Fun with technology

Color television (it sounds exotic to type out the entire word rather than just say TV) was relatively rare in the late 1960s. At a time when $100 a week was a decent income while color sets cost better than $300, they were something of a luxury. Still, parents then as now liked to treat themselves and their families to the newest technologies, and fads tended to spread quickly. In the Bill Cosgriff household circa 1969, as the color fad rolled on unstoppably, this meant that Pops had decided to buy a color TV for the family room.

I don't remember all the details of that old console. But it was big to a 9 year old, huge indeed, and took two hulking delivery men to carry it into the house and put it in place. Dad plugged it in and put on a channel, which happened to be showing an episode of Gilligan's Island. And the picture was black and white.

Pops began playing with the dials, the contrast button and what have you, and still no color. His frustration mounting and with nothing making a difference, as a last resort he went to the instruction manual, a thing real men don't do unless a last resort. No color, despite trying everything the manual said to try. He was ready to call the appliance store, the manufacturer, and perhaps even the President himself to rant about this travesty to a working man and his family. I don't blame him; I would have been upset. Anyone would have.

Then someone, I don't know who, produced the then current issue of TV Guide. It showed Pops clearly that yes, Gilligan's Island was on that channel at that time. It also showed that the particular episode was in black and white. The first season of Gilligan's Island had been filmed in black and white. The TV was fine.

As Dad slowly calmed down, laughing about it within a few minutes (I never thought to try another channel, he would soon joke about himself) we settled into a family night watching our new color television. And our new TV brought us many wonderful nights of entertainment for several years. Even, or perhaps especially, as we would knowingly tune into a black and white program.

As we know it

News flash: the world is going to Hell. Do what you will, think what you will, hope what you will, the world's heading straight into the fireball. It's going to happen.
But that doesn't mean today. In fact, it likely will not be today, nor anytime soon.
If I've learned anything after 57 years on God's green Earth, beyond the right to speak like an old guy (things was differnt when I was a boy I tell ya), is that we ain't perfect. Some of us is less perfect than others, all the way to being downright evil. I mean that. Because of that (outside of Divine intervention, but that's not the point here) the world will destroy itself one day. It will happen. You cannot stop it. You are not and will not be in a position to affect it. Period.
I'm not saying not to work for a better world just the same. You certainly should act within your sphere to do what you can to forestall the day of reckoning. But never mind the peripherals: fake news, President Trump, North Korean nukes, Brexit, any ism you can imagine, Obamacare, Fox News over MSNBC. You cannot affect them on a broad scale. Stop fretting.
Be nice to your neighbor. Help directly someone who needs help. Do your job well. Discuss the issues even, among friends and charitably. I personally believe giving the Almighty His due wouldn't hurt either. But stop feeding the beast. You're not then delaying the end of the world. But you just might be helping to bring it if you stoke the coals for the people actually driving the train. You might then be helping the end come before it must.

Uncle John's driving test

Okay, I'll admit up front that the title is a hook. A quite misleading one at that. But this post does involve me Uncle John, and it is about driving tests.
Back in the day many of us Cosgriffs lived and worked near Wayne State University in downtown Detroit. Now I can't speak for how they are recently but as I hear few complaints I think they're much better. But in the seventies and eighties WSU students were notorious walkers and drivers. Notorious that is for weaving in and out of traffic in their vehicles and vaulting across the street on foot trying to make their classes. Warren Avenue between Interstate 75 and Trumbull Avenue, a course about a mile and a half long, was the major roadway where all the action took place. It could be a harrowing drive if you didn't pay attention.
Uncle John noticed this as well as the rest of us. He used to quip that the road test for new drivers ought to be making it from I-75 to Trumbull along Warren without killing two people.
You caught that, didn't you? He was willing to spot you the first fatality because in that stretch of road you were going to kill somebody. And it would not be your fault.
Personally I think old Zeke had the right idea.

Silver Linings

Yesterday morning just before five o'clock I left da UP of Michigan figuring to get home in time enough to do a few hours work and make my golf league. Just after 6:30 I was sitting on the shoulder of southbound Interstate 75, north of Grayling. The pulley had decided to dislodge itself from the power steering on my van. What to do, what to do?

You look for silver linings. And In fact yesterday I saw several.

First and foremost was that we live in an advanced internet age. I took out my phone and searched for 'Grayling road service'. A tow truck was picking van and Marty up within 35 minutes. Not knowing where to take the old girl, the tow driver suggested a good local mechanic. We were there by 7:45 and, happily, they could have my van fixed in a few hours. Cool.

Of course, I hadn't planned on taking my morning walk yesterday, but by then I had the time. I hiked the almost two miles into Grayling proper to a nice little restaurant and had an Irish omelette: Corned Beef and onions. Then of all things I was able to meet up with a good friend I hadn't seen in about ten years. He happened to be in town for work, saw on facebook where I had lamented my predicament, and said he had a few minutes, let's meet and catch up. And soon enough the van was finished. I was home by five in the afternoon.

Yeah, it's a little bit flippant, but when bad things happen we do need to look for those silver linings. If we do, we'll find that sometimes they're very bright too.

The sentimentality bug

Hessel, Day Two, July 2017

This morning I put on my ‘Green Monster’ T-shirt which I bought at Fenway Park, to realize it has been almost a year since I bought it. It will be a year next Tuesday that my son and I were there. Wow.

I saw too that my other son had tied together and labelled four small US flags, ‘2017’. These are the flags which he, my daughter-in-law, my granddaughter and myself had been given which watching the Fourth of July parade in Cedarville barely 18 days ago. And I thought something more like, double wow.

I thought I had sentimentality licked. I was afraid for years that I’d be too sentimental as I got older. For the longest time I was okay with things moving on. Life happens. You move on. You handle it.

But in the last three or four years I find it ain’t so easy. Oh, I’m not living in permanent melancholy. So long as I’m occupied, so long as I’m not face to face with some stark reminder, things are okay. Yet when those reminders jump out at you, well, they remind you.

Still, I’m happy at that. Fenway Park and that recent parade do indeed tell me that all is well. Sure, the moments are past. But they were great moments, and sentiment reminds me of that. It reminds me too that the day will come when we will remember, and sentiment won’t tinge our memories at all.

What's a bike rack for?

The things you see that you never expect to see. I suppose, that you’d never possibly imagine you would see.

While sitting in the pleasant hamlet of Hessel, Michigan, reading a Father Brown mystery – I knew I’d like Father Brown after I’d read his first story, where he identified a fraudulent priest because the man had questioned reason – I looked up to see a Jeep Cherokee drive past. It had a bicycle attached to the bike rack on the rear bumper.

Are you with me so far?

Nothing unusual about that of course. What struck me as odd was the walker, fully open, strapped to the car along with the bike. You couldn’t fold it and put it in the back seat? Even if it couldn’t fold, you still couldn’t simply open a door and put there? Surely it was more trouble to attach it to the bike rack than do that.

It doesn’t really matter I suppose. But I do wonder.

Name that arc welder

As many of you know, Grandpa Joe rented arc welders. What you may not know is that each and every one of them, almost 250 at the height of his business, had Joe Cosgriff names. Each was JC 1, JC 2, and so on. As a side note they each had serial numbers from the manufacturer, and Pops knew every serial number by heart. We'd test him often as kids. While dutifully standing beside a machine we'd ask, JC 135? Dad would immediately reply "5CW11276". It worked every time; we witnessed the proof. I've always been impressed by that.

Anyway, many of the welders had what amounted to nicknames. There was Old Number One, Joe's first welder, the one he started the business with. Nokomis was named after Nokomis, Illinois, the town where Joe bought it. He also had MichCon, acquired from the Michigan Consolidated Gas Company, and Gray Trailer, purchased from Gray's Rentals. I don't remember where that place was though.

There were two called long underslung, JC 27 and JC 33 respectively. Their carriages were made so that the welding machines themselves sat low into the whole unit. I believe it was an attempt to create a lower center of gravity on four wheeled trailers. Four wheeled welders were notoriously bad to tow. It wasn't unusual for them to veer all over the place behind a vehicle once you hit about 40 miles per hour. A lower center of gravity helped them tow straighter at higher speeds. I can say through personal experience that 27 and 33 towed much better than the average welder.

He had two Lincoln 600 amp electric welders which looked like large bombs. We called them A-bombs of course. 'Where's that A-bomb going Joe?' was a question which likely startled many a passers-by. There was snub nose, a snub nosed Hobart. Imagine that.

There's more but memory escapes me just now. I'll bring everyone up to speed soon though.

Potted meat and liver mush

I do not have what I consider unusual tastes in food. Yet that does not mean that there aren't odd foods which I like.

My wife returned from shopping today with a couple cans of potted meat. I should not like it: meat which spreads like butter doesn't sound appealing on that ground alone. Yet it's good: way too salty, perhaps, but I like salty things. There is one rule to follow, though, with stuff like potted meat. Do not, under any circumstances, read the ingredients. Just eat and enjoy. Nothing that tastes good could actually be bad for you, right?

Now you really, truly do not want to read the ingredients in liver mush. Yes, liver mush. It comes in little grayish one pound cakes and is available all over my other home state, North Carolina. I think it's called scrapple on the east coast. Either way, it's mondo good with onion and mayo on plain old white bread. You simply slice a bit of it off the cake and hey presto, instant culinary delight. Just always remember the rule.

Vienna Sausages are worthwhile too, though I suppose they aren't really all that odd. I think of them as baby food for grown ups, just like the Gerber custard pudding that rocks so well on the palate. But once more, don't read the label on the can. I am eternally curious about what exactly constitutes mechanically separated chicken though.

So anyway, at least every now and then take a chance, set aside health issues, and eat something that's probably not good for you. You'll thank for me it, and I promise to visit you in the ER if there's any unfortunate aftereffects.

Suess was an idiot

I am not a fan of Dr. Seuss. His unusual approach to teaching kids to read, using imaginary creatures and made up words, is widely credited as a good way to reach kids through fantasy. Yet his books really aren't very good for any purpose.

For starters, the best way to learn to read is phonetically. Teaching kids to read by rhyme, and indeed with the use of nonsense words, actually limits vocabulary and the development of reading proficiency.

Then, too, his imagination was not the imagination of a Tolkien or C. S. Lewis. They developed worlds where the interaction of the characters told compelling stories. Seuss just made up things which matched his writing scheme. "What would you do if you met a Jibboo?" or whatever that creature was, cannot really inspire anyone, even a kid. It's nonsense.

But perhaps the way in which his writing was most awful was in the lessons it presumed to teach. Take 'The Cat in the Hat' for example. Basically, this cat half destroys a house while the children's mother is out, miraculously cleans it up, then the tale ends encouraging kids to be dishonest with their parents. That's not a lesson we ought to be teaching our young, especially in this age of moral relativity.

Or The Butter Battle Book, written during the Cold War, which essentially equated the United States and the Soviet Union by demonstrating our relationship as an absurdity: they simply butter their bread on the other side, you see? That's nothing short of simplistic, mindless hogwash.

That Dr. Seuss has had such a profound effect on our reading habits is not a good thing. It is high time to remove his books from our shelves, and give kids better reads. At that, they may actually learn.

Whither Ties?

Why can't we have ties? Why can't a game end with each team having the same score? Why must there be a winner and a loser? And aren't some ties in fact really good games?

The National Hockey League has held for several seasons now 'shootouts' to break ties. Soccer has had championship matches decided in like fashion. If there's a dumber way to break a tie I cannot imagine what it is. Such a process cheapens, indeed I would argue that it mocks, a victory anyhow. Winning on luck is nothing to be proud about.

There is fear, now that the National Football League has cut overtime periods to 10 minutes, there will be more ties in football this coming season. But so what? If teams played to a draw, it's a draw. Let it stand.

Even in championship games, why can't there be co-champions if the result is a tie? They're only games after all; entertainments; diversions. They aren't really that important.

Let ties stand. If it buggers your standings or your ratings, or especially if it buggers your demand that someone must win and someone else lose, I don't think you're particularly sportsmanlike at all.

The blue green ceramic tiger bank

It's about a foot long, 5 inches high and 3 inches deep. The plug is so dry rotted that I hate to remove it. The entire thing is painted blue-green rather than orange with black stripes, so that the stripes don't stand out. Its eyelids are gray, Lord knows why. It holds a red flower in its tail. I've had it for 50 years now. It's a ceramic tiger bank and I have no idea why it caught my seven year old eyes back in 1967.
There was a sale of some kind going on at old St. Dominic's Grade School. Everything available was on display inside a glass case outside the principal's office. I saw that tiger bank and I wanted it. It was two dollars and seventy five cents, a fortune to a little kid back then. For whatever reason, Mom was kind enough to give me the money for it.
It sat on her knick-knack shelf in the living room for years, but I used it as intended. I put my change in it, taking some out from time to time, oh, I don't know, when the ice cream truck was near or something. Soon after I got married it came down the street to my new house. It sat on a bookshelf next to my bed ever since and I'd kind of forgotten about it.
Until this morning. It caught my eye for the first time in ages, and it struck me how long I'd had it. I brought it down, brushed it off, and sat it next to the computer for blog inspiration; he's going right back upstairs when I'm done. I'm not ashamed to admit I have a tear in my eye as I hammer this out.
I guess this is my way of telling my kids, although I hope that they are hoping along with me that that day is a long way off yet, that one of them better take the stupid ceramic tiger bank for safekeeping. Someone needs to protect their Nana's investment.
If it's any extra incentive, there are still a few coins rattling around in it.

Discount prices?

Why? Why do new guys, guys I've never seen before, think they can work me down on price?
Can you do that at Meijer? Can you do it at Home Depot or Kroger, or your neighborhood hardware store? Would you expect that, when told your tab was $220 at any of those places, they'd just round it down to $200 for you? You wouldn't even ask, would you?
Then why do you feel like you can ask me?
Yes, I'm in sales. Yes, I've admitted here that I don't mind a bit of negotiation, if there's volume. But for anybody to believe that a $220 dollar sale calls for me just giving you 11% or thereabouts off, what planet are you from?
Okay, I have a chip on my shoulder right this minute. Can you imagine why?

The last shot

He always bought every shot. Every beer.

Uncle Frank. My Uncle Frank. To his family, to my children, he was Oggie, or Oggs, for whatever reason. To me, Uncle Frank.

He retired to da UP, to Hessel, in the Les Cheneaux Islands. We visited there often. We still do.

We drank a few beers together, mostly Old Milwaukee. We had a few shots, mostly the house whiskey.

He always bought.

One day, back in 1996, in July as we visited, he asked me to help him take the trash to the dump. I did so. He asked me afterwards if I might like a shot and a beer. I said yes, I might like that.

We made a side trip to his haunt. We had a shot and a beer. They seemed that day to last a long while that day. We talked a while, as though we had known each other a lifetime.

Our drinks were almost spent. He asked if I might like another, and I said yes, I would. He ordered. I said, Oggs, you always pay. Let me pay for these.

He stared at me for a very long moment. Then he just said, okay. I paid. We clinked shot glasses and downed our shots. We sipped at our beers. For another hour we talked just like old friends. I drove him home.

He passed away that night. I had bought him his last shot and beer. I am proud to have done so.

Watch and Tommy

Me Grandpa Hutchins had a couple of pets over the years which, for whatever reason, stand out in my mind. I guess they simply impressed me somehow.
One he called Watch. Watch was the largest collie I have ever seen. He looked like Lassie on steroids. Lots of steroids. He weighed, the vet told Grandpa, 135 pounds. That's a lot of collie.
Watch was a playful animal though. That's not bad until you take his weight into account. He'd knock you down without any evil intent. He was just being man's best friend.
Grandpa had another little beagle named Tommy. I liked old Tommy; maybe that's why I gravitate towards beagles, so much as I might gravitate towards any dog.
What I remember most about Tommy was that he lost his voice when he was about 14 (84 in people years). He would start to bay as beagles do but only the first 'wrope' would come out. Yet his mouth kept silently opening and closing for several seconds, as though he had to complete the rest of the barking anyway.
Watch and Tommy. Two pretty good old dogs.

The genius of Joe Cosgriff

I've told you before about Grandpa Joe. He could be cantankerous, sublime, sympathetic, and even religious. He could also be clever.

When he was about 80 (I don't remember exactly when this happened) he drove with Pops down to Nashville, Tennessee where Dad was working a trade show. They got to the hotel; Dad got his luggage from the trunk and Joe drove on. He was going to visit some friends in Alabama while Pops did the show.

Returning to Nashville a few days later, Joe got completely turned around and had no idea how to get to Opryland, where his son was staying. Now bear in mind that this was before any sort of GPS or cell phones. He could not simply plug an address into a small computer. He couldn't just call Dad (who would probably not have known how to help him anyway) while asking for directions is always an iffy proposition. It could become rather confusing no matter how well meant. But Joe had an inspiration that day. He hailed a cab.

Not that he was going to ride it of course; he still had his car to consider. But he explained his predicament to the cabbie, told him where he wanted to go, and asked if he could follow the cab there, whence Joe would pay him as though a regular fare.

So that's how Joe got to the hotel to pick up Pops. I for one think it a work of minor genius.

The hipsters in Hessel

Hessel Grocery, which had been in the conveniently named village of Hessel, Michigan for quite some years, is no more. It is now called NibbleLungen. It promises a full line of groceries as did its predecessor, but its deli will now give you lunch and dinner options with a Mediterranean flavor.

But what the hell's nibblelungen anyway? And a Mediterranean flavor? The new owners do know that they're in the middle of small town, rural, traditional Michigan don't they? They promise something for 'even the most finicky' taste buds. I should have thought they'd have realized they were in deer camp and ice fishing country, which is not exactly known for its discriminating tastes in food.

I for one never vacationed in Hessel for any Mediterranean flair. I'm not calling it wrong, I'm just calling it out: the invasion of the Upper Peninsula is begun! The hipsters are everywhere. They've even taken the old hardware store in town and converted it into a distillery. A distillery!

Hmmm. A distillery. All right, maybe the hipsters aren't all bad.

Four of a kind, twice

I'm not much on casino gambling. I get the urge to play once every few years, but as soon as I've lost twenty bucks or so I find myself thinking 'this is stupid' and walk away. The winners didn't build the casinos, Pops used to say.
Be that as it is, and it certainly is true, I did venture into a small casino over the weekend. And wouldn't you know, I left it ahead. That makes twice in a row where I've left a casino with more cash than I had brought in.
It wasn't an impressive amount but I have come out eighty bucks ahead the past two trips against the one armed bandits. The time before this, I was dealt four sevens on the first hand and won. I stared at the machine, thinking perhaps that I should play it out. It was free money, right? But then common sense took over: it was my free money. I cashed out and went home.
This past Sunday was my first return to a gambling parlor since that day. I did have to play a few hands that time before getting three jacks, with the fourth coming on the re-deal. Either way, I found myself the winner of another eighty dollars. I cashed out.
Oh, I'm not naive. I know that even with my limited casino experience they're still well ahead of me. Yet the last two times I came out ahead of them, and you can't take that away from me.

Big city, small town

If you think what a difference a day makes, think what a difference a week does.

Last Saturday I was in one of the biggest cities in the world, going to Church at one of the largest cathedrals in the United States. Yesterday I was in a tiny little hamlet in Michigan's Upper Peninsula and went to Mass at a small local church. I went from people everywhere to being in a newly opened shop where three dozen made a crowd. Believe me, in that tiny little store 36 folk was a packed house.

Talk about the sublime to the ridiculous. From New York City to Hessel, Michigan in five days. From where I stand right now there isn't anyone within several hundred feet. Last Saturday on Manhattan I was amid several hundred people within a few feet.

Interestingly I'm not sure which place I like best. It's great that I can be with family in each spot. So I suppose I should be thankful they're both on my radar.

A car just drive by. My personal space has been violated.

Let's see where I might be next Sunday. Will Detroit count as halfway between these two extremes?

O Canada on her 150th Birthday

Today is Canada Day. It celebrates the anniversary of Canada being granted dominionship (we hope that is a word) within the British Empire on July 1, 1867. Called Dominion Day until 1982 when Canada earned full independence, it is essentially Canada's Independence Day. This year is its 150th, the sesquicentennial, if I have it right.

It is one of those subtle ironies of history that such great friends as Canadians and Americans celebrate their anniversaries so closely together. Particularly in border cities as here between Detroit and Windsor, where we are able to enjoy the relatively free interchange of people, ideas, and goods with our northern allies, we ought to be somewhat awestruck by the kinship between our nations. There are few nations who truly have the sort of bond which we have, and we in Michigan are able to partake of that friendship every day in almost every way.

Though technically a newer nation than the United States, Canada is in many ways older and more distinct, more nuanced than we are. It gives Canada a depth which the US lacks in certain areas, as it allows her a better connection to the Old World (such a quaint yet endearing term nowadays!) than ourselves while living fully in the New.

Detroit, Michigan and Windsor, Ontario, true sister cities bound by proximity and shared interests, keenly aware and appreciative of one another even though in separate countries, share many events during these days. There are of course the massive fireworks, while each city supports various other events: the Windsor Summer Days in Ontario and Detroit River Days. It is something of a shame that they are no longer called the International Freedom Festival, as they were until 2007. It seems to break the unity of the celebrations. Still, their common history marks the anniversaries of each nation's independence similarly and faithfully. The parties remind us of our bond.

We should count ourselves fortunate indeed to have such tremendous associates, such stouthearted and true friends so nearby. It gives us a perspective the rest of the United States may not have, and shows us profoundly what true friendship must mean.

Happy Canada Day, Canada!