Sorry to hear of the death of Steve Jobs. I was surprised to learn, via a link to this Get Religion article provided by a commenter at Strange Herring, that Steve was raised a Lutheran and confirmed in the Missouri Synod.

Of course, by all accounts he converted to Buddhism, but one can always hope. I know Lutherans who seem to believe that once you’re baptized you’re pretty much set for eternity, unless you actually find a way to storm the gates of heaven and urinate in the golden streets.

I think I’m one of about a hundred people in this country who possesses no Apple devices at all. No iPad, no i-Anything. I don’t think I’ve even seen a Pixar film. Not on any principle, other than the principle that if I buy the Hewlett-Packard I can pay for it through selling a kidney, rather than selling a kidney plus robbing a bank.

And that penury explains my considerable satisfaction in the car repair I did today, all by myself.

Mrs. Hermanson, my old Chevy Tracker, is—like her owner—entering into a penurious and undignified old age. One problem that’s been dogging us for some time is her loose hood, which blew out completely somewhere in North Dakota on the way to Høstfest.

How does a hood blow out? Well, due to damage she suffered before I bought her, the supporting structure of the hood has always been iffy. Lots of rust, and several loose welds. One guy who changed the oil once told me I needed to look into that or the thing would separate completely and fly up in my face one day.

Which is why I adopted the practice of securing the hood with a nylon tie-down anytime I took her onto the highway. So when the wind blew it apart in North Dakota it didn’t fly loose, but it was flapping around on the unsecured side. I procured a second tie-down at a tractor supply store in the town of Harvey (if I remember correctly), strung it crossways from wheel well to wheel well, and made it to Minot and home again that way.

But I pondered the problem and treasured it in my heart, and came up with a plan. Today I drilled two holes through the outer skin (there were already holes in the support) and put a bolt, a washer and a nut in each, screwed them tight, and cut the bolt down short to fit the space.

And it worked. I couldn’t believe it. I was certain my fix would actually make things worse, which is the usual way with my work.

I like to think this is the sort of repair my dad would have done. On the farm you fixed everything with spit, twine, and fence wire, until the fatal day when you couldn’t do it yourself anymore, and you generally had to replace the whole thing (a repair man couldn’t do much that Dad couldn’t do himself). The replacement, needless to say, would be bought used.

No, come to think of it, Dad wouldn’t have used bolts. He’d have done a welding job, because he was a mighty welder (there’s a scene in Wolf Time where Carl Martell remembers watching his father weld a wagon hitch. That was based on my memories of Dad).

Oh yes, I won’t be posting tomorrow or Monday, because I’m going to Norway, Michigan for the Leif Eriksson festival. See you there if you’re in the neighborhood.