The War of the Words

It's December 31, 2017, the last day of the year. We're supposed to reminisce on such days, aren't we? Well, then, so as not to disappoint, I shall. And it all comes down to words.

I'm not really sure why the reading bug bit me so hard in 2017 but it did, so much so that much of what I did this past year was read. It was a grand, fulfilling endeavor.

The basic theme which developed could best be described as baseball and history. To the former I submit Ty Cobb, A Terrible Beauty which argued that, while not perfect, Cobb was not the ogre so many people believe of him. The Kid, a quite readable biography of the Splendid Splinter, Ted Williams, was engrossing though more crude than it needed to be (and how many books and movies can we say that of, eh?). Shades of Glory was my first real look at Negro League baseball, and a good look it was. Remembrances of Swings Past was okay yet too obviously ghost written. That was all topped off with an anthology, Great Baseball Writing, compiled from articles originally printed on the pages of Sports Illustrated over 50 years. Great stuff, if you're any kind of baseball wonk. And you should be some kind of baseball wonk, if you have any appreciation of America at all.

1944: FDR and the Year that Changed History was very good. The Arsenal of Democracy, about Detroit's role in World War II, was excellent, and I only got it at Christmas and have already read it through. It gave me a new appreciation for the effort necessary to win that war. I read David McCullough's biographies of John Adams and Harry Truman, both outstanding, though the trouble with biographies is that the hero always dies at the end. Rock of the Marne was also a very good read on how raw American troops single-handedly held off the Germans during the Second Battle of the Marne in World War I, stopping Crown Prince Wilhelm's 'Peace Offensive' and likely winning the war for the Allied nations.

On a more esoteric level I read Strange History, a collection of interesting yet mostly obscure incidences in human history, and The Inklings, a history of the great writers' group of that name from (mainly) the 1930s and 40s. It featured C. S. Lewis of Narnia fame and J. R. R. Tolkien of Hobbitdom. Those two really ought to have collaborated on a book.

All of this actually only scratches the surface. I can't recall everything I read off the top of my head, which included of course reading the Sunday paper and all kinds of (often tripe) online. But reading-wise 2017 was good to me. And now 2018 needs to step up its game and top that.

The Mighty Cosgriff Snowplow

I've said before, and recently, that I have come to the realization that I don't like snow. But at one time snow and I had a truce, and playing in the snow could even be fun. Yes, as a young kid. But as an older kid too.

Once back while I was in high school we had a pretty good snowfall, a foot or better as I recall. We got a few days off school yet that didn't mean a few days off work. Me Pops and me Grandpa Joe had me go up to the Shop, to be useful as they saw it with my new free time.

It wasn't entirely a drag though. Joe sent me to the hardware for something or another, and on the return I encountered Canfield Avenue. It was about three blocks long where I encountered it, and covered with all that fresh snow. Nary a vehicle had trespassed upon it afore I that morn. There weren't even no parked cars. This was going to be fun, I remember thinking. And I meant fun.

I started onto Canfield in that big old red GMC Suburban of me Pops and I let into the flat white blanket. For the first block I simply made two deep tire tracks. For the second and third I played around with the steering wheel, swerving the Suburban to and fro, letting loose cascades of powder in all directions, creating my own cloud as I plowed along the street. Then I turned around and did it again.

When I was through I actually stopped and got out of the old car to survey my artwork. There were moguls and ruts and graying, churned up snow all along the path of my carnage. I must say I was impressed with the damage I had inflicted on the once quiet avenue.

So, yeah, I still hate it. But snow can be fun.

The buried dog

As all friends and relatives would attest, as a rule Grandpa Joe had a less than subtle way of getting his point across. Still, there were times when he could be impressively restrained yet make his point well understood.

He rented arc welders. Some of these weighed 1100 or 1200 pounds, so when they were shipped they had to be loaded by an electric hoist or crane onto the back of a pickup truck or flatbed. They tended to swirl in a gentle circle as they were raised or lowered. Sometimes they would have to be raised several stories, and I had gotten into the bad habit of standing nearly under the machines as they were raised, simply to watch the twirl.

One day as a young teen while out on a job site with Joe, I was doing just that. Without a word he stepped near enough for me to hear. Looking up at the welder too as it rose he asked, "We used to have an old dog that would watch from underneath as we raised a load. You know what we did with him?"

"No, what?" I asked in return, only half listening and still looking up.

"We buried him."

As his point slowly dawned on me, and as he had already walked away, I took several steps from the action myself. Dummy me wasn't thinking that things can fall, and that half-ton things falling a long way can hurt you bad.

Point taken, Joe.

The American

Swede. I don't know who he was. But me Grandpa Joe, he called him Swede.

During the War, when it was bad to be German, Joe called him Swede because of his accent. Because Swede, because of his accent, might be thought of bein' un-American. But he weren't. He was American.

Joe knew that. But not all Americans did. They thought he might be German. Joe thought he might protect him.

So that man, he became Swedish. Because that man, he was American, but he needed help. And me Grandpa, he helped him.

Because that's what Americans do. We help Americans.

Understating Christmas

I made myself take my morning walk today. And when I say made myself, I mean it. It was cold out there folks.

But it was a good walk. The streets were quiet, and for whatever reason it was nice to see Christmas lights twinkling in the early morning. It made I thought an interesting juxtaposition from their appearances at night. They were more subtle. More sublime in fact.

Lately as I've went to sleep I've kept a small tree which my oldest son bought a few years back, next to my bed. I switch on its lights before climbing under the covers and doze off to its muted glow. Although I like the big tree in the living room, I find I like the small one equally.

Charlie actually bought quite a few of those baby trees, maybe a dozen, placing them all over the house that year, in windows and cubbies, and even in the basement, one by itself on a table over against an inside wall. I remember going downstairs greeted only by that softly lighted little fake evergreen. I found I was extremely happy to see it. I kind of hated turning on the regular lights; it spoiled the weak, tiny reminder of Christmas.

Power is one thing, subtlety another. I like the powerful, grand displays of Christmas. But at times the greatest power seems to come from the smaller things.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Christmas 1972

It was, I think, Christmas 1972. I'm not really sure anymore as even I was still young then, but I do know that it was the only Christmas which me Grandpa and Grandma Hutchins from North Carolina spent in Detroit.
The living room was dark except for the lights of the Christmas tree. I was sitting alone on the couch when Grandpa had come into the room and sat opposite of me. And that was it. We sat there, never exchanging a word, for what in my mind seemed hours.
I'll never forget it. It felt to me then and now like the best time we ever had together. Oh, we got along great (it was a sorry man who could not get along with Clarence Malachi Hutchins) and had many good discussions and good visits over the years. Yet that night is my favorite time with him, my favorite memory.
How a house with 11 people could have stayed so still, so quiet while he and I sat there I don't know. I'm not sure we even looked at each other. We looked at the tree with the softly glowing lights. It is etched in our history.

Comes to mind

Relatively random Thursday thoughts...

It's the first day of winter. That means we're that much closer to spring. Hoo-ray!

Someday I'll have to relate about Price and his story about helping an army doctor with hemorrhoid surgery. But I'll never do it justice, so I'm slow to try.

I'm glad last week's snow is already gone. Snow looks nice only when it's fresh. Then it's just gray, icy piles and slush. Is it too early to hope we don't any measurable snow the rest of the year in Detroit?

As much of a baseball fan as I am I never got into the hot stove league. Too much conjecture, too much meaningless talk.

I think Christmas and New Year's day are just right this year: on Mondays. Three day weekends with not needing to plan around midweek holidays.

I wonder if the customer who has supposed to have come by for the last month actually gets to the Shop today?

I'm still looking for the next book to read. Thanks for the help with that, readers.

That was sarcastic. Ah well, see you tomorrow.

That was not sarcastic by the way.

Wednesday wailing

My oldest son turns 35 today. I've found myself asking myself several times, 'When did I get old enough to have a 35 year old kid?' Then I remember me Pops asking himself the same thing when I turned 35. In 1995. 22 years ago. When my oldest turned then 13, and I wondered how that happened so fast.

Have I beaten the point to death yet?

On another front: first world problems. At the start of my lunch hour today, I went to my fridge to get a glass of Faygo Rock and Rye soda. If you've never had Faygo Rock and Rye, let alone any Faygo (60/40 grapefruit soda is another good one) yours is a sad, deprived existence. Anyway, on opening the fridge I saw that the bottle was packed away in the back. Aw man, I gotta move the milk, some eggs, a quart of egg nog, a cake and a box of feta cheese and what-all else just to get me a glass of pop? But I made myself do it, because, well, it is Faygo Rock and Rye.

Oh, I grumbled under my breath as I, ah, worked towards my goal. And I made sure to leave it front and center for next time too. I mean, needing 10 seconds to get a glass of pop...even if it is Faygo Rock and Rye.

The vital search

I've just finished an interesting book 1944: FDR and the Year that changed History. Other than the fact that every year changes history, and that the author, Jay Winik, really is too considerate of President Roosevelt, it is a very good book. My trouble now is that I don't know what to read next.
There simply aren't enough good books in the world. There are a lot of books, yes, but so many of them are tripe, and maybe the majority of them. I do not believe in the argument that we should read just to read. Reading ought to be enlightening in some way, or short of that an enjoyable recreation. I've set aside many books which did not address either of those concerns. I will even concede that some books need to be fought through in order to get the point. Orwell's classic 1984 for example took me about five tries to get through because the first thirty or thirty five pages are just dreary. But when I finally finished it, I had to conclude that it deserves its classic status.
Yes, I realize that taste is in play, and that taste does vary. I know of people who have enjoyed books which I just could not get into, and no doubt I've loved books others despise. Then there are authors who write very well yet I cannot read with any satisfaction. The science fiction author Robert Heinlein comes to mind for me. He writes very well but at the end of the day his philosophy is too different from mine, and that clouds my reading. And it isn't as though I haven't made a serious try at reading him. I've read four of his works and just can't get beyond my ultimate disagreements with the man. However, if you are interested in how Hollywood can destroy an intriguing idea, read Heinlein's Starship Troopers then watch the movie of the same name. Even though I don't, in the end, agree with his premise, Hollywood simply massacred what is arguably a subject worth serious discussion.
So the bottom line is this. I'm stuck wanting to read something new and worthwhile and have no idea what to look for. Any suggestions?

The Ladder Incident

Me Pops had among his friends a big guy, a mountain of a man as he told it. I don't know if that meant the guy was simply huge in the intimidating way or that he was very fat. Whichever it was, that doesn't matter. I'll call the fellow Cloyce just to give him a name.

Cloyce was a roofer. His company was a decent size, so that he had several crews working for him who could of course be occupied on several jobs at once. So Cloyce basically gave estimates, got contracts signed, and went around inspecting progress.

As it were, me Grandpa Joe once contracted him to put a roof on the Old Barn. The Shop is only one floor tall, with a ten foot ceiling. This meant the roof was about 11 feet high. This meant that what was needed to access it was a twelve foot ladder. As I said, Cloyce didn't do much of the work but he did go around checking on his crews. In the course of things, then, he stopped by to see how it was going at the Shop.

He spoke to Pops and Joe for a minute, them climbed the nearby ladder to look over the progress of his men. Bear in mind that at that point in history ladders were wooden, not aluminum or fiberglass as they are today. As Cloyce returned to the ladder to climb down, the third rung from the top broke the instant Cloyce put all his weight on it. Yet instead of the man falling, and as he has grasped the ladder in each hand on each respective side rail, all that happened was Cloyce dropped a foot to the next rung. Which then broke. Dropping another foot, that rung broke with Cloyce's weight. Then the next, and the next , whump whump, whump, snap, snap, snap, until Cloyce was standing on the ground, still holding the side rails up by his gloved hands. He went down the ladder hesitatingly, in slow motion really, as one rung at a time cracked under his weight.

Grandpa Joe laughed so he hard he had to dab his eyes with his handkerchief. Pops just knew he had a good story to tell in the coming years.

Laughing at a Nativity Scene

As I drove back from Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs, and I mean that) this past Monday, I saw a Nativity scene in a yard next to a house. There's nothing surprising about that of course. It's that time of year.
It was one of those sets that was made up of plastic statues which could be lit up from the inside. So they were, every statue. The family had the three wise men already up, which arguably is being ahead of times as they didn't arrive until several days after Jesus' birth. But who am I to argue over minor details?
Anyway, one of the wise men was laying on his side, presumably due to the wind or whatever. It faced away from the road and also blocked the view of the crib so that you could not see the Christ Child. But as the other statues were duly kneeling with their hands in the prayer position, facing the road and thus the tipped over wise man, it looked to me as though they were all praying over a recently fallen comrade. I burst into laughter at this nativity scene askew.
Am I a bad person?

Hating winter

It's official. I'm calling it right now, just like an election.

After shoveling snow off and on for over 24 hours, after clearing it from my home and my work, and after digging three cars out, I'm calling it.

Winter sucks. And it's only December 12.

Christmas aside, it is no longer the most wonderful time of the year. Nope, not by a long shot. Spring cannot get here quickly enough.

Curling

I'm going curling tomorrow. I don't know that I want to.

It's a grand game, curling is. I've met a great many great friends through it, and that's a good thing. They are always in my heart. Still, I really don't want to curl tomorrow.

I've gotten my name on some hardware. But that's not really on my count. The boys, the girls, they've curled great a'fore me. I did nuthin'. They earned it, not me.

The triple kill lose the shooter, now there's a curling shot. I did not make it. Yet the stats don't show it.

I show it now. See ya tomorrow old boy.

Ruining a holiday favorite

This Saturday if memory serves me right, the classic Christmas special Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer will be televised for, what, the fifty third year I think? I intend to watch, but I don't know if my family will watch it with me. You see, I think I ruined it for them.

We were watching it a few years ago, and my sense of humor wandered into the viewing. You remember the scene where he first meets his reindeer girlfriend? She asked what his name was and he replied, of course, Rudolph. He then asked her her name; she answered, "Mine's Clarice." I then said in my best Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lechter voice, "Hello Clarice."

I've been told that that joke ruined the show for them. But by gum, it was funny, if you ask me.

Exploding pandas

Like many a soul these days, I play online games. I play mostly on facebook, and have become somewhat adept at those games I play. You know how it is: you start playing and build up points, cruise through new levels, make your team stronger so that you play stronger teams and so on. It gets addictive, to be sure.

I've played WGT baseball for so long that I have a regular championship squad. Poker? I've played tens of thousands of hands, all with fake money. So I get get fake wins; it's not like it's fake news, right? I've played enough farkle, a dice game, that I'm so far advanced that it will be two years before I can level up again. Yeppers, I've wasted a lot of time on pointless gaming.

My latest addiction is Panda Pop. You save mama panda's babies in a variation of the old balloon pop games which have been around since Atari was a real player in the video game world. The panda cubs are trapped in bubbles in the sky and you have to save them, often using explosives. And it finally popped, hee, hee, hee, into my head this morning: I'm saving baby pandas by blowing them up.

Doesn't that seem somehow wrong? I mean, how do you save a life by blowing it to smithereens anyway? Especially lovable little pandas.

The useless handshake

When something gets ingrained, it stays ingrained. Especially when it's ingrained in Uncle Patrick.

Grandpa Joe and Uncle Patrick did a lot of work together. It was mostly short day projects around the Shop. When the work was over, Joe would always offer his hand to Pat and they would shake. It was Joe's signal that they were through with another well done job.

One day, at a time when he and Pat were not working together, Joe had gotten down on the floor looking for something or other. And as happens with many of us as we get older, he couldn't get back up. And as it was, Uncle Patrick was walking by. Joe held out his right hand to Pat...who took it and shook it heartily, released it, then went on his way. Without helping his grandfather up off the floor.

Joe thought it was hilarious enough that he told the tale over and over. It is pretty funny at that.

The boss of the applesauce

Last night I made a batch of Marty's World Famous Applesauce. If you haven't heard of it, you're in the wrong world. But it's so good everyone should try it. So as a public service, today I'm going to tell you how to make it.

First, get apples. I recommend red delicious, mackintosh, or the northern spy variety. They're okay to eat but make better sauce. Do not use gala or golden delicious; them's eatin' apples, and it's a sacrilege to cook those. They're that good. Similarly, using Mutsu apples for applesauce is a sin even if you aren't religious. Eat them as they are you heathen.

Anyway, peel and core the apples. How many, you ask? I dunno. How much applesauce do you want? I make my batches using 40 - 50 apples, and a good peeler/corer can do that many in about an hour. If you want to make a smaller batch I ask, why would you want to? To repeat: this is great applesauce. You don't want a wee bit. That's just a tease. It would only make you insane.

Now, put those peeled apples in a big pot and boil them down. Put about six cups of water in the pot with them to start. Without some water you'll burn the apples. But too much water isn't good either, as more liquid will form as the apples boil down. Stir regularly and stir properly, bringing the apples at the bottom of the pot to the top. You can handle that, right?

When everything's boiled down to a saucy consistency, with some small chunks of soft apples left for bulk, add sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. The sugar makes it sweet, the cinnamon makes it cinnamony, and the nutmeg...well, I don't know what the nutmeg does. But if it ain't there your applesauce will not be good, and you will have failed Applesauce 101. Miserably.

How much sugar and stuff? I don't know. I just mix it to taste, so mix it my taste. How do you know my taste? I can't tell you everything you know, heh-heh.

Oh all right. Between four and five cups of sugar and about two teaspoons of cinnamon and one teaspoon of nutmeg. Don't forget the nutmeg. It's important for some reason.

Now, you eat it. You will be singing my praises as you do. If you've successfully made it to my taste of course.