The customer name game

We've had our share of characters come through the Old Barn. I've described some in detail and a few in passing but I haven't really mentioned the bulk of them. Here are a few glimpses of other notables who have stepped through the door.
There was California. I never did learn his actual name nor why he was nicknamed for the state. What I do remember is that he sounded exactly like Huckleberry Hound. You could hear him singing My Darling Clementine like he owned it. If you heard his voice from behind a screen you'd swear it was the guy who voiced that bluish Hanna-Barbera hound dog.
Speaking of voices, there was a guy who sounded exactly like Eeyore, the woeful donkey from Winnie the Pooh. Eeyore's main complaint was that he could never get a girlfriend. "Who'd want to date a guy who does what I do (clean sewers) for a living?" he often lamented in that dullish monotone. Then he found a girlfriend. He told us about it one day, in exactly the manner Eeyore would have. "I got me a girlfriend. Now I have to paint her kitchen."
Grandpa Joe christened one guy 'Cash' Adams. Mr. Adams would walk into the door and Joe would say, "There's Cash Adams. He gets cash and pays cash." Grandpa explained to me that he wasn't sure he could trust the guy so he came up with the moniker to embarrass him from asking for credit. Apparently it worked.
I'll end today with Mr. Clean. I don't know that anyone called him that to his face as he was a muscular, mountain of a man. But he always wore a white t-shirt and had a big gold earring in his ear. Yes, he looked just like the guy on the bottle of cleaning fluid.
There's many more believe me. This is simply to peak your interest.

Greetings from my television

Okay, I know that perhaps I'm a bit paranoid. I know that technology allows for things which aren't a big deal. Or aren't they?
As I laid back in my hotel room last night to watch a little TV after a long day, I saw something which continues to bother me. A line at the top of the guide page, in bold, block letters and an exclamation point, read "Hello Marty Cosgriff!"
I didn't like that. In fact, I was actually kind of uncomfortable. Kind of creeped out.
Yes, I know the point is to be welcoming. Yet I also know there's more than that. They're spying on me, the hotel people or the cable folks or whomever. They're trying to figure out, using this or that algorithm, what I'm watching so they can figure out what else I might want to watch. Just like Amazon with your searches and purchases there. Or Ebay.
But that's really only my business, unless I want their help. Why are such things automatic? Why can't I, if service is the purpose, be given the option whether to have it or not? Why does my TV presume I want it?
Really, my friends. It's creepy to have help foisted on you without being asked. It's either outright spying, or something worse: control

Mom's mastery of the free throw

She does it with such ease, such grace. From six, eight feet away even. Just a flick of the wrist and nothing but net. Well, okay, the net is a garbage can. And Mom can nail it from the other side of the kitchen table.

Sitting at her chair by the stove with the garbage can on the opposite side of the table (and at an angle to boot) she never misses. Curl up an old napkin, raise her left hand, flick the wrist, swish.

Pick up a food wrapper, mash it into a ball, flip the wrist, swish. Effortless. And she does not miss. And she never, ever uses the cabinet behind the can as a back board. She always drops the article right down the center of the opening.

It's actually pretty impressive. I think she's impressed with it too. She never misses.

The Bridge in Brooklyn

I am currently reading The Great Bridge, the story of the building of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was penned by David McCullough as a follow up to his book about the devastating Johnstown flood. He wanted a happier subject as he didn't want to be filed away as the disaster writer. I get that.
What caused me to read this particular book is multi-faceted. I loved McCullough's biographies of Harry Truman and John Adams as well as his fictionalized account of the first year of American independence, appropriately title 1776. Too, having walked the Brooklyn Bridge itself just last summer, I was impressed with its grandeur and, I suppose, awed that such a thing could have been made in the ancient 1870s; no doubt a little modern arrogance at work there. But more than anything, I was piqued at an attempt to make a tale of bridge building interesting. How is that possible?
It's possible if you have a talent like McCullough's. The thing that makes it work is his ability to talk about the people, and the people of course made the bridge. I had a bit of a duh moment when that occurred to me. McCullough wrote about the people. As such, I have great respect for, for example, the father/son duo of John and Washington Roebling, the engineers behind the project. The past comes alive, it comes into the present, when we learn about the people from back then.
To be sure, McCullough spends some considerable time on the engineering aspects. He does well with his explanations: I *think* I understand how the caissons are used and the dangers involved, so well were his words woven. Plus there's other historical aspects behind the Bridge which are well explained too. But the bottom line is, make it about the people and you can make yourself a good book. Or in my case here, a good read.

President's Day 2018

Today is Presidents' Day. It is a holiday that I am not fond of, for a variety of reasons.

I'm nowhere near convinced that all Presidents deserve honor. If nothing else, I don't see where Washington and Millard Fillmore are on the same plane. I mean, some just weren't good presidents. There aren't particularly good reasons to remember those guys.

Then too (as I've lamented frequently) I don't like the whole Monday Holiday Law. What honor are we showing the honorable when we shunt them around to our satisfaction? Not much that I can see.

To be fair, Presidents' Day officially is George Washington's Birthday, so I take some solace in that. Still, I can't help but feel that, as with many holidays, it's become kinda shallow. An excuse for sales if you will. I'm just not into that.

Frying those fish

Do you know what time of year it is? Yes, of course it's Lent. And that means fish frys!

I haven't been to a church fish fry where I haven't liked the fish. To be sure, deep fried fish probably isn't particularly good for us. But it's a only a few weeks of the year.

First stop: St. Francis of Assisi in Detroit. I am on my way!

Ash Wednesday 2018

Today is Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent for Christianity in general, and Catholics in particular. It is a time of penance, something we all need. We all need to atone for our failures, for our sins.

Humanity is fallen; the world around us is fallen. That's why people do wrong, and genes mutate into cancers and such. Nothing in our universe is perfect, but there is a difference between we humans and the lower animals and inanimate things nearby. We can choose. We can decide whether to do well or ill. It is what makes us special, and separates us from all else.

But surely these next few weeks aren't for Christians alone? It would seem that no matter what you believe, or whether you believe anything at all, you would still think it a good idea to improve yourself, or to do good things for those in need around you. Even if you cannot bring yourself to believe in something beyond humanity or beyond the universe itself, you can still make the effort to make yourself a better person and enrich the lives of those whom you come in contact with day in and day out. It's the one area where the seriously religious and the secularists can surely agree with each other, don't you think?

So try to become a better person this Lenten season. Smile, help people, discipline yourself in the positive habits of mind and body. You might be pleasantly surprised as the good habits formed become a part of you. The folks around you may be downright shocked. And we'll all be the better for it.

Cloyce and women

A good friend of me Grandpa Joe's, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, was notoriously poor when picking out the ladies. Grandpa Joe knew that very well; when Cloyce asked him to come along to meet his latest girlfriend Joe responded, "Nah. I ain't interested in none of your cattle".

"Ah, come on, Joe. This one's a real classy dame," Cloyce insisted. So Grandpa went along with him. I suppose his curiosity had been piqued.

The second clue was when Cloyce entered the wharf section of the town they were working in, parking in front of a seedy bar along the loading docks. "Why are we here?" Joe asked.

"She works here."

"Aw Hell", remarked my grandfather in one of his best Aw Hell tones. An incredulous Aw Hell I would imagine.

The third clue came when they were seated at the bar, with Cloyce's classy dame as their server. After a bit of chitchat the woman nonchalantly reached under the bar and pulled out a pair of pliers. She latched onto one of her molars and began working the tooth back and forth, back and forth, until she triumphantly yanked it from her jaw. Tossing the tooth into a nearby wastebasket she said, "That one won't give no more trouble."

"You sure do got a winner there, Cloyce", Joe said, as he made for the door.

The parental sign

We all have that memory, don't we? That one thing which mom or dad or maybe a grandparent would have which told us, 'That's enough'. Maybe it was a stare, perhaps a grimace. But it could be a phrase. For my mother, it was a phrase.

While sitting with Mom yesterday she began talking about her father, me Grandpa Hutchins. She knew he meant business, and knew it was time to back off, with one simple set of words from her paw.

Whenever her and her siblings were becoming a bit too loud and rowdy her mother, me Grandma Hutchins, would say to her husband, "Mal (short for Malachi) do something to make these young'uns mind!"

Grandpa would say, quietly for he was quiet man yet somehow forcefully, "I wish they would."

That was the turn of phrase which made Mom and her brothers and sisters pipe down. She and they knew that the next step would be an action and that it would be unpleasant. When Grandpa Hutchins said, "I wish they would", they had better. It was as plain as that.

The February Holiday spirit

February is almost anything month. Of course all months are anymore, as everyone it seems tries to get this or that cause which is precious to them somehow highlighted. To be sure, I'm not saying that any of this is wrong. But it does seem to have, perhaps, the tendency for all these causes to be drowned out in the din of competing virtues.

In February, the big ones still get their due. Valentine's Day has been around awhile, as have Washington and Lincoln's Birthdays (boiled down to a bland President's Day as it is) and Black History Month. Nothing really wrong with any of that. Then Groundhog Day has cut a niche for itself in February 2, though it's an admittedly tongue in cheek, uh, holiday. It's all in good fun.

But can these more established ritual dates compete with the likes of Create a Vacuum Day? Or how about Ferris Wheel Day? Then there's what may be my favorite, Do a Grouch a Favor Day. It's February 16; I expect many favors.

If you're so inclined, you can view a fuller list of February remembrances here: http://www.holidayinsights.com/moreholidays/february.htm

Why read the list? Because who would want to miss Hoodie Hoo Day, or Public Sleeping Day? The 15th is Eat Ice Cream for Breakfast Day. I'm looking forward to that.

Hoodie What Day? I'm not even going to bother to look it up.

But get your kites ready. Kite Flying Day is coming up. Honest.

Foot almost in mouth disease

Sometimes that little bird on your shoulder can be very smart, very prescient. Sometimes I have not listened and ended up embarrassed or ashamed. Sometimes I have listened and been very grateful. Enormously grateful in fact.

About twenty five years ago I had to have minor surgery on my foot, and no, it was not to remove it from my mouth. But I almost put it there afterwards.

While waiting in an examination room in my podiatrist's office for a follow up visit after the surgery I began looking over the several paintings in the room and man, they were awful. I'm no kind of artist, but those paintings were terrible; worse than a six year old doing a paint by number terrible. Worse than your first grader's stuff that you proudly put on the fridge. I sat studying the artwork, all the while thinking of the insults I'd make about them to whomever I saw next. Yet the little bird told me to be careful what I said.

Soon enough a nurse entered. "Those are some paintings," I began. It was intended a prelude to mockery. Yet it also gave me a moment to gauge things.

"Aren't they?" the nurse replied, beaming. "Doctor Lewis's father made every one of them!"

"Ah," I answered back. "That's really cool." And I left it at that. But I've thanked that little bird every time since that I've thought of the occasion.

Wednesday warbles

Okay snow, you can stop now. So can you winter. I've had my fill.

I'm reading a book on 1968 which, while it touches on all historical events of that year, concentrates on the 1968 baseball season and World Series. As an 8 year thoroughly delighted at the Detroit Tigers' World Championship that year I find myself amazed as a 58 year old that it's been 50 years since it happened. I feel more and more all the time how the old timers must have felt as they aged. It is bittersweet in a way, but damn some of the memories themselves simply do not grow old.

Ah, well, maybe that's all the warblings I've got for today. I'll try harder tomorrow, honest!

Disappointed dogs

I wonder if anything is more disappointing that a disappointed dog?
My son and his family are in for the weekend, and they brought their two dogs. They're good dogs. They aren't any trouble at all. But boy, do they miss their masters when they're gone.
I'm alone downstairs with them right now. Charlie and his family are momentarily out. But the dogs clearly want them. If I go upstairs for a second then return, I find them sitting at the dining room door, staring. They clearly were hopeful of something better, and then I appear. They let me give them treats, which I do because I feel bad for them, then slink off to their pillows or the couch to pine for the folks they actually want to see.
What can you say? "Sorry, I'm not who you want." But the ones they want will be back soon, and then, oh joy, oh rapture. Until then, they will nonetheless graciously accept my pity treats.

The no sales clause

I came in yesterday at lunch with tuna salad. You know, a mix of tuna, mayo, relish, onions, celery and the like, all in a blob (that sounds so appetizing, doesn't it?) which you can put on bread for a sandwich, eat on a bed of lettuce, or dip crackers in for your easy lunchtime enjoyment. I told everyone, "I bought tuna salad, but I'm not selling it to you. I'm only telling you it's there if you want any."

I said it that way on purpose. Joe Cosgriff used to say it just that way.

Me Grandma Cosgriff, Lord love her, used to pry her guests with cookies and candies, coffee and snacks and so forth, as they would sit visiting. And Joe would invariably bark, displaying his classic impatience, "Don't sell them on it! It's there if they want it." And he meant it in two ways. Don't make guests feel obliged, but also that they were welcome to whatever he or she had just the same.

Somewhat conversely though, if you and he were the only two sitting at the kitchen table, he would roll out a litany of what was available. There's coffee, milk's in the fridge, and there's cookies in the jar and there's some hard candy in a bowl and even sandwich fixins if you care for it. "But I'm not sellin' ya on it. It's there if you want," he would add at the end.

What exactly the difference was between how he put it and me Grams did, I'm not sure. Yet I did and do agree with his final point. Be a good host. Just don't sell it.

Pops strikes Joe

I've mentioned many times that me Grandpa Joe rented welding equipment and that me Pops worked for him. I don't believe that I've talked about how Pops was a Teamster. Joe paid for Dad to be union because many sites in the fifties, sixties, and seventies wanted only union workers on the job. It had further advantages for Pops and Joe too. It gave Dad health insurance, something well needed for a man with a wife and 7 kids, and a pension of sorts. I say of sorts because I don't believe the Teamsters did Pops justice on that count, but that's another story.

Anyway, for a long time every three years there was a new contract. I remember a couple of times as young teen toiling at the old barn, the Teamsters business agent would come by the Shop with the master contract to 'negotiate' it with Grandpa Joe. You know, to discuss if there were any particulars peculiar to Dad's job which the master contract either didn't touch or was vague about. For Joe and the agent I think it was simply a reason to kill an hour as they usually just looked over a few points and then shot the breeze; even Pops would join in here and there, just talking. There was never a problem of course.

But what great fun there could have been if there had been issues. Can you imagine the business agent ordering William Cosgriff to go on strike against Joe? Could you see me old Pops walking a one man picket line outside the old barn, 'Joe Cosgriff UNFAIR!' being proclaimed from the sign he'd carry. Or maybe Dad chanting between himself, 'What do I want? FAIR WAGES! When do I want them? NOW!' We could have even gotten him an old oil drum to light a fire in to warm himself if it were winter.

And what about poor me? Do I cross the picket line to work for the man who was paying me, or respect my father and stay home in sympathy? Oh, it would have been the latter, but, sadly, out of a reason to be lazy rather than support a strike, all under the guise of supporting me Dad. What could be better?

It never would have happened. Yet, the possibilities and images make me chuckle.