Everyone who knows me understands I’m a hard worker and I seem to consistently injure myself. Well, recently I’ve found myself injured again from my willingness to fix something. Before I tell you my story, I must preface myself.

For those who don’t know me well, I’m that guy that comes to your party and falls off your deck. Actually, I’ve done it several times, of course at different parties. After a fall you can generally find me on the ground with my entire drink intact—not a drop split. My might think, “He must drink too much”. Maybe sometimes, but generally that is not the case. Falling off decks—is usually caused by someone placing chair legs next to the edge of a deck, not my drunken clumsiness. In fact, my accidents generally happen when I’m working at fixing something.

My good friend Brent has witnessed this many times. Whether it’s getting completely covered head to toe with Chiggers, from trying to fix a bed on the ground—on a island in the middle of a swamp, or loading gear for one of our Burnabout group camp trips, and walking my shin into his extended trailer hitch on his Black Betty Land Cruiser. Nether fond memories, but ones I’ll never forget. The list goes on and on. I’ll refrain for boring you about my past injuries, because I prefer living in the present.

The Culprit

This is my pool pump. Notice how close to the wall foundation it is? Last Saturday, excited for a day off, I woke up to get my day started early. With coffee in hand I headed to the backyard to sip some coffee and listen to morning birds wake. Then I heard the pool pump come on, and then, a few seconds later it shut off. I figured it must have blown a breaker. Sure enough it did, so I flipped the breaker back on and then the pump again. Pop! I heard a electrical short, and it kicked the breaker off again. My stomach cringed since I had just replaced the motor, and it was $350 and hours of no fun.

Where's that smoke coming from?

I thought I’d call the pump shop and see what they thought. It’s been running fine since last summer, so I can’t imagine what’s wrong with my new pump. In the mean time, I need to run my kids somewhere—pause—another day in the life of Todd. When I return, I started pondering over it again and came to the conclusion that calling someone to tell me I have a wire shorting out seemed ignorant all of a sudden. I’ll just find the short. I installed it, so it must be something I did. I remembered the ends of the wires where loosing their insulated cover and I wrapped them with electrical wire to be safe. Well, looking back that’s definitely the opposite of safe. No problem, it’s something to fix. The pool is turning green quick so there’s no time to loose. The first major obstacle was I didn’t want to take the entire pump housing off. It was no fun putting it on, and a repeat didn’t sound any better. On the other hand, the end cap for the motor was merely two inches from the concrete foundation. That will be tricky.

Problem Solving

Here was my chance. If I could find the right tool for the job, I could maybe expose the problem and possibly fix it. After a good 30 minutes of sifting through my toolbox I found the right socket, adapter and ratchet. I loosened the two bolts and the end-cap cover barely had enough distance to slide off. Problem solved—now to find the next problem. I used a small mirror and started looking around. Sure enough, there were those wires I had rigged with electrical tape—reasonably I assumed that’s it. All I had to do was rewire the motor with a mirror, ratchet and pliers, and the run the wires to the power source!

Not much space!

With the problem identified, all that’s required is three 10 gauge wires. Off to the local hardware store and I’m only set back $9, and of course fixing something with little or no money is super sexy to me. It sounded simpler than reality. Unfortunately, it requires 3 hands. One for the mirror, one for the socket, and one to push the wire in place with needle nose pliers. And, during the process, I noticed my knuckles were looking a bit red from scraping against the wall. Oh well, a few scrapes never worried me much. With a great deal of patience, and many attempts, I secured the wires and was ready for the big test. To my delight it worked, and the pool pump motor was back to its purring self.

The Aftermath

After a few hours my hand started showing signs of abuse and irritation. That night it worsened. The next morning it was even worse with frequent reminders of my mishap every time I reached into my pocket for my phone. As I sipped my coffee in the backyard the next morning and starred at my injury and pondered—justifying to myself—injury typically equals reward. In the end, whatever I was doing to injure myself was most likely worth it. When I was a kid it was jumping bicycles over trashcans for the neighborhood record, or trying to conquer the next skateboard trick. When I think back on the hundreds of injuries I’ve experienced in my life, I can’t help to think about how much I have learned and grown from those experiences. Unpleasant as they may have been, hard work and carelessness are my good friends.

So here’s to not playing it safe. Don’t be afraid to get dirty, break a leg doing something important to you. You’ll certainly have a lot of stories to tell, and most likely, have a lifetime of experiences to draw knowledge and wisdom from.

I’m excited to work with these nice people that appreciate graphic design. Below are few product samples, available at Neiman Marcus Dallas. Additionally, I’m creating an e-commerce store for them, so their products will be available online in approximately 3 months at www.bindah.com

Widespread Virus Proves Macs Are No Longer Safe From Hackers
Via: NYTimes

Alexander McQueen – Spring 2012
Photography Fabien Baron, David Burton | Stylist Karl Templer

The Shed

Those that know me, know that I love my garden, bonsai trees, pond, swimming pool and all the trimmings. And, that over the years I’ve feuded with all kinds of critters that can’t seem to live harmoniously with me. Squirrels, Possums, Night Herons, Ra(t)ccoons, Rats, and other rouge creatures. Typically, we’re all good. Until they start destroying bonsai trees in minutes that I’ve nurtured for years, eating my friendly fish, or simply covering my deck in bird shit. I always turn a cheek, and reason that if you build an awesome micro paradise you have to deal with these kinds of things. Sometimes months on end will pass, and the world in my backyard seems as a paradise of co-habitation.

Two days ago, I was going to do the morning fish feeding. It’s pretty cool, that 10 years ago I made a small pond in the yard and threw some .10¢ gold fish in it and they’re still alive and well. They’ve even produced three offspring. Needless to say these guys, and girls are my fish friends. When I arrive at the ponds edge, they greet me, of course knowing that they’re getting fed. Still, I find it comforting that they can pick me out from other humans, and especially animals that want to eat them. On this day, as I arrived at the shed to retrieve the fish food I discovered that the squirrels had attacked. Two of my maple bonsai trees were half dug up. I pondered for an instant, “It’s been too long, they’re back, those sons of a bitches, where’s my gun, I’m gonna kill me something.” Then, I remembered, or that little Buddha on my shoulder said, “awe man, or maybe it was, dude be kind. This hasn’t happened in a long time, they only dug up some dirt the trees aren’t dead, roots are still in tack. No worries…” I scooped the dirt back into the pots, covered them with rocks to stop them in their return, and went into the shed for the fish food.

The Bird Seed Mess

Once in the shed, I stopped to scan a 280 degree view of my ransacked shed. Camping gear knocked down, fly fishing equipment, cords, bottles, car racks, and a big pile of bird seed scattered over gear tubs. Instantly, I thought, critter attack and how could that happen with the door shut. Then it dawned on me that the night before, the dogs, despite their tiny size had chased down a raccoon to that corner of the yard. Typically, they run over the fence, but apparently this raccoon took a different approach and hid in the little building with the door open. Maybe knowingly tricking the dogs, which aren’t the smartest. Let’s say that no one is going to copy their homework. I happened to notice the door was left open and shut it for the night—apparently with a ra(t)ccoon inside. Then the thought occurred, it’s still in there, and I’m going to have to confront him. So, with flash light in hand I start looking.

The Ra(t)ccoon Culprit

First I cautiously look on all the shelving, behind gear, buckets, lawn tools, etc. Thinking, I sure hope I don’t startle it and it charges me like in some Hollywood B flick. Well no sign, but he could not have gotten out with the door shut, so he has to be in here some where. But where? Not in attic part I hope. It’s a small hole that you have to crawl into and pull yourself up. Not a good position to find yourself in, when a raccoon is charging you. It reminded me of the time I had to reach my arm up into the chimney, through the chimney flue, to pull a dead, rotting, raccoon carcass off a ledge. It took a few minutes to get the guts to do it, wondering whether it was still partially alive and whether it could still bite me. Repeat—I had the same feeling. “Todd climb up there. Don’t be a pussy. You can do it. It won’t attack you.” And sure enough, a few minutes later I head up with flash light. Left corner, look’s good. Right corner, look’s good, no coons. Back right corner, nothing. Last corner, yikes it’s a 30 pound coon. So, I start talking to it. “Hey, dammit, what the f@#k are you doing in here? You can’t stay, time to go.” It looked at me while I spoke and then simply turned its head and burrowed into the corner, with ass facing me. Well, what to do. It’s morning, raccoons are nocturnal, he’s not coming out until later tonight. I’ll just leave the door open, go to work and he’ll be gone when I get home.

Ra(t)ccoon Doodo

After work, I go straight to the shed to see if he’s gone. Once again I have to climb into the attic hole, but this time I don’t hesitate. I must have surprised him, he wasn’t going anywhere, and was sprawled out on a duffel of sleeping bags. He must of been thinking, “this is pretty nice dry place to sleep off the 2 pounds off bird seed he feed me last night, this place is great.” Once again, I start talking to him, and I quickly get his attention and he darts to the corner. “You can stay, the train’s leaving, get the f*%k out.” No response, I leave the shed, door open, hoping he comes out once it gets dark and neighbors put out cat food.

The next morning, I had to crawl up there again. At this point, I’m thinking pitchfork—he better be gone. Sure enough he split, but not with out finishing off that pile of bird seed, and leaving a pile of shit (literally) for me to clean up.

Fair ridden.

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