Greggo's Gasser

According to Mrs. ProfessorRoush and my children, I am almost impossible to buy gifts for.  And they get no argument from me in that regard.  In the first place, I'm a man of few wants.  A little land, a little rain, a few plants, a little rain, a little peace and quiet, a little rain, and a little attention from Mrs. ProfessorRoush are about all I ask for. Anything else I want, I usually either buy before I've expressed the thought that I want it or else it is too expensive to buy and so I reason that I really don't want it.  When asked, I can occasionally come up with a book I'd like to read or a new shovel I need, but nobody seems to like to give a gift when the giftee knows exactly what choices the gifter has.  I would have said its an efficient use of time, but others claim that it isn't any "fun."

My fellow blogger and friend Greggo, however, he really knows the way into the cracks in a gardener's psyche.  This week, I had the honor of an in-person visit from Greggo and his wife to my garden as they happened to be passing through Manhattan.  It is a rare pleasure possible only in this Internet-driven world when two people with so much in common can connect and share experiences like they had known each other for years.  Greggo has read enough of my blog and remembered enough to be able to ask about the outcome of some "trial" plants and to ask to see other plants he was interested in that he knew I grew.  It was a great visit.  Greggo collected seed from my Centaurea macrocephala, so I hope to see it growing in his yard next year.

As icing on the cake, Greggo came bearing gifts as well!  In my basement window right now are the potted starts of a sedum he had gathered during his travels and was kind enough to share with me.  They will eventually become Greggo's Sedum in my garden.  The sneaky devil one-upped that nice gesture however, with his gift of the gas-can pictured here.  An antique Eagle-brand can with "The Gasser" printed boldly on its side.  Just feast your eyes on it, a real, honest-to-god, non-leaking, non-California compliant can to replace the precious one that my daughter and her boyfriend destroyed and that I wrote about earlier here.  To me, it was like giving a gift of gold bullion, a gift of pure friendship, a delicious combination of knowing that I could fill a gas tank without the "no-spill" spout spilling gasoline over everything in a 10 foot radius, and also knowing that I am being a little bit defiant to our political masters.  Take that, you meddling bureaucrats, I've got an old-style gas can again!  That Greggo, he sure knows the science of gifting.  Thanks again, Greggo!

I've already filled it and filled up the lawnmower with it, but between gas trips, it will stay hidden, safe from Mrs. ProfessorRoush and the thieving children.  I know how they are; they see a good tool or gas can and too soon it is gone, spirited away never to be seen by the gardener again.  Just ask my Dad about his favorite green-dipped adjustable wrench that he hasn't seen for the almost 30 years since it relocated itself to my tool box.

Gas-astrophe

I was suspicious before, but am now convinced, that the biggest impediment to successful gardening is not drought, or wind, or weeds, or blazing sun.  It is surely the gardener's family and other unnecessary hangers-on.

Allow me to provide a timely pertinent example.  Last night, when my daughter was returned by a shaggy-haired but amiable creature she refers to as her boyfriend, they had driven around so much that she was afraid that he wouldn't have sufficient fuel to make it to a gas station.  Since my daughter's curfew is long after her gardening father is soundly nestled in dreams of formal rose gardens, my wife wisely chose not to awaken me for such a dire need, but she then proceeded to move from the merely inadvisable to the completely unthinkable.  She entered my domain of tools and associated man-stuff and gave my beloved 5-gallon gas can, which contained a couple of errant gallons of gas, to the boyfriend and my daughter to add to his car.

This morning, as we were waking, She Who Steals Gas Cans (Mrs. ProfessorRoush) mentioned to me that she wasn't sure they had put the "lid" back on right.  Sure enough, I went out to find that the first (lower) cap containing the spout was in place, but the upper cap, the one that actually seals the can, was missing.  I located it in the driveway, destroyed from being driven over, as pictured at the right above.

God evidently thinks that it is not enough of a trial that the other inhabitants of my household destroyed a critical part to an heirloom gas can that I have successfully used and cared for over 20 years. It is now evident to me, after an exhaustive search around town, that all gas cans are now sold with a #(*@&$ CARB-complaint nozzle that helps you spill gas all over creation.  "CARB," if you're not aware, stands for "California Air Resources Board," a group who has evidently conspired to create self-venting and self-sealing standards for gas cans that make it impossible to actually get the gas out of the can. So, once again, thank you, California, for taking the lead to screw up and regulate another simple process because of a minor percentage of idiots on the planet.  I had to purchase one of these spouts recently on a kerosene container so I could douse and burn a few cedar stumps.  The "non-spillable" spout leaked so much kerosene everywhere that every time I lit the match to burn a stump, I was unsure if just the stump or also my pants and shoes were going to go up in flames.  It makes for some interesting dance steps for fire-starting, I'll guarantee you.

 So, having already searched the local hardware and big-box stores for a non-CARB-compliant gas can, I spent the morning wandering nomad-like among garage sales, a modern Diogenes searching not for an honest man, but for a gardener-friendly gas can.  I finally gave up and found them for sale on the Internet (GOING FAST!) for $30.00, approximately 5 times the cost of the CARB cans found locally, but worth every penny. I briefly considered sinking my entire retirement fund into hoarding the remaining planetary supply of these essential pieces of plastic, but ultimately I planned to buy three; one to use and two to keep hidden and locked away in the attic.  I figured that, given that I'm 52 years old, at an average 20 years use, if the final can got destroyed after I'm 90 it would be somebody else's turn to fill the lawn mower anyway.  Alas, when I hit the "purchase button" they were "out of stock."  Evidently they did GO FAST!  In the meantime, I can't think of a decent garden use for my old friend, so I've given it an honest burial in the garden, singing "In the Sweet By and By" to it so as to complete a heart-rending ritual known only to modern, middle-aged, gardening fathers.