Me-too-ism

In my travels, I often drive through Findlay, Ohio. Findlay proclaims itself, 'Flag City USA'. All right, let it be as they say. I have no reason to doubt it, even though I suspect it's just a ruse of some sort.

About 10 miles after Findlay is the little town of Arlington (also in Ohio). The sign welcoming you to Arlington also makes a proclamation. It announces Arlington as 'Flag Village USA'.

You know what I think?

I think Arlington has sibling issues.

Speaking of which, I notice that Detroit this morning has an excessive heat warning as we are facing a potential record high of 96. Fair enough. But then I noticed that Hessel, Michigan, about 320 miles north, has issued a heat advisory. It's supposed to reach 82 up there today.

Really, Hessel? I think that's taking me-too-ism a bit far.

Canadian potato chips

I like rippled potato chips better than regular. They're heartier; they don't leave chip dust in the bottom of the bag or bowl and I don't believe they leave so much grease on your hands. Yep. I like rippled chips.

The other day I bought a bag of Italian sausage flavored chips. They're okay, but I never thought of there being a difference between spicy Italian and sweet Italian. These were spicy. And it's odd to taste a flavor where you don't feel that flavor should be. Italian sausage flavor should be in Italian sausages, not chips. But it was the only bag left and it was on sale. I had to buy it.

Of course, being the last bag left at a sale price could mean one of two things. Either they are really popular or they are really not so popular. Ah, ya pays ya money, ya takes ya chances. But I'll probably never find Italian Sausage potato chips again.

The Canadians were way ahead of the curve on potato chips. Years before we had them in the States they had dill pickle, ketchup, and most wonderfully of all, salt and vinegar chips. Now I see here in Michigan chips flavored 'all dressed' and purported to be the most popular flavor in Canada even though I've never seen them in Canada nor do many (if any) of my Canadian friends claim to know anything about them. Then again, I'm not exactly known for hanging out in Canadian party stores examining their potato chip emporiums.

I like rippled potato chips.

Oops, I've come full circle. Time to stop.

The not bad motor

I'm probably guilty of it too, but I do wonder if people always hear what they're saying.
A customer brought a machine into the Shop this morning. It had to be kick started. That is, it would hum when you hit the 'on' button but you needed to hand spin the pulley before the motor would turn. "What's wrong with it Cosgriff?"
I answered that until I got into the repair I would not know, but it could be as bad a blown motor. "They're can't be nothing wrong with the motor, Cosgriff, because I can kick start it."
He didn't hear what he said.
Of course something is wrong with the motor because you should not have to kick start it. Besides, if nothing's wrong with the motor why are you in my Shop talking to me?
Some people's kids...

Five years

Hey Pops, how are you today?

It looks like they finally finished the Logan County courthouse down in Bellfontaine. How long have they been working on it, maybe six, seven years? It's been awhile I know. I gather that 2018 is Bellefontaine's bicentennial and they wanted it ready by the Fourth this year. They got in under the wire.

I took in a Model R on trade last week for ten eight foot cables. Not a bad deal, I don't think. It all depends on what it sells for though, huh? We'll do all right with it.

Mom's doing okay physically but her mind ain't what it used to be. She talks about you all the time, saying that's she's glad we boys took after you. I fancy that by and large we have but that's flattery. I see a lot of you in your grandsons though. The apple doesn't fall too far from the grandtree, maybe?

The Tigers are doing well despite a rebuilding year. They play a home game at 3:15 this afternoon, and who knows why? I can't recall them ever playing at such a time, even on a weekend or holiday let alone on a normal end of June Monday. I'm almost tempted to go...

It's busy at work, so I guess I should go. Five years, eh? Sure don't seem like it.

Until next time,

Marty

A Sunday thought

Today on the Catholic calendar it is the feast of the birth of St. John the Baptist. Baptism is, I say with supreme understatement, critical to our lives as Christians. Even Our Lord had Himself baptized, because He came to fulfill the law not abolish it, and the law calls for baptism.

But why is it important? In the words of a very humble Dominican, Fr. Thomas Hennessey, as he baptized my daughter, "We now know that young Abigail shares in the Divinity of Christ." With baptism, Christ comes into our life. He becomes a part of us. And that is why it is important.

The Weather Dad

Yes, I'm supposed to be helping my daughter with her yard sale. I'll be back out there in a minute.

You see, the skies look iffy. So I'm doing what every dad does in this internet age when the sky looks iffy.

I hopped online to check the radar. What's wrong with a little planning?

And for your information, it looks like it's going to stay clear until after the sale is over. So there.

Pops and the horse barn

There once was a guy in the neighborhood who hung around the old barn quite a bit. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name.

One day Cloyce stopped by simply to chat, as was his wont. For whatever reason his 9 year old daughter was with him. For whatever reason he asked me Pops how old the Shop was, so Dad went into an abridged version of his standard tale of the Shop's origion. It was our drain snake shop, me Grandpa Joe's welding shop afore that and a mechanic's shop afore that. Afore all that, and Dad had gone back a around a hundred years by then, it was a horse barn. Cars had not quite caught on in early 1900s and many folks in the area still had a horse and buggy for getting around.

"A horse barn, eh?" Cloyce asked approvingly.

"That explains the smell," young Miss Cloyce opined with a pinched up nose. From the mouths of babes.

"Cute kid you got there Cloyce," said Pops with a wry laugh.

Walking Tahquamenon

Tahquamenon Falls are a natural beauty found in Michigan's eastern Upper Peninsula. There are two falls a few miles apart. The walking trail between the two is around four miles long. I've walked it once, in 1994, with me two sons and me Pops.

We were vacationing in da U.P. as usual that summer and decided to see the Falls. Mom and Dad had come up for a few days and so went with us. While there I thought it would be cool to hike the trail. It was after the words expressing that wish came out of my mouth that I felt a pang of regret and concern. You see, Pops was between cancer treatments at the time and about six weeks ahead of scheduled surgery to remove a kidney. After I had opened my yap, he decided that walking the trail would be cool too. I surely would not have said anything had I thought he'd like the idea.

It was probably the first time I came close to confronting him seriously on anything as it was during the first period that I was really worried about his health. I told myself that maybe I ought to discourage him, with his cancer and all. The tumor was by that point diagnosed as inactive (I'm not sure the more expected term benign was accurate) and the MDs were certain that all other cancerous spots (he had them on his liver and lungs when the disease was initially found) had been eradicated. Still, I wasn't sure a 58 year old man dealing with such ought to be hiking a rough trail through the woods. And what would we do if something happened while we were out there? Yet as a son taught to respect his father's wishes, well, I said nothing and thought I'd just watch him closely. He likely wouldn't be denied anyway.

Damn but if that old man didn't hammer that trail. He more than kept up; he led the way more often than not. He always walked fast anyway, but I wonder if he took the hike to prove he could do it and was further determined to show us he could too. I had feared after his tribulations that his stamina would not allow the full journey. His stamina then proceeded to embarrass mine.

So I'm glad I suggested the hike and I'm glad he walked it with us. It's become a happy and proud memory. And as I'm 58 this year myself, I'm thinking that this summer I'll walk the trail in his honor.

The routinely blocked number

Part of me feels bad for doing it. But it's kind of in self defense really.
A good customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, is a nice guy. He never argues price; indeed he always thanks us for our good service and gives us a decent amount of business. Yet he has one flaw: he's a worrywart. When he leaves a piece of equipment with me he calls constantly, in the range of every couple of hours, checking on its status until the job is done. If he drops off something Monday morning and I tell him it'll be ready Wednesday, he begins calling Monday afternoon.
I've asked him to not do that. He's always been very apologetic when I have, assuring me that he trusts me and likes my work and knows I'll call the minute I have him good to go. And then he promptly calls two hours later.
This is where I feel a bit bad. Thanks to the miracle of modern technology whenever he leaves something for repair I pull out my cell phone, go to my contacts list, scroll down to Cloyce's number, and block it. When his job is ready I reverse course, unblock it, and call him.
I suppose I should not do that. But a fella gets tired of running to his phone or struggling to get it out of his pocket only to see Cloyce's name there when it rings. It interrupts the flow of work and simply irks me.
Ah well. No doubt there are worse problems in the world.

Another phrase to hate

Remember how I've talked about phrases I don't like? Well, another one has occurred to me, and I'm as guilty as the next person for using it.

While talking to a friend yesterday, a friend leaving next month for a nice vacation, I said in parting, "Well, have a nice trip if I don't see you before then!" He answered thanks. But what he should have answered was, "Can I have a nice trip if I do see you before then?"

In thinking about it, it's almost like when holidays are approaching. Countless times in the last 40 or so years during the Christmas season I would hear, "If I don't see you again before then Marty, have a Merry Christmas!" Um, uh, can, can I have a Merry Christmas if I do see you?

Think about it; it's almost a threat, isn't it? Have a Merry Christmas, unless I see you. A warning, perhaps? No Merry Christmas if I'm around, Marty.

Just another phrase to toss on the I hate that phrase pile.

The evil that Marty do

I did it anyway, even though it was pure evil. Call it my Father's Day gift to myself. I blame society anyway. If it hadn't furnished me with inventions such as cell phones with picture taking and internet capability, I couldn't have done it. It's all your fault, society.
It was evil, mind you. Pure evil. When you must duck under clearly marked caution tape and ignore do not trespass signs as well, you know you're doing something wrong. Evil, indeed. But gosh darn it, I'd do it again. In a heartbeat.
I walked onto Wayne Sate University's baseball field, having access because the backstop behind home plate is being replaced, the construction zone guarded by mere caution tape. That is nowhere near good enough to prevent determined evildoers. I walked to within thirty feet of the scoreboard in left field, the same scoreboard which used to adorn the left field wall at old Tiger Stadium here in Detroit. I took a picture of it. Then, to compound my evil, I posted the picture to facebook, taunting WSU. Nya-ha-ha! I thought, as I twirled the old timey curly evil villain mustache I imagined for the moment that I had.
And then I simply walked away. What were the authorities going to do by then, throw me out? I was leaving anyhow.

A moment in time

Five years ago my Dad walked out of the Old Barn, and I knew he wasn't coming back. One minute he was in the doorway latching the gate behind him, his body literally framed by the sunlight. The next moment there was only sunshine. And he wasn't coming back.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this right now but I feel like I have to write it and try to find...something. While I do feel sad at the memory I don't feel particularly melancholy nor do I mean to make anyone else feel bad. Perhaps I am only looking for an explanation, a reason. I do wonder if anyone else has ever had such a feeling.

What struck me the most both then and now was the depth of certainty which I felt that day. It's as though in that very instant I felt, physically felt really as much as mentally, that that was it. At the risk of hyperbole, I felt an era pass. Dad leaving the Shop that second meant that much.

One instant, framed by the sun. The next instant, gone. Just like that. How quickly things go...

Mulberries in season

Funny, isn’t it, how we sometimes identify people with certain times, places, or things.

In the alley behind our old family repair shop there is a row of mulberry bushes which have been there for years. My grandfather would, in the late spring or early summer when they were in season, always stop and treat himself to a few of the little fruits as he went to and from work.

Little? Well, mulberries are small compared to most fruits. In context, they’re like raspberries who have spent a lot of time in the gym; a scant few are a handful. They’re juicy and sweet, and Grandpa Joe liked them. I remember vividly his picking and popping them into his mouth as he made his way down the alley, as though he were a kid again.

Time passes, and so, sadly, did Grandpa Joe. Yet the mulberries still grew, and I couldn’t help over the years but develop a liking to them myself. As I hike to and from work nowadays I’ll stop and have a few. As it were, my daughter also came to know and like the mulberries too. Often we’ll take bowls and go fill them with the little purple black fruits, snacking as we pick, and my wife will make pies out of those which make it back home. I like the idea that three generations of a family have been able to enjoy those berries ripening on the same bushes.

Now, I’m not all that naive; I know that Joe Cosgriff was ornery and arbitrary, with a hair trigger temper. I know it from the tales my Dad and his siblings have told, and from the personal experience of having worked with him for a good 15 or 18 years. I know too that there was a part of him which was somehow kind and appreciative, and that there were moments when these came out despite, perhaps, himself. There were good times and trying ones, and lasting impressions. I find as I grow older that, in the end, it is the good times which matter more than the difficult, even if it seems there were more tough days than easy. I believe too that the smallest, almost innocuous memories can also be the greatest insights into the honest character of someone.

What prompts me to write this? It’s June, and the mulberries are in. And I’m thinking about you, Joe.

Old time theft protection

I don't believe this applies anymore; it likely hasn't applied in 30 years or more, with all the changes in engine technology. But we used it back then, and it worked 100% of the time.
Before clubs, before ultra sensitive car alarms, it was hard to keep the so-called professional thief from stealing your car if he really wanted it. And while I'm sure others may well have come up with the idea, me Pops or me Grandpa Joe one had come up with it around here.
Cars at one time had distributors and coils. A wire ran from the one to the other as the distributor (as I recall) 'distributed' the spark to the cylinders of an engine to cause the small explosions necessary to make it go. But without connection to the coil (which stored power, again as I recall) there was no spark to distribute. So take off the coil wire and your car would not start. No way no how.
So we would remove the coil wire, the cord between the distributor and coil, when we were home for the night. And not one of our cars were stolen after we put that practice into place.
Yeah, we knuckle dragging Cosgriffs weren't always so dumb. I bet if you have a car made before about 1985, you could still use this method today.

Knuckle dragging Cosgriffs

One of the more famous of the 'they say' flippancies is that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Perhaps in my case the knuckles don't come far enough off the ground.
Okay, that's hyperbole. But I noticed years ago that both me Grandpa Joe and his eldest son, me Pops, would routinely scrape their knuckles horribly. I do mean horribly too. Several times they would bleed so bad that Joe or Pops would take the oversized paisley hankerchiefs each always had on them and draw them tightly across their wounded knuckles, and hold the ends equally tightly in their fists as makeshift bandages. Very often in my youth and young adulthood I found myself thinking that they needed to be more careful, be in less of the hurries they were frequently in, to avoid scraping their knuckles so awfully. Of course, I never said that to either of them. One does not lecture one's father or grandfather.
I'm glad that I never did, and for two reasons. One, they were as stated my father and grandfather. If what they were doing was so critical as to risk injury, who was I to criticize? And two, dash it all, I've begun scraping my knuckles seriously enough that it was tough to stanch the bleeding. Just yesterday in fact, as I worked a snake to open the lines in my laundry tub. This with heavy gloves on too I should say. And it was not the first time of late that I've scraped my knuckles.
Yes, I need to simply pay more attention and not hurry so much. Still, in an odd sort of way, I wear the wounds proudly.

Six figures

As I was talking about being on the road yesterday I will continue that theme today. Thursday brought about an interesting and fairly rare sight, one that tickles me anyway.
Tooling north along Interstate 69 from Muncie to Gas City, Indiana (I-69 is concurrent with US Route 35 in that stretch, two roads for the price of one) I happened to notice that the six figures on my odometer were the same. My van was at 222,222 miles.
We make a big deal about the big, round numbers: anniversaries and birthdays exactly on the decade, 100,000 miles, 200,000, and the vaunted quarter-million miles on our vehicles. But six straight numbers are pretty rare too. Well, I suppose every milestone is effectively as rare, or rarer. 178,563 miles only happen once if at all with a car; we don't get a second thirty-seventh birthday. But hey, six straight numbers!
It's worth a mention.

Vanity on the road

What you see when your job involves a lot of driving...

In a small Indiana town yesterday I passed the Vanity Beauty Salon. While I suppose there is a certain justification for such a name I'm not sure I would have chosen it. How does one take that? Are they appealing to the Veronica Lodges of the world? Betty Cooper, just walk on by, maybe? Whatever.

Within a few minutes more I saw a sign for Franciscan Fireworks. For those who may not be familiar with Catholicism, Franciscans are an order of priests. The sign was adorned with a priest gazing peacefully towards Heaven. The store itself, which appeared on the roadside in the next five miles, had a picture of a Franciscan complete in his brown monk's robe holding two lit firecrackers, one in each hand, and looking quite content about it. This was before they went off of course.

Lastly, it seemed that every wide spot in the road I drove through had a Dollar General. I can just imagine corporate board meetings at Dollar General World Headquarters: "Hey, Townville has 8, maybe 10 people. Put up a store!" I think it's overkill but hey, rural folk like their Dollar Generals I guess.

What you see on the road...

Fair tips

After curling one night a group of us went to a pub and grub. One of my buddies, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, left early. He left his credit card receipt on the table after he signed it, adding a six dollar tip for the waitress.
It was a fair tip, to be honest. But not fair enough. I added a one before the six.
At 7:30 the next morning I got a call from Cloyce. He monitors his credit and debit cards religiously. "Did you mess with my credit card?" he asked.
"Now why would I do that?" I responded innocently.
"You did, didn't you? You expletive."
Hey, I was going to give him his money back. But he called me an expletive, so expletive that.

Sixty One

Sixty One isn't cold, is it? Sixty One degrees Fahrenheit? That's not cold. That can't be cold.
Then why did it feel so cold this morning?
I checked the temperature before I left my house for my morning walk, right about six o'clock this morning. The Weather Channel told me it was 61. Ah, I thought dismissively, I don't need a jacket or a sweatshirt. Shorts and a tee will be fine. After all, it's 61.
Twenty minutes and about two miles later, despite working up a bit of a sweat, I wished I had a jacket or a sweatshirt. I stopped to pull my crew length socks up to help warm my otherwise bare legs. I pulled my Tigers cap closer onto my head.
Why would I do that? Sixty One isn't cold.
At least, it didn't used to be.

Visiting Cy

Denton True 'Cy' Young was perhaps the greatest pitcher in baseball history. His nickname was shortened from cyclone, and he earned it from the damage his fastball would do to the walls of baseball stadiums. They looked like a cyclone had hit them when a throw of his had in fact.

His 511 career victories put him almost 100 in front of the next player on the list, Walter Johnson. Yes, he also has the most career losses at 316. But when he played, pitchers pitched. None of the four days off and other pampering modern hurlers get as birthrights.

My eldest son and I visited Young's grave yesterday. It's just after a wide spot in the road called Peoli, in the rolling hills of eastern Ohio. Peoli Cemetery is a fine, sublime place for his earthly remains. Located on a hill on a bend of Ohio route 258, the cemetery overlooks pasture and farmland. I could see resting there until the trumpet calls. I have to imagine Young likes it.

There were three baseballs on the ground against the grave marker, and a small pile of pennies, maybe ten or twelve cents, on the footing. Charlie looked up why they might be there: as a sign of respect from a visitor who had stopped by. I took a penny from my pocket and added it to the collection.

We said a couple prayers and I actually choked up a little. We spend a lot of time living and not enough remembering. I'm glad my son was willing to indulge me in the trip to Peoli. And it was good to see that a baseball immortal was not forgotten.

Fireflies

The farmer's field which is right next to my son's house in central Ohio was the scene of a muted light show last night. There were hundreds of fireflies all over it.

They were blinking all around the new corn, which is only about a foot high right now. They were blinking up into the trees at the end of his driveway. That was actually even more impressive that the many lights among the corn, like small Christmas lights on the First of July.

That's all I got today. But it was pretty cool and I look forward to tonight.

Unassuring assurance

"One thing about my checks. They're always good."

That might be the worst sentence I hear in sales, and I hear it with some frequency. It was spoken to me again recently as I was given a significant check.

Maybe I'm just paranoid. I had no actual reason to suspect the check was not good. The man who gave it to me has been a customer for around 10 years. Yet before today he always paid cash (which is certainly nice) or with a credit card (which of course I could run immediately). Then he gives me his first check, and his reassurance was not reassuring.

It seems as though every time myself or Pops before me heard those or similar words we'd have trouble with the check which was always good. Oh, I'm sure not every time. But admit it, when a body has to make it a point to tell you their check is good it actually makes it suspect. I had already agreed, by strong indication in saying I would take it, that I trust his check. After that point, why must he assure me it's good? He even went to the point of showing me that his address was on the check. O-kay. Why would I not expect that?

By the way, the check was good. I ran it down to the bank right away just to know.