Over the winter, my father-in-law-to-be and his wife, my step-mother-in-law-to-be, sold their house, gave away most of their possessions, and moved south. We acquired a lot of their things, some of which are useful, like an iron skillet, a toolbox, and a table, that according to my Pop, who owns a consignment furniture store, could fetch close to a hundred dollars. We also obtained a gas grill, an old console stereo with a record player, and a few boxes of old albums, which according to my friend who owns a record store, could fetch close to eighty-four cents, provided I threw in a six-pack.
Last night, we decided to get that grill he gave us going. We had two locally raised, grain-fed pork chops to cook up, and it was a lovely summer evening ideal for grilling. The grill needed a tank of propane and a fresh bed of lava rocks, so I decided to clean the thing up a bit before heading to the grill supply store. Upon sifting through the charred mounds of rubble that filled the bottom, I discovered a rusted metal plate covering holes large enough to drive a hot dog cart through and a loose wire that I ascertained, after careful inspection, indicated that the automatic starter wasn’t going to work. Frustrated, I slammed the lid down, upon which one of the wooden slats on the side fell off. Not everything was broken, however. The wheels that allow you to roll the grill around were still functional, which made getting the thing to the dumpster a hell of a lot easier.
Earlier in the day, I had purchased a vintage vinyl boxed set Blues compilation, so to help lower my blood pressure after the incident with the grill, I decided to take a break and throw one of those albums on the turntable. Being a music lover, I occasionally like to listen to that rootsy, authentic rackety old stuff upon which my beloved rock and roll is built. That grill had given me the blues, so this was the perfect time to reap the calming benefits of this music as it has done for so many years. I lowered the needle down, and heard that marvelous pop and hiss, followed by the sound of a harmonica playing a one-four-five chord progression, but only through one speaker. I figured one of the speaker wires must have been loose, so I checked the connections. They were fine. Perhaps one of the speakers was fried, I thought, so I switched them around. Each one produced sound, but only when plugged into the left side input jack. As it turned out, the console stereo that we scored last winter for free was the culprit. The right side input was dead, and the sound quality of that music coming through only one speaker was equivalent to that of a stock cassette player in a K-car. Or, I began to think, that of an old wooden radio, broadcasting an AM frequency to folks sitting in rocking chairs on dusty porches, fanning their sweaty brows with their hats, drinking bourbon, and letting their troubles fall away.
Last night, we decided to get that grill he gave us going. We had two locally raised, grain-fed pork chops to cook up, and it was a lovely summer evening ideal for grilling. The grill needed a tank of propane and a fresh bed of lava rocks, so I decided to clean the thing up a bit before heading to the grill supply store. Upon sifting through the charred mounds of rubble that filled the bottom, I discovered a rusted metal plate covering holes large enough to drive a hot dog cart through and a loose wire that I ascertained, after careful inspection, indicated that the automatic starter wasn’t going to work. Frustrated, I slammed the lid down, upon which one of the wooden slats on the side fell off. Not everything was broken, however. The wheels that allow you to roll the grill around were still functional, which made getting the thing to the dumpster a hell of a lot easier.
Earlier in the day, I had purchased a vintage vinyl boxed set Blues compilation, so to help lower my blood pressure after the incident with the grill, I decided to take a break and throw one of those albums on the turntable. Being a music lover, I occasionally like to listen to that rootsy, authentic rackety old stuff upon which my beloved rock and roll is built. That grill had given me the blues, so this was the perfect time to reap the calming benefits of this music as it has done for so many years. I lowered the needle down, and heard that marvelous pop and hiss, followed by the sound of a harmonica playing a one-four-five chord progression, but only through one speaker. I figured one of the speaker wires must have been loose, so I checked the connections. They were fine. Perhaps one of the speakers was fried, I thought, so I switched them around. Each one produced sound, but only when plugged into the left side input jack. As it turned out, the console stereo that we scored last winter for free was the culprit. The right side input was dead, and the sound quality of that music coming through only one speaker was equivalent to that of a stock cassette player in a K-car. Or, I began to think, that of an old wooden radio, broadcasting an AM frequency to folks sitting in rocking chairs on dusty porches, fanning their sweaty brows with their hats, drinking bourbon, and letting their troubles fall away.
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