Following the third year of a holiday letter comprised
of my (increasingly complex) life via a (increasingly complex) year-in-photographs, I
wondered what it would be like to join the great experiment of 365 days of photographs.
I'm not a photographer,
I'm a writer. I'm a visual thinker, and if ever there was proof that a photo is worth a
thousand words, it would be the story a photo tells me, or in this case, about me.
Follow me on this adventure, where I
learn about photography, my ability to record my life, my dedication to something (I've
never been known for doing anything everyday) in my posts. I've also discovered I'm
learning about time, the history of it, and the odd practice of recording it, measuring it,
turning it into something tangible, and I'll record these explorations in the sidebar.
As always, feel free
to say anything. My experiment is not a spectator sport.

July 18, 2009

July 18 2009 Learning a new method

We caravaned to my husband's uncle's shop about an hour away. Said uncle is retired, and trying to sell the shop, so we're taking advantage of the space and time the uncle has to do awesome fun things with our van (Chevy 86 army-converted 4x4). We pulled the beast into the bay and raised it on the jack, wandered underneath looking at this and that, lowered it, poked around under the hood, raised it up, took off the drive shafts, lowered it, took out the front end, air conditioning unit, radiator, and carburator, as well as all the accessory hoses and wires and whatnot to these things.

I have stained fingernails. I've never gutted a vehicle before! It's exciting. Battling the greasy muddy remnants of two and a half decades of ignored leak residue, learning what it's like when the bolt finally releases and I bash my hand on some other greasy-muddy-remnant-covered piece of steel, and how to predict how fast I can stop my hand and which piece I'm trying not to bash into. How many things are attached to a carburator, with clips, tension, bolts. I also know how heavy a steel bumper is, as I kept it from hitting the floor when removed, and carried it across the shop. And a driveshaft. And a radiator. And that I bleed the same color as transmission fluid, so unless you're brave enough to taste it, you don't lick your wounds.

It was really something. I always wanted to know how to work on cars, how to be a grease monkey. My dad built buildings, I already know how to do that. I dreamed of more mobile creatures.

Auto setting. I was back against the shelf to get this "after" pic. The "before" pic was much more, um, assembled.

Oh yes! Let's not forget tomorrow's word: Generation

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