How Grandpa Joe became Grandpa Joe

Grandpa Joe was one of the few men I knew who taught their kids to call them by their first name. Every now and then I might hear my own Dad call him Pops, but almost always Dad called his dad Joe. So did the rest of Joe's kids. The only other guy I knew who did likewise was Joe's friend Ed, who had his kids call him Ed. I have no real idea why they wanted things that way, but they did.

With my older brother and I as Joe's two oldest grandkids, he set out to have us call him Joe. On a day when we were both barely toddlers and only just beginning to speak, he came by the house to encourage us to call him Joe.

Me Mom would have none of that. Where she came from, Mom was Mom and Dad was Dad and Grandpa was Grandpa and so on, and that's all there was to it. She told Grandpa that the first one of use who called him Joe would be punished. He was a grandfather and he would be grandpa. Joe figured she didn't mean it and went to call her bluff. But Mom meant it; God bless them, they were both pretty stubborn.

Eventually one of us called him Joe and got punished. Joe was horrified; he didn't want to see a kid punished over some such as that. So in the true spirit of ending partisan activities a compromised was reached, a pact likely brokered by me Pops. Joe would be Grandpa Joe. Each side uneasily accepted the terms of the truce. Grandpa Joe was henceforth Grandpa Joe.

As an adult, though, working with him, I did at times call him Joe. But that never got back to Mom.

Family confusion

Did I ever tell you about how my first cousin married my uncle? Well, it's true. The entire family will attest to it.

While that sounds like a joke, it's serious business. My cousin in this case is from my mother's side of the family. My uncle is a younger brother of me Pops. No blood relation to each other, of course. Yet it has led to many family debates. Some of those are funny.

So as the wife of my uncle, my cousin is my aunt. Or is my uncle my cousin in law? Can I just call him by his first name now? Or do I need to call my cousin aunt?

Their kids are both my first cousins and my first cousins once removed. My kids are their kids second cousins. Or are they all second cousins once removed? And does the third cousins scenario figure into this at all? I think my kids could be third cousins or maybe second cousins twice removed to their kids.

As my aunt, my kids are first cousins once removed. Well, if she's their cousin that is. They might be her nieces and nephews you know. My granddaughter to my aunt is either a grand-niece or a first cousin twice removed.

My mother is my uncle's sister in law. Or her nephew by marriage. Or is my cousin my mother's sister in law?

My dad's brother is his nephew by marriage. Or maybe he's simply his brother. By aren't my dad and mother uncle and aunt to them both, as she (my cousin) is a child of my mother's brother? Or do we simply say, like Grandpa Joe, aw hell, we're just family?

I would have loved to have heard my uncle call his brother Uncle Bill though. That would have been a hoot.

The tablespoon hypothesis

Me Pops rarely complained about his dad, me Grandpa Joe. When he did it tended to be emphatic; remember the episode with the buzz boxes? If not, look it up. It's in here somewhere. Yet even that story Dad recalled with a certain fondness.

One of the few tales me Pops ever told with a shaking head involved a speech Grandpa gave him when Dad was 12 or 13. It involved the value of hard work. Hard work was good for a man, if it was productive and had a point. It built character, it made you a better man; you know, all the ancient platitudes which are, to be fair, true. Then he proceeded to have me Pops dig up all the weeds from the lawn with a tablespoon.

Pops never did get the point of that one. It must have been intended to illustrate the value of hard work. Perhaps it was to teach discipline: do as you're told. But digging up weeds with a tablespoon? Dad always contended that there were better ways to do that even in the early 1950s.

On the whole, me Pops and me Grandpa Joe got along well. This was one of the few stories the old man told with a certain upset, vaguely angry quality in his voice.

In solitary confinement

Awhile back I found myself stuck on jury duty. Yes, I know that jury duty is an important function of the citizenry. I also know that it can be tedious.

To be fair, the court allowed certain diversions in the jury room for the (many) times we were left there to stew as finer legal points were hammered out between judge, prosecutor, and defense counsel. There were crossword and sudoku books, magazines, and decks of cards. Once as I sat impatient and bored, I grabbed a deck and began playing solitaire. Almost as soon as I began the face of the young woman sitting across from me lit up. "Wow. I used to watch my grandfather play that!"

Why, no, that didn't make me feel old at all. But the truth is I learned solitaire sitting at my own grandfather's kitchen table watching him play, so I did appreciate her sentiment.

When I had finished she took the cards and played a few hands of her own. Soon enough four guys - that translated into all of us grandfathers in the room - were watching her play and giving her tips when she thought she was beaten. 'Play the red 6 on the black 7' or, 'Move that stack to the other row' and such as that. She was quickly expert at the game and set the cards down, vowing to keep up her new tradition.

The passing on of customs from the old to the curious young. I guess jury duty can serve a higher purpose.

Amos's turkey day

The story may sound contrived, trite, or obvious. Yet it's a true story. I haven't even changed the names to protect the innocent.

Amos, you'll recall, was an old friend of me Grandpa Joe. You may remember also that he was considered tight. However true that might be, and I suspect that it's been a bit embellished by the myth-makers of family history, he didn't mind spending a few dimes on good causes. One such cause was St. Dominic's annual Fall Festival.

As should be expected at a large party celebrating autumn, among the games and spinning wheels was a turkey booth. You pick a number, you put your money or ticket on that number, the wheel is spun, and should that number come up, you have your entree for your Thanksgiving feast. Amos approached the booth, selected some number not 13 (he was also superstitious, remember?), and waited for the spin of the wheel. He anticipated nothing, but lo and behold, won a turkey on that first try.

Now, two things were at work that day. Amos was genuinely there to support the Church. But then, he also knew his reputation. He figured he couldn't just walk away with the bird. So he played a second time with a second number (still not 13). He won another turkey.

Then a third one.

And finally, a fourth one.

You may rest assured that Amos spread his largesse. He gave away three of the four turkeys. I've no doubt also that he made his way around the school gymnasium and spent his share of hard earned dollars to help old St. Dominic. But to hear me Pops tell it, the look on his face, the sheer mortification at winning four turkeys in a row at a charitable event, was priceless.

Thanksgiving 1984

Giving thanks means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. Sometimes I wonder if it might help if we were to whittle that down to one or two specifics, simply to emphacize what we really should be thankful for. You know, find something small and specific as an illustration of a broader point.

We might say as a general point that we are thankful for family. That's a good thing, right? Yet how about a concrete example of that? For me, one such example is Thanksgiving 1984.

There were only just the three of us in the immediate family at the time. We had Thanksgiving Dinner at Nana and Paw Paw's, and waddled down the block home in the late afternoon, an hour or so before dark. There had been about a two inch snowfall, enough so everything was covered in a nice and clean white blanket. We went into the backyard to play in the snow a bit before actually going inside.

My wife and I began tossing snow up in the air, and Charlie followed suit as best an almost two year old could, all of us laughing and giggling as we watched the spray dissipate. Then we found a slat from an old picket fence and I made a snowball, while Gail took the piece of fence and held it like a bat in Charlie's hands. I pitched the snowball gently; Charlie 'swung' mightily with his mother's help. The ball exploded when hit, and all three of us laughed out loud. Charlie laughed especially hard, as only small children can laugh, without holding back, in a more free spirited manner than us adults. We did it again and again, several times over, each time cackling madly when the snowball vanished in a spray of white. We did it, I don't know how many times. But each time was a laugh riot. It's a memory that even then, thirty five years ago now, I knew I would never forget.

It's a prime example of being thankful for family. You'll hear more from me involving everyone else in the family as time goes on. But this being Thanksgiving, I felt it a good place to start.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Niece's knees

I am far too proud of the little joke I made last night. But that never stopped me before.
I curl on Tuesday nights this season. Our lead is from Scotland, and still has much of the accent to prove it. At one point he turned to our skip, who is having issues with his knees, and asked, "How's your knees?" It sounded vaguely like 'kneese'.
So I said, "Why are you asking about his niece?"
The Scotsman seemed to ponder what I asked for a moment, then looked over at me like, ha, ha, very funny.
Well, clever more than funny. In my opinion.

If I had a million dollars

Some guys, when they dream about hitting it big on the lottery, think they'll retire early and take big, bucket list trips. Others say they'll build that mansion on the hill. A few will shower family and friends with jaw dropping gifts. The better ones among us may even vow to become great philanthropists, helping the poor and ailing. For me, the first two words which spring to mind when I fantasize about coming into money are: lawn service.

I hate yard work. Despise it really. I like a well manicured lawn and brightly flowered gardens and great green trees. But I hate the chores that go into creating and maintaining them. I hate mowing the lawn and planting foliage and mulching gardens. And this time of year, I hate raking leaves.

Why can't we just let them rot on the ground? Isn't that simply nature's own recycling measure? Freddie the Leaf wants to become compost. He takes a bizarre, sublime, cloying delight in the thought. Shouldn't we stay out of the way and let him and his brother and sister leaves go back to be with Mother Nature as they wish? Isn't that what she wants too, to bring them home so that she can fashion them into more and greater leaves next summer?

I say, who am I to stand in Momma's way?

That darn cat

I was tired after spending a fine Saturday evening cooking up a batch of Marty's World Famous Applesauce (patent pending) so I stretched out on the couch, turned on the TV, and quickly dozed off. I was awakened suddenly about two hours later when a soft weight fell onto my abdomen. In being jolted awake I thought, 'Darn cat!'

The trouble is that the cat, my daughter and son-in-law's who had lived with us for awhile, is in Arizona where they have moved. I was awakened by a small throw pillow which had slid off the top of the couch. Yet I instinctively blamed the cat.

The worst thing is that I left the pillow alone for about a half hour as I tried to get back to sleep because I didn't want to disturb the 'cat'. I laid still, not moving for the cat's sake. The cat that was 2500 miles away.

I guess being groggy does that to you.

The small frail voice

We chanted the Our Father at Mass yesterday. Normally we just say it en masse, but yesterday we chanted it.

I stood next to Mom as I do, since I take her to Church most Saturdays. All I could hear was her small, frail voice as she chanted. It was as though memory and habit had kicked in as she dutifully half sung the prayer. Her voice was a bit raspy. Yet it was one of the most poignant, quietly beautiful things I've heard.

I'm trying desperately not to become maudlin here. That would undermine anything I want to say. It might destroy whatever point I'm trying to make. But that small, frail voice.

I couldn't continue the chant myself once I actually heard Mom. That voice, little but lithe and lovely, overpowered me. I had to stop; I was too choked up, and it wouldn't do to upset her if she saw me upset. So I just listened, and, I think, appreciated the moment.

Great Grandpa James and Cloyce

I'm going to try to get this story right. I'll just ask all of you out there to remember that stories and memories can get garbled over time.

Me Great Grandpa James wasn't a drinker. Yet one day he found himself with a jug of whiskey; I just don't recall how. But as he tooled along in his horse drawn wagon (this would have been in early 1900s Illinois) he noticed the town drunk ambling towards him. I'll call the guy Cloyce just to give him a name.

Anyway, me great grandfather could tell that Cloyce was ailing. So he pulled up and asked what was wrong. He was recovering from a drunk, Cloyce explained, and that maybe a little hair of the dog would help but he didn't know where he might find any that morning, a fine Sunday morning as it were. James gave him the whiskey he had and went about his business.

He ran into Cloyce a few days later and asked how the whiskey was. "Just fine, sir, just fine," Cloyce answered. "Any worse and I couldn't have drunk it, and any better and you wouldn't have given it to me." As an aside, me Great Grandpa later found out that Cloyce had been going all over town bragging that he had gotten a drink from old Jim Cosgriff, and on a Sunday morning no less. But he didn't mind such tales making the rounds.

Uncle John kills Grandpa Joe

Perhaps it's just one of me Uncle John's stories expanded beyond the normal apocalyptic standards of his tale telling. Perhaps it really happened as I will say. Perhaps it's full disclosure that I recognize that I do understand that safety is an issue with towing. Perhaps all of that. But I do know that towing with a tow rope can be hazardous.

The set of curves on Interstate 75 just south of Nine Mile Road in Ferndale, Michigan, is famous to Michiganders. After moving along at the breezy pace of 70 or even 55 miles per hour one suddenly has to slow down to negotiate two sharp turns, left and then right, right before you get to Detroit proper. It was at this juncture that Uncle John thought he had killed Grandpa Joe.

Zeke had broken down somewhere above this point driving one of the Joe Cosgriff Welding Machine Rentals flatbed trucks, while on his way home after a delivery. It was his bad luck that Grandpa Joe was the one to rescue him with a tow rope. Joe went out with a 1969 Chevy car to tow home a truck with a 14 foot bed. You know, standard procedure for us Cosgriffs, a lighter vehicle towing a heavier.

Well, Joe hooked up the truck to his car and off they went. All was fine until they reached the Nine Mile curve. Then, as Zeke saw it, Joe began trying to light a cigarette. In doing so, Joe couldn't find the lighter. So he took his eyes off the road, bent down to seek the lighter, an unignited johnny smoke dangling from his lips, and in so doing let the slack out of the tow rope.

You don't do that. You must keep the tow rope taut. All of us Detroit Cosgriffs, well experienced in the art of vehicle towing, know that. We also know the trailing vehicle has a much more difficult chore when it comes to stopping. The following vehicle requires the lead be alert to that fact.

But this was Joe. Anyone working with that man, Lord love him, needed to take on extra precaution for themselves.

So Joe lets the rope go slack for the sake of his Carlton. And Uncle John can't stop. Joe's Chevy drifts towards the shoulder. Zeke's truck drifts helplessly towards it as well, Uncle John pumping the brakes frantically, pointlessly. Joe's old car jumps slightly into the air on hitting the curb of the shoulder. Zeke's truck, heavier and therefore with greater kinetic energy, jumps the same curb only much higher. The expectant force drives the stake truck upwards. It lands squarely atop the old Chevy. Time stops.

I've killed him, me Uncle John thinks. I've killed my old man.

Years of seconds pass, Zeke considering the weight of what had happened. Eventually he raises up his head from the steering wheel where it rested. He must face the music. He must check on Joe.

Me Grandpa Joe meanwhile had already left his car, and was pacing in front of the Chevy smoking one cigarette after another, his nerves undoubtedly themselves frayed. Me Uncle John said that it was cartoonish. Joe was lighting one smoke after another and dragging it all in, the little red flame running up the entire length of each cigarette one draw at a time. Joe was okay. Zeke, well, it was a while longer returning to sanity.

Towing three cars at once

I honestly don't know why it's illegal to tow a disabled vehicle with a tow rope. Yes, yes, yes, people will argue safety. But I think that that argument's overblown. I believe it's a way for towing companies, a special interest, to get more money. And don't think, towers, that I haven't noticed all your 'contributions' to police societies. Mandatory, legally obliged towing is a racket, and to hell with what anyone says. It's one of the micro reasons I'm politically conservative: another example of government and a special interest wrapping up in a tidy package with a pretty bow a good deal for themselves. Talk about scratching each other's backs.

Rant over. Now I will talk about what I actually wanted to talk about.

If you haven't figured it out by now, we Cosgriffs towed a lot of cars and trucks in our time. We've towed them long distances, in some cases a couple hundred miles. If a vehicle broke down wherever, someone got a call and went on their way with a tow rope to fetch the marooned driver.

Once me Pops broke down in Kenton, Ohio, about an hour from Electric Eel as he was returning with a load of drain cleaning equipment. He called my brother Phil, who dutifully went down to rescue him. But then Phil's car broke down, so I got a call.

And I did exactly what a good son should do. I went down into Ohio with my car and a tow rope and rescued them both.

So here we were with three vehicles, one with a large round cable rack attached to its roof (I think it was Phil's Chevy Malibu), being towed around 125 miles up Interstate 75 into Detroit. We kept our blinkers on and never went faster than 35, and made it home safely.

Even I will admit it must have been a sight.

The new Who

I have always been a lukewarm fan of the long running British science fiction show Doctor Who. I haven't seen many of the earliest shows, some of which have been lost to TV history because the BBC used to tape over old television shows when filming new ones. I've caught more of the newer ones, the ones since the (I think it was) 2005 reboot.

Tom Baker, the one with the absurdly long scarf, was for the longest time my favorite Doctor. The cheesy sets and plot lines of the seventies were, in their own way, pretty cool. I liked David Tennant a lot, and perhaps he is a better Doctor than Baker. My jury is still out on that.

I have a soft spot for Peter Cushing's version of Doctor Who, from two 1960s movies, but that comes partly from the RIFFTRAXes of them and the fact that I like Cushing. I suspect they're not canon anyway. But my head was turned when I learned that the latest incarnation of Doctor Who, the thirteenth, would be a woman.

I resisted watching it at first. I don't like the PC game and initially saw the whole thing as entirely PC and I did not want to support that. Yet in a month or so I warmed to the idea. I finally thought, why not give it a chance? Even if it is PC, it isn't wrong as a plot device to have a character who habitually morphs morphing into a woman. So I began watching the series on BBC America over the weekend.

I'm glad I relented. Jodie Whittaker, who is the new Doctor, is personable and comely. Her acting is pretty much spot on so far as I expect a Doctor to be. The backing cast who aid her in her adventures are likable, the three of them, and all four roles have the potential for good development. The three shows I've watched so far have been a solid mix of drama, action, pathos, and nearly the perfect amount of comic relief. They've been enjoyable romps through time and space, as are the best of the older shows.

So I'm glad I've given the new Who a chance. And I think I've developed a bit of a schoolboy crush on Jodie Whittaker.

A typical uncle joke

Me Uncle John, me old golf buddy from back in the day, had his own special form of humor. When he got on a roll I would laugh until I cried.

He had this story where he and another driver for Grandpa Joe, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, were racing south on Interstate 75, each with a truckload of welding machines, weaving in and out of lanes trying to best each other, to get to their destination first, recklessly tearin' up jack, all the while being trailed by an undertaker in anticipation of business. That was one hilarious tale. I wish I could recreate me Uncle's style when he was on his game. But I can't, so I won't even attempt that. I will, however, tell you one of his favorite, more droll jokes.

There was at one time, there probably still is I would assume, a school in Florida ran by MLB which trained its on field baseball officials. Uncle John used to say that if he had the money he would open up a restaurant directly across the street from the school. It would specialize in beef entrees. He would name the restaurant...

...wait for it...

...the Umpire Steak Building.

I have always liked that quip. Thanks Zeke.

Two out of three ain't bad

The following is a joke. It is only a joke. Please put your sectional, religious, and political preferences aside and take it that way, a bit of humor which has become part of family lore.

On the surface, you wouldn't think me Mom and me Pops could get along. Dad was a Catholic, a northerner, and a Democrat. Mom was Southern, Baptist, and from one of the few Republican enclaves in 1940s Dixie. Yet they were happily married for 56 years and had seven wonderful children. Particularly the second.

As me Pops himself tells the story, when he proposed Mom (obviously) said yes, but with three conditions. "I will raise my children Catholic. I will even raise them Yankees. But I will not raise them Democrats," she told him.

Well, two out of three ain't bad, Pops must've figured, because he accepted her terms. And things worked out. Pops even became a Republican.

Pop's cuisine choices

Me Pops was a simple eater with a simple diet. Burgers, hot dogs, and pizza were high on his list. He was big on fish, which is not a surprise seeing as he was a Catholic raised in the days when all Fridays were, for Churchgoers, meatless. He loved Mom's spaghetti the most. I'm not saying this to get maudlin, but his last meal at home was spaghetti. I believe that was good and proper, an alignment of the planets if you will. He loved her fried chicken, regularly lamenting that she didn't make it often enough. I'm with Dad on that, Mom. I wish you'd have made it more.
I don't think he had any unusual food choices. Perhaps the closest if it counts at all was butter and bologna sandwiches. He loved buttered bread, and I remember him having butter and bologna sandwiches quite often. And you know what? It ain't a bad sandwich combo.
Until recently it had been years since I thought of it. But in the last week it's made up my lunch three times. Bologna was on sale at the nearby supermarket so I bought some. When I got home, I saw that we had butter. The light went on above my head. I wonder if Dad's old sandwich recipe was all that? I wondered aloud in my kitchen.
It was. In fact, it will likely be my lunch again today.

I've been good

I've been good, I've been real good, I've been extraordinarily good. I've held my tongue now for three, maybe four years. Ever since a good friend of mine advised me, quite properly so I will readily admit, that I needed to back off my criticism of the Detroit Lions. I had gone on facebook one day and harangued against every play they ran during one long forgotten game, a steady stream of invective which admittedly served no purpose but to feed my ego. She was right; I needed to back off for the sake of mutual friends who were, like me, long suffering Lions fans. So I backed off. And where do I find myself today?

Watching the Detroit Lions recover a fumble to stall a Minnesota Vikings drive, only to fumble away a, a, fumble six?

The Detroit Pistons have won three National Basketball Association titles in my lifetime, and basketball so far as I am concerned is a play one minute game and assign the win sort of thing. The Detroit Red Wings, a premier original six club in the NHL, have four, count 'em, four Stanley Cups since 1997. My beloved Detroit Tigers, my favorite team of any sport, professional or collegiate, have four American League titles and two World Series wins to their credit as I have lived and breathed. The Lions?

They are as they have been. Same. Old. Lions.

Oh well. It's American football. The least important game on Earth. Especially in Detroit.

The Amish store

A few miles north of Bellefontaine, Ohio, is a small store run by the Amish community. It sells Amish made goods as well as candies and herbs and a few other things. They have the best chocolate covered raisins I've ever had.

A few weeks ago I stopped in on my way back to Detroit from Electric Eel. I grabbed a couple things and went to the counter to pay. I could see many young women behind the counter, working hard at whatever they needed to get done. Although there was a ringer by the cash register and a sign to ring it for service, I didn't do that. I was in no hurry, and the staff was busy. They'd get to me soon enough.

A young Amish girl, maybe four years old and standing right behind the counter, had other ideas. She looked up at me and smiled. She clearly had an impish idea percolating in her mind. Then she boldly stepped up to the counter, smiled a bigger smile, and reached up for the ringer. Ding ding ding ding ding ding! She rang the bell several times in quick succession and with great glee.

A young woman turned around, obviously a bit irritated, and rushed to the register to take care of me. I looked at the child and winked. I know the cashier presumed it was me who had rung the bell so emphatically. But I wasn't about to throw an Amish toddler under the bus. Especially since she had so much fun ringing that bell.

This curling thing

Well, I've gone and done it. I'm curling in a league again this year after having sat out last season. Oh, I did play a grand total of 7 games last year. But now I'm back in with both feet, at least for this season.

I wasn't going to play but I got an an offer I couldn't refuse. A good curling friend of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, asked if I would throw vice rocks for him this year. As we curl well together and as he's an ok guy, I was happy to oblige.

Our first game Tuesday wasn't my best, but at least I didn't fall on my keister. I wasn't sore Wednesday morning either. And old Cloyce made three very good shots for points. I'm sure our sweepers and my highly intelligent and accurate sweep calls helped.

I'm looking forward to more curling now. I am still worried about my vertigo or whatever it is I have which at times gives me balance problems. But as my balance has always been in question I think I'll be okay.

It is nice to be playing again. This curling thing, it gets in your blood.