Comrade Cloyce

A friend of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, decided for whatever reason several years ago to tour Russia. He and his wife began making plans for the trip.

The travel agent suggested that it would be easier to move around even within that country if they obtained Russian passports. Cloyce never imagined that such things were available to non citizens, but on that advice he and Mrs. Cloyce applied for and were issued Russian passports.

You know how so many pictures of old Soviet leaders look as though they had just been force fed three servings of pickled herring? That's what Cloyce looked like in his Russian passport photo. Comrade Cloyce, I've called him ever since. He truly looked mean and unsavory although he's actually one of the most gregarious men I know. 

Why the grim look? "Because you better not smile especially for a Russian passport picture," Cloyce explained.

Cloyce Adrift

There was once this good ol' boy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who considered himself the neighborhood innovator. Some of his ideas, to be fair, were kind of clever. But most of the time all he did was jury rig. That's okay too so far as I'm concerned, if it's a decent enough adaptation.

Cloyce had an old Chevy Bel Air, I believe it was a '65, and it needed a wheel alignment. The old rattletrap drifted sharply to the left (this is not leading to a political joke I assure you) and really needed front end work. But ol' Cloyce didn't want to put that kind of money into the car. So he looked around in his garage for what was handy and found an old snow tire. He put it on the car on the left front.

That stopped the drift. His theory was that the snow tire, having deeper tread, made up for the amount of space which had been created by vehicular wear which led to the drift. Based on the results, I'm inclined to say he was right, as he drove with that winter tire for about six months before he got rid of the car.

It was a jury rig. But hey, it worked for him, and considering the types of cars I drive, who am I to argue?

Croquet Anyone?

The things which find their way onto my Facebook page can be interesting if sometimes trivial.

Did you that croquet was an Olympic sport? It's true. It was only once, and that was in the 1900 Paris games. All of the participants were French. And the kicker?

The event sold one ticket.

I have a feeling croquet will not find its way into any future Games. I bet they don't let Jarts in either.

Time Goes By

Carlos Beltran has been elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Congrats to him. He actually has a spot of sorts in my heart, although probably for something he doesn't care to recall.

On September 27, 1999, the Detroit Tigers played their last game at old Tiger Stadium, a long gone baseball cathedral. I loved the place, and was fortunate enough to be at that final contest.

The visitors were the Kansas City Royals. The Tigers won 8-2. None other than rookie Carlos Beltran struck out in the top of the Ninth Inning for the last out ever at what Detroiters called The Corner, for the intersection of Michigan and Trumbull Avenues where the ballpark stood.

I'm happy you made the Hall, Carlos. I'm happy that you struck out that long ago day too.

Jam

I highly, highly, highly (have I said highly?) recommend Triple Berry Jam from Verellen's Orchard in Romeo, Michigan. I've had it before and bought some in October, and then promptly forgot I had it.

I benembered yesterday. Yes, I spelled that wrong, because I feel like a little kid eating it slathered on plain bread or toast. It's da bomb. That's what kids these days say, right?

Well, whatever the current equivalent of delightful and outstanding is, Triple Berry Jam fits the description. No one else may get any now that I've found it in the larder, and I may just have to call on my Romeo accounts next week simply to buy more.

Cloyce and the blood blister

When we moved into our house, the upstairs bathroom had a nice mahogany toilet seat. But as with all things human made, it eventually broke. I went to the hardware and bought a decent replacement. We simply threw the old one in the common dumpster which we shared at that time with about six neighbors.

Several days later I happened to be visiting in my neighbor's house; I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. Excusing myself to use his washroom, I saw a nicely refinished mahogany toilet seat. "Where did you get this, Cloyce?" I asked.

"Out of the dumpster. Isn't it cool? Someone was just throwing it out; can you believe that?" He had taken the thing, scrubbed it clean, reglued and refinished it, and put it on his commode.

I answered, "Yes I can, because it was mine. I can't believe you took something like from a dumpster!"

"It's perfectly good," he protested. But that didn't keep Cloyce from chastising me several days later when the seat had rebroken and left a blood blister on the back of his thigh. "You toilet seat did it to me," he whined.

"Serves you right dumpster diving stuff like that," was all I said.

Music Critic

I occasionally sing, generally softly, when I'm driving. A song will pop into my head and I'll sing along with it.

With me brother Patrick in tow as I went to Mass Saturday I half sang, half hummed King of the Road.

A minute later and it was Flowers on the Wall.

After that, as I was just starting Hank Williams Jr.'s Family Tradition, Patrick blurted out, "Keep your day job."

All right, maybe my voice gets old. And at least I know where I stand with him.