Lack of Negotiation

Me Grandpa Joe, he didn't negotiate price. Oh, he'd occasionally allow his friend Amos to do so in his stead, so I'm probably playing a bit loose with this assertion. Still, Joe to my knowledge never himself negotiated a price.

I found this out on a trip through western Michigan with him, looking for a pump jack as I recall. I'm still not sure what a pump jack is but I know it had to do with the oil wells he once invested in, and I know they were big because we had to take his manual shift stake truck with the ten foot bed to get one.

Anyhow, after driving for two days, two days of me learning to drive a stick I might add (so there were a lot of fits and spurts and stalled engines as I was learning through trial by error) we ended up at his friend Ford's. Ford was his actual first name; I don't remember his last. Ford took us out into a field of various and large machinery, about in the middle of which was an old pump jack. It looked like an oversized grasshopper to me. Joe asked Ford what he wanted, and Ford told him. Joe took a drag on a cigarette, then just said kinda quietly, "I think I'll pass." We began the trip home.

Grandpa explained to me that a fella knows what his stuff is worth, and who was he to argue with that? I get what he means. I rarely negotiate myself, usually giving a simply yea or nay when dealing with a seller one on one. And it ain't like we can typically negotiate anyway: at Kroger you pay what Kroger asks for groceries or you walk on by. I suppose I was just a bit miffed that, after lurching across the state and staying one long night in a tired old hotel, the journey was for naught. In the end though, I respect his point. And it is hard to beat time with your Grandpa.

 

Oil Hoarder

We hear a lot about hoarders. Most of them seem to keep everything. Yet there are perhaps what I'll call limited hoarders. An old friend of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, might fit that bill.

Cloyce would change the oil in his cars himself. Fair enough; lots of folks do that. In his case, it was two vehicles; his and Mrs. Cloyce. That was it. And they didn't drive much. They might make 5,000 miles a year on each car, but that was about it.

One evening Cloyce asked me over to help with something, and we trounced down into his basement. You would have thought I was in the motor fluids section of an auto parts store, judging by the amount of oil and filters and anti-freeze, brake and power steering and transmission fluid which lined the shelves in a back room. If I had to guess I'd say there were about 50 cases of motor oil alone. "Why do you have so much oil and stuff, Cloyce?" I asked, actually somewhat in awe.

"I maintain our cars," he answered.

"Yes, but all these fluids for two vehicles?"

Cloyce responded, "I buy it on sale. Then it's there when I need it."

I protested, "Okay, but this much?"

"I never want to run out."

Trust me, folks. He wasn't going to run out in his lifetime. Nor were his kids. Maybe not even his great-grandkids. Cloyce had stored up a lot of oil.

How to Curl

So, you wanna know how to draw to the top of the four foot in curling? Allow the master to demonstrate:

Marty's Draw

Or how about an education on how to call the line on a hit and roll, to remove an opponent's stone and slip yours under cover?

Hit and roll

There's your curling lessons for the day. Come out to the rink and I'll test you.

Levanrd

About 20 miles out of Detroit on I-96 is Levan Road. The sign for the exit says Levan Rd. There's nothing unusual about that, is there?

Years ago me Grandpa Joe had a delivery driver, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was a little slow on the uptake. Me Pops one day sent him out with a load of welding equipment intended for a place off Levan in western Wayne County.

About three hours after the scheduled delivery time, the company called asking where it was. This was the time before cell phones, so there was no easy way to track Cloyce. Dad had to wait to hear from him for an explanation.

Cloyce happened to walk into the old barn about ten minutes later anyway. "I couldn't make that delivery, Bill," he said.

"Why not? Pops demanded. "I wrote out exact directions." Surely the old man did, knowing Cloyce.

"Well, Bill, I drove all the way out past Ann Arbor (easily 40 miles beyond target) and I could not find Levanrd." Apparently Dad wrote the abbreviation for road too close to Levan.

With a heavy sigh Dad more precisely explained himself and sent Cloyce back out.

Emphatic Priest

I went to Mass the other day at St. Hedwig in Detroit. It was funny.

Oh, everything went all right until the very end. But I think the priest had an appointment and was running late. Yet the choir was singing a hymn and apparently intended to see it through all six or eight verses.

From the altar, Father waved at the choir loft, clearly an indication he was ready to wrap things up. The singing continued. He waved more emphatically, as if trying to catch the attention of a far off friend or a New York City cab. The song went on, and very well, I'll concede.

Father next made the cut sign. He ran his pointer finger across his neck, slowly and deliberately. He really did. And the song finally stopped. I think it just ended, but I'm sure Father took it as a victory.

I've seen more unusual endings to a Church service.

Nah, I haven't.

Lightning Fast

Me brother once bragged facetiously, "When I have a hammer I'm like lightning. I never hit the same place twice!"

A buddy of his, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, responded, "Well I'm not lightning then. When I'm hammering a nail I can hit the same place two, three times."

"That so?" Phil asked.

"Yep. It's usually my left thumb," explained Cloyce.

Oh, that Cloyce.

February in November

While out clearing the cars and the walks of snow this morning I thought, "This is a fine February day." Then I remembered it's November 30.

This has the markings of a long winter folks.