Date:         Wed, 7 Aug 2002 22:16:27 -0500
Reply-To:     Stan Wilder <wilden1@JUNO.COM>
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@gerry.vanagon.com>
From:         Stan Wilder <wilden1@JUNO.COM>
Subject:      No Vanagon Content, yes it is, no it ain't, tis so.
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1

While contemplating how I might win favor with the Wet Westies List, I
pondered various upcoming VW events, potential trip reports; I fell into
a quandary so I just quit thinking about it.
I continued on with tearing down my most recent Type IV engine and
performing a careful examination to discover the cause of failure.
I carefully cleaned all the pistons as I got the set off, started
cleaning the crankcase and finally split the case to find a pinched
bearing and seized crankshaft.
By this time it was fairly hot at 105 degrees so I decided to take a
break and set the parts to a better cleaning.
While resting in the shade near the neighbors fence I got involved in
teaching their English Bull Dog puppy to climb the chain link fence
between our two yards reasoning that he had gotten too big to walk
through the wrought iron pickets and thinking how nice it would be if he
could come over to visit more often like he had done often when he was
small.
It was pretty much at that point that the unthinkable happened; my wife
showed up for lunch at home. She very seldom ever gets home anytime in
the middle of the day.
I could see her car arrive, I saw her at the patio glass doors but I just
didn’t snap to the gravity of the situation.
It was then that I deserted the dog project and headed straight for the
kitchen; too late I was caught in the act. By the time I got to the
kitchen door she had the dishwasher open and let out an ear splitting
shriek.
I stopped in my tracks and braced myself for a scolding but instead she
greeted me holding out two of my pistons from the dishwasher, she
demanding to know “what the hell is going on here?” And me beginning to
cower down like a six year caught in the cookie jar.
I thought it best to desert the confrontation and return to the safety of
the backyard.
Just as I turned to look back I was greeted with an airborne piston that
landed in the grass, then another that made a ricochet off one the faux
marble stepping stones before I caught it about two feet in the air.
There was a slight break while she returned for more ammunition and I
readied myself for World Series quality delivery of the last two pistons.
I contemplated whether she was going to go with an underhand delivery or
an all out javelin throw. I decided to go long with the hopes that she
would throw an underhanded straight shot. The first one came just like a
fastball and I reached high and grabbed it in flight. The second came
more as a skipping grounder throwing up tiny patches of turf as it
skipped twice before I caught it.
The next part was going to really be scary so I approached the patio
doors with caution hoping to see her planted in one of the nearby chairs.

It was not to be.
She had returned to the kitchen and recovered the remaining part, half of
the engine case.
I was immediately grateful that I had removed the cylinder stud bolts
before attempting the cleaning process. I was even more grateful that I
hadn’t loaded the crankshaft in with this first load.
The large part was awkward for her to manage but she got it to the patio
doors and one step out before she lifted it high with both hands and
lofted it in my direction.
What little composure I had was obliterated by this time and I was just
saying out loud, oh no!
As luck would have it the case arrived in my hands following a long
arching delivery path. Wow!
I was feeling some better to have gotten this far without injury and was
in the process of gathering up my pistons, holding them to my chest in
the collection process like a mother hen protecting her chicklets.
I had forgotten about the oil filter mount that soon reached my feet
after a synchronized clink, clink, and clink as it skipped across the
faux marble stepping-stones.
It was now time to put my toys away and go inside to face the music but
she headed right out the front door and purposefully backed very slowly
out the drive and drove off very slowly as if to see if I was going to
run down the block after her.
Shortly after that she called from the office and said, “I just can’t
leave you alone for a minute can I?”
I agreed since that was my best defense after perpetrating one of the
greatest offences possible.
Then it hit me, an epiphany.
Truly genius.
I’ll write a trip report about living in my Westy for the next three
weeks, that will please the Wet Westies group.

Stan Wilder






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