I'm Going Nuts

I hope that I will be able to adequately explain what a horrible day I had today.

At times I was crying, cursing, or laughing like a madwoman.

The day started out beautifully. I wrote in my journal. I followed my exercise regimen, I worked on my novel; I was clicking off the items on my to-do list faster than you can say “Type-A Personality.” At 11 am, I ran into town in order to pick up the dry cleaning that I had left there three weeks ago. The proprietor keeps such strange hours that each of the other three times I tried to get my clothes in the past five days, she was closed. I ate only fruits and vegetables for lunch . . . I’m trying to wean myself off pizza in anticipation of the pizza man leaving on his vacation, and in the hope of making my exercising more efficient.

Not being loaded down with greasy pizza, I skipped out of the house after lunch with my plastic pail in hand, and picked up nuts in the small back walnut grove. While I was picking, I was thinking about how this was a day where the reality of living in France was nicely measuring up to my dream of living in France: beautiful weather, birds singing, sheep grazing, me reaping Nature’s bounty. There were a lot more nuts today than there were yesterday, and so when I had finished in the back, I decided to tackle another item on my list: learn how to use the nut harvester.

Over the telephone, my husband told me the three possible places where the instruction booklet for the harvester might be found. I couldn’t find them in spots one and two. The manual might be behind door number three, however, I could not get the lock to open that room . . . even though I’ve done it many times before.

Okay, well, the manual is probably in French, and I don’t need it any way. And it turns out that I didn’t need the manual. I figured out everything by myself. The harvester is stored in a small garage which is attached to a strange “wing” of our house that was built on in the 70’s. Since I hadn’t operated the machine before, I thought it would be wise if I pushed it out of the tiny garage and then started it outside.

I was able to push the machine to the lip of the garage door, but couldn’t get it to budge over the lip. So, I decided to start the machine there, where it was half in and half out of the garage. It took me a few tries, but I finally pulled the cord with enough force to start the engine. I put the machine into reverse, and away we went. Then, getting too close to a small embankment that drops down into our yard, I moved into first gear. And away we went, and went, and went. I couldn’t get the machine to stop. The brake didn’t work. I couldn’t move the gear into neutral or reverse. I was heading over a concrete embankment, crashing through a hedge of bamboo, and certain that I was going to topple into Monsieur Foissac’s walnut grove. Because the concrete wall was just an inch or two higher than the ground, the machine couldn’t push over it, and just sat there spinning its wheels until I figured out how to shut the contraption off.

The front wheel was hanging over the wall, but it looked to me as if I could back the thing up if I could start it again. After what seemed like hours, but was probably only about a half hour, I finally got the thing running again . . . but only after I had fiddled with the gear shifter and it now appeared to move easily. So I put the machine in reverse, and Voila! was thrilled that I was moving backwards.

But wait! I couldn’t get the brakes to work, and while I was fretting about that, I forgot to maneuver the joy stick steering mechanism, and so the machine and I now plunged over the embankment into the yard, taking out a piece of a small hedge . . . that I didn’t think was particularly attractive in the first place. So now I had done it. The machine was stuck so that there was no possible way I could get it out.

At this point I cried a little bit at my lack of control over the situation; but then I thought about the irony involved in the situation. I have constantly bitched about this machine since the time my husband purchased it. Just the other day he told me that if I wanted to sell it, then I should sell it. And here, the machine was getting its revenge on me. It was doing its best to KILL ME. I started laughing hysterically.

Feeling foolish, I trudged over to Roger’s, rang his doorbell, and lucky for me he was home. I told him I had a big problem, but that it would be easier for me to explain it if he came over to see the problem. I don’t know the French word for “stuck.” He said he’d come over with his car. I said it would be better if he came over on his tractor with a chain.

He showed up about fifteen minutes later and was a little shocked to see what I had done. I was grateful that he didn’t laugh. The two of us spent about forty-five minutes pulling with the tractor, and pushing with our bodies. It is amazing how much stronger he is than I am . . . yes, he’s a male, but he’s almost seventy-six years old.

On his tractor, he pulled the machine and me on the machine because I had to steer it to a flat area between the barn and the ateliers so that I could practice using the machine. He looked the piece of metal crap over, and said that I hadn’t damaged anything. He wanted to know if there was an instruction manual and I said if there was one, I couldn’t find it.

I had told him earlier that the mishap occurred because the break didn’t work. When we were on a slight incline he showed me that the brake did work. Okay, I thought, then perhaps I had the wrecks because I couldn’t change gears easily.

I didn’t feel like starting the beast up while Roger was still there. I needed to go in my house, sit down, breathe deeply, and make myself a smoothie. I said “merci beaucoup” and he told me that if I needed more help with the machine to come and get him; although he had only ridden on the thing for a very short period and didn’t know anything about it. He told me to stay away from the river bank, and then he went home.

I went in the house and made my smoothie. Not wanting to let that nut machine get the upper hand, I ventured outside fully expecting that I could operate it now that I had a flat, open area. I wasn’t looking forward to trying to start it up again, but surprisingly, it started easily. I took off, the gear shift was working well, but then again I couldn’t get the damn thing to break, or change gears into neutral. I hopped off and quickly shut off the on/off switch.

So the piece of junk sits outside tonight, staring at the house, plotting how it’s going to exact its revenge on me for not wanting it here in the first place. I’ll try and get Roger over here tomorrow afternoon, after he’s had his nice relaxing Sunday dinner at his cousin’s house. I want him to look at the brake, and the gear shift to figure out why they won’t work for me when the machine is running; and, I’d like him to turn on the gas powered nut drier for me . . . I went in to do it myself this evening, but then, remembering my horrid day, thought better of the idea.

I’ve got to go take a bath now. I smell like a sheep. Feeling sorry for myself, and seeking solace, I went and hugged Blanche for comfort. She’s very fun to hug since her wool’s so long now . . . unfortunately, she’s very smelly.

You’ll have to be patient for the cat story.