the all-powerful Tim Belknap
Yesterday morning (Wednesday, January 10, 2007) was my visit to the humble abode of the all-powerful Tim Belknap far out along Gulick Road in the Bristol Hills.
Belknap still works for the mighty Mezz as City-Editor, responsible for a legion of head-strong female local reporters. He’s about my age, maybe slightly younger, and plans to retire in 18 months. He also, like me, is a car-guy.
Long ago (like during the ‘70s), when Linda and I rode bicycle, I used to think of east-west 5&20 as the southernmost extent of the Rochester area.
It was about 20 miles from our house. Now we live in sight of 5&20.
Going further south, 20A (also east-west) seemed to border the next area, and south of it were the Bristol Hills.
The Bristol Hills are more-or-less the start of the Appalachians. From ridge-top to valley-floor may be 1,000 feet.
The Bristol Hills are very remote and sparsely settled. There are no suburban developments.
Anyone living there is pretty much on-their-own. A homestead has to be carved out of the wilderness. The only utilities I saw were electricity and phone-service; wiring suspended from poles.
The visit was pleasant but a tiny bit strange — but only because I woke them up; or rather their dog Bailey did, furiously protecting the property.
I didn’t even have to knock. Bailey was giving me a hearty welcome, roaring and snarling through the front-door window-pane.
Fortunately he didn’t break it. Years ago on Winton Road in Rochester our dog Casey did once serenading Charlie Cahill the mailman.
After a few minutes Tim showed up in his bathrobe, apologizing for oversleeping.
“If you’re this far out,” I said, “you need a dish if you’re partial to watching TV.”
“Actually we have two,” Tim said; “one for the TV and one for the Internet.”
As a cushy suburbanite I guess I’m fairly attached to civilization, as we have cable for both, plus water and gas.
Tim began stoking up a wood-burning stove.
So far this winter he’s heated his house with only firewood, culled from his forested property.
His wife Susan appeared — dressed — and was lassoed into making coffee; notable to me only because I am so used to making it myself.
Tim turned to look at our CR-V, parked below on a small apron next to his beloved Dakota.
“What’s that?” he asked. “Looks pretty nice.”
“Well actually we were thinking of trading it,” I answered.
“Why would you do a thing like that?” he asked.
“Because it’s a truck,” I said. “Rides high like a truck; unbalanced like a truck; very car-like, but still a truck.”
“Well I would think that’s what you’d want,” he responded.
“Not just me,” I said; “but also my wife.
“It’s her car. Mainly she’s the one that drives it. We already have a van. We’d rather have a car instead of the CR-V.”
I also had to explain that the CR-V isn’t dog-friendly: that the rear-seats fold up in the way of the rear side-door entrances.
And the floor in the rear is about three feet above the ground — too much for an old dog to jump.
Ostensibly the reason for the visit was to check out the fabulous ‘95 F250 Ford pickup Tim inherited from his recently-deceased younger brother in Vermont.
It looks rather plain, but like all Ford pickups it could handle anything you throw at it.
It’s very basic, but outfitted with a trailer-towing package, and 89 bazilyun fancy bits.
I once had a ‘79 E250, a three-quarter ton van; and thought the world of it. That thing was indestructible — Old Henry would have been proud. It had a HUGE-AHHHH 460 cubic-inch motor that swilled gas at 10 mpg — every 300 miles; 30 gallons.
Yet the front swing-axles could have been remade into wrenches to turn the crankshaft nuts on a railroad-locomotive.
We drove that thing out west in ‘87 — saw the Grand Tetons at dawn, drove through Yellowstone, and drove up the Pikes Peak Road.
That thing also carried a lot of our stuff when we moved from Rochester to West Bloomfield. It also was the first vehicle on our property — first in our driveway when it was still dirt.
Our E250 wasn’t much to look at either, but boy-oh-boy.
Tim’s F250 is the same way — overkill.
He commented his brother probably would have been better off in a Corolla, but fancied himself as a Marlboro-Man, so had the F250.
Four-wheel-drive, heavy-duty tranny, 8,000 GVW; an impressive machine.
Tim had it parked in a tiny cul-de-sac under an umbrella of Norwegian-spruce — would have fit a car just fine, but occupied by an “aircraft-carrier” (that’s Tim) it was overwhelmed.
I had to hang onto the truck as I walked around it, lest I tumble down an embankment.
The F250 has a few minor dings and scratches, and minor rust; but looks good for another 15-20 years.
And it has two gas-tanks; 40-gallon total capacity. If those tanks catch fire it’ll make Baghdad look placid.
Navigating the homestead was also a bit intimidating; primarily because there was about two inches of snow on top of ice; and everything was a downslope. Not a cliff, but I had to watch my footing. —Managed to not fall.
The most unfortunate outcome was that Belknap probably never got to eat breakfast. I already had, so we abstained.
Yet Belknap had to be at the mighty Mezz by 11 — I left about 10.
Came away with three car-racing books — one of which I’ve wanted to read for years. Who knows if I ever will; I hardly have time to read any more.
The F250 also isn’t the beloved Dakota, which is a ‘93. The Dakota doesn’t use near as much gas.
“All I want to do is tow my boat — limit my driving to a few miles around here, and up to the Adirondacks; once I retire. This F250 is a fabulous match; the Dakota will get retired to hauling firewood. Don’t need a license for that.”
Belknap still works for the mighty Mezz as City-Editor, responsible for a legion of head-strong female local reporters. He’s about my age, maybe slightly younger, and plans to retire in 18 months. He also, like me, is a car-guy.
Long ago (like during the ‘70s), when Linda and I rode bicycle, I used to think of east-west 5&20 as the southernmost extent of the Rochester area.
It was about 20 miles from our house. Now we live in sight of 5&20.
Going further south, 20A (also east-west) seemed to border the next area, and south of it were the Bristol Hills.
The Bristol Hills are more-or-less the start of the Appalachians. From ridge-top to valley-floor may be 1,000 feet.
The Bristol Hills are very remote and sparsely settled. There are no suburban developments.
Anyone living there is pretty much on-their-own. A homestead has to be carved out of the wilderness. The only utilities I saw were electricity and phone-service; wiring suspended from poles.
The visit was pleasant but a tiny bit strange — but only because I woke them up; or rather their dog Bailey did, furiously protecting the property.
I didn’t even have to knock. Bailey was giving me a hearty welcome, roaring and snarling through the front-door window-pane.
Fortunately he didn’t break it. Years ago on Winton Road in Rochester our dog Casey did once serenading Charlie Cahill the mailman.
After a few minutes Tim showed up in his bathrobe, apologizing for oversleeping.
“If you’re this far out,” I said, “you need a dish if you’re partial to watching TV.”
“Actually we have two,” Tim said; “one for the TV and one for the Internet.”
As a cushy suburbanite I guess I’m fairly attached to civilization, as we have cable for both, plus water and gas.
Tim began stoking up a wood-burning stove.
So far this winter he’s heated his house with only firewood, culled from his forested property.
His wife Susan appeared — dressed — and was lassoed into making coffee; notable to me only because I am so used to making it myself.
Tim turned to look at our CR-V, parked below on a small apron next to his beloved Dakota.
“What’s that?” he asked. “Looks pretty nice.”
“Well actually we were thinking of trading it,” I answered.
“Why would you do a thing like that?” he asked.
“Because it’s a truck,” I said. “Rides high like a truck; unbalanced like a truck; very car-like, but still a truck.”
“Well I would think that’s what you’d want,” he responded.
“Not just me,” I said; “but also my wife.
“It’s her car. Mainly she’s the one that drives it. We already have a van. We’d rather have a car instead of the CR-V.”
I also had to explain that the CR-V isn’t dog-friendly: that the rear-seats fold up in the way of the rear side-door entrances.
And the floor in the rear is about three feet above the ground — too much for an old dog to jump.
Ostensibly the reason for the visit was to check out the fabulous ‘95 F250 Ford pickup Tim inherited from his recently-deceased younger brother in Vermont.
 |
| The Keed. |
It’s very basic, but outfitted with a trailer-towing package, and 89 bazilyun fancy bits.
I once had a ‘79 E250, a three-quarter ton van; and thought the world of it. That thing was indestructible — Old Henry would have been proud. It had a HUGE-AHHHH 460 cubic-inch motor that swilled gas at 10 mpg — every 300 miles; 30 gallons.
Yet the front swing-axles could have been remade into wrenches to turn the crankshaft nuts on a railroad-locomotive.
We drove that thing out west in ‘87 — saw the Grand Tetons at dawn, drove through Yellowstone, and drove up the Pikes Peak Road.
That thing also carried a lot of our stuff when we moved from Rochester to West Bloomfield. It also was the first vehicle on our property — first in our driveway when it was still dirt.
Our E250 wasn’t much to look at either, but boy-oh-boy.
Tim’s F250 is the same way — overkill.
He commented his brother probably would have been better off in a Corolla, but fancied himself as a Marlboro-Man, so had the F250.
Four-wheel-drive, heavy-duty tranny, 8,000 GVW; an impressive machine.
Tim had it parked in a tiny cul-de-sac under an umbrella of Norwegian-spruce — would have fit a car just fine, but occupied by an “aircraft-carrier” (that’s Tim) it was overwhelmed.
I had to hang onto the truck as I walked around it, lest I tumble down an embankment.
The F250 has a few minor dings and scratches, and minor rust; but looks good for another 15-20 years.
And it has two gas-tanks; 40-gallon total capacity. If those tanks catch fire it’ll make Baghdad look placid.
Navigating the homestead was also a bit intimidating; primarily because there was about two inches of snow on top of ice; and everything was a downslope. Not a cliff, but I had to watch my footing. —Managed to not fall.
The most unfortunate outcome was that Belknap probably never got to eat breakfast. I already had, so we abstained.
Yet Belknap had to be at the mighty Mezz by 11 — I left about 10.
Came away with three car-racing books — one of which I’ve wanted to read for years. Who knows if I ever will; I hardly have time to read any more.
The F250 also isn’t the beloved Dakota, which is a ‘93. The Dakota doesn’t use near as much gas.
“All I want to do is tow my boat — limit my driving to a few miles around here, and up to the Adirondacks; once I retire. This F250 is a fabulous match; the Dakota will get retired to hauling firewood. Don’t need a license for that.”
(A little while ago I mentioned Tim Belknap as an editor at the Messenger newspaper to my tub-thumping brother in Boston, and he decided Belknap edited the entire newspaper, explaining why the Messenger was so reprehensible, since Belknap had made a few spelling mistakes (which are nothing if my brother makes them). Belknap is one of many editors.)
posted by BobbaLew at 5:35 PM
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