed me his (deluxe) waders and shoes. They were to my old waders what a brand-new Mercedes AMG GT Coupe would have been to my first car—a hand-me-down badly rusted-out, high-mileage 1968 Buick Skylark with a bad factory paint job. Moreover, Perry had an extra pair of each—waders and boots—that didn’t fit, but since he’d used them once or twice, he couldn’t return them. Being the remarkably generous person that he is, Perry gave his nearly brand-new Mercedes AMG GT Coupe waders and shoes to me. I was ever so grateful.
I’d tried them on weeks ago to confirm that they fit, but I hadn’t fully completed the pre-flight checklist, tightening every strap, pulling the wader cuffs down over the shoes, and so on. Today being showtime, I suited up properly. I then walked from the assembly area—the screen porch of the Red Cabin—to the pontoon landing, site of today’s reverse-engineering project. The walk is only 100 paces along the most direct route. For walking outside of water, the new waders were 1,000 times easier than the old pair. If I’d had to, I could’ve walked a mile in them. In the old waders, walking a hundred feet was a major challenge to be avoided.
Soon I was putting the waders and shoes to the test. As I slipped into the waters to disassemble the dock, I felt as if I’d plunged into nirvana. The waders and shoes were a marvel of the modern age. Never had I been so excited about undertaking the annual arduous task that is de rigueur for every lake cabin owner—or at least used to be before the work got farmed out to people who do it for a living and charge an arm and a leg.
This state of nirvana reminded me of my first day as a designated lunchtime milk-pourer at Franklin Elementary School. My older sister Elsa had been a milk-pourer, and I envied the rewards that she’d collected for having filled that all-important role: an unlimited supply of erasers that you could stick on the ends of all your pencils.
They weren’t actual erasers. They were the stubs of the rubber tubes that came out of the big milk cans that Harry, the custodian, lifted into the stainless-steel milk dispenser in the basement lunchroom. After putting the two cans—one of whole milk, one of skim—in place, side by side, he’d close the door to the dispenser, then pull out his pocketknife and cut an inch or two off the rubber tube attached to the bottom of each can. A colored plastic stopper with a recessed center—the same diameter as a pencil—was in the piece that Harry cut away. He’d then give the pieces to the two kids who’d won the all-important appointments as milk-pourers—generally the better students. The cut-off ends of the rubber tubing could dress up a pencil in the same way that streamers plugged into the ends of the handlebar grips could jazz up a bicycle.
Thus, when Miss Gorham, our fourth-grade teacher, asked if I’d like to serve as a milk-pourer, I was Mr. Eager Beaver. On the day of my first shift, I was excused from class 15 minutes ahead of the start of lunchtime so that I could be properly tutored in the art and science of pouring milk from the milk dispenser into paper cones inserted into metal holders. The main thing was to stay ahead of demand but not so far ahead that the milk stood out too long and got warm.
I’ll never forget the first half dozen or so servings that I filled. I thought it was totally cool to press up on the lever with one hand and watch milk gush out of the tube and into the paper cone you were holding with the other hand. “I’ve never had so much fun!” I said to the other volunteer.
“Really?” she said. “Then you haven’t had much fun.”
“Well,” I said, embarrassed by her observation, “of course I’ve had lots of other fun. But I’ve never poured milk like this before.” Nothing like having the wind taken out of your sails. I was still having fun pouring one serving of wholesome milk after another, but my enthusiasm had been tempered. Yet, if in the moment I’d been brought down to earth, my eagerness was soon restored when my side of the dispenser ran dry. Now, finally, I’d get to tell Harry, who would replace the empty can with a full one, close the stainless-steel door, and pull out his knife to cut off the end of the tube. Since it was on my side, he’d likely give the “eraser” to me—my very first one. I’d take it home and show Elsa and snap it onto the end of one of my pencils—just the first of many to come.
As my exuberance for pouring milk back in fourth grade eventually waned, so did my state of nirvana fade this afternoon as my reverse-engineering project spanned the daylight hours. But those waders served me exceptionally well and rendered an arduous chore far less demanding than in the past. It turns out that some things really do improve with age.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
