Old Poems by Other People #2

We hear daily about planned obsolescence. My Maytag repairman told me the last time he was here (the third time for the same complaint within 4 months) that refrigerator manufacturers no longer offer 10 year warranties on compressors, nor even five year warranties on compressors. In fact, if you get more than a one year warranty on a refrigerator compressor, you are getting a good deal any more.

Merle Haggard sang that he "...wished a Ford and a Chevy would both last ten years--like they should." Well, Merle, old boy, mine do because I maintain them. But I see a few out there that never get any maintenance that actually have been on the roads for longer than that--but there are damned few of them, and it looks like the wheels are ready to fall off just like the fenders have.

I always plan on having to but another printer after the old one has been in use for three years, and a cpu after five years, or at least a major upgrade to the old one. And I find it more cost effective to just go out and buy a new mower when the old one decides to get cranky.

Planned obsolescence. Bad words but the rule it seems, these days.

Now let me take you back a couple hundred years. Actually more than that. 254 years to be exact, and tell you about a preacher---


THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE


Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay,
And I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the Parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that , I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open up and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what ,
There is always somewhere a weaker spot,
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, in or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,-lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without,
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,)
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,"
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn't break daown:
"Fur," said the Deacon, " tis mighty plain
That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for thtings like these;
The hubs of logs from the "settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber--they couldn't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue,
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide,
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "Naow she'll dew!"

Do? I'll tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew to horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and Deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren-where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon earthquake-day!

Eighteen hundred: it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--
Running as usual, much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then came fifty, and fifty-five.

Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it,--you're welcome.--No extra charge.)

First of November-the earthquake day,
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be, -for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less or more,
And the spring and axle and hub encore,
And yet as a whole , it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out.

First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the Parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the Parson. Off went they.
The Parson was working on his Sunday text,
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed,
At what the --Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meetin' house on the hill.
And the Parson was sitting up on a rock,
At half-past nine by the meetin' house clock,
Just the hour of the earthquake shock!
What do you think the Parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,
All at once and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
LOGIC IS LOGIC. That's all I say.


The Deacon's Masterpiece was written by Oliver Wendell Holmes.