Malted at Comerica Park

My attendance at this past Sunday's Detroit Tigers baseball game was fortuitous. Certainly not because of the Tigers, of course. They lost 8-1, having appeared to have mailed in their performance quite frankly. Yet something good came from the day just the same: I discovered that Comerica has again began offering chocolate malt cups.

My family and I loved them at old Tiger Stadium, those initially rock solid six ounce cups of some sort of chocolate ice cream. They used to come with stout wooden sticks, and the malt was so hard that the first several helpings were shavings rather than scoops of chocolate. I get that, though. The contents had to be super cold to withstand the stadium sales process on hot summer days. Sunday we were given plastic spoons. But the result was the same. And it came with a wonderful nostalgia.

I loved the taste and, truthfully, the fact that it does take awhile to consume a malt cup. Hot dogs are gone in ninety seconds, nachos in mere minutes. Malt cups lasted a couple of innings, matching the treat nicely with the properly laid back nature of baseball. Sure, they're up to five bucks now where they were two the last time we found them more than ten years ago. But I was so excited that I immediately texted the news to my family.

Why not? Given that the one I just purchased was frozen more solid than Antarctica, I knew I had time. And I know now that it'll get them to the ballpark with me.

Legal courtesies

I saw an old friend of mine yesterday; I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. Cloyce had called earlier in the week and said he had an extra ticket to Sunday's Tiger game and would I like to go. Sure, thanks. "I'll pick you up at Noon," he offered.

He picks me up, and a few minutes later we're caught by the traffic light at Woodward here in Detroit, where we had to make a right turn to go towards Comerica Park where the Tigers play. Cloyce is of course in the curb (turn) lane. The driver next to us toots her horn and rolls down her window. Cloyce rolls down his. "I'm supposed to turn here. Can I turn in front of you?" the woman asked.

Cloyce thought for a second before answering in a legalistic tone, "I don't think so", and went on and turned himself. I tell you, he answered as though she was asking his opinion on whether a turn from the second lane (where she was) was legal.

After he turned I immediately said, "Uh, Cloyce, she was asking if she could turn in front of you." He responded, "Really? "I'm not familiar with how you do things in the city."

As it happened the next light caught us and so did the woman. On my side, and she was glaring. "We're going to get shot!" fretted Cloyce. "No we're not," I assured him.

I rolled down my window and apologized profusely. "We're sorry, we're very, very sorry. It was a misunderstanding, honest."

She sneered, "Uh-huh" as though she didn't believe that at all (though it was the truth). But then Cloyce let her in front of him and we were past the crisis.

It was funny as all get out though. I still hear his naive, matter of fact 'I don't think so' as I write.

Time passes

I can't help but feel a little old today. Alan Trammell, my second favorite Detroit Tiger all time, will be inducted into baseball's Hall of fame this afternoon. He made his major league debut in September, 1977. The beginning of my senior year of high school. I remember being at his last game, in September 1996. Twenty-two years in my rear view mirror.
And then just a few minutes ago, my daughter and son-in-law left, on their way to Tucson, Arizona to start the next phase of their lives. To use a variation on an old joke, you teach your kids to become independent human beings, then damn if they don't go and do exactly that.
Well, I get to go to the Tigers game this afternoon, so that will be a good distraction. I can wear my Trammell jersey too. I suppose that's something.

Tearin' up jack

I remember Amos. He was one of Grandpa Joe's best friends, and lived just up the street. Often he would walk down to visit Joe and if one of us kids were out, he'd stop to shake our hand and say hi. I always thought that was pretty cool of him.

He had a phrase for when he was going some place in a hurry. He'd say he was "tearin' up jack". One day his tearin up jack cost him an extra ten minutes.

Amos was coming down the Lodge Freeway here in Detroit, hurrying to get home. Now, I don't know if other parts of these United States have such things, but on Detroit freeways many exits have turn around lanes at the top of the ramps which allowed you to make a U-turn without making a left turn onto the street where you exited. Maybe you wanted the street a couple blocks back, say, so this way you could loop around to it without making two left turns. It was thought to help traffic flow, I've always guessed.

But anyway, there was often an entrance to the freeway on the far service drive after the turnaround lane. If the street merited an exit it merited an entrance too, right? In this case, Amos was exiting at Forest Avenue but wanted to double back to Warren, which was two streets north. So he intended to take the turnaround lane at Forest and double back to Warren.

"Here I am headin' south on the Lodge tearin' up jack', Amos explained, "And I fly up the ramp and take the turnaround tearin' up jack, and I get on the far service drive and run right down the entrance ramp onto the northbound Lodge." Yep. In his hurry to get home, Amos had become for an instant absent minded and tore up jack right back onto the freeway.

That's the peril of tearin' up jack. You can forget where you're supposed to go.

Perspective

Several weeks ago, I found I was at a point far down Trumbull about halfway through my morning constitutional. Walking northward, I saw the boom of a crane in the distance. Yet within a few blocks it was no longer there. 'Must've moved on,' I thought to myself.

A few days later I was back in roughly the same place, and I saw the boom again. That was odd, I thought. But you see construction equipment all the time in and around Detroit so I figured it was a different one. In another few blocks though it also disappeared. I must admit I was perplexed, but I shrugged it off and went home.

When I spied the boom of a crane north off Trumbull yet again in the coming weeks I had to investigate. I determined to walk up the street all the way to the machine just to solve the mystery. But me being me, my thoughts wandered, and before long the crane was again gone, as if into the ether. I had to keep going then. Something was amiss.

As I came into the clearing created by Wayne State University's Matthei Field I saw that the crane had returned. Or, more correctly, my line of sight was no longer blocked. The crane was part of new construction at Henry Ford Hospital. It seemed to disappear only because as I neared it the trees between it and I, being taller in perspective, hid it.

I must admit I felt a bit stupid. But that's nothing new either.

Good times I remember (with help)

I like the memories section on facebook. It reminds me of neat things, good people, and fun times. Fun times such as two years ago these very days on a visit east.

I found Newark, New Jersey is surprisingly cosmopolitan when I did not expect it. I had originally reserved that positive judgment for Manhattan Island. I am impressed by my error. I suppose what changed my mind was having a drink in an Irish pub Saturday evening. If there's an Irish pub, it's a civilized enough place.

After visiting with my son and his fiancee, which was the highlight of my adventure and I mean that despite what detractors shall assert, I most enjoyed seeing Fenway Park in Boston. And New York City impressed me in ways beyond simple prose. Liberty Island, Ellis Island; the reflecting pools where WTC 1 and WTC 2 once stood. Marvelous. We are one nation. It was quiet as we watched the water stream over the black marble of the fountains which make the 9/11 memorial, despite the thousands walking and talking nearby. You really only heard the pools. You only heard the soft voices they made. They spoke powerfully.

Then Boston, which my son and I drove up to see, was pretty cool too. It's New York's sister, if they would both agree to the relationship. She has faced her attackers too. I'm not sure that I've experienced anything close to singing Sweet Caroline so deeply as the Red Sox nation sings it during seventh inning stretches at Fenway. Sweet Caroline, silence, then 38 thousand responses asserting "dun dun dah". Being part of it just once pleases me deeply.

I wish I had taken Pops to Fenway. I think even he would have said, pumping his fist, dun, dun, dahhh. He loved the spirit of the game that much. He would have liked the Tiger Stadium feel as well.

The homesteads of President John Adams (he had two) seemed country and quiet despite having been gobbled up by the Boston suburbs. I'm really not big on historic preservation (we tend to over-preserve, if we are honest about it) but I'm happy those two spots have been kept as they were. They are oases among the sprawl.

So thank you facebook memories. You've served me well this week.

Upsized road trips

On the road again...
During a sales trip through Indiana and up into Marshall, Michigan yesterday, I began looking for a place for lunch. As I hadn't eaten at a good old Kentucky Fried Chicken for awhile, I opted for KFC.
Now, I know of course that I don't need any extra food, especially when it's starchy or deep fried. Yet that didn't stop me from asking if the meals could be upsized. "No sir, they just are what they are," the cashier told me.
"Okay, give me the number 4 please," I said.
She began tapping keys on the register. Quickly she asked, "For a dollar would like to add extra potato wedges?"
I love KFC's potato wedges, so in spoken word I replied excitedly, "Yes, please." But in the silent words of my mind I asked, "Then there is a way to upsize the meals, isn't there?"
I mean, really. She didn't know that when I first brought it up?

History at the old barn

That old red bench grinder was staring at me this morning. It stood out from all else as I worked, and I don't know why.

It has some history. Grandpa Joe's brother Bill (the one who tore the bumper off Joe's Packard) was a mechanic in Jacksonville, Illinois. He had his own garage. Uncle Bill had bought that grinder new in 1928. Joe bought it from him somewhere in the mid-1940s and its been in the old barn ever since.

The work bench it sits on for that matter did not start out as a workbench. It was a counter in a restaurant which sat across the street from St. Dominic's, Joe's church. When the restaurant owner remodeled Joe bought the old counter and put it in his first welding shop in 1945. The counter was ideal both for its long top surface and the shelving underneath. Bus trays and whatnot had been stored there in its earlier incarnation. Joe used it to store parts and tools.

We have a five foot high crescent wrench leaning against a wall, Lord knows why. I don't recall ever using it. Along another wall is an iron, five foot long what Joe called a 'breaker bar'. That we did use. It made one wonderful prying tool when you needed it; it offered a lot of leverage.

There's more. More than I remember this minute and more than I spied this morning. But it demonstrates that there's some history in the old barn, and even some of it inexplicable (a five foot wrench?). But maybe I'll use it someday.

The open book?

When my son and I were in Boston a couple of years ago we stopped by Peacefield, the homestead of American Revolutionary hero and later President John Adams. We just wanted to see it; I'm an admirer of President Adams and we had a few minutes, so Frank looked it up on his smartphone and we found it. Once there, we walked around the open grounds and took some pictures. You know, touristy stuff. As it was obviously open we didn't think much of what we were doing.

Outside the carriage house we were stopped by a staffer. There was no problem. He just saw us there and asked what he could do. We explained we were just looking around, and he took us inside to tell us about available tours, which began a couple miles away.

As he talked I saw a small display of books and memorabilia, obviously for sale. There was a biography of Abigail Adams, John's wife. I have read several volumes on the President; I thought then I'd buy one on Abigail, to hear more about her and her perspective. "There's plenty of books and such at the visitor's center," I was told. Okay, thank you, I replied, and we left.

That's what happened, in a nutshell. But I wondered then and wonder now why he wouldn't sell me that book. In my mind that conversation went kind of like this:

"I would like to buy this biography of Abigail Adams please."

"Oh, there are plenty of books at the Visitor Center."

"Okay, but I'm here. I would like to buy this book."

"You'll find all kinds of books and gifts at the Visitor Center."

"I'm sure I will. But I'm here and so is this book. May I buy it?"

"Memorabilia, glassware, collectible plates, pictures..."

"Why won't you sell me this book?"

"It only takes about two hours; you'll really enjoy the tour."

"I'm not arguing that. I just want to buy this stupid book, that's all!"

A hush slams upon the room. "I find your lack of respect for one of our nation's finest First Ladies appalling," replies the docent. "Good day." And we leave without the book.

It didn't actually go like that, as I said. But it would have been really easy to sell me that book.

Out of the fog

Grandpa Joe done a lot of things. Some were understandable, and some were not. One of the things which was not understandable was that he liked, every now and then, to pour a quart of motor oil into the gas tanks of his cars and trucks. I believe he thought it would help keep the engine valves operating freely. But I have no idea why he thought that and it still doesn't makes sense to me. All I could see was that it made the vehicles belch out thick blue smoke for days afterwards.

Needless to say that produced fun memories.

For his welder rental business Joe had large flatbed trucks for deliveries and pickups. These trucks had manual transmissions, stick shifts. When my brother Phil was brought in to work, Grandpa saw that Phil needed to learn to drive those old beasts. Joe would teach him the only way he knew how: by tossing Phil the keys and have him back the truck up and down the alley outside his shop, to learn in a baptism of fire how to get the old flatbed in gear. Naturally this was right after Joe had tossed a quart of oil in the tank.

Like many first trying to learn to handle a stick, Phil tended to race the engine far more than necessary to engage the clutch. This put out copious amounts of smoke, until the alley was covered in a cloud of blue as though a very, very dense fog.

He had begun at the far end of the alley, either creeping or lurching towards the Shop as he tried to find first gear. The cloud developed and followed him, intensifying as he drew near the Shop. Soon enough you could not see to the end of the alley. When close enough to the old barn he would stop, and seek reverse gear to back up and start the process again. Slowly Phil would ease backwards and the cloud would gently swallow him and truck both until they could be seen but not heard.

A few minutes later there'd be grinding gears and a racing engine and that old Chevy flatbed would explode out of the cloud, sending wafts of smoke in all directions. This of course intensified the fog. It seemed that the entire block was becoming shrouded in blue; you couldn't see the garages which lined that alleyway.

This went on for about an hour, as me and one of Joe's other employees (I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name) stood by the large truck doors in the Shop and watched, laughing our heads off every time Phil exploded through the fog. To this day I don't know why someone didn't call the cops or the fire department. I've never seen so much smoke without a fire. But Phil learned to drive a stick, and Joe never thought twice about putting more oil in more gas tanks.

Hardwood

A few years ago there was in the neighborhood a fairly well-to-do gentleman. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. His wife, whom I'll call Mrs. Cloyce simply because I want to, was never satisfied with her house. She was often changing things due to this anxiety.

Once she had hardwood floors put into the kitchen to the tune of twenty grand. A few weeks later, finding that she did not like the hardwood, she spent more than the cost of the hardwood to install ceramic tile. Unsatisfied with that within a few short days, she mused about what to do next. "There's tile that looks like hardwood," Cloyce suggested. "You might try that."

I don't think ol' Cloyce has been out of the doghouse since. Yet he still chuckles mightily at the quip.

Old school is good school

I'm begining to go old school again. I've found myself buying the morning newspaper on a more and more regular basis rather than catching up on news through my computer. That's not to say I don't use my desktop or laptop for, especially, breaking news. But buying the paper does seem to have its advantages.

It begins with my now routine morning walk. There's a party store/gas station near the end of my usual route. One day at the end of my daily constitutional I just decided I wanted a paper. For a buck fifty a day it's not a bad deal. And other things are at work too.

The newspaper never freezes. It never takes forever to load; if I'm reading an article which concludes on page 3D, I simply turn to page 3D and it's right there. And while there are adds trying to distract me they are easy to ignore. Nothing pops up on my newspaper page forcing me to click it off, nor does my text get shoved downward on the page where I have to scroll to keep up with, or look for that insolent little tiny box with the 'x' to click on, to roll what I'm reading back up. I also get the puzzles for my entertainment, and the comics are found nicely arranged on one page. No going to a couple dozen different web pages for my daily comic fix.

My computer and smart phone will always be available, and I certainly get my use out of them. Still, the morning paper has reacquired for me a certain charm. I read as I want to read, jumping from page to page as I like. It feels quicker than my computer sometimes does. It's simply a nice way to ease into my news day.

Wow. I'm loving golf and reading actual newspapers. I am getting old school.

Dating Patrick

"Hey Marty, do remember how cold it was on October 2, 1974, that we had snow flurries?"

"Well, no, I can't say that I do."

"Oh. It was warm enough four days later that we were wearing shorts again."

"No kidding?" This is a typical quick conversation with my brother Patrick. He has always had a fascination with dates and can remember things far out of my memory. You tell him the exact date of your birth and he will immediately tell you the day of the week it was. He has the calendar ingrained in his mind for 800 years: 400 years forward and 400 years back. There's a cycle to it he tells me, but I can't fathom it. It's all pretty amazing. And as demonstrated, he can recall things I never would.

We all remember birthdays. Pat would tell me when my kids were 1,000, 2,000, and 3,000 days old. The anniversaries of auto accidents, or the day the family got a dog or cat, when he first ate pizza, he remembers like yesterday. And then there's the odd factoid like the cold on 10/2/74, or the record warmth on April 12, 1977.

It was 89. I know because he told me so. And you can look it up.

The license plate change trick

You've all noticed I should think that when you're in Michigan the overwhelming majority of license plates are Michigan plates. Shockingly, it's the same way in other states. In Ohio most plates say Ohio. In Indiana, Indiana and in New York, New York. But get this: when you're driving and cross a state line the majority of plates changes almost immediately.
Yes, that's going to happen. But I mean it happens absurdly fast. Cross into Indiana from Ohio and in about 17 feet nearly all plates say Indiana. It's true I tell you. You would figure it would take a few miles of travel yet it doesn't. Cross a state line and bam! It's like a magic trick, the change happens so fast.
Okay, so don't believe me. But watch how quickly it happens the next time you're driving into another state. You will be amazed.

Questioning rentals

When a significant part of your job is making deliveries, sometimes you need a larger vehicle than what you have. And while my reliable old Chevy Venture with the heavy springs (I'm trying to think of a name for her: Betty? Veronica? Cloyce?) is great for most loads, from time to time I find I need to rent a bigger van. When that happens I go to U-Haul. You know, U-Haul: where you go when you feel like being a moving advertisement.
They have ads all over their trucks and vans. I get that. I know that's their right as they try to drum up business and keep their name out there. But what I don't get is the mixed message they send. Everything they have asks and answers: Need a van? Rent this one!
So, how do I take that? I have imagined being stopped somewhere only to have a guy come up to me, "I want to rent that van."
I reply, "But I'm renting it."
"So? I need a van and yours clearly states that I can rent it."
Or does it mean that I can sub-rent it? Perhaps I can tell that guy, "Yeah, okay, here's the keys. Need any moving materials?"
Well, how else do you interpret it?

A Buck Twenty Seven

Ah, I remember well the time I got my first senior discount...

It was at a fast food restaurant in Indiana. Seeing that the young woman behind the counter hadn't charged me enough, I politely pointed it out (as you should). She smiled and replied cheerfully, "I gave you your senior citizen discount, sir!"

The front of my mind protested, "Exactly how old do you think I am?" The back of my mind thought rationally, "Well, I am saving $1.27."

I actually did nothing more than stammer a thank you. I took my tray and sat down to eat my lunch. As I ate I thought, so that's it. Your pride is worth a dollar and twenty seven cents.

Still, the fries were hot.

The joking priest

Father Sherer was thought by some to be a curmudgeonly old priest, and maybe he was in some ways. But he was also a bit of a joker.

Me Pops was an usher for years at old St. Dominic in Detroit. One of his chores was to see that the sacristy was in order after a service. One Sunday as he went about his business he handed the collection money to Father Hennessey, a quiet and humble priest I've mentioned before and who had just said that particular Mass. He took the small bag to put in the safe in the rectory.

Before Pops had finished an elderly gentleman had come to the sacristy. He explained that he was an old friend of Fr. Hennessey and wondered if he might see him. Pops said he would get him from the rectory.

Pops ran into Fr. Sherer first. "Have you seen Fr. Hennessey?" Dad asked. Father replied no.

"Well, a friend would like to see him, and I sent him in here with the collection money."

Fr. Sherer grabbed Dad by the shoulders and in mock horror exclaimed, "You gave the collection to Hennessey? He's halfway to Toledo by now!" Father Hennessey didn't have a thieving bone in his body of course.

Pops just laughed heartily. Fr. Sherer went to get Fr. Hennessey, and that was that.

Everyone is intolerant.

The title says it all: everyone is intolerant. Every. Single. Person. The parent is intolerant of the child who won't clean their room or do their homework. The jury is intolerant of the criminal; Republicans were intolerant of President Obama's last choice of Supreme Court justice. Yes, I'm making this political. But you expected that, didn't you?

We all have things we will not tolerate. The reason the left is howling about whomever President Trump will nominate to fill Justice Kennedy's spot on the Supreme Court is because they will not (presumably, although I can't imagine the President nominating anyone they would like) tolerate that currently unknown person's views. That is actually two instances of intolerance, when you think about it. One is the knee jerk negative reaction to what the President might do, the other an automatic presumption about an unknown. Ah, but we conservatives are so terribly intolerant.

And the fact is we are. We don't want people in office or on the bench who will do things we don't like. We are intolerant of that and will (and have) worked against such folk.

So call me intolerant. I am. I've said before, calls for tolerance mean nothing outside of context. What do you wish me to tolerate? Why ought I do so? The fact is that blanket calls for tolerance are simply banal and trite. Tell me why I need to be tolerant. If your reasoning is right and true, I will tolerate whatever is at hand.

Short of that, I must conclude that pleas for tolerance are nothing more than the progressive left in America trying to cow the center and right to accept what they want. That being their game, I suggest that the best response is a yawn.

Gas station rudeness

I've opined before that I'm intent on becoming a curmudgeon; indeed, that I welcome it. Something which I saw this morning only solidifies that desire. I witnessed for the umpteenth time an act which just plain infuriates me.

As I pulled into the neighborhood gas station, not for gas but for a coffee and a paper, I dutifully and rightfully pulled into a parking space over to the side. As I walked to the door, this inconsiderate boor, also not buying gas, parked right in front of the door, to run in and grab a pack of cigarettes. This action effectively blocked access to half the gas pumps, as well as semi-blocking the station door.

Again, this has happened often over the last several years. The more I see it the more it rankles me. It's. Just. Rude. The world ain't all about you, dude. Be considerate of people; park to the side where you're supposed to if you aren't buying gas.

This missive surely doesn't fully express my ire. But if I'd had a walking cane, I sure would have been waving it at him malevolently.

July 4, 2018

We are a rough race, we Americans. We holler for war and we seek peace. We want it all. And why shant we?

We should want peace, as a rule, yet we ought not shy from war when called for. Where is the wrong in this?

I believe in American exceptionalism. We are unique in history. We strive to prove that humanity can rise above itself. We challenge that notion. We dare it.

And yet we fail. But we dare to go on.

That is American exceptionalism in a nutshell. We go on. It is a fine trait.

Happy Independence Day.

Small town perspective.

So here I am in Hessel, Michigan, part of our state's glorious Upper Peninsula. And I need a haircut. Naturally then I went into town, Cedarville, all of three miles down the road, to see the barber. I thought to myself, "I think I'll head into town and see Dan about a haircut.'

Hessel has maybe 250 year round denizens. Cedarville has closer to 900. And here I am heading 'into town' from the one to the other.

Sometimes it's just about perspective, isn't it? And now Cedarville has a Dollar General! What have I said about that recently?

I have a bridge in Brooklyn

And why does this justification only pertain to sexuality: was Bernie Madoff born to defraud the unsuspecting out of their life savings?

The above quote is from an article by one Matthew Hanley, a Catholic bioethicist. You may read the entire article here: https://www.thecatholicthing.org/2018/06/28/trans-today-what-tomorrow/

He was attacking, rightly attacking I will argue, the 'born this way' argument by which society has begun to allow almost every kind of sexuality anybody might want. Yet if being born a certain way means that one cannot possibly help how they act (and as argued by the left it certainly must), then how do we condemn Madoff? Why couldn't he have been born that way? Maybe he couldn't help but do what he did, you know.

That's the crux of the problem with being born any given way. If I cannot condemn your actions because hey, that's just how you are, then how dare you condemn my actions for being Catholic? For voting for Trump? For loving baseball and tradition and conservatism and acting on that? I can't help it guys. I was born that way.

Born this way justifies nothing. Not. One. Thing. An action is either moral or it is not. If it is, we can do it. If it is not we cannot. Period. If you don't understand that, well, let me talk you about this bridge in Brooklyn I'm trying to unload.

Facebook funnies

This is why facebook has a memories section I suppose. Apparently I had this short conversation with my granddaughter on this day in 2015:

My granddaughter and I just got back in from the softball diamonds, where we were having a catch, hitting, and pitching. At one point we had this exchange:

Her: "I want to throw a ball in the air and hit it myself."

Me: "Whatever you like, dearie."

Her: "Okay. But why did you just call me Gary?"

That does sound like her.