No, I’m not going to write about politicians that are incapable of learning from stupid mistakes, let alone confessing them as such; though in my opinion Thoreau's dictum that “A wise man lives simply” is a truth impossible of improvement. But there must be opportunity to live simply, a place where people can dream and hope, where they can clean out their minds and gain a fresh perspective of what is really meaningful in life. You simply cannot do this while spending all your time “polishing the Devil’s door knobs,” drowning in smog and staring at the asphalt, steel, and concrete jungle.

Like Leo Stein I don’t question the wisdom of others because it differs from mine, I question it because I question my own. Not a few of my doubts about my own wisdom arise from the many really stupid things I have done, which has made me my favorite source of humor in many instances. Recalling these stupid things caused me to be extraordinarily patient with kids the years I spent as a teacher, especially while teaching shop classes. It seldom failed some kid doing a really stupid thing did not find a like correlation with the stupid things I had done as a boy. However, in most cases these stupid things came about from a lack of knowledge and experience.

For those of you that can, teach your children how to do for themselves. It simply cannot be beat as a family exercise and an invaluable investment in theirs and your future. There were many times, as a child, that my grandad let me just do it. The It didn't always work out; but in no instance did I fail to learn something of value, even from the failures; I might say especially from the failures.

Grandad was the idol of my childhood. He could do things. He could build a house, do wiring and plumbing, in short, he was a jack-of-all-trades as many of his generation were. But the automobile remained a mystery to him all his life. Grandad was never a mechanic.

Some time after moving to the mining claim in Sequoia National Forest, I came of age to have my own car, about fifteen years old. From somewhere in that mysterious gene pool, there lay the bent of the mechanic and machinist in my own make-up. The essential missing ingredients were knowledge and experience.

Grandad, being a firm believer in that maxim of hard work never killed anyone, had me earning money at every job to be found requiring a strong back. I was a mean kid with a pick and shovel (not to mention the fact that I supplied all the fuel for our stove and fireplace). But a regular job came my way when I became the Junior Custodian for old Kernville Elementary.

For once, I had a real job and a steady income; the magnificent sum of $35 a month working every day after school. I was ready to commit to the American Dream, going into debt on the installment plan; so it came about Grandad and I took off to the Big City, Bakersfield, where I bought a '39 Pontiac for $100 payable at $10 a month. The fact that it had a pronounced knock from the bowels of the engine didn't seem to perturb Grandad. I drove the old car, slowly, all the way up the canyon to the mining claim with the engine knocking the whole time.

An acquaintance, Gus Suhre, who was a mechanic, upon hearing the knock in the engine pronounced it a bad rod bearing. Now neither Grandad nor I had any idea about the mysteries of the internal combustion engine. But I was determined to learn. Grandad did share a story about a fellow he knew that had replaced a burned rod bearing in a Model-T with bacon rind and that got him home with the car. Gus explained the procedure for curing the Pontiac's illness but this was very nearly incomprehensible to me. However, I was determined to do the job.

With the tools available, I was able to pull the head and pan on the engine. With its innards exposed, I was finally face to face with the complexities of the engine. There were things called valves, pistons, rods, and I began to operate. Following Gus' instructions I was able to locate the loose rod and pull the cap off and remove the rod and piston. However, what to do with this micrometer thing-a-ma-jig? Gus had uttered some mysterious words about “miking” the crank. I was supposed to use this glorified C-clamp to find out if the crankshaft was out of round.

Following Gus’ mysterious instructions, I dutifully screwed the thing to fit the crank journal and moved it around like he said to do. The problem was that I simply did not know what the purpose of this maneuver was supposed to accomplish. Somehow, the fit of the contraption was supposed to tell me if there was anything wrong with the journal. It didn't. Mainly because I didn't know how to read a micrometer or what, exactly, I was looking for.

But I manfully checked to see if the device moved around the crank at a certain setting and called the case closed. Looked all right to me. It was smooth and there wasn't any burning or galling as Gus had warned me to look for; and since I had the rod and piston out I was ready for the “fix.”

Now, as Gus had said, I was supposed to get another rod and piston (Gus never bothered to explain why he thought I needed another piston; perhaps he didn’t want to go through the drill of explaining how to remove and replace just the rod). This necessitated another trip to Bakersfield where I was soon to be introduced to the exciting world of Auto Junk Yards.

At the earliest opportunity, Grandad and I took off and I was soon examining bins of pistons and rods at one of the yards. All I knew was that I was to get a replacement for the offending '39 engine rod. But the bins had mysterious markings designating the assemblies with hieroglyphic markings like .010, .020 and .030.

I have already said automobiles were a mystery to Grandad. It never seemed to occur to him or me to ask what these mysterious markings meant. I knew nothing of “taper” or “bored cylinders.” As a result, I simply took the rod and piston that looked the best from a bin marked with the hieroglyph .010 and off we went.

On arriving back at the claim, I inserted the new rod and piston in the cylinder. Seemed a tad tight. What to do? Of course! Get a bigger hammer! Which I proceeded to do. With a little persuasion from the hammer handle, I managed to pound the recalcitrant piston into the cylinder and the rod down over the crank. Replacing the rod cap and all the parts in the order in which I removed them (no new gaskets; why waste money?) I was finally ready to crank the sucker up!

Now for those of us that were raised with the old six-volt systems, we know how difficult it can be to get an engine started, particularly if it has had major surgery, with those old, six-volt batteries. With great foresight, I had parked the car on the convenient hill at the side of our cabin.

Getting in the car, I performed the maneuver all us oldsters were familiar with back in the old days; I put the car in second gear, put in the clutch, let off the parking brake and let ‘er roll. At a fairly good clip downhill I popped the clutch and the engine fired. Once. With a horrendous bang!

Rolling to a stop at the bottom of the hill, I got out and saw that from the place the engine had fired there was a long trail of oil in the dirt. Looking under the car I saw a truly magnificent, jagged hole in the pan. At the place where the trail of oil started, I found what remained of the rod cap.

And so, my early introduction to auto mechanics was an explosive success. Knowing how to read helped. I discovered what “oversize” meant regarding pistons, and engine cylinders developed taper and were actually bored at times when majored. The experience was of incalculable value to me in latter years when I taught auto shop to high schoolers. If I could be so dumb and do really stupid things, why couldn't they?

I later acquired a junk '38 Pontiac with a reasonably good engine and with true grit, a convenient pine tree and chain-fall, managed the Herculean task of swapping out the engines. Hey, folks, when I speak or write of “shade tree mechanics” I do so from practical experience.

While the trans and engine bolted together nicely, the clutch linkage was not as cooperative between the '38 and '39. A short length of chain took care of this minor problem. I actually drove this car to L.A. when I left the claim in '53 and subsequently traded it in on a magnificent '41 DeSoto convertible.

A great deal of learning took place in my life on the mining claim. But it took the proper environment for such opportunities. And, while the episode of the Pontiac is fraught (freighted to use Sam's favorite word) with all kinds of morals, points, etc., that I had such gumption, ignorance and all, was due to the fact of that environment and the support of loving elders who would encourage such a task. And not demean my failures.

As I think of all the things and people that contributed so much to my own ability to dream, to do, to plan and build and teach others, I have a debt to pass these things on to others, young people especially. How I wish I could give them the same opportunities to learn, plan, dream and do that it was my blessed good fortune to experience.

It is a tragedy of our times that children are cheated, robbed, of the opportunities I enjoyed as a child, that even the most caring parents seem unable to grasp the eternal significance of teaching the kinds of things that can only be learned in such an environment as that which I enjoyed can supply. Young people especially need examples of “Can Do.” They are losing hope in droves because of the mind-set that the future holds nothing for them. However, put a child in an environment with caring elders where they can do and watch them blossom into individuals with values, self-esteem and real-world skills that will serve them a lifetime.

When I visit the old claim (now Boulder Gulch Campground), when I survey the ancient familiar mountains and so many other places of my childhood, I sometimes talk things over with Grandad, Grandma, and Great-grandma. Do they hear me? I have no idea. But I find comfort in the conversations. I think they are proud of me, and the fact that I am still doing (though I have cause to wonder what their attitude toward computers would be). I believe they know what really counts in life, and I believe these are still the same things they thought really counted and encouraged in me as a child.