The last shot

He always bought every shot. Every beer.

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

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

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

He always bought.

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

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

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

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

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

Vote now on Kavanaugh

Anymore, I truly hate to venture into politics here. It isn't very much fun, it can alienate a large segment of my audience, and I simply like writing lighter fare. But this Kavanaugh thing has gone too far and needs to stop.

With all due respect to all involved, I have the right to doubt 30 and 35 year old accusations. There's been too much history between then and now and the farther we are from any given incident the harder it is to prove anything particular about it. Unless you can come up with credible evidence, this will devolve into 'he-said she-said' and nothing will come of it. We won't know anything with any more certainty than we do this minute.

This is a hatchet job, obvious character assassination. The preponderance of the evidence heavily favors Kavanaugh. And more is at stake than innocence or guilt over one or maybe two alleged sexual assaults. Everybody's due process rights are out the window when the pointed finger is enough to condemn any one of us of any thing. I fear for every mother's son when allegations become evidence and accusation becomes proof.

The Gordian Knot of welding cable

Me Grandpa Joe rented welding machines, as many of you by now know. He really wasn't fussy about much, but one of those things was his welding cable.

Each machine typically had to have 150-200 feet of cable while in operation. These cables were copper coated rubber and were about an inch thick. He always made sure that they were rolled in loops which were easy for a man to carry on his shoulder. On this point he was very particular; it could take forever to unknot even one cable. That was just time wasted, he rightly believed. Coil the cables, tie them off, and stack them nicely when the job was through, that was his mantra.

Once Acme Steel Processors (not the company's real name) rented ten welders from Joe and had them for a couple of months. When the job was over, Joe himself happened to be the man who went to pick them up. He was greeted at the Acme plant with a pallet of unrolled welding cable. All his beautiful welding cable, more than 2,000 feet, was piled in a jumbled, knotted mess. His fuse, short anyway, was set.

About then the foreman came up to Joe and said, "There was trouble with one of your welders. The plant manager wants to talk to you."

Joe barked, "That's just dandy, because I want to talk to him too."

Grandpa stormed into the plant manager's office. The manager, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, never had a chance to open his mouth about whatever issue he had. Joe lit right into him, a blast of emphatic, rough English, yet with no expletives more than Joe's liberal use of the mild one 'hell', explaining exactly how little he cared for discovering his cable in one God-awful mess. That was not how he delivered it, Joe vigorously orated. It was gonna take hours to sort out he, um, explained. I've been told it was quite a harangue. Those who did not know Joe must understand that when his dander was up, whole neighborhoods knew it. Hell, to use his favorite word, small towns were made aware.

As Joe was just beginning to wind down Cloyce did manage to say, "You don't have to be so loud, Joe."

"Hell yeah I do!" Joe bellowed. "I want everyone in here to know what I think and I don't want to have to tell each one individually!" And he was off again.

I don't believe Cloyce ever got to make his point. He was probably quite happy to get back to the mundane tasks of plant managing once me Grandpa left.

Not quite a cab ride

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

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

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

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

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

We welcome all denominations

It's all about the Benjamins, the saying goes. The Benjamins are cool, yes. But so are the Georges, the Abrahams, and the Andrews. Money comes like religion: by denomination. I have been paid by several denominations, often in a nice mix. Sometimes those payments have been a bit unusual.

Yesterday a customer's order came to $140.00. He said, "I hope you like change," and paid me in all five dollar bills. Yep, 28 Lincolns. Another time on a $470.00 tab a guy from Canada gave me 47 tens. He said it was what they gave him at the currency exchange. Hey, I don't care. It all spends.

But about 40 years ago Pops was paid off in the most unusual way I've seen so far. For a $1900 dollar machine he was paid with 1890 singles and a ten dollar bill. Yessir, One Thousand Eight Hundred Ninety dollar bills. The customer owned several laundry mats and most of his income was in dollar bills, entered into the change machines for the necessary quarters to run the washers and dryers and buying the single load boxes of detergent from the self service machines. He lived on singles.

Pops didn't even bother to count it. The stack was impressive enough that he took the guy at his word. And it all spent.

Insulated jokes

Sam Smith was a colleague of me Grandpa Joe. He was what Grandpa would describe as fractious. If anyone knew fractious, Joe did, God love him.
Sam owned a company which required welding equipment at times, and at such times he rented them from Joe. Once me Grandpa sent me Pops out to pick up an electric welder after Sam's company was through with it. Pops got there and the machine was still hooked up. Now, these things were powered by 440 three phrase current. I'm not sure how much that is but I know it's way more potent than house current. So Pops went to find the electrician to disconnect it.
Who he found was Sam, and Sam was already, well, feeling fractious. Apparently somebody or something had set him off for the day. Vowing to take care of it himself, he marched to the tool crib, me Pops in tow, to get a screwdriver.
"Gimme a screwdriver!" he demanded of the man, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who oversaw the crib. Cloyce, seeing Sam was mad, smiled and handed him a screwdriver. It had a metal handle rather than an insulated one, the kind he knew Sam would actually want. With the kind of power involved, you needed the insulation.
Pops, smiling himself as he had spied what Cloyce had done, and Sam walked a few steps before Sam noticed what he had been given. "They're trying to fry me like a piece of bacon!" he screamed loudly. He marched with great stomping steps back to the crib, where Cloyce was standing and waiting with the right tool. And still grinning too, but he had the sense to say nothing.

The other time I didn't win the lottery

Memories beget memories, don't they? And so yesterday's blog reminded me of another father/son lottery tale. This time however I was the father and my son was in tow. It isn't quite so hilarious either. But it's still a good story.

About a month after Charlie mustered out of the Army, as we sat anticipating some waste of time on TV one night, we decided we wanted pizza. As we drove to the pizza parlor we came across dozens, maybe a hundred, small pieces of paper strewn across the street. "What are they?" Charlie wondered allowed.

"They look like lottery slips," I responded. While Michigan like many other states still has scratch offs, many lottery tickets by then were printed by computer and had bar code identification.

My son asked, "Want to pick them up?" I knew what he thinking, because I was curious about the same thing. But I said, "They've gotta be losers or they wouldn't be all over the street." Still, an overlooked small winner might pay for our food, and lottery tickets are bearer items. Maybe we might luck up...

I pulled over the van and we began collecting what were indeed lottery slips. And there were several dozen. Once gathered, we went to a nearby party store to check them out.

Fortunately, with the bar codes, we were able to check the tickets at a scanner rather than be pests to the clerk. With each scanned paper I think Charlie and I both held our breaths slightly, hoping for some bit of good news, our anticipation oddly building with every loser. Perhaps the next one would be the one! Sadly, there were no major or minor winners. Our effort was for nil.

Still, the thought that maybe we had passed up on some small windfall would have haunted me, and maybe my son, until this day. I'm glad we at least tried. And we did get all that litter off the street.

Like winning the lottery

It's just like it says: once I felt almost like I won the lottery. It was way back when the Michigan lottery began, I think in 1972.

There were only scratch off tickets then, the kind that you instantly win (or generally lose) with, and few retailers initially offered the state lottery. One Saturday night early on, Mom and Dad and us kids started playing the lottery oh, at about 6 in the evening. We'd pony up our bucks as the tickets were a dollar each at the time and me Pops drove down to a store on Dix Road in Lincoln Park. It was eight or nine miles from home but the nearest place we knew that had lottery. He'd bring the tickets back to the house and we'd each scratch ours off. There were always enough small winners to merit going back out.

Which we did, several times. If I had to guess I'd say we made ten trips from downtown Detroit to Lincoln Park, me Pops and I, never having won more than a few dollars at a time yet enough to fuel our lottery fever. It reached the point where Dad and I had the only winners. And of course, we each won another few bucks. It got to where we never left the parking lot of that party store until our winnings and a little bit more were spent. I think we sat in that lot a half an hour, scratching tickets, winning a bit, going back in, then scratching those in the car. And all the while cackling like idiots at the absurdity of it.

Who started it I don't know. But you know how it is: laughter, especially uproarious laughter, often feeds itself. It stokes its own coals. I mean, we were both laughing harder than hell. We'd say were done after these tickets, and then win three dollars and start again. We laughed until we hurt; laughed until we cried. It was just bizarre. Anyone walking by and noticing the two morons in the old Polara wagon had to have thought we were nuts. But for me and the old man, it was a fun time.

So I haven't won the lottery. But it kinda felt like I did that night.

Me Pops good advice

I delivered a good used Electric Eel to a fine gentleman yesterday. He only needed it for his own property, and it was a good deal for us both: I made a sale and he got a quality drain cleaner at a good price. "I'm not even telling my friends that I have one, or they'll want to borrow it," he explained to me.
I actually slapped my knee and said, "I'm glad you said that. It allows me to tell you me Pops advice on drain snake ownership."
You see, Dad always said there were three rules to owning a drain cleaner.
Don't loan your snake.
Don't loan your snake.
Don't loan your snake.
He would always point out three fingers in quick succession as he recited those rules: pointer, middle finger, ring finger, holding them all up together at the end to emphasize the idea. Folks think drain cleaning is easy. And while it's not brain surgery it does require experience. They'd borrow the snake, damage it somehow through lack of knowledge or ability, and then never get it repaired for you (or promise to pay and not reimburse the owner). It's a fact of life.
So the lesson for today is: don't loan your snake, don't loan your snake, don't loan your snake.

Infinite monkeys

I will go on the record as saying that I don't believe that there is other intelligent life, indeed that there is any life at all, elsewhere in the galaxy. That is not etched in stone, for if the universe is huge and expanding as we're told then other life is not of necessity out of the question. Still, that old saw, what with the sprawling and expanding nature of the universe there must be intelligent life besides our own, isn't really a convincing argument. Space and time do not automatically mean that other life forms can or will develop. I do not believe that infinite monkeys hammering on infinite typewriters must produce Shakespeare.

Honesty about our experience is that nothing else is there. We've found no hard and fast evidence of life in the local planets and solar systems, nor have we discovered anything notable in what other worlds have been identified elsewhere. It would be more logical at this point to assume that the more worlds without life, the less likely that there are in fact worlds with it. Further, why is it so outlandish to think that maybe, just maybe, we were touched by the Divine for a very singular purpose? Perhaps the rest of creation is here simply to help us appreciate the depth and power of the Supreme Being. Personally I find that a comfortable thought. I don't gaze upon the night sky and think how small I am. I look at it and think what a marvel creation is, and how wonderful that we have been a part of it.

Yet if there is alien life, it isn't as though such a find would alter what should be our proper view of things. If there are intelligent aliens, they would have been created by the same God. They would face the same issues which we do: seeing to their needs, their daily bread, and considering their responsibilities to their fellow creatures and to whomever else exists. In short, postulating alien life is interesting as an academic device. But would any such discoveries be, dare I say (I do so love puns), Earth shattering?

Of course not. So keep looking, if that's you life's work, and I will readily concede my error if proved wrong. But don't make it too much of a mission. There's an awful lot of work on our world which could be as rewarding. Indeed, if you want to get to know others and make lives better, there's plenty for you to do around here.

September 11

Seventeen years have now passed since what may become the defining point of a generation. Sixteen years, almost to the minute as this is being written, terrorists attacked the Pentagon, the World Trade Center, and were overcome by the passengers of an airplane over the hills of Pennsylvania. All that time, and we still cannot make any sense of it.

The trouble is that there is no sense to be made. To be sure, we can understand the reasons for even such terrible actions, in the same way that we can understand the reasons Hitler did what he did. Yet that is not the same as understanding.

How do we, how can we, come to actually understand rape or murder or thievery, mass murder or any any other evil which may be added to such a gruesome list, if we are to be decent human beings ourselves? It is only in a warped mind where such heinous acts may be justified. As such, reasonable people simply cannot understand them. It is beyond their ability; it is to them pure nonsense.

So the goal today should be to remember. Remember the victims and their families, remember the countless acts of heroism that day, remember even the perpetrators of such despicable carnage if for no other reason than to remind ourselves that such twisted souls do exist, seeking the ruin of those those not in lockstep with them. But hopefully, remember even so that their redemption may be possible. If we are the good people we claim to be, even that shouldn't be so difficult of a task on so difficult of an anniversary.

Yesterday

Wow. What. A. Day.

A bunch of fifty and sixty year olds cheering for a bunch of seventy and eighty year olds. And we won on a walk off wild pitch.

It's been 50 years, fifty whole years, since the magnificent year of the Tiger, 1968. Yet it was only yesterday.

Time flies. So many of those guys are old, and jowly. So many are gone, twelve in fact. A few are wheel chair bound. Some have canes. All of them hobble. But you know what?

They are heroes.

1968

Tonight I'm going to Comerica Park to see the Tigers play the St. Louis Cardinals. It's part of the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of Detroit's 1968 World Series title, which the Tigers won over the Redbirds.

I can't believe it's been fifty years. Fifty years since I rushed home from school in time to see Jim Northrup's triple put the Tigers ahead to stay in the seventh inning of game seven. Since Bill Freehan's joyful catch of Mickey Lolich after the catcher hauled in Tim McCarver's foul popup to end the series. Fifty years since me Pops brought home pizza for dinner on a Thursday to celebrate. Since me Mom sowed tiger patches on our clothes to wear to school the next day. I was the happiest eight year old boy on the face of the earth.

McLain wins 31 games on the hill that season. Kaline hits .379 in the series. Horton throws out Brock at home in game five, the play which changed the momentum of the series and led directly to the Detroit win. Lolich, the classic pitcher who couldn't hit, hit his only career homerun in game two and drove in a run later in game five. Oh, and he won three complete games, the last pitcher to do that in a World Series. And of course, manager Mayo Smith putting center fielder Mickey Stanley at short, to get more offense in the lineup. Gutsy, inventive, and successful.

It feels like yesterday. And for the little kid in me, it still feels good.

The buffet challenge

Who doesn't love buffet restaurants? They're like a challenge, a big dare which you cannot let pass. Although they're sort of like sticking your tongue on a cold pipe when you think about it.

I should avoid buffets. Of all the food choices out there they are probably the least good for my health. So I believe that there are two approaches to buffets: avoid them altogether, or discipline yourself when you eat at one.

The latter option isn't much fun. I tried it at a breakfast buffet while on the road recently.

As I entered the dining area I told myself, steady, old boy. Just two plates. And neither heaping helpings either.

I already didn't like where that was heading.

After giving my order to the waitress along with a request for coffee and orange juice, a large orange juice because juice is good for you, isn't it, I built my first serving. A scoop of scrambled eggs, likewise a helping of hash browns, sausages, less than a half pound of bacon (I think) and sausage gravy over the eggs. No biscuits. I had to draw a line somewhere. Sacrifices had to be made.

When I sat to eat, my brain fired instructions. Break the bacon rashers and eat in two or three bites, it insisted. Split the sausages into three pieces. All right, you can dip them in the gravy on the eggs since the gravy's there. Chew everything, even the eggs. No rush to eat, Marty. You'll only eat too much.

Stupid brain.

Get a second plate. Eat it the same way, brain continued. So I did. Neither helping heaped. I finished, paid, and left, all the while telling myself that I did well. All the while trying to convince myself that I was satisfied.

Yet I can't help thinking that I lost the challenge.

Cloyce cards

So I've established that me Pops liked to play poker and that he held regular Saturday night games way back when. I asked him once whether he ever held a royal flush, the AKQJ10 all of the same suit. It's the highest poker hand possible. He held royal flushes twice. Yet he lost one time with one anyway.
The games were almost always at his house, and his house rule was that the dealer called the game they were to play while he dealt. Typically it was a standard round of poker and only varied by whether it was draw or stud (don't worry about what those are as it's not important to the story). But he had this one friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who liked to do things differently. Cloyce invariably introduced wild cards into the game.
He might call the well known deuces wild, where twos could be any card you needed them to be. Or it might be one-eyed jacks and suicide kings were wild. He would sometimes call baseball, where threes and nines were wilds. Dad hated such variations. But he felt that in fairness he had to allow them.
Once when Cloyce called for wild cards, me Pops ended up with a true royal flush: 10 through ace, all hearts. No wild cards. Yet he lost to someone holding five sevens: three actual sevens with two wild cards.
That grated him, and I understand why. I think you ought to play the cards true myself. But fair is fair, and at least it wasn't Cloyce who held the five of a kind.

Labor Day 2018

Labor Day weekend is upon us, and that means many things to many people. Mostly, it seems, it is meant to be a relaxing time with family and friends. There's nothing with that, of course. But what is Labor Day really, and how does it relate to conservatism?

It is intended, most would say, as a celebration of the labor of the working men and women of our country. Fair enough; labor in all its forms is the backbone of our economy. Further, a fair days' work is something which ought to be prized and seen proudly. The contributions which we make to society when we engage in wholesome work should be satisfying to workers and the beneficiaries of work on about the same plane.

Yet the honor of Labor Day is felt with particular pride in and around Detroit and Wayne County, and why not? As the cradle of the automotive industry and the famed arsenal of democracy during World War II, among other contributions to Americana, we should feel good about our place in history. Then too, with our local economy being so hard hit by the recession, we may well feels the pangs of economic restriction more keenly than many other places in the country.

So where does this leave us with regard to the right wing? Simply that, seen in the, ahem, right light, conservatism is a great friend to the worker. Conservatism respects the rights of all, particularly, believe it or not, those most susceptible to economic strife. Conservatism recognizes the value of work and of the worker, and more, of the rights inherent in work. We respect the right of the individual to seek gainful employment in an open arena of job seekers and employers working freely and respectfully towards everyone's best interest. Conservatism, if allowed to become fully operational, would let the market works its wonders, and everyone would benefit, as they did in the Reagan years and also, truth be told, in the Clinton years under a Republican Congress which did more for the general welfare than our philanderous ex-President.

In short, conservatives are for labor: the right to reap what you sow. I can't think of a higher individual right.

Red and blue

Dad liked to play poker. Just penny ante stuff at the kitchen table; no big stakes. Well, once years ago when he and his brothers and friends played regularly on Saturday nights he found himself on a hot streak which lasted several weeks. As most games were played at his house, Pops was teased a lot about marking the cards before the guys arrived for a game. So he decided one day to, I guess you'd say call their bluff.

He bought a brand new deck of cards to use for the next Saturday's game. He left it in the plastic wrapping until time for the first deal, which would be his. Dad was going to make a show of how that game would be fair by opening the cards in front of the guys.

So Saturday night came, everyone sat down, and Pops pulls out the new deck. You can all see for yourselves, fellahs, that this is a new set of playing cards which are obviously untouched, he says, or something similar. He gets a knife and cuts the clear plastic wrap, opens one end of the box, and triumphantly fans out the red-backed poker cards for all to see. Well, they were red, except the one blue-backed card (which happened to be an ace of spades) amidst all the others. Sure, Bill, you don't mark deck.

Even Dad got a belly laugh out of that. As poker players might say about such things, 'What are the odds?'