The Fuel Fool

I was tooling along, minding my own business, when the
car suddenly lurched.

Alarmed, I turned off the radio and listened. Everything
sounded OK. Just as I was beginning to think maybe it had all
been in my head, my trusty steed lurched again, harder, with
more urgency. Deceleration increased even as I gradually
floored the accelerator.

Stomach in my throat, I quickly scanned the gauges. They
looked exactly as they had moments earlier: the heat gauge
was pointed straight up at the middle, while the gas needle
rested securely on the peg beside the "E".

Quoting the great philosopher Homer Simpson, I spat out
a very loud "Do'oh!" -- or something to that effect.

It wasn't my fault! My previous vehicle would go a good
60 miles after the "low fuel" light came on, and I wasn't yet
fully familiar with the foibles of this particular flivver.

The odometer revealed that a mere 20 miles had rushed
under my wheels since the "low fuel" warning had chimed.
Aha! This proved that I was, at most, just 1/3 to blame for
this predicament!

Once I had safely pulled onto the shoulder, I used my
cell phone to alert the highest possible authority.

"We have a problem," I reported. "It appears that
excessive outgassing has created a negative vehicle
propellant condition."

"You doofus!" exclaimed my wife's voice from the other
end, "Didn't I say this was going to happen to you someday?
Why do you do these stupid things?"

It was hard to think of a retort at that exact moment.
A semi truck was roaring past just four feet away, 80,000
pounds of rubber and steel blasting by at 80 MPH. The shock
waves caused my puny car to tremble like a leaf in a
hurricane.

My next cell phone call was to summon help. Ruefully
noting that a gas station sat just six miles away, I thought,
"Just my luck! Had I only bucked my seat belt on the go
instead of letting the car idle those 30 seconds, I might
have made it!"

Part of the problem is that I have too many things to
worry about nowadays. Does my toothpaste have enough
whitening power? Will Britney need more rehab? Is Cialis
right for me? What is Cialis anyway?

Now that I've had time to reflect on my out-of-gas
experience, I have an answer to my wife's "why" question:
It's a guy thing.

It's a guy thing to occasionally tempt Fate. It's part
of our nature to put the occasional snowmobile through the
ice, or make wings out of wax and feathers and see how close
we can fly to the sun.

It's thus a guy thing to get your gas tank as empty as
possible. The ultimate guy gas experience is to run out just
as we catch sight of the filling station, coasting in with a
dead engine, the momentum carrying us to just within reach of
the gas hose.

My wife deems this dumb. This is because she, like most
females, embraces the belief that it's just as easy to keep
the top half of the tank full as the bottom half. But where's
the fun in that? Where's the thrill, the challenge?

This "always be prepared" attitude is why my wife is
never without her purse, a bulky leather satchel that's heavy
enough to contain an entire car. Even so, I know for a fact
that the female gender has a less-than-spotless record in the
area of fuel management.

One fall, my wife was tooling along when she came across
a stalled tractor and wagon. Stopping to investigate, she
found that the pilot of said tractor was Rosie, our neighbor
lady.

As my wife gave a grateful Rosie a ride back to her
place, Rosie explained that the tractor's fuel gauge was
broken. She had hoped she could make at least one more trip
to town before refueling, but was obviously mistaken.

"I'm so glad you stopped!" said Rosie to my wife. "I
feel so silly for running out of fuel. I didn't even have my
purse with me!"

Were up to my wife, I, too, would always carry a purse.
And somewhere deep in its cavernous interior there would
always be a 5-gallon can of fuel.

Bless This Mess

I heard some great news the other day: it turns out that
we messy people are now in vogue!

It's about time! We have been persecuted for centuries
by the Neatness Police, who made us feel guilty and morally
inferior about being junk junkies.

Society's obsession with order has been driven into our
skulls from Day One. As tots, we were punished for having an
untidy bedroom; as school kids, we endured ritual inspections
wherein judgment was passed regarding the neatness of our
desks. Woe be unto the messy child!

When I reached adulthood I commenced to living life by
my own ramshackle rules. This slovenly situation survived
unscathed until I acquired a spouse.

I at first tried to please my new bride by neatening up
a bit. But as the years passed, she gradually became more and
more tolerant of my untidiness. I figure in another quarter
century or so her transformation will be complete and she
will be an unrepentant junkster like me.

My wife will still occasionally voice her disapproval
about my junkiness, especially the area in and around my
desk.

"Look at this!" she might say. "How can you find
anything in this rat's nest?"

"I have a system," I'll reply. "It's very complicated,
so don't ask me to explain it."

"Your 'system' seems to consist of nothing but a series
of piles! And look at this jumble on the floor!"

"Just give me a second... There! Better?"

"No! Kick cleaning doesn't count!"

"Albert Einstein once said 'If a cluttered desk is a
sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk?'"

"Well, I bet he could at least find his desk!"

Slovenly as I may be, I was a but an amateur of
untidiness compared to a farmer I once knew.

I had just started dairying on my own and was in the
market for springing heifers. I was told that a certain
farmer had springers for sale, so I journeyed up to his place
for a look-see.

Pulling onto the farmyard, I at first thought I had
accidentally stumbled onto a salvage yard. The term "junky"
would scarcely begin to describe the farm's epic decrepitude.

As I chatted with the farmer and his son, we walked past
a tractor that appeared to have been dynamited. Randomly
scattered pistons and gears lay rusting under the dolorous
winter sun. When asked what had been wrong with the tractor,
the farmer replied, "Oh, we never did figure that out. We
really ought to put that old Oliver back together someday."

Judging by the riot of weeds growing in and around the
disintegrated tractor, I would bet he'd been making that
statement for good number of years.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any junkier,
they did. Rounding a corner in the narrow lanes of clutter, I
was suddenly confronted by -- a dead horse!

Curious, I asked about the deceased steed. The horse had
gotten out, explained the old farmer, and ran down the road a
piece. The farmer had hopped into his loader tractor and tore
off to retrieve the errant equine.

He lassoed the horse and tied the rope to the loader.
They then headed back toward home, gradually speeding up to a
brisk trot.

As they neared the farmyard, the horse espied his pony
pals and broke into gallop. The sudden slack in the rope
allowed it to become entangled with the tractor's back wheel.
This broke first the horse's neck, then the rope.

"And it was a brand-new lariat, too!" lamented the
farmer at the end of his tale, as if the rope were the
greater loss.

This explained the expired cayuse. But what about the
perfectly circular chunk that was missing from its haunch?
The farmer's son spoke up. "I've never had horsemeat, so
I cut off a roast and wrapped it in foil and threw it in the
freezer before Ma got home!"

It took a couple of hours for us to pick our way through
the warren of pens and junk. By the time we got done looking
at heifers it was dinnertime, and the farmer politely asked
if I would like to come into their house for a bite.

I politely declined. I don't know, but am willing to bet
that the house was just as messy as the rest of the place and
that a certain foil-wrapped package had gone missing from the
freezer. And that was not good news.

Home Makeover, South Dakota Edition

Siehera is much like any other 13-year-old. She's learning to play the guitar and likes to exchange instant messages with her friends. Her shy smile reveals the glint of pink braces.

But there is also something is markedly different about Siehera, a grim past that accounts for her pixy-like stature.

"Siehera was born with a incorrectly formed heart," says
Nila Thibodeau, Siehera's mom. "She had her first heart
surgery when she was six months old. She has now had 4 heart
operations."

The Thibodeau family -- Siehera and her brothers, Kyle,
8, and Kevin Jr., 12, and their father, Kevin -- lives on an
acreage a few miles south of Toronto, SD.

"We are the king and queen of bad luck," says Kevin, who
grew up in the small town of Cohasset, MN. "We had just
bought this place when a hailstorm knocked out some windows.
After we got those fixed, the house was struck by lightning."

But perhaps the most troubling development came from
downstairs. "The septic system backed up and we got a foot of
sewage in the basement," says Nila.

The moisture caused fungus to move in. Mold tests
conducted on the house were off the charts, and Siehera began
to have trouble breathing at night. Arrangements were made
for her to live with a neighbor. Then came the operation last
May to replace her defective mitral valve.

After the surgery, Siehera developed Post Cardiac Injury
Syndrome. Her temperature soared, one of her lungs collapsed,
and her kidneys began to fail. "We were just hours away from
putting her on dialysis when she turned a corner and began to
get better," recalls Nila.

What should have been a short stay in the hospital
stretched into a month. As the Thibodeaus hovered at
Siehera's bedside, events that would radically change their
lives were already in motion.

"We were in the hospital when we got a phone call from a
producer of the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition TV show," says
Nila. "It seems that my sister in North Dakota had written
them, and they were interested in doing a makeover of our
home."

That initial phone call launched a long process of
interviews and background checks. "By the time it was over,
they literally knew my jean size!" says Nila.
The Thibodeau family spent the summer in a state of
limbo, not knowing whether or not their home would be chosen
for a makeover. "They did a very good job of keeping us
guessing," says Nila.

The day when Ty Pennington addressed the Thibodeau
family with his bullhorn, he snuck up the driveway on foot to
avoid being detected by the family dog. "I was totally
shocked," says Nila. "We were told that 5 other families were
in the running, but that was just a ruse."

Ty spent two hours with Siehera, playing guitar with her
and learning about her hopes and dreams. The following day
the Thibodeau family was flown off to New York City.

"I couldn't figure out why they chose New York," says
Nila, who grew up on a dairy farm. "We are country mice and
felt very out of place. This was especially true at the
Waldorf-Astoria, the hotel where we stayed."

The Thibodeaus were squired around the city by one of
the show's producers. Some of their most memorable activities
included a visit to Dylan's Candy Bar, where the kids behaved
like, well, kids in a candy store, walking out with more than
$200 worth of sweets. Nila was taken to Macy's and told to
choose an outfit for a special occasion. "I just wish they
had given me more than half an hour!" smiles Nila.

The special occasion was a private audience with the
renowned tenor Andrea Bocelli. But the music-related
surprises didn't end there: near the end of their visit,
Siehera was given a chance to appear on MTV.

"The trip to New York made sense once we learned about
the MTV part," says Nila.

After their week in the city the Thibodeau family was
chauffeured, blindfolded, to their new house. "It was scary
to hear all those people cheering!" recalls Nila.

The Thibodeaus were overwhelmed by their spacious new
home. But perhaps its most important feature is in the
basement, where a state-of-the-art filtration system cleans
the air and makes it possible for Siehera to breathe easy.

"The whole community has been so great," says Nila. "Our
lives have been touched by a lot of people we didn't even
know, but who genuinely cared."

Siehera will face another surgery sometime during the
next 5 to 15 years, when her bovine mitral valve wears out.
In the meantime, she can much be like any other teenaged
girl, strumming her guitar and putting up with a couple of
annoying little brothers.

And the king and queen of bad luck can at last smile a
bit, now that Fortune has seen fit to smile upon them.

Texas In South Dakota

My wife warily eyed the large brown Quonset building
that sits at the north edge of Milbank. "I think they're
closed," she proclaimed .

"But the sign out front says they're open," I countered.

"You go check, then," she replied. It was clear from her
demeanor that she wasn't getting out of the car until I had
reconnoitered and returned with a full report.

The place was indeed open, and I was able to convince my
wife to accompany me into the machine shed-like building that
houses R & J Texas Barbecue.

As we entered the cavernous Quonset, we were met by a
bearish man who addressed us with a jovial Texas drawl.
"Howdy!" he boomed, "How y'all doing?"

We had just met Rick Bolin, the "R" part of R & J Texas
Barbecue. I was pleased to note that Rick carries more than a
few extra pounds. Skinny cooks should always arouse
suspicion.

The interior of the Quonset was clean and well-kept, its
walls decorated with football and bull riding paraphernalia.
The bare concrete floor was populated by a couple dozen small
tables, each covered by a red-and-white checkered table
cloth. My wife deemed the table cloths "a nice touch".

We ordered a sampler platter of assorted barbecued meats
and sat down at one of the tables. As we dug in, Rick came
over and struck up a conversation.

I commented to Rick that he obviously wasn't a native
Midwesterner. "Nope," he drawled. "I've lived here about six
years is all. My wife, Julie, is from Waubay, which is why I
wound up here."

Moving from Texas to northeastern South Dakota must have
been quite a shock, weather-wise.

"I love the cold," said Rick. "I can't get enough of it!
Besides, my barbecue pits work better when it's cold. The air
has less humidity then."

One can't help but notice the big barbecue pits near the
door. Those chrome smokestacks are really cool; it looks like
they were made for semi tractors.

"They were," said Rick. "I built those pits myself, from
used LP gas tanks."

How did you get started in the barbecue business?
"After we moved up here, I noticed there was no place to
get good barbecue like I'd had back home. So, I started
making it myself and word sort of spread. Pretty soon folks
were asking me to make barbecue for their gatherings."
You've got a healthy collection of trophies there by the
front door.

"I've won my share of barbecue contests. But what I like
most is making barbecue for folks and watching them enjoy it.
Besides, our 14-year-old son, Cole, is the up and coming
barbecue champ in the family. He beat me last year in the
barbecued brisket division. Plus, our 8-year-old daughter,
Callie, has started barbecuing chicken."

Where did you get the recipe for your dry rub?

"It's been handed down and modified some over the years.
Back in Texas, our whole family was big into barbecue, and my
cousins and I each developed our own little secrets. The
potato salad we serve here is made from my mom's recipe, and
the noodle salad is Julie's creation. Our barbecue sauce is
an old family recipe that we've played around with."
Care to share any of those recipes?

"Nope."

What's the hardest part about barbecuing?

"The weather. Every day is a little different, so each
day's barbecue is a little different. The wood I use to fire
the pits can also varies some, but I always use only ash,
oak, and apple. I barbecue my brisket for 12 hours, which
means if we open at 4:00 in the afternoon, I have to be here
at 4:00 a.m."

I saw that you had several pits smoking away out there.
How much can you barbecue at a time?

"All together, my pits going can hold 1,000 pounds of
meat. I've catered gatherings as close as my back yard to as
far away as a couple of hundred miles. I'm willing to hook
onto my pits and go about anywhere!"

My wife and I walked out of the big brown Quonset
wearing Texas-sized smiles. Our tummies were full and there
were smudges of secret barbecue sauce on our chins. She was
no longer nervous about the building and was already talking
about our next visit.

Perhaps the day will come when the countryside is dotted
with numerous brown Quonsets, and my wife and I will be able
to say that we knew about R & J Texas Barbecue "back when".