Blatant Industrial Espionage

This morning I received a call from a customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, where I'm not sure what he hoped to accomplish but he wasn't getting any cooperation from me regardless.

He needed some cables repaired and I told him to bring them in Monday or Tuesday but expect a two week return time because we're busy. "Why don't you teach me how to do repairs, Cosgriff? I might could help you out."

"I'm don't know that I can do that, Cloyce. I'd have to stay right with you at first and it would really just slow me down." Let me establish, quite bluntly, you don't want Cloyce fixing your stuff. Trust me.

"Well let me ask you this: what does it cost you to fix a cable? What's your actual cost?" 

I have to admit that I was a bit taken aback by such a question. It's, oh, what would you call it, impertinent, maybe? Still, it was Cloyce, something of a dingbat, and I held my temper. My response was rather pointed nonetheless. "I'm afraid that's privileged information, Cloyce."

He responded indignantly, "Man, you just don't want any competition do you, Cosgriff?"

Well, I won't lie. I don't really want competition, no. But I would accept it if it arose naturally because that's part of the working world. And it occurs to me this second that Cloyce competition might actually help me in the long run, once folks see what kind of work he does. Still, I ain't helping anyone learn to compete with me, and I'm especially not telling him my margins. What did he expect?

We'll see if he brings his cables by.

Not My Native Tongue

Late yesterday as I was getting off work, my next door neighbor and her young daughter were sitting on their porch. I waved and said, "Hi!"

"Hi!" the little girl responded. Then she, very excited, launched into full on Pebbles Flintstone. "Bada dadi dodi gadda gidda da nehhi blochta hehaw!" I could actually feel the confused expression growing on my face as she talked. 

Her mother then explained, "She said she got a pedal bike at her fourth birthday party and she's learning to ride it."

I looked back at the daughter. "Mommy and Daddy are teaching you to ride a bike?"

She began another run on sentence. "Yes! Haha bingo blah suppri didi haha no a aat ya ya!"

Mom said, "Yes they are, and it's fun, and one day I'll teach my baby sister to ride hers!"

"Good for you!" I told the girl.

I'm glad she's so happy, but I was most grateful for the translator. It's been decades since I had to speak toddler.

Buffaloed

Yesterday I returned home from a quick run to the local supermarket. As I sorted out my change, I found that I had been given, not an ordinary nickel, but a Buffalo nickel.

Buffalo nickels were minted between 1913 and 1938. This means that mine is between 88 and 113 years old. I can't say for sure, because it's so worn from use that the date has rubbed off. There's a lot of wear around the edge of the coin too.

I'm debating whether to find a coin shop to have it appraised. I'm not fooling myself into believing it might actually be worth something, but I did find a similarly worn one being listed on eBay for $2500.  No joke; the date is rubbed away on that one too, so there must be some way to determine when such things were issued no matter what.

Anyway, I've been buffaloed. It's far from earth shattering, yet still a rather neat thing to happen.

The Flutter of the Wings

I am currently reading Ronald Reagan's autobiography, An American Life. I've read a lot about the former President. I would guess about a dozen books so far, but never in (essentially) his own words until now. You would think a guy could only read so much about a figure or event without it all becoming a rehash, but different perspectives do offer deeper understandings, and I do admire the man. I'm truly enjoying the book.

Early on Reagan talks frankly about his father, Jack Reagan's, alcoholism and the troubles it caused his family. Yet the elder Reagan was finally able to conquer it late in life. A few years before his death he was able to quit cold turkey, returning to Church in the process. President Reagan was, with admiration for his father, one day relating the story to fellow actor Jimmy Cagney. Cagney thoughtfully responded, "He heard the flutter of the wings."

He heard the flutter of the wings. Damn but if that don't bring a lump to my throat.

People is People

I don't always know what to think of people. Okay, I typically know what to think of people. But as I'm trying to keep this blog G rated, or no worse than PG, I'll let that thought hang.

A man came into the old barn yesterday to buy a machine. I got it out, plugged it up, hit the on/off switch, and it ran. I let off the switch, put the unit into reverse, and hit the button again to show that it worked in both directions. You know, standard salesman procedure.

"Let me have that," he says, as he literally muscles me out of the way and tries the machine in forward and then reverse. All the while I stood and stared at him thinking, 'I just did that. Right in front of you. Why are you double checking me?'

Of course, maybe he knows people too.

Drain Snake Methodology

The other day I found myself talking to myself while I installed a new reverse switch on an Electric Eel Model C (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs). Only thing was, the customer was standing right by me as I worked. Only other thing was, I didn't care.

At one time I would have been embarrassed by that. Yet this time around I even remarked to the guy, "A fella's getting pretty comfortable with who he is and what he's doing when he can carry on a conversation with himself and another man standing there."

He just smiled and replied, "I ain't sayin' nuthin, Cosgriff. I don't want to interfere with your method."

Thank you sir. That's what we'll call it: my method. It sounds a far sight better than going crazy.

Curling For Spuds

For some odd reason, this morning I found myself thinking about a particular curling bonspiel I participated in about 30 years ago. It did not go well.

I was on one of two teams from the Detroit Curling Club, and we had driven up to Forest, Ontario for a tournament. There were eight teams in each flight. And as I said, it did not go well. We finished seventh and eighth in our group.

But in the curling world, no one goes home without something. As a food chain was the sponsor of this particular spiel, most curlers won meat entrees. We won ten pounds of potatoes. Each. At four players per team times two teams, that's a lot of taters. And we had to cross the border with them.

On the way home, we pulled up to the gate at the US side and were asked for our IDs (we were travelling together in one big van). The border agent asked the driver, whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, "Purpose of your trip to Canada?"

"A curling bonspiel," Cloyce responded simply.

"Anything to declare?" the guard queried.

Cloyce replied honestly, "Eighty pounds of potatoes."

Without missing a beat the man in the booth said with a smile, "You were in the losers bracket then?"

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can we take our spuds and go home now?