I Am What I Am

Years ago I fixed a drain snake while a customer waited because he was stuck. "You're my hero!" he said as he paid for the job.

"I'm no hero, I'm just a guy who fixes drain snakes," I modestly replied.

Yesterday a guy came into the old barn desperate for eight cables and a particular drain cleaning tool. I had it all. "Man, you are amazing!" I was told.

'Nah, I'm not amazing. I'm only a guy who sells drain snakes." 

It is nice to be complimented, to be well thought about. But humility is a good thing too.

Besides, what I am is magnificent. Get your adjectives right.

The Power of Charlie Brown

Everyone loves Charlie Brown, the central character of the Peanuts world. Well, perhaps after Snoopy. 

There have been many Peanuts TV specials, in the area of 50 if memory serves. The best loved one is surely A Charlie Brown Christmas. I get chills at both Linus retelling the Nativity story, and especially when the gang leaps into Hark the Herald Angels Sing at the end. The show is rightly viewed (heh, heh, I just had to get the pun in) as a classic.

Did you know it single handedly destroyed the aluminum Christmas tree industry? Those of us old enough to remember recall the metal Christmas trees of the 1960s. 

As Linus and Charlie Brown are walking through a Christmas tree stand (right before discovering the sad little real tree) they lamented all the artificial trees available. One of them, I think it was Charlie but no matter, tapped an obvious metal one. It sounded like an empty oil drum. And on that scene alone, people virtually quit buying aluminum trees. 

Charlie Brown. He has the power of life and death over entire businesses.

Grandma's kitschy tree

Of all the family Christmas trees I remember I think I remember me Grandma Cosgriffs as the most interesting. She didn't seem, if my memory serves me much (quiet Ron) to have this particular one for very long. It makes an appearance in the Charlie Brown Christmas special though, in the tree lot where he gets what turned out to be the beautiful little real tree.

Be that as it may, I think we've all seen ones like me Grandma's. It was silver (or maybe white; Ron may be right to chide me about my memory) and sitting in front facing it was a slow turning, fan like thing. But it had a flat, circular pan rather than blades on it. The pan had three colors, red, blue, and green I believe, with a light behind them. As the pan spun, it lit the tree the different colors, and even mixings of the colors, as it turned.

These days we might, might, call it kitschy. The odd tree was a source of bemusement for me. It never seemed like Christmas. And even then, it struck me as unlike me Grandma to care for anything so, well, so modern. It felt really out of place in her living room.

As I say, I don't think she had it for very long, perhaps a couple or three years. And I suppose, seeing it impressed me enough that I remember it somehow,  even vaguely fondly, it qualifies as a good Christmas memory. Gotta admit, I am smiling over it right now.

The Fruits of Their Labor

When I was taking Education classes in college two recurring themes among my professors were that nothing was truly right or wrong for its own sake, and that you could be anything you wanted to be. As you might imagine, I argued with them constantly.

It's no wonder teachers can't teach. There's no true subject matter. The kind of subjectivity found in no-right-or-wrong lessons is profound in its lack of depth, and simply begs for poor thinking (if it actually invites any thinking at all). Add on be anything you want you be and do you know what you get? Students who don't have to care about reality.

Is it a wonder today that we have little respect for others, and feel entitled to act however we please? Can we expect kids raised that nothing is right or wrong be civil to others? Can we expect them to think things through when they don't have to, nothing being right on its own? 

Hell no, as me Grandpa Joe would say.

There is right and there is wrong. Until you accept that truism there's no reason for respect. You can't even presume to command it precisely because it does not exist, if there is no right and no wrong.

You cannot be absolutely anything you want to be. You cannot be the impossible: men are men and women are women for example, and that's it. End of discussion. Next question.

Charlie Kirk was trying to point out such obvious truths. We should be too.

VW

I won't say that I drive old cars. I don't have to: everyone who knows me knows that. But some are quirky in a way which is actually kind of cool.

For awhile back in 2005 or so I had an old Volkwagen, not a beetle, but a boxy brown car which was sort of a compact type. A Golf, in fact. That's what it was. A Volkswagen Golf. A 1987 Volkswagen Golf.

It ran very well and the gas mileage was outstanding. But coolest of all was that it had stamped into the wheel well under the hood, "Made in West Germany". I was driving a car in 2005 made in a country that no longer existed.

I take pride in things like that.

 

The Day After Christmas

Today is December 26, the day after Christmas. Boxing Day in Canada and many of the old British Dominion countries; a day of extra sales in these United States.

I can't speak for Boxing Day but I can speak a bit about the consumerism of my own nation. As if five weeks of bacchanalia wasn't enough, immediately after the Holiday to end all Holidays (so far as the merchants seem to think) we are told that that isn't all. Stores were opening this morning as early as 6 AM because there's still bargains available to slake your lust for ever more and ever newer baubles and bells. We lament the tax and spend tendency of government; we encourage an earn and spend mentality on our selves. I'm not sure the one's any better than the other.

Take a breath, America. You surely have everything you need and a great many things you simply want, and a great many of those unnecessary. Why not sit back on the 26th and enjoy all that? Revel in the wonderful times and even, yes, the nice things you got for Christmas. Be happy in your family and friends. Don't go after the Next Best Thing. There will always be another once you settle into that shallow mentality. It really only becomes a kind of Hell, keeping up with the Joneses.

Take a breath. Enjoy the leftovers and seek more conversation, more interaction with your family and friends. WalMart and Best Buy won't go out of business if you don't taste of their wares today. Your family and friends will of necessity go off on their own. Be with them now. Your computer simply can't be made made that much faster and the picture on your new TV can't be made that much clearer. But the rest will go all to quickly and all too certainly.

Christmas 2025

Born to raise the sons of earth!

Born to give them second birth!

Hark! The herald angels sing

"Glory to the newborn King!"

Merry Christmas everybody.

Christmas Stamp Confusion

I don't use snail mail very often these days, but there are still things I do which require the aid of the United States Postal Service. Whenever I need stamps during the Christmas Season, I make it a point to buy the ones with Mary and the baby Jesus on them. He is the reason for the season, right?

While at the counter of the local post office the other day, I asked for this year's Madonna stamps. You know, Madonna and Child, Jesus and Mary. 

The clerk looked at me quizzically. "I don't think we have Madonna stamps. She's not dead yet."

Looking back at her quizzically myself I'm sure, she responded to my unspoken question, "Madonna. The singer."

"No, no," I answered. "Madonna and child. Mary and the baby Jesus."

A look of absolute horror jumped onto the young woman's face. "Oh, no! I've said something really bad!" she responded, covering her mouth in sheer terror.

"Oh, I don't think so. It's an honest mistake," I assured her.

I was able to buy the right stamps. And I'm not sure you have to have passed on to be on a postage stamp either. Still, I hope she doesn't feel too bad about it, because I don't doubt her confusion was honest enough.

Eve of the Eve Greetings

All right, folks, I'm afraid I have to call you out. Each and every one of you. Yes, you too, that one of you who thinks I can't be talking about him. It's Christmas Eve Eve, and I'm hearing crickets.

You ought to remember that I created the Holiday I put a lot - a lot - of thought into it. As second after second passed that day so long ago I was beginning to fear that the creative juices had escaped me, that I would not be able to come up with this new day to celebrate. Yet I did find the inspiration, and offered you the fruit of my genius free of charge and for your own benefit. And what have you done with it?

Nothing. Zip, zilch, nada.

So we're going to try it again. Get with the program, slackers. Yes, even you. You know who you are.

Happy Christmas Eve Eve, everybody!

Was that so hard?

It Wouldn't Stop Joe

God has a special Providence for fools, children, and the United States of America.

- attributed to Otto von Bismarck, first Chancellor of unified Germany

Should you pray for God's help when you're about to do something really, really stupid? I don't mean stupid accidentally or incidentally. I mean when you're actively and willfully planning to do something dumb. Very dumb, fantastically ill advised in fact. I'm talking about planning to do exactly the kind of thing every ounce of reason says you should not do.

I needed a cable fitting for a repair the other day and did not have a new one. So I either had to order one and wait a few days to finish the repair, or use the lone one I actually already had. The trouble was, the one I had was welded onto the end of an old cable. That meant that for me to use it I had to cut through the weld with a high speed saw. I won't bore you with the details. But trust me, the very idea was far from smart. I had visions of lopping off a finger. The pointer on my left hand was even experiencing pre-injury phantom pains.

'Joe would do it', I said to myself, referring to me Grandpa Joe, who frequently took silly chances in life. Obviously that didn't really help my argument, as those of you who knew Joe would agree. Still, I thought, if I don't cut the weld and use the fitting the machine will be in the way for several more days and we don't have much room to work lately, it being so busy. I decided to do it. 

Rounding up whatever protective equipment I had on hand at the Shop, I prepared for the task. There wasn't much; Joe wasn't big on trifles such as preventing grievous bodily harm and I never actually followed up with the institution of better safety protocols. Still, I put on what I had and said a prayer (I honestly and sincerely did) to God for my safety. You know, like to not sever my jugular vein.

I managed the job safely, being very slow and deliberate. I then finished the repair. I did also take a minute to thank God afterwards for having steadied my hand and keeping me safe. I suspect, however, that my Guardian Angel was on his third pint.

Universally Nonuniversal

I'm pretty good at holding my temper. But damn, that can be a challenge some days.

I spoke to a customer yesterday, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who wanted to come by and have one of those 'universal' foot pedals installed on his machine. A foot pedal is a common way to activate your drain snake.

"There is no universal foot pedal, Cloyce," I informed him. "There is no one style of foot pedal which works on every drain snake out there. But you can bring your machine down and I'll see what I can do."

"Oh no, Cosgriff, I'm holding one of those universal foot pedals in my hand right now. I just need you to install it."

This is a prime example of where I have trouble holding my temper. Truth be told, I want to lose it in situations like that. Still, you know, maturity and crap. "You can bring it with you Cloyce, and there is some interchangeability among foot pedals. But until I see it I can't promise you I can install it, at least not right away," I replied.

"You'll figure out something Cosgriff." Well, I ought not have to figure something out if it's universal, Cloyce.

His pedal didn't work on his machine without my having to change the air diaphragm switch which it was supposed to engage with. But that's universal parts for ya, Cloyce.

Did You Know?

Did you know that if you don't put a coffee mug in your Keurig that coffee will spill onto the machine and the surrounding countertop? It can also drip all over the floor too. Or that it might take several kitchen towels to clean everything up? There's that as well.

Yep. You need to put a coffee mug on the tray of your Keurig, or you'll get a mess. Yep. It's true.

The Other Professional Football League

Today marks the start of the NCAA college football playoffs. NCAA football or, if we're honest about it, the other professional football league. 

It's true, you know, at least at the higher levels. With literally billions of dollars at, ahem, play, and athletes themselves getting NIL, Name, Image, and Likeness, money, we are far beyond amateurs playing for school bragging rights or poor kids getting an education through sports which they wouldn't otherwise get. It's all about the money. Again, at least at the highest levels anyway.

It's not about getting an education. Most of these players are in sports management or some such nonsense. It's not about the school or school pride, it's about the personal brand. You can now leave for a better deal. Hell, it's not even about selfless sportsmanship. When you treat the other guy like an enemy when all you're doing is playing a game, if you have to 'fire up' to participate, you've gone a step too far. Several, in fact, but that may be for another day.

The intellectually honest thing to do would be to disassociate the games from the schools. Cut them off and let them go their own way. It's not like the money isn't there. Yet intellectual honesty is something college sports, like politics, can't, or won't, see. 

Hey, enjoy it, if that's your entertainment. But say what it is. And it's professional football.

A Serious Request

The title is serious: I'm making a serious request here. But seriously, and I will stop making this sound unserious after this, I really could use your help.

If you have an Amazon account, would you be willing to 'follow' me please? Just go to any page with one of my books on it, find my pen name (Charles Martin Cosgriff) and click follow. This will help me manage my books more closely, and will help the algorithm, the famous algorithm, to find and suggest me to other Amazon shoppers.

Full disclosure: this will open you up to receive emails or other solicitations from Amazon about updates to my books or author page, and perhaps other Amazon entreaties as well. If you don't want to be subject to such, I understand. I'm throwing myself at your goodwill and tolerance, and no hard feelings if you don't want to deal with it.

I will happily reciprocate if you're on Amazon yourself, and follow you. I will put my proverbial money where my mouth is. 

Thank you in advance!

What Would Heinrich Do?

Heinrich Himmler was the head of the Gestapo during World War II. Most of you know that I'm sure, but I needed to establish the fact just the same.

I peruse many message boards on subjects of interest to me, where questions are asked and experts answer. As a student of history many of the places I frequent address people and events from the past. A favorite is a site about the Second World War.

Most of the questions are rather broad ranged. What were the German aims in the War? Why did they attack Russia? Things like that. Some are speculative. If Hitler hadn't declared war on the United States, how would that have affected the outcome? If the US only fought Japan, how would things have turned out? Some queries are technical: How close were the Nazis to an atomic bomb? What were the fiercest weapons used? Others ask about the specifics in battles. You get the point. There's a wide array of inquiries.

Yet one unusual question the other day stopped me in my mental tracks. It was, What was Heinrich Himmler's management style?

It took me a few minutes to process the query, all of it broken with stilted laughter as I stared at my computer screen. His management style? He was the head of the bloody Gestapo. I suppose it was something along the lines of, you do this or it's the firing squad! 

Was this an honest question or some kind of trolling? I hope it was trolling, high schools seniors just being stupid.

There was an attempt at a serious answer by the way. It basically said Himmler's management style was top down and detail oriented. I label that understatement.

Indexing

Our furnace went out overnight Sunday to Monday. Happy days. At least it didn't pick the very coldest time to fail us. But it seems to have tried.

Yet this provided an instance where Marty, yes, even Marty, was able to take advantage of an inspiration he had years ago. I began saving phone numbers with clues to the owner. One customer might be 'Cloyce, owns C', for example. This meant his name was Cloyce and he owned a Model C Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs). As such, I had an solid idea of who was calling when the phone summoned me.

Likewise, this habit helps in other ways. If I want to call someone it gives me a clue who to look up. In this week's case, I couldn't remember my furnace guy's name. So I literally search my contacts for 'Furnace Guy' and up pops 'Steve Furnace Guy'. Hey presto, I'm on my way to renewed home heating.

Of course, I don't save Ron as anything but Ron. Because, Ron. Those who know, know.

Satisfying and Meaningful

This is a very well written and and imaginative book offering hope in a world devoid of human sentiment. The main character is able to learn from the natural world around him the real meaning of existence. Sometimes even good intentions can go terribly wrong but with determination the wrong can be righted. The ending of this book is also satisfying and meaningful.

It's quite sublime to have reviewers offer such kind words. This writer liked my book A Subtle Armageddon, a book I was almost afraid to make available because I feared it was obscure in meaning and intent. Yet at least some of its readers see the point.

A Subtle Armageddon is available here. My other books, Michael's Story, The Interim Generation, David Gideon, and Family Lore you might also find worthwhile.

Baseball Theology

I exchanged several text messages with a good friend of mine yesterday. We're both huge baseball fans and both Catholic, so I knew he would get the joke. But I believe most anyone will appreciate the following quip as well.

At one point Nick texted that it seemed most people's baseball memories begin at about 8 years old. I agreed, citing theology. 

You see, the Catholic Church teaches that the age of reason is 7. Typically it's at seven years old we are able to differentiate and appreciate the good from the bad, the right from the wrong, the well from the ill. So I responded it makes perfect sense that we would learn to love baseball by 8. We've reached the age of reason.

I can't think of a better explanation.

 

Near Reunions

One day back in 2003, me Pops, me self, and me son Charlie sat at the office in the Shop, drinking coffee. Hey, it was a well deserved break. We'd been working hard that day.

Anyway, for whatever reason me Pops was staring up at the calendar on the wall. He observed, "Man, time flies. I have my fiftieth high school reunion coming up."

Curious myself about mine at that remark I did some quick math and said, "Yeah, really. Looks like my twenty-fifth is next year." 

As a little smarmy smile grew on his face, me son Charlie remarked, "I'm coming up on my second."

Touche, boy. Touche.

I Forget

Whelp, I was supposed to blog about something particular this morning, but I can't remember what it was. The only thing I definitely recall is a promise not to say, Quiet Ron. So I guess the floor is yours Ron old buddy, because I got nuthin'.

Rand Paul's Tax Plan

I just read where Senator Rand Paul of Kentucky has proposed eliminating the income tax and replacing it with a national sales tax. I could live with that.

He would exempt necessary items from the tax, things such as food and clothing. Very nice. The tax would be 23% on all else. Yes, that sounds like a lot. At almost one dollar in four it should sound huge. But what percentage of your paycheck is held back each week anyway?

A sales tax is automatically graduated, meaning the rich will naturally pay more. They're not going to hide money in a hole in the ground like misers, after all. Not the vast majority of them anyways. And it rids us of the income tax which, and I will insist on this point, is immoral anyway. It's none of the government's business how much money you make. With an income tax it becomes their business. That's. Just. Wrong.

So there's my mini-rant for today. Oh, Paul's plan will fail, because the government doesn't really care about the people after all. But that's another mini-rant for another mini-day.

Teen Cloyce

A few years back (okay, quite a few years back; quiet Ron) when my children were in middle school, I spent some time as a baseball coach on their various teams. It was generally fun, and made for easy Dad points. I got credit for doing stuff with the kids all the while doing something I liked, namely messing around on a ball diamond hitting and catching and throwing with relatively like minded young individuals.

One day before a practice a fellow dad of a young boy on the team, I'll call the kid Teen Cloyce just to give him a name, asked if I could possibly give his son a ride home. "Sure," I told him. It was no trouble at all, and it wasn't. Mostly.

After practice I waited for all the other kids to get picked up, as I was head coach at the time and that was part of the job. When the last left I told me son Frank and Teen Cloyce, "I'm a bit hungry. You guys feel like McDonald's?"

It was surprisingly easy to convince a couple of 13 year olds that that was a fine idea. So we headed for the nearest Mickey D's.

We went inside and ordered at the counter. That's when Teen Cloyce out of the blue asked the young woman cashier, "Do you guys have one of those hidden warning buttons that you push to call the cops when someone's trying to rob the place?"

I'd have rather he had been brazen enough to ask her for her phone number. Instead she stopped suddenly and, mouth agape and eyes becoming pied, stared at Teen Cloyce. Then she looked fearfully at me, who was standing aside stupidly, my hands in my hoodie pockets exactly as though I might be carrying a hidden weapon. Her eyes began darting around for the manager.

That was when it hit me what Teen Cloyce had asked. "Cloyce! You don't ask things like that!"

"I was just curious!" he replied, slightly panicked by then himself.

Turning to the cashier I said, overly and overtly calmly, "We're just here for a late lunch." 

With a nervous smile she gave me my change. But I insisted to the boys that we would take our meals to a nearby park to eat.

Columbo: Master Plumber

You remember how Peter Falk as the TV detective Columbo would always set up the guilty party? He'd pester them with visits and queries all through the show. He'd eventually go back to them towards the end of an episode and ask a few more questions before appearing satisfied. Typically he would turn to leave, only to reverse course and say to the perp, "But one more thing..." You knew he was going to ask the crowing question, the one that would seal the deal and show the guy did in fact commit the murder. It became Columbo's catchphrase. I always looked forward to it.

I no longer do. We have our own version of Columbo who comes into the Shop, a plumber who never seems quite finished with us. We dread his arrival, me brother Phil and I, because he'll always start with a couple things for us to do. Then he thinks another, and afterwards typically a third or fourth. Finally he will always actually leave the old barn, to reappear at the door a minute or two later to say, "But one more thing..."

Yeesh. Especially when both my brother and I are there, if he would tell us everything at once we could both attack his repairs (or fill his orders as the case may be) and expedite things. We've even told him that. He will comply on the next trip, maybe, and then go right back to being Columbo the Master Plumber.

The other day was no different. He didn't pull out of the driveway for 90 minutes. After the first 60 he left only to come back in about that one more thing. Then he sat in his van for 15 minutes longer before finally leaving. It was an eternity for me and Phil; we kept expecting one more one more thing.

I would have confessed to murdering the Queen Mother by that point.

Danger, Will Robinson

Dashboard warning lights. They're there to help. But hell, if one of my vehicles didn't have the check engine light on it wouldn't feel right.

Oil lights are another thing entirely. Mine came on my new old van this morning. I turned off the car to check the oil level. It was full and clean.

I turned the new old van back on. No oil pressure light. I've driven several miles now and everything appears fine.

I call that problem solved, and am going about my day.

Bread and Circuses

I normally don't swim in these waters anymore. But at times the atmosphere gets to me just the same.

I don't like playoffs. They're one of the reasons, and perhaps the main reason, which turn me off from sports. If you'll excuse the admittedly vague pun of a dad joke, I don't like being played by playoffs. And that's what playoffs do. They try to manufacture excitement solely for the sake of cash and prestige. And that, I will argue, diminishes sports and wastes time.

Take Indiana's win over Ohio State yesterday. A great win? Not in this day and age. Sure, they beat OSU for the first time in 31 games. It's Indiana's first Big Ten Championship since 1967, when even I was but a child. And what's their reward for it? Basically, a pat on the head followed by, 'win two more games to prove yourself'.

If they don't win a national championship the conference title is no more than a footnote. If they should meet Ohio State again and lose, it will be thought of as a fluke. Indiana will have effectively won the wrong game.

Yes, it may not happen that way. Maybe the Hoosiers will win a Natty. That still accomplishes the same purpose: a meaningless and forgotten win over the Buckeyes on a cold December Saturday. Win it all or you're in the dustbin. Losers rarely get more than apologetic afterthoughts.

The championship is all that matters. And that has to be made even more difficult by adding more hoops to leap through, all so that more money can be made. There's talk of expanding college football playoffs to 16 for no other purpose than that. Don't try to argue integrity. All adding four more teams to a playoff field means are four more teams without a realistic chance to win. 

Now, if watching and rooting are your hobby, by all means enjoy. We aren't talking about any evil. At least, I don't think so anyway. But I am open to the question, quite frankly. Bread and circuses don't strike me as the best expressions of humanity or human effort.

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. 

Lions Football

Although football isn't my favorite sport, that doesn't mean I don't pay attention. So the following are my thoughts after Thanksgiving's Detroit Lions loss to the Green Bay Packers.

Adjust, Dan Campbell. Adjust. Sometimes it's best to take the points. Sometimes you should just punt. I'm rather tired of hearing, basically, 'We gamble; it's who we are'. Become something different, then. Good teams adjust, and gambling isn't always smart, because you know what? You should have kicked those field goals. You know what I mean. You should have known at the time too.

It will take the Lions 4-1 the rest of the way to make the playoffs. That is within the team's range. But Dallas isn't a gimme (the Cowboys have played well of late and are fighting for their own playoff lives) and neither are the Steelers (though they appear inconsistent). The Rams will beat them. The Bears cannot be taken lightly either, especially after beating the Eagles. I don't see 4-1; I really don't see 3-2, truthfully.

Yes, you've had questionable calls go against you. And some have gone for you. That's simply the NFL. When rules are subject to the great degree of interpretation as those of American Football, what do you expect? There will be a lot of human error, but no one's out to get you. Deal with it. To be fair, I think Coach Campbell does. This is more directed at the fans.

Are these the same old Lions? They kinda are. If outside forces aren't against them (because I do agree that bad officiating has hurt them particularly at times) they just can't seem to rise to the occasion when the opportunity is there. Dropped passes, poor decision making, a lack of execution: that's on them. It tends to happen at the worst time. Injuries are a factor, and the Lions have had their share of them. All that said, I think we're already at wait 'til next year time. SOL.

Understatement

Christmas is upon us. Even if you didn't know anything about the Holiday you could not possibly miss the excess which surrounds it.

That isn't a bad thing in and of itself. On a commercial level, well, yet it is. Buy! Buy! Buy! is not a mantra for self reflection and growth. It fails too as a signal of hope and welcome. Yet to transform your home into a special place for Christmas is another thing entirely. 

Even that can be taken too far, although I will not and cannot pass judgment on what you think enough in your own abode, on your own property. Do as you will, and I will likely admire it in a spirit of wonder and awe just the same. Still, I rather prefer an understated decor. A nice tree and a nativity scene on the mantle would satisfy me.

It is in the quiet that the transformational appears. Gabriel's horn may blast on the Judgment Day, yet we are past change then and into what we have become. Before that, where do were learn the most deeply? In quiet anticipation where wonder grows delicately in expectation of full bloom, or with a glare that blinds us?

A Christmas tree by itself lighting a room, all darkness around it, I find a greater draw to the happiness beyond, the God-child in the manger who is our sole joy. Go to the light and all will be well.

A Very Catholic Joke

Awhile back me brother Phil and I passed a school as we were driving along. "Oh, look," I said, pointing at a sign. "St. John's Jesuit Academy."

"Hm. I wonder if it's Catholic?' Phil remarked. We both laughed pretty good at that. I actually almost had a spit take with my coffee.

For non-Catholics, the Jesuits are an order of priests who for most of the last 100 years or so have frequently, ah, engaged in questionable theology and methodology. Quite bluntly, think Pope Francis, himself a Jesuit. Conservative Catholics such as Phil and I find them tedious if not, I will say it, heretical.

To drive the point home further, I remember about 40 years ago I had the chance to meet one Dr. William Marra, a relatively well known at the time Catholic philosopher and teacher. He asked where I went to college. "The University of Detroit," I answered, a Jesuit university.

"Oh. Have you been to confession yet?" Dr. Marra asked without missing a beat. He had an idea of what and how they were teaching there during my tenure.

You get the point I'm sure. Even if you aren't Catholic.

Thanksgiving 1984

Giving thanks means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. Sometimes I wonder if it might help if we were to whittle that down to one or two specifics, simply to emphacize what we really should be thankful for. You know, find something small and specific as an illustration of a broader point.

We might say as a general point that we are thankful for family. That's a good thing, right? Yet how about a concrete example of that? For me, one such example is Thanksgiving 1984.

There were only just the three of us in the immediate family at the time. We had Thanksgiving Dinner at Nana and Paw Paw's, and waddled down the block home in the late afternoon, an hour or so before dark. There had been about a two inch snowfall, enough so everything was covered in a nice and clean white blanket. We went into the backyard to play in the snow a bit before actually going inside.

My wife and I began tossing snow up in the air, and Charlie followed suit as best an almost two year old could, all of us laughing and giggling as we watched the spray dissipate. Then we found a slat from an old picket fence and I made a snowball, while Gail took the piece of fence and held it like a bat in Charlie's hands. I pitched the snowball gently; Charlie 'swung' mightily with his mother's help. The ball exploded when hit, and all three of us laughed out loud. Charlie laughed especially hard, as only small children can laugh, without holding back, in a more free spirited manner than us adults. We did it again and again, several times over, each time cackling madly when the snowball vanished in a spray of white. We did it, I don't know how many times. But each time was a laugh riot. It's a memory that even then, forty one years ago now, I knew I would never forget.

It's a prime example of being thankful for family. You'll hear more from me involving everyone else in the family as time goes on. But this being Thanksgiving, I felt it a good place to start.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Beefy's Thanksgiving

I believe I've established that my old buddy Beefy liked to take a pull or two at the bottle of the demon rum. Now we all know what that can do a man's thinking. Here's what it did to him one fine day.

Beef was still living at home with mom and dad when in his early 20s. Yet he wasn't like so many youngsters that he mooched off his folks. He contributed to the household, helping with the bills up to and including food for the holidays. Yeah, by his own admittance he drank too much in them days. But he did his part just the same.

He was sitting at a bar one night a day or two before Thanksgiving while a friend of his expounded on the value of fresh turkey. You buy it live, then dress and cook it yourself. It was much better than the frozen birds from your local market. The bar friend even told Beefy where he could buy live turkeys, even at that late date and that close to the holiday.

Sliding off his stool the next minute, Beefy resolved, even in his altered state, to treat his family to a fresh turkey dinner that very Thanksgiving. He went out and bought a fresh, and remember live, bird.

Now on his way home it occurred to Beef that if one fresh turkey was good, two oughta be a whole lot better. They really should. So when he arrived at home he took the one he had, opened the back door by the kitchen, and tossed a rather upset wild fowl inside, yelling, "Get that one ready Ma, I'm gonna get another!" 

I can't imagine what it was like chasing a live turkey all over a house. But I'm sure Beefy's mother described it to him adequately.

Car Care

Upon leaving my teaching job one night years ago I found a young woman, one of my students, standing in the cold in front of the school. We struck up a conversation as she was waiting for her ride, and she mentioned that she almost had saved enough money for a good used car. "My Aunt actually offered me her two year old car for free rather than trading it in," she told me. "But as nice as that was of her I didn't take it. I don't want to have to care about a car." Her emphasis was on care.

I get that. Nice and shiny and new is, well, nice. So nice in fact that you have to care about it. I understand of course that you have to care about it enough to keep it in good running shape: change the oil, have good tires, fix a cracked windshield perhaps. But this young woman's point was more that, when something is in really great shape, you care about everything. A little ding or scratch becomes a catastrophe, because it ruins nice and new. A ding or scratch on something already dinged and scratched means nothing. Especially with something like cars, whose only purpose is getting you from point A to point B, why worry over minutiae?

That's part of why I always buy used cars. Perhaps I take it to extremes (quiet Ron) but I've never cared about an extra ding or a new scratch. It's only a car. Nothing more.

Wiper Cost

When I first picked up my newer older van, the 96 Chevy which went to newer older van Heaven in Alger this past August, it needed windshield wiper blades. Therefore, off I went to the auto parts store for replacements.

In the parking lot I plucked the blade off the driver's side, the worst of the two, to measure it against the new ones. An attendant in the store asked me if he could help. "I need wiper blades," I explained. Then I was able to use one of those ever-so-clever Dad jokes which everyone enjoys. "Unless you can fix this one," I said, showing the young man the shredded old wiper. Humoring an old man, he politely answered no, although he was likely feeling sorry for my kids and grandkids, a thought he kindly kept to himself.

Hammering away on a computer keyboard he soon found the requisite part number. "We have super fantastic ultra reinforced life changing windshield wiper blades for $29.99!" he exclaimed with confidence.

Now it was time for the famous Spock raised eyebrow. "Young man, it's a vehicle which is 27 model years old. I'm not spending that kind of money on wiper blades."

Sheepishly smiling, he went back to his search. A minute later he offered, "We have the in-store brand for seven dollars, sir."

"Thank you. I'll take two," I replied. I mean, how life changing can windshield wipers be?

Walking and Reminiscing

As I took my usual morning constitutional around my Woodbridge neighborhood this morning I found myself thinking about the things which used to be here as opposed to the things which are here now. It was a nice walk.

At the corner of Forest and Trumbull there was once a store called, I believe, Hattie's. Hattie sold mostly clothes and fashion accessories, hats and the like. It was the kind of store you used to see in neighborhoods when there were true neighborhoods. I remember being in it with Mom; it had a thirties feel, if my mind isn't superimposing a memory. Across the street was an old Cunningham's Drug Store. Detroiters remember Cunningham's, don't we? At one time it was a thriving local chain.

Next to Hattie's was the Marble Bar, which me Pops said had a reputation for being rough even back in the forties. But I remember being impressed with its facade: an art deco monster which read, surprisingly enough, 'the Marble Bar' in rising maroon letters left to right, all set on a ledge which ran above the entrance. A half block down Trumbull the other way sits a liquor store which fronts a dollar store. The whole building used to be an A&P way back when I was not even ten.

At Trumbull and Merrick was once the Trumbull Merrick market, the bread and milk store I've spoken about I'm sure. Now it's the Woodbridge Pub and has helped develop a good vibe in the neighborhood. Immediately next to it is a pizza store. I like their pizza okay, but it's really just pretentious, overpriced hipster pizza. I say that with all due respect. If you like it, cool, and it does have a good reputation. At least among the pretentious.

Just down from that was Kashat's Party Store, which is now a sushi place. Sushi is okay if you like it, I suppose, but I liked it better as Kashat's. But all things must pass, it is said.

So that's it for today. I'm not particularly melancholy nor euphoric just now. I'm just thinking about the old, and new, neighborhood.

The Apple Falls

They say they apple doesn't fall far from the tree. They say that because it's true.

Me Pops would routinely get, I thought, very hung up on time. He would always want the first appointment of the day with his doctor, typically 8 AM, and would be in the waiting room at 7:15. Dad was the prototypical dad: it doesn't hurt at all to get there a bit early. 

I generally felt he thought too much about how much time something would take. Back in the day, he might be sending me on a pickup that was four miles from the old barn and hasten me along with the admonition, "You better go, it's going to take most of the morning." Not really, I would think to myself. It could take maybe as long as 45 minutes if things worked modestly against me, but no big deal.

Yesterday morning I was sending me brother Phil out for two stops, one in Oak Park, one in Ferndale. They are near northern suburbs of Detroit, neighbors, in fact, as they share city limits on one side. At most they're six miles from the Shop. We're looking at no more than a 15 mile round trip. Even factoring in the inevitable down time at both stops it would take Phil an hour, hour and a half or so, tops, outside of a catastastroke, as me Grandpa Joe used to say, to get the job done.

Still, as Phil pottered around the old barn for a few minutes before leaving I found myself thinking, "You oughta get going, boy, it's going to take you most of the day." I didn't say it, but I thought it.

Either way, the apple has fallen.

No Nonsense Barber

As I was way overdue for a haircut, having not had one since September, I found a reasonably priced barber ($14, for the record) in Garden City last Saturday and decided that was a sign to get rid of my excess and wild hair.

I was greeted by a young woman who asked, in an odd, demanding way, as though she had a chip on her shoulder, "Can I help you?"

"Uh, I'd like a haircut."

"Siddown," she commanded, ripping a barber's apron off a chair.

I saddown.

She asked how I wanted my hair cut. "Fairly short on the sides, leave me something to comb," I answered. The I added, trying to be funny, "I want to look like my dad."

"Doesn't help me," she responded tersely. 

It, uh, wasn't a serious statement. "Well, then, just short with something to comb," I reiterated, cowed.

Don't barbers have to take the same chit chat course as barkeeps? Trying to hold up my end of that deal, I attempted to converse. "Cold day, isn't it?"

"uh-hmm." 

"Been cutting hair awhile?"

"Yes."

"Think the Lions'll win tomorrow?"

"Could."

It was then that I realized how very focused she was at her job. I've never seen anyone quicker with the shears, scissors, or a straight razor. Seeing as my eyeballs and ear lobes were in her firing range, I decided to leave her to her work. The fact is she was fast, so much so that I decided I shouldn't risk breaking her concentration. But she was smooth, too. The shears were almost gliding, with no pull at all on my hair. Her scissoring was sharp and crisp, and her job with the straight razor on the final trim work would shame a mob enforcer. Typically that trim work leaves the back of a man's neck a bit red and raw. Not mine, not yesterday.

And the haircut itself was very good, one of the best I've had. I tipped her four bucks. Her lips almost curled into a smile as she said, "Thank you." She was clearly trying to smile. I believe though that she had to fight muscle memory to force even that much of grin.

Just the same, I'll have her cut my hair again. I'll just leave the chit chat at home.

Lost Youth

One of the stories which me Pops liked to tell on himself involved me Grandpa Joe's, his dad's, flatbed trucks which were used for delivery in his welder rental business. These flatbeds were typically about four foot high. When he was a teenager and even into his twenties Dad used to take a run at the back of the trucks and leap onto the bed, ending up in a crouch and rising to full height upon sticking the landing. He did it for kicks, as young'uns do.

One day when he was around 30 the old man found himself eying the back of a truck. Wondering whether he could still make that leap, Pops began a trot towards the open end of the vehicle and jumped as hard and as high as he could. Yet rather than landing as he once could he cracked his shins across the steel beams which surrounded the truck bed and fell into a painful heap upon it.

"I never did that again," he would end the tale ruefully. 

Electrical and Mechanical

I am no electrical expert. I admit that. But I do know some things about electric motors and how they work.

I am not a mechanical engineer either. Yet I know that what is entirely mechanical, while it may be driven by electricity, is at heart mechanical, components put in motion. 

It is not unusual for a drain snake with an electric motor to have what is called a slip clutch. It has little to nothing to do with the motor. 

A customer brought me an electric snake which hummed or buzzed when you turned it on. Nothing more. It clearly had an electrical issue. The young man insisted that if I replaced the clutch the problem would be solved. "I'm sorry, but it won't," I informed him. I demonstrated that the clutch, which can turned by hand, was working properly. "You have a motor problem."

"But I had three or four guys tell me that if I replaced the clutch everything would be all right."

Well, then. Why didn't they fix it? Why are you coming to me? I wanted to go full on Joe Cosgriff and explode at the customer, but I didn't. I took a deep breath, a very deep breath, and I let it out slowly. Very slowly. Then I said, in an almost perfect Mr. Spock voice (if you can accomplish such through gritted teeth), "I am going to suggest that they are mistaken."

He's taking the machine to an electric motor shop for their opinion. Good for him, bad for them.

A Beautiful Thing

While I was at Sunday Mass with The Ohio Cosgriffs in Newark this past weekend an unfortunate thing happened. The Deacon, Deacon Patrick to be specific, had a seizure while delivering the homily. He had turned towards the altar while preaching, yet when he turned back to the congregation his face went blank. Deacon Patrick stood in the pulpit staring into the distance until a Medical doctor attending Mass went to check on him, along with the priest who sat nearby and a couple other congregants. They led him gently from the altar and through a side exit. Within minutes an ambulance was heard, taking the Deacon to emergency.

It turns out that the poor man had a history of seizures. While I don't know his current status it appears a safe presumption that he's okay. Yet at the time, the unknowing congregation sat stunned. Within a few moments of silence my daughter-in-law Tarina began out loud, "Hail Mary, full of grace..." The rest of us soon joined in, as Tarina led us in three Hail Mary prayers and one Glory Be. Most everyone it seemed joined in the prayers. It gave us a chance to express our feelings, and the priest a moment to gather himself before continuing the Mass.

I told her afterwards that it was a beautiful thing for her to do. She shrugged it off as just something she felt needed doing. But I am very proud of her.

Calling A Bluff

I've been in sales for a while now, and I like to think I have an idea how the game is played. One piece involves discounts. I'm not opposed to them...if the volume is there. So, as it's said, show me the money.

One time a fellow did just that. And I still have his money.

Someone I'd never seen before came to me at the old barn about buying an Electric Eel, the snakes I sell. After going through all the early process, showing him a unit and what goes with it, we came to the real nitty gritty. We began talking cost.

"I'm going to be big, Cosgriff, real big," he was preaching to me. "I'll bring you all my business. Can you help me out?"

"Whaddaya want?"

"Ten percent. I'm gonna buy a lot of stuff off you, man."

I hedged. You can usually tell when you're dealing with someone who's putting you on, painting a grand vista; playing with cow cookies. Yet this time, instead of turning him down flat I thought I'd call his bluff. "What's your initial order?" I asked.

"Five," he answered without hesitation.

"Deal," I answered in kind. At the time the units sold for around two grand, so his total was in the area of $10,000. I'd go ten off for that.

"Write me up Cosgriff, and I'll give you a down payment," he says, with an unwarranted degree of self assurance. "I'll pay the balance when you get the stuff." So I wrote him up. 

He gave me twenty dollars.

As Mr. Going Big left, me Pops was staring at me with uncertainty. "You're taking quite a chance on someone you don't know."

"He ain't coming back, Dad. He's trying to play big shot." Pops shook his head gently and grinned.

I never even bothered to process the order. And here better than a decade later, I still have his twenty bucks.

Losing temper like Joe

Me Grandpa Joe, as I think I've well established, had a hair trigger temper. Most of the time, God love him, he should have never lost it. But damn, sometimes I wish I could lose my temper like he'd lose his. I think some people deserve to have someone blow up at them.

One day last a man who had left a machine with us for repair couldn't find our Shop. Now I'll grant that we can be hard to find; we aren't hidden or anything but our building does sit back a ways off the street and is easily overlooked if you don't watch closely. Still, he called three times, presumably knew where we were, and I gave him the address each call with increasingly more specific descriptions of where we were. On the third call he said, "I'm right at the light at Warren and Rosa Parks, where are you?"

I can see the light at Warren and Rosa Parks from the Shop door. He. Was. Not. There. "Look behind you. Do you see a black van (mine) or a green one (me brother Phil's)?"

"I don't see no vans. But I know where your shop is."

That's where I wanted to blow up like Joe. I wanted to scream, like Joe would, "No, you do not see the vans. If you did, you would be where my Shop is and not where you are and we would not be on the phone. But you aren't where I am, so you do not know where I am!" Instead I said, "Stay where you are and I'll come find you."

He was a half block south of me. He did not come past the green house as I told him to. He was not directly across the street from the Murray-Wright High School parking lot, despite my having told him we were immediately across from it and despite his having insisted he was. He was not 'right at' the light at Warren and Rosa Parks. He was entirely wrong about everything he said.

I spotted him as soon as I cleared that green house as I walked towards Rosa Parks. I waived him in. "See, I knew where I was at!" he exclaimed as pulled up to the old barn. 

"No you didn't!" I wanted to scream. Instead I said, through gritted teeth, "Here's your machine. It's $100. We'll load it for you." I wanted to add, now go away, but managed to avoid that too. But damn, I really wish I'd gone all Joe on him.

Near and minor injury

Getting older means, among other things, being more careful about little stuff. Stuff such as picking up your feet when you walk.

Hiking around the neighborhood the other day I nearly went end over end when I hit my left foot against a slightly high section of sidewalk. I managed to keep my balance, not falling even though I took a couple drunk looking steps regaining my balance. Laughing as I got back to walking properly, I reminded myself that, particularly as Woodbridge and the Wayne State University area have their share of uneven walks, I really should pick up my feet as I go along. Or at least pay better attention to where I'm headed.

But wait, there's more. As I took my glasses out of my pocket when I arrived at the old barn with morning exercise over, I pinched my finger between the earpiece and the lens as I went to put them on. I tell you I drew blood. Putting my glasses on. Can you imagine that?

I would should you but it's my middle finger and, you know, decorum.

Engine, Engine

I was sitting with an old friend last night, I'll call him Ron just to give him a name, who was lamenting his recent car repairs. $2300 for this and $8000 for that. Expensive stuff.

Then I did the math. His engine repairs cost more than five times, yes, five times what I paid in 2019 for my new old van.

Actually, it would be a bit more than five times his repairs. My new old van only cost me $1700.

Dang.

Thursday Fun

Did you hear about the guy who was stealing appendages from the mannequin factory?

He was found guilty of armed robbery.

Look, I didn't sleep well last night, okay?

Once More Unto The Breach

Do you remember when I lamented folks who have several screws loose? Why, it was only a few days ago.  I asked, how can they not see screws out in the open coming loose?

Someone apparently read that and said, hold my beer. 

A man came into the Shop yesterday, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, asking if I could reinstall the caster on the front of his drain machine. "Sure. Bring it in, Cloyce."

A minute later Cloyce was back in my door, dragging the machine along behind him. He stopped it just inside and handed me a perfectly fine wheel. "I don't know how it came off, Cosgriff."

Let's see. Exactly where it should mount on the base of the unit were four empty, threaded holes. Empty, completely undamaged holes, the 1/4-20 threads pristine. They would not require re-tapping. No pieces of broken bolt were evident, as you might expect if, say, a machine had been hit or dropped. No bent frame, no residue of the old bolts having been ripped out. Just four open holes where the wheel attached. And Cloyce didn't know how it happened, how that wheel could have come off.

I held the caster in place with one hand as I started four new bolts with the other before tightening them with a screwdriver. "What do I owe you Cosgriff?" he asked, a look of genuine fear and dread in his voice, as though it had been a truly difficult and time consuming job.

"Oh, nothing, Cloyce, we do enough business." What can I say? I felt generous.

You would have thought I had rescued him from the jaws of Hell by the growing look of pure joy on his face. "Oh, thank you, thank you, Cosgriff!" he exclaimed, gripping my hand and shaking it fiercely, he was so excited. "I don't what I would have done without you!"

Uh, maybe go to any hardware anywhere and spend 75 cents on common bolts and lock washers? You might have also gotten a standard flathead screwdriver for installation purposes and perhaps leave that in your toolbox in case it might ever be needed again.

I was cool yesterday, Cloyce. But next time it'll cost ya. Not that he would learn anything from it.

Four Hundred Pounds Plus

Me Pops had a lot of great stories about his time in the welder rental and drain snake business. I hope to one day tell them all. One that just popped back into the front of my mind today involved the biggest man Dad ever dealt with. He was a good guy just the same, genuinely helpful and gregarious. But he was big. And he had the strong to go with his size. I'll leave exactly how big and strong to your imagination. But think bigger than you think big is.

To give an example of his size and strength, there was a job where me Pops was delivering welders along with the heavy cables necessary to weld with. These cables weighed a touch over a pound a foot. That particular day Dad had several 200 ft. lengths to deliver.

Guys were coming up to the back of Dad's truck and doubling up, two to a cable, to carry them over to the tool crib. Big Jim walked up and offered Pops a shoulder. "Put one there, Bill," he instructed.

"They're two hundred footers, Jim."

"Put one there," he replied simply, wagging his shoulder at the old man. So Dad did, setting it down as gently as he could. Then Jim turned about and said, "Give me another," indicating his empty shoulder.

"They're all two hundreds," Dad reminded him. Jim replied, "Give me another."

So me Pops set another cable on that shoulder. Big Jim walked away with more than 400 pounds of welding cable on his shoulders as though taking a stroll in the park.

I want him on my side in a rumble.

Quarter by Inch and a Quarter

I sometimes wonder what my kids will think when the time comes to clean out the old barn. It likely won't matter to me at that point. Still, the thought about their thoughts about what they will discover at the Shop at that time does intrigue me.

Will they be as impressed as I am at the five foot tall crescent wrench me Grandpa Joe acquired from somewhere? The two ton electric hoist: will it cross their minds how many welding machines were raised down, in Joe's parlance, over the years? Parts for drain snakes will surely greet them, parts they won't have a clue as to what they're for or how they work or if they should be scrapped, or sold to a needy plumber.

Then there's the box of several, yes, several thousand quarter by inch and a quarter roll pins. I can't imagine any other thought except, what in the world would the old man need those for?

They have their use. Honest. But I'd be happy if the kids simply stuck a few in their pockets as keepsakes. 

Screw Loose

I ought to be far past the point where it would surprise me, but I'm not. You just think that maybe, just maybe, there might be hope for humanity, that things might change. Of course, they don't.

A customer at the Shop the other day came in to have me put a chuck on his machine. The bolts which attach a handle to the unit were loose. Way loose. So loose in fact that the handles were nearly falling off. "Could you tighten those for me, Cosgriff?" the customer asked.

I don't mind doing that per se. What astonished me is how he could have let them get so loose to begin with. That kind of thing doesn't happen overnight. You never noticed it before now? And you're a professional. You have tools. Why didn't you tighten them up eons ago? 

I've seen this with gear cases on certain drain snakes. The case cover is fastened to the machine with six bolts. All six would be loose by several threads, actually leaving a visible gap between the gear case and the gear case cover. Yet the customer would cry and pout to me about the cost of replacement gears because the old gears had ground down to nothing because the gear oil had all leaked out of the gear case because those bolts were clearly loose. It never occurred to you that bolts set in place to attach something to something should actually be made to attach to that something?

I'm not the best myself at certain chores but I know enough about screws and bolts to understand they should be properly tightened and to see when they are not. Yet after 50 years in the old barn folks still come in with absurdly loose connections and then ask, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, could you tighten those?"

Yes I can. But you really didn't think far enough ahead to tighten them before you came to see me? Some things are just beyond explanation.

Joe's Freezing Dander

It never took much to get me Grandpa Joe's dander up. Still, some things, believe it or not, got his dander up to stratospheric levels remarkably fast even by comparison to his normal, uh, standard.

Joe rented welding equipment, as I think I've well established in these pages. And while you likely couldn't do it now even if you wanted as most water lines are nonmetallic, at one time you could de-ice frozen pipes with a welding generator. 

What makes a welder weld is that you complete a circuit when you 'strike arc', that is, apply the welding electrode to the items you wish to fuse together. Don't fret this too much if you can't picture it. Suffice it to say that when you weld, you're completing an electric circuit. When you do that, you create heat. Heating a metal pipe will then melt the ice which has formed within it.

You also effectively create a short circuit when using a welder to de-ice pipes, causing it to overheat. This will eventually, very eventually in Joe's book, destroy his welder.

Grandpa would fly off the handle even faster than usual when he'd hear of some numbskull using one of his machines to thaw pipe. If you believe he had a quick temper anyway, use his equipment wrongly. You'll find out that nothing really is impossible, even shortening Joe's profusely short fuse.

Mal and Mae

Clarence Malachi Hutchins was me Grandpaw Hutchins. He was called Mal by me Grandmaw Hutchins, whom he called Mae, her middle name. You need to know that. Don't worry, there won't be a test. You just need to know.

One day as Mom and I were, she asked what we were shopping for. I told her coffee, among a few other things.

She brightened up as she told a story from her childhood. "Oh, Daddy used to give us kids coffee all the time, and it bothered Mom," my mother was explaining. 

She continued, "Mom used to yell, Mal, you can't be givin' them young 'uns coffee!"

"It ain't gonna hurt 'em, Mae, he'd answer quietly every time, a little smile on his face," Mom finished. 

"I still hear her say that. I still see him smiling."

"I think he did it just to tease her, but I think Mom liked it just the same," Mom ended with a wistful grin.

Okay, not much of a story. But it was nice to hear Mom talk about her parents and her childhood.

Amos's Turkey Day

The story may sound contrived, trite, or obvious. Yet it's a true story. I haven't even changed the names to protect the innocent.

Amos, you'll recall, was an old friend of me Grandpa Joe. You may remember also that he was considered tight. However true that might be, and I suspect that it's been a bit embellished by the myth-makers of family history, he didn't mind spending a few dimes on good causes. One such cause was St. Dominic's annual Fall Festival.

As should be expected at a large party celebrating autumn, among the games and spinning wheels was a turkey booth. You pick a number, you put your money or ticket on that number, the wheel is spun, and should that number come up, you have the entree for your Thanksgiving feast. Amos approached the booth, selected some number not 13 (he was also superstitious, remember?), and waited for the spin of the wheel. He anticipated nothing, but lo and behold, won a turkey on that first try.

Now, two things were at work that day. Amos was genuinely there to support the Church. But then, he also knew his reputation. He figured he couldn't just walk away with the bird. So he played a second time with a second number (still not 13). He won another turkey.

Then a third one.

And finally, a fourth one.

You may rest assured that Amos spread his largesse. He gave away three of the four turkeys. I've no doubt also that he made his way around the school gymnasium and spent his share of hard earned dollars to help old St. Dominic. But to hear me Pops tell it, the look on his face, the sheer mortification at winning four turkeys in a row at a charitable event, was priceless.

Old Days

Yesterday at the Shop a peculiar thing happened. We went back in time. Well, sort of anyway.

As I repaired a machine for a long time customer another voice from the past came in. He knew the guy who was already there. The three of us began talking about way back when.

Within a couple of minutes a third old hand joined us, and then a fourth. The five of us were soon talking about this and that, that guy and another whom we all knew, the advantages of this machine over a comparable one and before you knew it the old barn was once more the gathering place for local drain cleaners and plumbers which it had been, oh, in the 1970s, 80s, and 90s. One participant even remarked, "This is just like old times! This was where everyone used to gather."

It did feel like that. Sometimes you can go back.

Not All That

I voted today. Big deal. And I mean that. Big. Deal.

We're supposed to be all for democracy. Well, I am too. Yet only because we don't have a better, um, choice. Too often democracy is merely a code word, a dog whistle, for tyranny of the majority.

That's all it means, you know, that fifty percent plus one can make everyone else do their bidding. Knowing what I know about human nature, that is not a comfort. 

So yes, by all means vote. Just remember that your neighbor can be a petty tyrant in his own right. As can you.

Attracting Deer

All right, I've been enough of a curmudgeon this week. Let's get back to fun stories.

There was this fella who came in the Shop all the time who we called Beefy because, uh, well, it fit his stature. Like so many Michiganders, he looked forward to deer season. It begins November 15 every year, so as that's coming up soon I found myself thinking of him.

Beefy managed a plumbing company. There was one particular employee whom Beefy didn't like at all, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was an old friend of the company owner. Beefy didn't care for the guy because he was a slacker. Yet he couldn't do anything but deal with Cloyce because of the guy's friendship with the boss. That didn't keep Beefy from complaining about Cloyce every time he was in the old barn though.

One November years ago Beefy walked into the Shop with a couple small repairs. While tending to one I eventually asked a rather obvious question, just making conversation, "So you going out hunting next week Beef?"

"Yep," he kind of drawled. "Taking Cloyce with me too."

"What? You hate Cloyce, and you're going to spend a couple weeks with him in deer camp?" I couldn't believe my ears.

"Oh yeah, I even bought Cloyce some clothes for it. Nice brown suits. I'm going to tell him his job is to run out into the woods and scare up the deer for the rest of us," Beefy explained.

I don't think I stopped laughing for a half an hour.

Cash is King

For awhile there, I was debit-carding nearly everything. It was simply too easy. But I'm consciously using cash more and more again, at least on smaller or routine purchases. Why? As I become increasingly libertarian and realize that everything electronic is tracked and stored, I find myself thinking, admittedly with a bit of a chip on my shoulder, that it's nobody's business what type of coffee I chose this morning or what sales entice me. Also, I can figure things out for myself without being inundated by ads for something I bought once, thank you very much.

Still, I debit one thing nearly always: gas. That's partly because you never know exactly how much it'll take to fill the tank, but mostly because I don't want to deal with people. In particular, the people buying lottery tickets at the cash register. Or, worse, the folks who can't figure out which candy they want, or what flavor tiny cigar.

Yes, yes, yes, they have the right to be there and all that. If they happened to get in line in front me, that's their good luck. But, really now. You won't care what candy you had in twenty minutes, nor what smoke you had matter. And if you want to give away money, just give it to me. Why bother Lansing with extra lottery money which ain't helping the schools anyway, despite their claims?

All right, I'm becoming a curmudgeon and a libertarian. They kind of go together anyway.

Make 'em laugh

What weighs more, a gallon of water or a gallon of butane? A gallon of water, because butane is lighter fluid.

I bought the world's worst thesaurus today. I mean, it's awful. Awful.

After I was shopping yesterday the cashier couldn't scan one of my items. "That must be free," I told her.

Did I ever tell you about when I was fired unjustly from my job at a calendar factory? All because I took a couple days off.

My son complained during the winter that the house was too cold. I told him go stand in the corner. He demanded why. I said the corner is 90 degrees.

You're welcome.

No Place Like Home

I stopped by an old friend's house a few days ago. "You're welcome to whatever you like, Marty. Just treat the place like your own home."

So I threw him out, because I didn't want visitors. 

Okay. Where's my rim shot?

Pure Bull

"Sure Marty, we can bull you."

I must admit I was at first taken aback by that response to an email I sent last week. It was to one of my suppliers in response to a small parts order sent via the ol' Internet.

No one wants bull of course. But in the next part of the reply they had copied and pasted the relevant part of my own missive: 'Please ship and bull Cosgriff Sales...'

I like jokes, and I like joking with people who can joke. Touche, my friend. Touche.

They did add that, kidding aside, they would ship the order within the next three days. 

A Peach of a Morning

Me Pops liked to tell stories. Some of them were even on himself. He once got in trouble with me Grandma Cosgriff, his mother, for eating peaches.

It's true. One morning, Dad always said it was when he was 14, he woke up early and hungry. Grandma as it were had bought a can of peaches. Once Pops spied them on the pantry shelf, their destiny was sealed. They would end up supporting the growth of a strapping teen age boy.

Oh, did I mention that it was a gallon of peaches? And that me young Pops ate the whole syrupy lot?

Grandma was furious. That gallon can was to be dessert for everyone at that evening's supper. It was meant for the whole family, Grandpa Joe and Grandma Cosgriff and all eight kids. And Dad scarfed the entire thing down before breakfast. Which, when served, he ate too.

Joe for his part thought it was hilarious. Dad always seemed overly proud of the accomplishment as well. Yet in telling the tale he never said what Grams did about it. But I tell you what: even I can see the look on her face.

Surviving Superstition

I'm not sure the reasons behind it, but Amos Sheffield whom I've mentioned a few times once went through a spell where he needed many surgeries. For whatever other reasons of which I am also unsure, me Pops ended up the contact person for him. Amos had no children and what family he had were all living in Kentucky.

I should mention here that Amos was extremely, indeed fervently, superstitious.

One day during the course of all Amos' health issues he had to have a surgery fast. It was a we need to know this instant, don't dwell on the answer, we'll lose him if don't operate immediately situations. Yet Amos himself was in a coma and could offer no instructions. Pops happened to be in the hospital and was approached about what to do. Operate, he of course told the doctors.

The surgery was done, and Amos came out in flying colors.

Well past any danger a couple of weeks later, Amos still lay in the hospital recuperating. Me Pops went to pay a visit. As they talked, Pops could see that Amos was calculating. Eventually he asked, in a fit of pique, "That was my thirteenth operation. Why'd you let them do it?" he demanded of Pops.

"What was I supposed to do?" Dad responded incredulously.

"When was the surgery?" Amos then demanded.

"I dunno. Two Fridays ago I guess."

"That was the Thirteenth!" Amos exclaimed. "You let them operate on me for the thirteenth time on Friday the 13th?"

"You're made it, didn't you?" Dad said with a wave of his hands. But I suppose when superstition gets a hold on you, it grabs tight.

Tricycle to the Hydrant

Joe Cosgriff could play fair. Not always, maybe, but who of us do? 

When me Pops, his eldest son, was five, his parents gave him a tricycle. He went out the front of the house to ride it one summer day. "Don't go too far," Joe instructed his boy.

"How far is too far?" my then very young Dad asked.

Joe pointed down the street. "Not past that fire hydrant." Young Pops was on his way.

A neighbor happened to be nearby. "You don't think Bill was rude talking to you like that?" he queried.

"What's rude? He needed to know how far was too far," Joe replied.

The perfect answer, I think.

Saturday Silliness

The big trouble with seasickness? It comes in waves.

I once suffered from hypochondria. Placebos cured me.

My wife insists she isn't putting glue on my firearms. But I'm sticking to my guns.

From Groucho Marx: I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.

I failed math class more times than I can count.

Russian dolls are just full of themselves.

Have you noticed that despite the high cost of living, it remains popular? 

I'll show myself out now...

Disappointed, I Was

I was (cue Willie Nelson) on the road again yesterday. It began at the Electric Eel plant (all right, it began at home, but you know what I mean) in Springfield, Ohio followed by three deliveries in the Toledo area. I got back to Detroit with more money than when I left. It's a good feeling.

Anyway, there's this truck stop in the town of North Baltimore which is a regular, oh, I'm trying not to use the word stop again because it sounds bad to use the same word too often, um, place I visit for coffee and snacks. In this case it was for a breakfast burrito, which was very good, but also to see the Halloween decorations which are typically displayed in the concourse this time of year. They also go all out for Christmas; it's fun stuff to see.

But I was shocked as there were no Halloween decorations at all. Not the least bit. There's usually hulking skeletons and a ten foot tall 'death' all in black and holding a giant scythe, and all sorts of other regalia. Again, I was surprised to the point of shock.

Which leads to the question: was that their point? I was after all shocked, and isn't shocking folks the whole idea behind Halloween? Did they actually intend to shock by have nothing macabre on display? If so, well done, North Baltimore. Or am I thinking too hard?

Well, never that...

Joe and Mal

Me Grandpa Joe and me Grandpaw Hutchins (me Grandmaw Hutchins called him Mal after Malachi, his middle name) were definitely on the opposite sides of the attitude spectrum.  Grandpaw was quiet and reflective. Joe was, well, Joe. His presence was, shall I say, emphatic. I love and respect both.

An interesting thing about Joe was how he did seem to adjust to different personalities when circumstances demanded as much. For as loud and brash as he could be, he always kept a cool and laid back demeanor around me Grandpaw Hutchins. I've long wondered whether Joe saw the calm dignity which emanated from Grandpaw and felt he had to respect that, talking to my maternal grandfather almost in reverence. 

I doubt they met very often in their lives but I noticed even as a boy that Joe was always calm as he talked to Mal. Some folks just command that, even perhaps those with laid back personas.

Better Late

"I say, Martin."

"What's that, old bean?"

"You appear to have neglected something."

"Indeed? What might that be?"

"You failed to, oh, what it is those infernal Americans call it? Blog. You failed to post a blog this morning."

"I have, have I? Well, I'd best rectify that oversight!"

And there you have it. Everybody happy?

Hot Water Cloyce

There was an old friend of me Grandpa Joe, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who regularly stopped by the Shop to visit. I always liked when he showed up. It meant we'd stop work and get coffee, and typically a long coffee break as Cloyce and Joe traded true fiction.

Out coffee pot was a tall thirty cup cylinder. We only used it for hot water though, as we always had instant coffee on hand along with sugar and powdered cream for people who actually do that to their morning joe. Yet while we all made coffee, Cloyce would merely pour himself a cup of hot water and sip on it. Just like that.

I never knew why. I don't think it was because he cheap. Oh, old Cloyce was cheap, quite honestly. But it's rare that someone's cheap with another guy's largesse, although Joe would not have minded at all for Cloyce to have as much coffee as he liked. 

So, Hot Water Cloyce. To each his own I suppose.

A Marathon Rant

It does not look like a good day for the annual Detroit Marathon. Rain will dog it most of the morning. C'est la vie. So much as I do watch, I'll watch from my living room window.

I like the Marathon for the sense of event it brings. I don't like it for tying up my street for twelve hours. Quite frankly, and to perhaps sound like a curmudgeon (I take pride in that) I have the moral right to come and go as I please outside of a true emergency. Everyone does; it's a general interest, not a special interest. And a marathon isn't a crisis, it's a special interest. I'm not sure we ought to clog up city streets for such, even just a few hours a year. I should not have to ask police to move a barricade so that I can go wherever the hell I want to go when I want to go. No one should.

But it brings in money! All right. But it costs money too. Those barricades have to be set up and taken down. Those police officers have to be paid to, basically, stand around watching runners go by while real crimes are happening elsewhere. The streets have to be cleaned, three times so far this week. They were only cleaned once in my neighborhood the entire rest of the spring, summer, and fall. There are watering stations, medical stations, porta potties, and mile signs to be emplaced along with whatever other supporting regalia may be necessary. There are city employees tied up during the entire year planning all that. For, again, a special interest.

Okay, that ended up more of a rant than I meant. Honest! I will enjoy it well enough. But the instant that barricade goes down (I hear that will be about 11:30 from where I sit) I'm going to Burger King. That'll do more for the general economy than a footrace. And my stomach will love me.

The Fiftieth Cosgriff

Although it does not happen so much as it once did, I will still occasionally get a robocall aimed at me Pops. That's not surprising, seeing as I use the same business number from when he started up in 1966.

You've gotten them, I'm sure, where the computer voice begins, "This is a call for" after which there is a brief pause before the apparently same voice fills in, in this case, "William Cosgriff" before proceeding. Naturally enough I hang up on them.

One call did make me raise an eyebrow. "This is a call for," the voice started, then said, "William the Fiftieth Cosgriff." I was perplexed, even intrigued, yet went ahead and hung up.

A couple days later, and then again after that, calls came in for William the Fiftieth Cosgriff. I nearly hit 'one' to take the call. I was that curious. Then I remembered: his middle name being Leo, there were times where he sent things out as William L. Cosgriff. 'L' is the Roman numeral for 50. The artificially generated voice was translating the capital L as a form of fifty.

Sometimes artificial intelligence is as dumb as regular human intelligence.

Michael's Story

Michael’s Story pulled me in with its mix of dystopian tension and personal awakening. At first, I wasn’t sure where it was heading. Initially the pacing felt slow, and the style took some adjusting, but as Michael’s journey deepened, I found myself drawn into his search for truth and meaning. What I appreciated most was how the book moved from confusion and false starts into something sharper: a reluctant man confronting not just external corruption but his own ego and uncertainty. The world, controlled, stratified, eerily reminiscent of 1984, gave me plenty to think about, especially the questions of freedom, identity, and destiny. By the final chapters, Michael’s transformation felt both painful and inspiring. Yes, the writing could be tighter, but the story’s heart shines through. For me, this was a rewarding and thought-provoking read.

These words are from an Amazon reviewer. I think they're insightful, but then, I would, as he's complimenting my book Michael's Story.

Shameless shill time! If you want to see if this reviewer is correct in his assessment, Michael's Story is available here and here. I think it's worth it, but then, I would, because it's my book.

What is This Sorcery?

Did my eyes deceive me? I couldn't have seen what I thought I saw, could I? It's simply too outlandish to be true.

In Game Two of the National League Championship Series Yoshinobu Yamamoto threw a complete game! Oh yes he did! He pitched all Nine Innings! In a playoff game!

I wonder if Detroit Tigers manager A.J. Hinch is aware of this novelty, the idea of letting starting pitchers go all the way, or at least past six innings. He should take note of it. Hell, all of Major League Baseball should.

Mom Knows All

Mothers know everything. The old eyes in the back of the head? Moms. They have them. They even have an uncommon foresight which isn't always appreciated.

Me Mom passed away, sadly, in 2022. To me brother Phil came the task of clearing our her things. Oh, we all helped to one degree or another, but the bulk of the job fell on his shoulders. Even Mom seemed to anticipate that.

One day as he was sorting out stuff he picked up something, I don't remember what, and was just about to let it fall into the trash can. Yet a slip of paper caught his eye. Taking it out from its center in the object, it turns out that it was a note from Mom: "Phil, don't throw this away without giving the other kids a chance to see if they want it. Mom" 

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at that. But Mom, she knew he would toss it and didn't want that without a chance to see if it might be valuable to one of his siblings. I'm going to have to ask him what it was, and if one of us took it. 

Chesterton and Kreeft

A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about truth; this has been exactly reversed.

- G. K. Chesterton

Why, why, why weren't we taught Chesterton in schools? Why don't we hear him from the pulpits? The more I read of him, the more I wonder why he isn't better known. Or more well known than he is anyway.

This quote is from at least a century ago yet fits today perfectly. We should doubt ourselves but not truth. We should admit we are fallible and need help yet have no worries about where help lies. Yet we trust in ourselves while believing there is no truth. If that isn't an oxymoron, a contradiction in itself, then what is?

It reminds of a comment from one Peter Kreeft, a more recent, lesser known, yet astute commentator on human nature: "Religion is indeed a crutch, as the atheists argue. And until the atheist confesses that he is a cripple, he will not be in the market for a crutch." 

If our premises are poor our reason will be skewed. Until we each admit that we aren't the center of the Universe we will not see the Universe properly. Almost all human error begins in the hubris that we know best. Yet without an undoubtable truth above and beyond us we can't know anything. Even ourselves.

Lamenting Lions

I didn't see the play, nor do I care to hunt it up on the Internet this morning. But I did fall into the wormhole a bit and follow up on Detroit Lions' fans lamenting a procedure penalty against them which negated a touchdown. The locals lost to the Kansas City Chiefs 30-17 last night.

Complaining about the refs is nothing new to football, or most any sport indeed. It's about time we had robo-umps in baseball to call balls and strikes, quite frankly. Yet it sure seems to me that football fans are among the worst at railing against the officiating. I mean, isn't it possible, just barely on the radar, a shadow on the horizon, that, perhaps, the penalty was legit, maybe?

Can we still be friends, or should I just go now? 

Cousins Have Your Back

When me Pops graduated from High School in 1954, he and his cousin Jerry took a three week trip out west to celebrate. They drove an old station wagon, figuring to spend some nights sleeping in the back to save on hotel costs. Sometimes one of them would drive while the other caught a nap. 

Being young and naive, and consider too that it was the middle Nineteen Fifties, they occasionally picked up hitchhikers. They only had a scare once.

Pops had picked the guy up while Jerry was asleep in back, dozing under a blanket. Everything seemed all right at first. But then the man began talking out of his head. It was all nonsense stuff, me Pops recalled, yet the guy was getting himself all worked up and increasingly animated, throwing his arms around to emphasize this or that point, and growing angry.

"What am I gonna do?" thought the old man, traipsing across the barren landscape of I believe New Mexico. Glancing at the rear view mirror, he realized that an apparently awake Jerry was worried too. Dad had seen a hand reach out from under a blanket and stealthily grab an empty glass Coke bottle, sliding it back with him obviously for use as the weapon Jerry was increasingly convinced would be needed.

Thankfully nothing came of it. When they had reached the hitchhiker's destination the guy readily hopped out, said thanks to the boys, and went about his day. Yet they stopped picking up hitchhikers after that.

Silver Lining

Well, it was painful, I'm sure, for those who watched. I didn't, and am rather happy about that. My Detroit Tigers lost in a 15 inning marathon and are out of the baseball playoffs.

That has its advantages. I can watch the final three weeks of the season without anxiety as I have no horse in the race. I lean towards wanting Milwaukee to win it all now, as a tribute to the late Brewers play by play man Bob Uecker. But I can watch; I'd given up on watching Tigers games because it simply wasn't worth the emotional investment. Especially when they can't hit, as has been the trouble really all season. 

Get some bats, guys, please? And Riley Greene, I care about strikeouts. You fellas whiff too much. That's gotta stop. Far too many times this season we'd have two on and one or no outs and, strike three, strike three, inning over. It matters. We care. You're losing too many 3-2 games.

Hinch, stop trying to outmaneuver the other manager and just try to win games. I'm sorry, dude, I don't buy yanking a pitcher after three innings for a 'suitable matchup' against a particular batter in the fourth. It's too early in the game to worry about such minutiae, overuses your bullpen, and wastes a pitcher. I'm also tired of losing a good hitter for the duration of a game because you pinch hit for him early, again for a suitable matchup. All that in search of miniscule advantages? It's senseless. There. I said it. 

I'm tired of hearing about the great clubhouse chemistry. I'm tired of seeking mere sustainability. Make me want to watch rather than ignore your October baseball for fear of being let down. 

I'm okay, maybe, with sustainability. Sustainability seems a reasonable goal. But is it? Sustainability didn't mean much when we won four division titles in a row yet with painful playoff exists and a poorly contested World Series. I'll take a world championship once every decade or two over long stretches of simple winning seasons. The Yankees do that, as did the Moneyball A's. It has not left their fans happy.

But, I suppose, at least we've made the playoffs the last two years. We didn't play dead when in them, or at least didn't completely roll over. Yet it's time for more. Get. Some. Bats. And Stop. Striking. Out.

Special Moments

We're in October, and for baseball fans that means playoffs and the World Series. My Detroit Tigers play a winner take all game five in Seattle this evening. I don't know if I want to watch or not, these old nerves and all. But I have seen two playoff games live in my life. One was classic in its heartfelt salute.

In the 1987 Ametican League Championship Series at old Tiger Stadium here in Detroit Darrell Evans, a fan favorite, was picked off third at a critical moment in game 4. It was a bad play; he simply lost his concentration. Evans felt terrible. The team was rallying and that miscue killed it.

As it was I attended game 5 the next day. Evans came up to bat in the bottom of the first. As he approached home plate the crowd spontaneously rose, and gave him a standing ovation. It showed Darrell that while things happen, we were still with him.

Moments like that mean more than the game. They show respect and affection. They're what sports should be about.