Arts & Manners: My Obsession

Every boy needs a hobby. So here I am at 6:30 a.m., wrestling 1,200 pounds of cast iron onto the tailgate of a rented truck. Ah—just so. Now trip the lever that lowers the tailgate—standing well to one side—and, thwoop, down it comes, slowly, almost majestically . . . Eight inches from the ground, when, even more majestically, the burden shudders, tips forward, crashes to the driveway.

Be around when I stub my toe or drop my fork, and you’ll hear me blue the air. But this—this transcends: “Oh, gee,” I manage. Here lies over half a ton of printing press, made (to last) in Cleveland, Ohio by the Chandler & Price Co. sometime around 1885. The curly-spoked flywheel has snapped off and rolled into a dark corner of the garage. No other damage apparent— but the thing is in the way: There are two more like it still to come off the truck, and there it lies on its back like a stranded tortoise.

CS

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C. H. Simonds

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Every boy needs a hobby. So here I am at 6:30 a.m., wrestling 1,200 pounds of cast iron onto the tailgate of a rented truck. Ah—just so. Now trip the lever that lowers the tailgate—standing well to one side—and, thwoop, down it comes, slowly, almost majestically . . . Eight inches from the ground, when, even more majestically, the burden shudders, tips forward, crashes to the driveway.

Be around when I stub my toe or drop my fork, and you’ll hear me blue the air. But this—this transcends: “Oh, gee,” I manage. Here lies over half a ton of printing press, made (to last) in Cleveland, Ohio by the Chandler & Price Co. sometime around 1885. The curly-spoked flywheel has snapped off and rolled into a dark corner of the garage. No other damage apparent— but the thing is in the way: There are two more like it still to come off the truck, and there it lies on its back like a stranded tortoise.