Joe Wasn't Worried

I spoke yesterday about picking up drain snakes from Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) this past Tuesday. As it were, me Grandpa Joe picked up parts for Dad a time or two. Once in particular led to a bit of honest concern.

You think I drive rattletraps? Those who know Joe know I don't hold a candle to him on that count. That old man drove a few vehicles which should never have been on the streets. He took one one day, towing a trailer behind it, to Electric Eel to get some stuff. I don't remember which one it was. But it made an impression, a decidedly negative one, on Dick Hale, the owner of Eel at the time.

Mr. Hale was no stranger to risk and no coward, being a veteran of the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. But when he saw what Joe was piloting, Mr. Hale was sincerely worried about Grandpa's safety. So much so that he called me Pops later in the day to be sure Joe made it home all right.

Dad thought it was funny. Joe just said, "Aw hell."

Loading Zone

We, me brother Phil and I, had a huge amount of drain snakes and accessories to pick up at Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) yesterday. It was so big that about halfway through the loading process I began to think about what I could afford to leave behind for a later, return trip. I wasn't sure we could pack it all in the cargo van we had rented for the purpose. Then I thought, "Dad could do it. Dad would be able to figure out had to load everything."

From that point forward, that van was getting every single part of my order on board. It was going to happen. No doubt about it.

We began studying the problems involved in what had become the jigsaw puzzle within the cargo space of the van. A rearrangement here, a couple of small boxes slotted into tiny spots, a reminder that what had to come out first had to be left by the back doors, slide a few things behind seats, and plain old stubbornness led to - ta da! - getting that entire order on board for the remainder of the trip, to Indianapolis and Detroit respectively.

Dad could do it. In fact, Dad did.

Never The Twain

I don't whether I'm going for incredulity or curmudgeonly with this one. We'll all see as I hammer onto my keyboard.

Yesterday I sold some cables to a perfectly nice young man. I'd say he was 25 or so. He's been to the Shop before, and always calls me sir or Mr. Cosgriff. He never argues price, simply buying what he needs. The guy never gives me grief about cost or service.

Yet he plays his music loud from his work van and leaves it on all the time he's in the old barn. The lyrics are always vile and disgusting and blasting right in front of my place of business. Interestingly too his dog is aways with him, a tiny lap dog of some kind, smaller than a chihuahua. He lets it run all around the Shop barking and yapping. It's never really in the way; indeed it's nice enough to me. Yet it's highly incongruent to the music. That, and the fact that the customer is himself huge, hulking over the toy dog.

That's admittedly unimportant.  To the other stuff, I doubt I ever will but part of me wants to say to this young man, "You're so nice and considerate. Why do you listen to that terrible music and blast it out for the whole neighborhood to hear? You're better than that." 

I genuinely like him. He was buying cables because he'd lost all of his in a broken sewer. I honestly felt bad for him when he told me that. I mean, yes, I make money selling drain snake cables. Yet that doesn't mean I revel in someone's ill fortune. 

Still, the loud, terrible music. I simply have trouble understanding how the two things fit together: nice and considerate all around except for that. It's just beyond me.

Cartoon Monday

Did you know that Mr. Magoo is a graduate of Rutgers University? Indeed he is. Class of 1928.

Bugs Bunny is an American Grey Rabbit by species.

Similarly, Daffy Duck is an American Black Duck.

But Porky Pig is simply a domestic pig.

Woody Woodpecker is a pileated woodpecker. I don't know what that means either.

Tom from Tom and Jerry is a domestic shorthair cat. Jerry is simply a pest. But man, he can dance. Ask Gene Kelly.

Would you like to know more? Well, not today from me. This is as far as I got in my research.

Foggy Morning

I, as so many elderly, am a weather wonk. I look up whether it's going to be raining, snowing, or sunny on March 10 even as I know there's no way that, when March 10 actually arrives, the current forecast will hold. But I check it anyway.

This morning for Detroit I was informed we'd have freezing fog, whatever that is. And I mean whatever that is, because I never heard the term before. So I looked it up.

It's fog which freezes when it touches cold surfaces.

You know, I kinda imagined something more dramatic. 

The Lady in Line

I found myself in line yesterday at a Dollar General behind a woman with a full shopping cart, and there was only one cash register open. I knew this would delay me, but so it goes. She got there first and that's that. 

That didn't annoy me so much, really. What annoyed me was when she began placing her items before the cashier for scanning. "I want to stop at $30," the shopper told the young woman.

Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. You filled your shopping cart as you browsed about the store, obviously speeding past the amount you could afford. You couldn't have kept a basic running count as you put things into the basket? You couldn't decide before you were at the checkout what items you wanted? 

It was rude and inconsiderate. The thing is, though, I ended up feeling kind of sorry for the woman. Judging by her speech and actions, I'm not sure how responsible for herself she really was. I was left with the impression that she honestly didn't understand the totality of what she was doing. 

It left me unsure what to think. I believe we make a mistake to completely absolve folks of such behavior lest personal responsibility be thrown overboard. Yet I don't know hiw accountable such people can be. Demanding too much when they perhaps can't help themselves may be too strident. Yet expecting nothing at all of them seems to me an affront to their dignity on another level. It amounts to pandering, to treating them as beyond hope of becoming better people. 

I'm just thinking out loud here. But they're thoughts I do think we do need to think.

Pure Copper

Whenever me Grandpa Joe would scrap out a fried arc welder he would toss the stripped copper into a 55 gallon drum. When the drum was filled, it was me Pops' job from early on to take it to the scrap yard.

The scrap yard they frequented was owned by an old gentleman. When Dad would go to put the drum on the scale the old man would ask him, "Young man, is that copper from the top all the way to the bottom?" He would motion with an upward pointer at the beginning, turning it down until he was pointing at the floor when he finished his question.

"Yes, sir," me Pops would always answer. He would add, "I can dump it onto the floor to show you."

Holding the palm of his right hand up as though to stop Dad in his tracks the man would reply, "Your word is enough."

This happened every time, me Pops often related, that he took copper out to scrap. "Young man, is that copper from the top all the way to the bottom?" "Your word is enough."

Dad wondered if perhaps it was some form of ritual, simple habit, or the owner's way of letting you know that he trusted you while being sure of what he was getting. Or maybe he simply believed in believing in people.

Well, a man's word should be his bond, right?