A week ago Wednesday as I reached up to open the gate into the horse pen, I saw a leaf caught in the small, galvanized chain that wraps around the metal frame of the gate and holds it to the pen frame. Its long stem pointed down through a single link. I stood there for a moment, slightly puzzled, and certainly impressed. “What are the odds?” I wondered.
I guess that considering there is a huge cottonwood tree standing less than forty feet away, the odds are better here than in the middle of the neighbor’s field. But I also considered that the tree and the gate and the chain have been here for a dozen years, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen a leaf caught in the chain.
I thought it was rather amazing, actually.
And then, two days later, there was another one. Caught in a different link of the same chain. Unbelievable.
And then, that same afternoon, another leaf caught in the lower chain! I wondered how it could be that something like this could not happen for that many years and then happen three times in two days.
It’s making me think of a story I heard back in the Seventies. It was told for truth though I cannot vouch for that with certainty. Doesn’t matter that much; it’s a good story anyway.
Seems a local guy who liked to keep a really close distance between himself and every nickel he owned bought himself a Volkswagen. He loved the great traction it had on gravel curves and its great maneuverability. “You know,” he claimed, “you can park that thing in half the space it takes for a pickup truck.”
He admitted it couldn’t haul much but asserted it was handier to get stuff out of the front that out of the back. But his biggest bragging point was the gas mileage. “Do you know I’m getting over thirty miles to the gallon out of that thing?!” This was at a time when the normal family vehicle rarely got over twenty. It was a matter of such concern to him that he kept careful records of every gallon of gas he bought and how many miles he drove from every tank.
And bragged about it at every opportunity.
Several months in, a couple of neighbor men, a pair of congenial pranksters who placed more value on humor than others might, hatched up a plan. A couple of times a week, they took turns sneaking over at night and adding a little gas to the VW tank. Just a gallon or so each time, not enough to make the gauge indicator climb enough to be noticed.
Pretty soon, the fellow was getting forty miles a gallon. Not long after that, fifty. “I swear,” he exclaimed, “the more that car gets broke in, the better it does on gas!” The neighbor fellows enthusiastically shared his great satisfaction. “Wow! That’s amazing! You must sure know how to drive that thing to get that kind of mileage! Are you coasting downhill or are you getting out and pushing it yourself?”
“Of course, I’m not pushing it!” he protested. “And it’s getting such good mileage I’m not even coasting downhill anymore.”
Now, had they enjoyed that good joke and left things well enough alone after that, it wouldn’t be much of a deal. Basically harmless fun, I suppose, and a good laugh had by all but one. But here, my friends, the story takes a sinister turn.
The two neighbor fellows kept making their clandestine trips. But now they took along a siphoning hose.
After a few weeks, they encountered the fellow. “What’s wrong with you, man? You look like you just lost your best friend.”
He reluctantly shared the distressing news. “That car of mine—I don’t know but something sure is wrong with it! I’ve changed the plugs, replaced the points, and even put new plug wires on it. That thing’s taking to guzzling gas. I’m barely getting fifteen miles to the gallon out of it. I’m thinking about trading it back in but they ain’t gonna give me nothing for a Volkswagen that only gets fifteen miles to the gallon!”
Well, the fellows could barely contain themselves until after the neighbor had gotten out of earshot. “Did you see him?! He looks like he’s about ready to jump off a cliff!” They hooted and hollered and laughed and bellowed for several minutes. Then, they decided they’d had enough of their fun. “We better quit before he hangs himself.”
They figured it was an even swap between the gas they’d given and the gas they’d taken. A month or two later, the neighbor’s VW was back to its original form, getting over thirty miles to the gallon again. He didn’t talk about it much, though. I reckon he was afraid he might jinx it.
And so, my friend, if you’ve been slipping over here to Haven Hill and sticking cottonwood leaves into the links of our gate chain, good on ya! We’ve gotten a couple of cool pictures, had a couple of interesting conversations with a couple of friends.
And just in case there hasn’t been any neighborly intervention, if it happens again, I’m buying a lottery ticket! It might be nothing more than your usual natural phenomenon. Then again, I guess it could be a sign of something other than winter coming closer.
Reflections by Doc Arnett 