Cloyce Wars

A friend of me Pops, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, related once that he had married well. "We never, never came close to divorce but once, Bill, and that was over a dime."

"A dime?" Dad asked, his curiosity peaked.

"Yes, sir," Cloyce responded. "We was grocery shopping, and after all the stuff was rung up and bagged, Mrs. Cloyce says that we'd been overcharged ten cents and she wanted it all re-rung."

Cloyce paused for a breath. "Don't worry about a dime - this was years ago, Bill, and it was a cart full of groceries - the store's busy and people's waiting in line and let's just go," I told her.

Mrs. Cloyce tells me, "Maybe you don't care about money but I do!"

"I care about money! Just not ten cents over $108.62!" I responded.

"I want her (the cashier) to re-ring everything!" my wife demands. 

"Well I don't, I told her, and I started putting the bags in the cart to go to the car," finished Cloyce.

"She didn't talk to me for a month. That was okay with me cause I didn't wanna talk anyway."

"But we got over it. Ain't that the important thing, Bill?" Cloyce asked. 

Pops agreed.

The Pope and the President

I am really, truly loathe to address all the ballyhoo surrounding Pope Leo and President Trump. It's simply a morass, and neither one is quite right about matters that I can see.

The President's recent bombast is over the top the point of insult and blasphemy. Someone needs to tell the man to SHUT UP. He owes the Pope an apology for his condescension towards the head of the Catholic Church. Trump isn't helping anyone and is increasingly hard to defend. That he was a better choice than the alternatives (and he was, I say emphatically) is becoming a lame mantra.

At the same time, the Holy Father isn't exactly presenting himself favorably. It's one thing to preach the Gospel and remind us of our moral obligations. It's another to be rather one sided about it. Criticism of the current Iran War is fair and ought to be expected. But to say whose and what types of prayers God will and will not answer is presumption, even from a Pope, and flies in the face of the Church's Just War dogma. Sometimes we must fight. Violence can be a rational moral alternative. Indeed, even an imperative. When that's the case, it's perfectly all right to pray for a successful war.

In light of its criticisms of Trump (and of Catholic Vice President Vance's occasional comments on Church teaching) the Vatican's reticence to be as critical of American liberal politicians is rather galling. To very nearly say Trump is wrong on Iran while not ordering that Catholic politicians who vote for abortion be withheld Communion is, as such, a travesty. Like it or not, the rightness of this War is where minds may in good faith disagree. But direct abortion is murder, every time and with no exceptions. It is settled doctrine and Catholic politicians who support abortion must be censured. I worry that Leo, like Francis before him quite honesty, fails to lead but instead foments confusion among the faithful when spiritual direction goes only one way.

To the President, just knock it off. You have and are going too far and it's time to put a sock in it. To the Holy Father, if you really wish to be bold, preach the entire Catholic creed. Not simply the politically expedient parts.

Insult to Injury

Tony's Restaurant in Birch Run, Michigan is known for the pound of bacon which comes with it's breakfast entrees. Me brother Phil is known to eat ravenously. Indeed, he takes a certain pride in that.

The two of us were in the northern part of the state making an early delivery yesterday. On the way home I said, let's stop at Tony's. We have time. Full disclosure: maybe we didn't really have time, we've been so busy. But dammit, you're only near Tony's every now and then, so, priorities.

We ordered a platter each of scrambled eggs, a heap of them, a ton of hash browns, and toast with Tony's strawberry preserves. I'm not huge on strawberry but their homemade preserves are fan-bloody-tastic. Of course, the pound of bacon came with it all.

About halfway through our meal the waitress came by to check on us. She left us, of her own volition, take home trays. We didn't request any.

"I am personally insulted by that," Phil said indignantly.

"Huh?"

"Like I can't eat this whole platter at one sitting. But maybe she doesn't know me."

Your reputation doesn't proceed you everywhere, bro.

The staring contest

Old Amos was tight. He was a good man yet he was very careful with his money. Consequently, me Grandpa Joe would often send Amos out to buy this or that for the welding business. He knew Amos would get him the best deal. One story me Pops liked to tell involved such an event.

I can't remember now what it was Joe wanted, but he sent Dad and Amos after it because it would take two people to handle whatever contraption he wanted to buy. Dad drove, and then simply stood back to watch Amos at work.

Amos tried every way in the world to get the seller to back down on price. He begged, he pleaded, he pointed out flaws in the machine. The guy wouldn't budge. It reached the point where Amos stopped talking and began pacing. He would pace a few steps beyond the man and then return. On his return, Dad said, Amos would stop abruptly right in front of the guy and spend a few seconds just glaring at him. Then he'd walk on, return, and do the same thing. He must have been trying to intimidate him, was all Pops could think.

After as few minutes of this, during which the seller did exchange a quizzical look at the old man, the guy finally said, "Look, just give me my price. But I'll put a lower one on the bill of sale to help you out on the sales tax."

Amos would have none of that. "Now, listen here. I want to get the best price I can out of you," he explained to the seller. "But what goes on paper is going to be right no matter what we agree to." Amos then resumed his pacing tactic.

As I recall (I wish I'd have listened more closely to Pops' stories) they eventually agreed on a price and Dad and Amos took the thing to the Shop because Joe had to have it. But I sure would have liked to have seen that battle of wills, that staring contest.

Tax Day

There are points which I will admit that I love to belabor. One of them is quite appropriate for this moment, as today is April 15, when we're supposed to have paid our income taxes for the previous year. And as I always will assert, I will always shout to the high heavens, income taxes are immoral. Period.

I'm not so libertarian as to argue that all taxation is theft. But the income tax is (the property tax too, and for similar reasons). Basically, the majority of Americans are saying that because person y made x amount of money he must hand some of it to said majority to spend however they want. If that's not theft I don't know what is.

Don't argue, but democracy! If democracy voted that you had to hand over your house or car would you have to? Of course not. Why so with your money?

The government can get cash from sales taxes and user fees, bond sales, and even import taxes. But how could it pay for all it's paying for now? It couldn't, I readily admit. Government would have to get farther out of our lives, which would be a great moral good. Or have you not noticed the wonderful job it has done on inflation, gas prices, poverty, education, or dozens of other things?

I will only allow this: pay your income taxes, but only because the alternative - fines and jail - are worse for you. In short, your payment of income taxes is predicated on a threat to life if not limb. That's exactly how more honest thieves act.

Beatles Dental Care

Two minutes. That, I've long understood, is how long you ought to brush your teeth. Yet how can you know you've accomplished that?

It was suggested to me that an easy way to do it was to listen to a song in your head which was about two minutes long while brushing. So I 'play' the Beatles' Can't Buy Me Love in my mind as I take care of my twice daily dental chores. That's not a terrible earworm either.

I wonder if Sir Paul ever imagined that his rock standard would be used for the health of an old Detroiter in 2026? Hmm...I bet he doesn't give it a second thought. Or first for that matter.

He's Just Joe

The term Grandpa Joe for my paternal grandfather came about as a compromise familiar. You can read about that here: Mom and Joe. Basically, Joe wanted his grandkids to call him Joe exactly as he taught his own children to call him by his name. When he confronted me Mom about it, seeing as me older brother and I are his oldest grandchildren, she'd have none of it. Grandpas were grandpa or pawpaw or poppop or grandpappy or something like that. The compromise became Grandpa Joe.

I get me Mom's point. I do believe that elder family members should be addressed by a traditional family moniker of some sort. Grandpa, Nana, Aunt, Uncle, as the case may be. Even people we just met ought to be called by some title, Mister, Missus, Ms, Sir, Ma'am, something, until we are familiar enough with them to call them by first names (or instructed to by the person in question). It's a respect we take too lightly in today's world.

However, I kind of understand Joe's wishes too. If he's okay with Joe, even from his progeny and their offspring, I don't see anything wrong with it. It's one of the reasons I consciously call him Joe many times in my blogs. It's what he wanted. As no real evil is involved, what's to debate?

So why did he want to be Joe rather than dad or pop or what have you? I really don't know. He simply preferred it that way, I guess, for whatever psychological reason. I never really questioned it. And the older I get, the less he's Grandpa Joe to me and more just Joe. That's simply who he was.