MACHO MAN

 

It’s hard to start writing a column about my chainsaw. But not as difficult as it is to start my chainsaw—considering I was born and raised in New York City and never saw such a device until I was old enough to get into an R-rated movie.

When I moved to Indy, I bought my first chainsaw and found it to be a very inefficient tool.  I took it back to the dealer and I told him it took me hours to cut down one little limb. “Let me give it a try,” said the clerk, and then he pulled the cord.

VAROOM!

“Geez, what’s that loud noise?” I asked him.

“Look, Mr. Wolfsie, I once saw you walk into a plate glass window on your morning TV segment. You are not the kind of person who should mess with power tools.”

I’m actually very good with power tools. I have never once had a problem starting my lawn mower. I did have one accident, though. I almost broke my nose when I tripped over the extension cord.

The chainsaw had been untouched in my garage for about 25 years, but that’s also true of Step 4 of my Scott’s lawn fertilizer because by the end of fall, I really don’t care what my lawn looks like. I also have two leaf blowers—one to blow the leaves and one to suck up the leaves. Both tools can perform either of those tasks with a minor mechanical adjustment, but that involves reading an entire page of the owner’s manual. Like I would understand any of that.

During the Midwest’s most recent storms, we were sitting in the living room and heard a crash. A fairly good-sized tree had blown down and grazed the side of the house. My wife heard the noise and immediately panicked.  “Relax,” I told her. “We’re okay.”

“No, we’re all in danger!  This means you’re going to use that chainsaw.”

The next day, I dug through the huge storage box in the garage filled with barbeque and gardening equipment, sprinkler heads, and rusty tools.  I found the implement and cradled it gingerly in my arms. How am I supposed to start this thing? I wondered. There was one doo-dad labeled “choke,” and I did. There was also a little plastic bubble that I vaguely remembered you have to push several times. Not sure why. I pulled the cord once…twice…30 times. Suddenly, the motor began to hum. But the chain didn’t turn. I needed help.

I didn’t want to look stupid, so I checked online and armed myself with just enough information to be as dangerous as the chainsaw. I found a small nearby motor repair shop and drove over. An elderly gentleman asked if he could assist me.

“Yes, I think the clutch isn’t engaging and there’s a sprocket misalignment that’s making the chain stick,”   I said, but I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. He picked up the saw, pushed a button and said: “The safety was on.”

I didn’t bat an eye. “Thanks! What do I owe you?” I asked the man, who now looked vaguely familiar to me.

“Forget it,” he graciously offered. Then, as I started to leave , he added:  “Be careful, Mr. Wolfsie.  You’re about to walk into another plate glass window.”

 

ROUND FIGURES

 

 

The call was from Sara at the bank. She sounded concerned…

 

“Mr. Wolfsie, I wanted to let you know as quickly as I could. It’s about your checking account.”

 

 “I think I know why you’re calling,” I said, dreading the worst. “How much are we talking about here?

 

“$3.32,” she said. “You added your mail deposit incorrectly and we had to issue you a credit. I am sorry to bring you the bad news.”

 

I hung up and accessed my account online. Sara was correct. I looked in disbelief, but there it was: my correct balance was now $1,003.32. How could this happen? I quickly hit the “Pay Bills” button and sent $3.32 to my Shell Oil credit card. It barely paid for a gallon of gas, but that was not the point of the transaction. My account now had an even one thousand dollars. I could feel my blood pressure returning to normal.

 

This preoccupation with round numbers is really the only compulsion I suffer from as long as you don’t count making sure that all my hangers in the closet point in the same direction and that the shirts themselves are completely buttoned while awaiting their turn to be worn. But who doesn’t do that?

 

When I get an electric bill for $87.45, I send them $100. Why? First, because I require even numbers in my checkbook, and second, because the next month my bill will be about $13.00 less. If I keep doing this for about nine months, all of a sudden I get a month free from IPL. I bet they have no idea I’m pulling something over on them.

 

This fixation goes way back. When I first started driving in the ’60s, I always put exactly five dollars' worth of gas in the tank. In the ’70s it was ten dollars. Then 20, 30, 40…now 50. Never  $40.92 or $50.13.  Even if getting to $50.00 results in some spillage, I think that’s worth a good night’s sleep, don’t you?

 

Okay, I know what’s happening now. Half of the people reading this are saying things like: “Hey, Gladys, you have to hear this: Dick Wolfsie does exactly what I do. I wonder if he also re-ties his shoes before he puts them away in his closet. (Note to those readers: I do.)

 

Others are saying:  “Herb, Dick Wolfsie is nuttier than a pecan pie. He gives the electric company extra money. He must have an IQ of about 85.”

 

(Note to readers: I like to round that up to 100.)

 

Mary Ellen hates this trait in me and watches me closely to be sure that this preoccupation does not cost us extra money. When the water bill comes in for 97.18, she insists I write a check for exactly $97.18. How incredibly weird is that?  Is she trying to drive me insane?

 

Of course, this obsession does have its downside…

 

“I’m afraid I have to write you a ticket, Mr. Wolfsie. You were going 76 miles per hour in a 55 mph zone. That’s gonna cost you $175.00.”

 

“Gee, officer, it’s my first offense. Can you cut me a break? How about 80 miles per hour and let’s make it an even 200?”

 

By the way, in case you’re interested, I’m 60 years old. I also like rounding down.

 

ROUND FIGURES

 

The call was from Sara at the bank. She sounded concerned...

 

“Mr. Wolfsie, I wanted to let you know as quickly as I could. It’s about your checking account.”

 

 “I think I know why you’re calling,” I said, dreading the worst. “How much are we talking about here?

 

“$3.32,” she said. “You added your mail deposit incorrectly and we had to issue you a credit. I am sorry to bring you the bad news.”

 

I hung up and accessed my account online. Sara was correct. I looked in disbelief, but there it was: my correct balance was now $1,003.32. How could this happen? I quickly hit the “Pay Bills” button and sent $3.32 to my Shell Oil credit card. It barely paid for a gallon of gas, but that was not the point of the transaction. My account now had an even one thousand dollars. I could feel my blood pressure returning to normal.

 

This preoccupation with round numbers is really the only compulsion I suffer from as long as you don’t count making sure that all my hangers in the closet point in the same direction and that the shirts themselves are completely buttoned while awaiting their turn to be worn. But who doesn’t do that?

 

When I get an electric bill for $87.45, I send them $100. Why? First, because I require even numbers in my checkbook, and second, because the next month my bill will be about $13.00 less. If I keep doing this for about nine months, all of a sudden I get a month free from IPL. I bet they have no idea I’m pulling something over on them.

 

This fixation goes way back. When I first started driving in the ’60s, I always put exactly five dollars' worth of gas in the tank. In the ’70s it was ten dollars. Then 20, 30, 40…now 50. Never  $40.92 or $50.13.  Even if getting to $50.00 results in some spillage, I think that’s worth a good night’s sleep, don’t you?

 

Okay, I know what’s happening now. Half of the people reading this are saying things like: “Hey, Gladys, you have to hear this: Dick Wolfsie does exactly what I do. I wonder if he also re-ties his shoes before he puts them away in his closet. (Note to those readers: I do.)

 

Others are saying:  “Herb, Dick Wolfsie is nuttier than a pecan pie. He gives the electric company extra money. He must have an IQ of about 85.”

 

(Note to readers: I like to round that up to 100.)

 

Mary Ellen hates this trait in me and watches me closely to be sure that this preoccupation does not cost us extra money. When the water bill comes in for 97.18, she insists I write a check for exactly $97.18. How incredibly weird is that?  Is she trying to drive me insane?

 

Of course, this obsession does have its downside…

 

“I’m afraid I have to write you a ticket, Mr. Wolfsie. You were going 76 miles per hour in a 55 mph zone. That’s gonna cost you $175.00.”

 

“Gee, officer, it’s my first offense. Can you cut me a break? How about 80 miles per hour and let’s make it an even 200?”

 

By the way, in case you’re interested, I’m 60 years old. I also like rounding down.

 

GOODBYE TO A FRIEND

Military historian and arms collector Fred Ropkey died this past week. He opted out of medical treatments that might have prolonged his life for a few months. After 84 years, he was not surrendering. He simply wanted to walk headlong into the truth.

 Fred was no fan of war. Few people are. Yet he knew that every tank, aircraft and piece of artillery he recovered was not only a work of exquisite design, but combined they represented the hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives that had been lost—or saved.  

His passion, which was almost an obsession, got its roots early. At age eight, his parents gave him a WWI sword and a Civil War pistol belonging to his great-grandfather. At 16 he bought an armored WWII scout car and drove it to school. He stood up in the auditorium at Pike High School the day after Pearl Harbor and “reported” the Japanese attack to his fellow students. He tried to enlist in the Marines, but he was too young. He would later serve during  the Korean conflict as a battalion commander.

Fred’s collection of arms grew over the years, and he stowed his thousands of acquisitions on the sprawling 100 acres of family land (dating back to the Great Depression) on the northwest side of Indianapolis. At the time, says his longtime mechanic Skip Warvel, the idea was to simply find a place to restore those treasures. But it was really more a warehouse than a showcase. So in 2005, Fred moved everything to Crawfordsville, signaling a new vision and purpose.  “Build it and they will come,” his wife Lani recalls him saying. Then he added: “Who would think that a little pole barn on a 50-acre cornfield in Crawfordsville could change so many lives?”  It was no longer simply a standing building; it was a building that stood for something. He called it the Ropkey Armor Museum.

Once it opened, Fred and Lani fully realized the impact the collection had on people. “Are you familiar with that tank?” he once asked an older man who was examining the vehicle. “I practically lived in it,” said the WWII veteran who revealed that he had not seen his “old girl” in 40 years. “Thank you,” he said to Fred. “My life has now come full circle.” Later, according to Fred, the veteran retreated to a hotel room with a bottle of bourbon and wrote an entire account of his experiences, those notes now part of the museum’s Wall of Heroes.

To the end, Fred loved digging into history, uncovering the human stories behind each piece he salvaged. He found tanks, aircraft, even parts of ships in barns or buried underground, where the  government had discarded them. Fred was always mystified by the lack of appreciation for these historical artifacts. “We can fix that,” he would say to Skip. The mission was simple: No matter the degree of disrepair, it was an obligation to resurrect the piece, honoring those who had lived and died in it. “Everything in the museum runs, flies, or floats, but the cannons don’t fire,” says Warvel, who uses the original spec manuals to make repairs.

Over the years, I was honored to be Fred’s friend. We toured both facilities on a number of occasions for television segments on WISH-TV. I’ve ridden in Sherman Tanks and sailed around a lake on a Vietnam-War-era vintage patrol boat. I will miss Fred. I won’t miss the harrowing ride in a Russian biplane.

Fred Ropkey could converse knowledgeably (and endlessly) about every U.S. combat mission in WWII. At the end of Fred’s life, he chose not to share his plight with others, instead enduring his cancer pain privately.

This was the one battle Fred Ropkey did not want to talk about.