Two old geezers

(Photo by BobbaLew.)

The other day (Wednesday, December 2, 2009) an old friend and I set about making a bracket for an outdoor thermometer pictured above.
Like me, my friend is a retired transit bus-driver from Regional Transit Service in Rochester.
In fact, I pretty much modeled my approach to the job after him, which was go-with-the-flow — and thereby not get shot.
Transit managers were overpaid idiots. My pay was good, but I’ve never worked for a worse lot. Their management wisdom was that of Simon Legree — there was no such thing as teamwork.
Per him, only three things mattered: -1) Show up; -2) Don’t hit anything; and -3) Keep your hands outta the till (farebox).
But unfortunately my friend has fairly severe Parkinson’s. He shakes and is weak.
But he’s an old hot-rodder and has an extensive workshop.
He also has a drill-press, that I needed to make my bracket.
I don’t have one.
—A) Find piece of metal bar-stock (preferably aluminum) I can make my bracket out of.
We started poking around.
Found a piece of heavy quarter-inch steel that could be used in a railroad bridge.
“Too heavy,” I said. We poked around some more.
“We could probably use this, if we can straighten it,” I said.
I had picked up a wiggly eighth-inch piece of steel about an inch wide. Who knows what it was from.
“Sure; we can straighten that,” he said. “Put it in the vise.”
We screwed the vise in, flattening the piece of steel some.
“What we need is a ‘persuader,’” I said; “a big piece of pipe.”
My friend produced an inch-and-a-half pipe, about four feet long, and we slipped it over a vise screw handle.
Cranked it tighter; four feet of leverage.
“Flat enough,” I said.
—B) “Now we gotta hack off the end of that thing so that big screw-hole ain’t there no more.”
Hacksaw produced, bar clamped in vise, end hacked off.
—C) “Now I gotta dress up that end, to remove burrs that could slice fingers.”
“WEEEEEEEEE....” Bench-grinder on.
“Hold it,” I said. “I never used one of them things, and I ain’t learnin’ on yours.”
My friend grabbed the bar-stock and started working it.
Yellow sparks flew.
“I usually use a file,” I said. “But I like your bench-grinder better.”
“Only $35 at Harbor Freight,” my friend said.
“Sure, when you bought it,” I thought to myself. “Probably over a hundred by now.”
—D) “Okay, next we gotta drill it,” I said. I marked the drill spots with a punch.
“Got a smaller hammer?” I asked. “I can’t do this with a 15-pound sledge.”
—E) We proceeded to the cellar.
My friend has two drill-presses. The garage-press is big, and sloppy for small holes. For small holes ya need the one in the cellar, which is smaller — plus it was warmer anyway.
We dragged out the small drill-press, which was on the floor under a work bench.
It remained on the floor; too heavy to lift onto a table.
—F) Next drama: power the drill-press, which is electric.
Locate extension-cord.
“I can’t find anything any more,” my friend said.
“I know I got shorties, but all I see is that hundred-footer up in the garage.”
“A hundred feet to go 15 feet?” I said.
“Well, I guess that’s what it’s gotta be,” I said. “Let’s boogie!”
Hundred-footer uncoiled and connected to drill-press.
“Now, let’s plug it in,” I said.
It’s a three-wire grounded extension-cord, and a three-prong outlet was located in an empty light-socket in the ceiling.
My friend produced a small wooden step-stool about three feet high.
“Oh no ya don’t!” I said. “I ain’t climbin’ that thing. Sloppy balance. I don’t use step-stools any more. Got a stepladder?”
We dragged an aluminum stepladder down from the garage, hitting various walls and wallboard.
Plugged it in.
Nothing!
“Pull that chain-cord,” my friend said.
Again, nothing.
“Well, I guess we gotta find another socket,” my friend said.
We located another socket, but it was two-prong.
We found a three-prong socket by his work bench, but it was actually a three-into-two adapter.
Plus his overhead fluorescent was plugged into it.
That adapter worked the drill-press, but no light.
“We need that light,” my friend said. “So now what?”
“Well, it’s a 100-foot extension-cord, so let’s run it up to the garage and plug it in up there,” I said.
My friend went up into his garage, but meantime I noticed a washing-machine and dryer were also in the basement — they gotta plug in somewhere.
VIOLA!
Two empty sockets in a four-gang outlet, and all three-prong.
BOINK; I plugged in the extension-cord.
“Let’s roll, Big Daddy; I got it plugged in down here!”
—G) Next item of business: install drill-bit in press.
Not an easy process; both of us are creaky old codgers, and we gotta get down on the floor to see.
I made two feeble attempts to install the drill-bit, but each time it was wobbly.
“Here; let me try it,” my friend said.
Minutes passed; it took him that long to get down on the floor.
But he got the drill-bit straight.
—H) Next: clamp bar-stock into drill-vise for drilling. Easy-as-pie; but the drill-vise just sat on the table — it didn’t clamp.
“Won’t go anywhere; it’s heavy,” my friend said.
—I) Next: work drill up-and-down to line up the drill-bit with my punch-marks. “This too would be easy if I could just see,” I said.
—J) Everything lined up; the next item of business was to drill the holes.
“I think it could use a little cutting-oil,” my friend said. “Up in the garage in a big yellow tin by that drill-press.”
Up-and-down I went.
“WOOPS!” I said. “Missed by a mile.” I slathered cutting-oil all over everything.
No matter; we kept drilling.
—K) The next item of business was to drill the holes on the opposite side of the bracket; other side of the thermometer.
This had to be ballparked; a slop-job. Assembling the whole shebang makes the other hole-locations invisible. They had to be ballparked.
Marks punched, “Let’s do it, baby! I hope they’re close enough.”
Two more holes drilled; same drill-bit as the others.
—L) Two more holes to go. The holes that mount the bracket to the window-frame.
Bigger drill-bit; big enough to pass the mounting screws.
So another drill-bit installation from the floor.
Again, my friend did it; half-crippled but ornery.
—M) Final jones was the put the angle in the bracket.
I got the thermometer installed, and then marked where the bend should be.
Back upstairs and out into the garage; install bracket in vise, and slam mightily with a 15-pound sledge.
“That thing ain’t goin’ nowhere, Hughsey,” my friend said.
“That bracket is overkill,” my wife said, when I got home.
Previously the thermometer was mounted on a flimsy aluminum bracket about 1/16th inch thick, and a half-inch wide.
It was so flimsy the thermometer would blow out of sight, and then blow back into the window if the wind reversed.
Finally it broke.
“That thing ain’t goin’ nowhere,” I said. “But it’s backwards.” (The thermometer, as pictured, is facing out. A simple flip-flop.)

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY.
• “Hughsey” is of course me, Robert Hughes, aka BobbaLew.
• My wife of almost 42 years is “Linda.”