Let’s send these pickles to Mars!

When it comes to neighbors, I struck the mother lode.

I moved into my little lakeside cottage last fall. It had everything I was looking for. Appliances that work and a view of the lake, amazingly at a rent a writer can afford without resorting to the horror of finding a real job.

John and Susan live one door to the east and Aaron just to the west. They’re three of the nicest folks I know; fun, interesting, helpful, considerate.

But of the three, it’s John I find most fascinating. He and Susan (who doubles as my landlady) are both retired, so they drop by from time to time just to chat. I’m always glad to see them.

Before I go on with this story, it’s important I mention John is a very intelligent guy. He worked as an engineer and was instrumental in developing NASA’s Mars Rover project. I don’t know if that makes him a rocket scientist, but on his worst day he’s still a helluva lot smarter than I’ll ever be.

His engineering and science roots run deep. Stuff like badly-rigged wiring (of the sort the cable guy left laying all over the yard), drippy faucets, squeaky pumps and, well, basically anything done in a haphazard manner drives him flat-out bonkers.

Despite the fact John is undeniably smarter than me, I’m still reasonably well-educated, well-read and (as Garrison Keeler used to say) above average, if only slightly. So you’d think between the two of us, we could open a jar of pickles. You’d be wrong.

Yesterday I was sitting on the porch reading when John dropped by with the pickles. Some kind of fancy, spiced dills of the sort retired NASA engineers can afford. They looked good. But John had been unable to get to them, owing to the fact the lid had been (I assume) screwed onto the jar personally by Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime and then sealed with a welding torch.

“I tried running hot water over it,” John said. “Nothing.”

At last. Here was my chance to return the neighborliness I’ve been enjoying since last fall. Also, if I could twist the lid off with no visible effort, word might get around that I’m still young, strong and virile. A lie, yes, but what the heck.

Some of us fade more reluctantly than others.

“Let me give it a try,” I said.

Trying to maintain a composed expression, I twisted the lid. Or tried to. Slowly, my face revealed in ever-increasing measure the strain under which I was laboring. Words not printable in a family newspaper passed my lips.

“Well, ----,” I said. “This ------ is really on there!” (See? I told you the words weren’t printable.)

We went inside so I could run some more warm water over the lid. It hadn’t worked for John, but maybe my water was warmer.

The lid remained doggedly affixed to the jar. I tried using one of those grippy silicone pads developed specifically for opening stuck lids. Again, nothin’. I’ve wrangled some seriously stuck lids with those silicone pads and couldn’t believe it wasn’t working this time.

I began to suspect the people at the fancy pickle company were not only fancy, but sadistic. What sort of sick, twisted individual would grow, pick and process pickles that looked so utterly delicious and then seal them in a container more formidable than that cave from which Indiana Jones swiped artifacts?

I half expected arrows to shoot from the cupboards or a big, round stone to roll out of the bathroom and chase us around the lake.

Still I remained undaunted. I grappled, I gripped, I grunted. I continued to swear under my breath, which almost always works in these situations.

And yet, nothing.

Thoughts of my toolbox, and of the ball-peen hammer it contains, began to float through my mind. Maybe John and Sue wouldn’t mind picking shards of glass out before snacking on these elusive cukes.

And then I noticed the all-but-invisible plastic safety seal covering the lid.

I peeled it off with a paring knife, after which the jar opened with ridiculous ease.

So. A rocket scientist and a college educated writer. Outsmarted by a jar of pickles.

There might be a moral to this story, but if so, I’m not wise enough to know what it is. Ask John, maybe he knows. He worked for NASA.