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Everyone who knows me well has to admit (only under torture, I hope) that I
can be a trifle impractical at times.
Latest chapter: Mumbling and grumbling today in search for a cheap paint
suitable for oil sumps I happened to pause at the door of my paint locker.
Hm. A can of boiled linseed oil. Hm again at the next shelf down a plastic
bottle of red (actually red iron oxide colored) powdered line chalk.
A dab of oil and a dab of red chalk. Mix, mix. Good strong color, good
hiding, excellent consistency. Quick wire wheel the rust of an old cast iron
seal retainer. Mix more. Paint paint.
I stand back to admire thinking I'm missing something. Ahhh, yes! Boiled
linseed oil takes a week or so to cure. As I ponder nearly napping, my paint
job slowly sags to the bottom edges and drips off to the floor. Merely paint
drool, nothing more.
So I hasten to the oven set the temp to over boil plop the flange and close
the door. As I idle with a book here wafts the fragrance of curing oil for an
hour and then three. Time brings a snooze and then a cat to feed. A nudge and
Meow Mix scatters clatters to the kitchen floor. Crunching through kitty's
meal time litter I stoop to peep to gain a glimmer the light's burned out
says the switch upon the oven door.
"Nevermore" I curse and seize the bulb with rag in hand dragging sleeve
through half-cured paint, burning arm upon the door. Meo-th the kitty, "Feed
me more."
Replacing bulb and sating cat was the work of a mere minute meanwhile flange
is slowly cooking. The nightly news Brocaw propounding, boffins profounding,
Congress confounding. The world's woes cured by less dither, action dries up
but not my paint, still it drools. An Angstrom layer remains at best upon the
metal lying, frying in my oven the night is nigh. Ten o'clock high latitude
light dims at last 'twas by three afternoon when I first I forayed in painted
dreams. Seven hours aint bad to gel cheap paint in an oven desert's infernal
heat. Dare I jack the oven dial, will more heat cure the oil? A touch inside
tells the tale of sticky oil where once languid did flow.
"At last!" I cried but what inside. A circle I see in red upon the oven door.
"Son of a wh - gun" I cursed in Bowdlerized verse, a setback. Nothing more.
When at last Sol rises and from torn slumber I emerged dashing flagrant to
oven still cooking. Inside is casting neatly coated glowing oxide red satin
textured. From the oven to the shop still flagrant a-dangle a-racing I go to
the bench with flange. To my room to don my garb and ablute and splash but
success awaits beyond to shop door.
I madly dash trip over kitty bounce from wall to jamb of hardwood door. A
broken shoulder? It felt like more.
The flange is cool more ways than one its dry coat luster soothes the eye. My
thumbnail's futile scribe proves paint job is hard to mar. Lacquer thinner
polar molecule avails no wrinkle. ScotchBrite pad wears but a corner but only
when a sweat drop's shed.
Hm, I think. Japan dryer hastens cure and renders oven time as moot. While I
ponder fingers tapping come the kitty claiming hunger. I rise not thinking
twice to feed her. Not thinking as I ponder paint recipe I spin a way to
speed the cure. Thixotropics, thinner, film enhancers, and so-on. On my way
to feed the kitty as I am reinventing paint. Passig folly's portal even as
the workshop door.
Forrest Addy
can be a trifle impractical at times.
Latest chapter: Mumbling and grumbling today in search for a cheap paint
suitable for oil sumps I happened to pause at the door of my paint locker.
Hm. A can of boiled linseed oil. Hm again at the next shelf down a plastic
bottle of red (actually red iron oxide colored) powdered line chalk.
A dab of oil and a dab of red chalk. Mix, mix. Good strong color, good
hiding, excellent consistency. Quick wire wheel the rust of an old cast iron
seal retainer. Mix more. Paint paint.
I stand back to admire thinking I'm missing something. Ahhh, yes! Boiled
linseed oil takes a week or so to cure. As I ponder nearly napping, my paint
job slowly sags to the bottom edges and drips off to the floor. Merely paint
drool, nothing more.
So I hasten to the oven set the temp to over boil plop the flange and close
the door. As I idle with a book here wafts the fragrance of curing oil for an
hour and then three. Time brings a snooze and then a cat to feed. A nudge and
Meow Mix scatters clatters to the kitchen floor. Crunching through kitty's
meal time litter I stoop to peep to gain a glimmer the light's burned out
says the switch upon the oven door.
"Nevermore" I curse and seize the bulb with rag in hand dragging sleeve
through half-cured paint, burning arm upon the door. Meo-th the kitty, "Feed
me more."
Replacing bulb and sating cat was the work of a mere minute meanwhile flange
is slowly cooking. The nightly news Brocaw propounding, boffins profounding,
Congress confounding. The world's woes cured by less dither, action dries up
but not my paint, still it drools. An Angstrom layer remains at best upon the
metal lying, frying in my oven the night is nigh. Ten o'clock high latitude
light dims at last 'twas by three afternoon when I first I forayed in painted
dreams. Seven hours aint bad to gel cheap paint in an oven desert's infernal
heat. Dare I jack the oven dial, will more heat cure the oil? A touch inside
tells the tale of sticky oil where once languid did flow.
"At last!" I cried but what inside. A circle I see in red upon the oven door.
"Son of a wh - gun" I cursed in Bowdlerized verse, a setback. Nothing more.
When at last Sol rises and from torn slumber I emerged dashing flagrant to
oven still cooking. Inside is casting neatly coated glowing oxide red satin
textured. From the oven to the shop still flagrant a-dangle a-racing I go to
the bench with flange. To my room to don my garb and ablute and splash but
success awaits beyond to shop door.
I madly dash trip over kitty bounce from wall to jamb of hardwood door. A
broken shoulder? It felt like more.
The flange is cool more ways than one its dry coat luster soothes the eye. My
thumbnail's futile scribe proves paint job is hard to mar. Lacquer thinner
polar molecule avails no wrinkle. ScotchBrite pad wears but a corner but only
when a sweat drop's shed.
Hm, I think. Japan dryer hastens cure and renders oven time as moot. While I
ponder fingers tapping come the kitty claiming hunger. I rise not thinking
twice to feed her. Not thinking as I ponder paint recipe I spin a way to
speed the cure. Thixotropics, thinner, film enhancers, and so-on. On my way
to feed the kitty as I am reinventing paint. Passig folly's portal even as
the workshop door.
Forrest Addy
