Voices, Adages and 2x4s

The voice in my head tends to chatter relentlessly.

One early morning last week, it recited the old adage:

“For want of the horse, the rider was lost; For want of the rider, the battle was lost; For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost; And all from the want of a horseshoe nail.”

Then my inner voice composed a revision:

“For want of an outlet, the electricity was lost. For want of electricity, the pickup engine warmer was lost. For want of an engine warmer, the truck didn’t start. For want of a started truck, the load of lambs was delayed. All for the want of an outlet.”

Earlier when I trudged into the darkness to plug in my diesel truck, thermometer noted -13.

I planned to wait a couple of hours while the engine warmed before loading lambs for a ride to the Billings auction.

My timing was good.

I was glad I had a window between snow storms for the 300-mile drive so I could sell these lambs at the only sheep sale for the month, likely topping the seasonal lamb market.

If all went well, I hoped to be back home by 8 or 9 that night.

All went almost well.

The truck almost started.

Then the batteries almost died.

The outlet for the power cord worked the last time I plugged something in, but not this time.

So I stretched electric cords to a different outlet, carried two battery chargers from the shop to the barn and found something else to do for an hour.

The truck still wouldn’t start.

I hauled the batteries to my shop and charged them again while the truck warmed.

Meanwhile, the lambs were penned without water or feed.

I don’t like that situation, but my inner voice justified it, saying they would forgo water and feed if they were riding down the road.

Again, the truck wouldn’t start.

I brought the batteries to my warm kitchen and charged them again.

By noon, the voice in my head began niggling at me with a different adage.

It changed its tune from worrying about a horseshoe nail to a personal truth developed through repeated experiential learning.

When opportunity knocks, it offers a hand. If I don’t take the hand, it whacks me with a 2x4. If I am still too stubborn to comply, I get the pipe wrench treatment.

As I puttered around at odd jobs while waiting for the batteries to charge again, I wondered whether determination to get the truck started was actually hard-headed obstinance baiting the pipe wrench.

Maybe a pause to my plan would be wise.

I decided to give up driving to Billings if I couldn’t get the truck started before 2 p.m.

After all, I could still make the 12-hour round trip, although I would be sleepy as I fed the cattle the next day.

At 2, I reconnected the batteries in the truck, still hoping I could get it started, yet knowing I was in for a long night if it did.

No luck.

Or just maybe, that voice in my head whispered, it was good luck.

But why?

I decided I could haul the lambs the next day.

By the time I brought hay to them, one had ripped the auction-required eartag out, another had its head stuck in the fence and several were mixed up with other lambs that I was not planning to haul to the auction.

Hauling them the next day was no longer an option.

Beyond frustrated, I checked the auction website so I could plan to haul lambs for the March sale day.

The February sale had been postponed a week because of bad weather.