Ty Cobb and me Pops

No, Dad never actually met Ty Cobb. But one of his favorite jokes revolved around a supposedly true story about the famous Detroit center fielder. So why, as they say, let facts interfere with a good story?

Cobb was visiting a ballpark one day in the late 1950s, openly lamenting what he believed the woeful pitching of the era. Finally he was asked, "So what would do you think you could hit against today's pitchers?" Bear in mind that Cobb's lifetime batting average was (and still is) a record .367.

Cobb thought about it for a minute, then answered, ".270."

"You'd only hit .270 against these guys?" the inquisitor responded, taken aback at an answer from someone known to be cocky.

"Give me a break. I'm 70 years old," Cobb said.

Good one, eh?

About certain books

I like reading, as you know. But I don't care for biographies. All too often, the main character dies at the end.

Then there's autobiographies. They aren't among my favorites, because I'm just not that into cars.

Can I get a couple of rim shots now?

Raccoon eyes

Sometimes, you wonder what a guy was thinking.

A friend of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, has one of the chiminea outdoor fireplaces. You know, the kind that is often made of pottery and looks like something the Aztecs would have used. Anyway, Cloyce goes to light it one night for a family gathering. Only he got impatient.

You see, he loaded it up with wood and then poured gasoline on it to get the fire started more quickly. Then he put his face right up to the opening as he lit a match. It hadn't occurred to him that gas fumes would have already been building up in the chimney of the thing.

With a powerful whoosh a flame shot from the opening, temporarily enveloping Cloyce's head. He was okay, although his eyebrows had been burnt off and half his hair was left charred. His eyes, thankfully, were saved harm because he had sunglasses on. But when he removed them, he looked like a raccoon because his face around the eyes and where the ear flaps were were unscarred.

Sometimes you wonder what a guy was thinking. Sometimes you wonder if he was thinking at all.

A fresh coat of paint

I'll never get this story quite right. But it is, in my mind, a neat little story, so I'll try.

It was either me Mother's grandmother or great grandmother, I just don't recall exactly. So we'll assume her great grandmother, and I'll refer to her as great great Grams as that's what she'd then be to me.

Great-Great-Grams lived in a small house behind one of me other great great relatives. Family legend says she lived to be 108, though I really don't know about that. One day she decided that her house, maybe three rooms in size, needed to be painted. Only she didn't have the money to pay for it. Neither did anybody else, the time being the Depression with cash particularly scarce in the South those years. Yet she really wanted the house painted.

The solution? Friends and relatives went through their homes and barns and garages and came up with a pint of paint left in a can here, a quart there, maybe most of a gallon in another can and so forth. They mixed it all in a large bucket, furnished a few paint brushes from their various collections, and painted Great-Great-Grams house a nice grey-lavender kind of color. She loved it, her newly painted little home, and everyone involved felt a certain pride of neighborliness and kinship.

So that's the story. I haven't told it well, but it was worth trying to tell anyway.

Marty's designer jeans

I bet that everyone out there believes that I, Marty Cosgriff, have no fashion style. Well, I'll have you know you're wrong. In fact, I am wearing designer labelled jeans right now. An authentic brand from an authentic store.

My jeans are great. They are branded Rural King. Right on the wallet pocket.

You laugh. I know you laugh. But they're great jeans. They're comfortable, they're roomy, they're cheap. And that is not why I bought the four pairs I did. All right, it's a factor. Maybe even a big factor. But they're great jeans.

Rural King is a well known chain store in the American Midwest. 'America's Farm and Home Store,' it brands itself. And as with any high end store, it has its own brand. That tells you it's quality.

So I sit here hammering out a blog post, and I'm stylin' in my Rural King jeans. Jealous much?

Christmas trivia

Our oldest son was born on December 20, 1982. As brand new parents being overly worried as brand new parents tend to be, we weren't sure whether we should take a five day old baby out and about on Christmas. We knew everyone would want to see him, but, you know, Christmas is typically cold. Very cold.

The mercury that Christmas hit 65, to this day still the record high for Christmas in Detroit. We had no fears about taking our new baby out in such balmy weather.

But wait, there's more.

The very next Christmas, December 25, 1983, was the coldest Christmas to date in Detroit. It was twelve below zero. Of course, we were experienced parents by then. We bundled him up and took out for the holiday as though it were nothing.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Another curmudgeon rant

Here's another curmudgeonly rant. Why? Because I feel like it.

There's a local deli which I like a lot, and once a week I allow myself to buy lunch there. Yesterday was that day for this week. I waited patiently, at least, I waited patiently outwardly, behind the only person ahead of me as I arrived at the deli counter. Bear in mind that there's a large display board with prices, situated behind the counter in plain view of everyone. Bear in mind also that virtually anybody should have the basic ability to figure out, at least roughly, what they're spending while they're spending it.

The person ahead of me asked for two pieces of chicken. They were placed in an open container before her, left open as she had indicated she was ordering more. Yet before continuing her order she asked, "What's my total so far?"

I inhaled deeply. I so very much wanted to step up to her and say, "Excuse me. See that board up there, the one that says two pieces of chicken are five dollars?"

"Yes."

"See how many pieces of chicken are in front of you?"

"Yes, two."

"THEN YOUR TOTAL SO FAR IS FIVE DOLLARS!"

I mean, really.

A curmudgeon's rant

I see no point in changing anything, not my habits, not my attitudes, just to change them. It borders on senseless and, quite frankly, is arguably childish.

There's nothing wrong with change per se either, I'll admit. And sometimes change is good and necessary. That being the case, why change? is still a fair question to ask.

Expand your horizons, perhaps? Well, what if the horizon isn't all that clear? Besides, what's wrong with what I'm doing now? I realize that either question calls for a certain amount of extrapolation and introspection. It's ultimately all in the details. But remember the question is, why change simply to change?

When we took the kids out for ice cream I almost always got black cherry. Why? Because I liked it. Why try something new when you know you can get what you know you like?

Am I being obstinate? Sure I am; but aren't you being equally obstinate in ordering me to change? I mean, what's it to you? It's not like I'm doing anything immoral (on the ice cream question, anyway). I have the right in that sphere to order what I want; what argument do you really have against me?

It might be nice to change. Okay, but it might be nice to get what you want too. It's a wash; wait, no it isn't. It's my right to do what I want among legitimate moral choices. What you think I should do means nothing. It's only you being bossy.

Don't try to change me just because you think the change is good. That's all there is to it.

Rant over.

Joe's life lesson

Me Grandpa Joe could be, he generally was, quite emphatic about what he thought. Yet every now and then he could be surprisingly understated. This trait is displayed in one tale told by me Pops.
In the old neighborhood, Joe had a garage behind his house. Garages in that part of Detroit as now were accessed through the alleys. Several times, when Joe was getting in late, a certain inconsiderate neighbor would have his car parked in the alley blocking Joe's garage. He would park his own car and go get inconsiderate neighbor to move his. The guy would grumble (like he didn't know what the problem was) but he would do it.
This happened again for umpteenth time one night when me Pops, about 14, was with his dad. Grandpa told Pops to go to the guy's door and ask him to move the car. This time the man, sneering at the young teen in front of him, said no, he wasn't going to do it.
Dad went back to Joe, expecting the old man to explode and go after the miscreant himself. Instead me Grandpa just took a drag on a cigarette and said, "Well, I guess we oughta go get a cop." They found one (that could actually happen in Detroit in 1950) and the officer went to the house and told the man to move his car as it was blocking Joe's garage and was parked illegally anyway. Inconsiderate neighbor complied with the nice policeman's order.
Yet he wasn't so nice to Joe. After Joe had parked, the guy came around the corner and began to berate him. "You ain't man enough to do your own work, eh? You send your boy to do it, then get a cop," and so on and so forth, in bluer language than I'm using.
Grandpa Joe smoked passively the whole time. 'I can't believe he's taking this so easily,' me Pops thought over and over.
Finally, Joe finished his cigarette. He looked at inconsiderate neighbor and said quietly, "Well, I can see you won't be happy until I whip your ass." He tossed down the cigarette butt and lunged at the guy, getting maybe one punch in.
Inconsiderate neighbor avoided another and skittered away. Dashing back to his house he yelled, "I'm getting my shotgun, and you better not be here when I get back!"
Me Grandpa Joe, and I get a kick out of seeing this in my mind's eye, simply leaned against the wall of the garage and lit another smoke. He stood drawing on it, waiting patiently.
'C'mon, Joe, let's go,' Dad thought over and over. 'He's getting a shotgun.'
After a second cigarette Joe said to Pops, "Let's go, boy. We're done with him."
Me Pops always figured it was meant as a lesson in dealing with petty bullies. And there may be something to that. I.N.'s car never blocked Joe's garage again.

Dr. Cloyce

Dad's doctor, whom I'll call Dr. Cloyce just to give him a name, one day walked into the examination room where Pops waited for him. Dr. Cloyce was looking down. "Why so glum, Doc?" the old man asked.

"Oh, my wife and I had a little spat last night," He replied. "I arrived home from a long day at the office and she immediately went into an unending diatribe on her day. She went on and on and I just stood there staring at her. Finally she asked, well, are you going to say anything?"

'In a minute, I replied," said Dr. Cloyce. "I first have to determine the important from the unimportant information." He looked at Dad and said, "Not a smart thing to say to your wife, Bill."

"I imagine not," Pops laughed.

Road Change

Road change, not road rage. I want to emphasize that. Although I suppose the terms aren't all that close. But almost, right?

Anyway, Warren Avenue in my part of Detroit has been a one way street my whole life. But they've gone and made it a two way and that's going to take some getting used to.

For starters, I have to remember to look both ways when entering it. Granted, you should do that anyways for safety's sake, as it isn't that unusual for someone to be coming the wrong way down a one way here in the hood. It's simply that now it becomes imperative. I actually found myself yesterday making a left turn into what would have been oncoming traffic had there been any. Thank goodness there wasn't.

Then, when I reached the point where the one way part of Warren ended, I had to remind myself that the oncoming traffic there was going to continue oncoming. That's important when you intend to make a left turn; you gotta remember that the guy coming towards you isn't turning right.

It does have its fun, though. It's neat in a weird way to be going the 'wrong' way on a street. Driving east on Warren this morning, I felt like I was getting away with something devious. I sneered, and laughed maniacally to myself.

Two way Warren will take some adjustments. But I'm sure in a few months it will be old hat. Even after a couple of fender benders.

Curling for potatoes

Curling in a bonspiel yesterday reminded me of a bonspiel I participated in about 30 years ago. It did not go well.

We were two teams from the Detroit Curling Club, and we had driven up to Forest, Ontario for a tournament. There were eight teams in each flight. And as I said, it did not go well. We finished seventh and eighth in our group.

But in the curling world, no one goes home without something. As a food chain was the sponsor of this particular spiel, most curlers won meat entrees. We won ten pounds of potatoes. Each. At four players per team times two teams, that's a lot of taters. And we had to cross the border with them.

So we pull up to the gate and get asked for our IDs (we were all travelling in one big van). "What were doing in Canada?" the border agent asked the driver, whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name.

"Curling," he responded simply.

"Anything to declare?" the guard queried.

Cloyce replied honestly, "Eighty pounds of potatoes."

Without missing a beat the guard said with a smile, "You were in the losers bracket then?"

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can we take our spuds and go home now?

Joe's hat

He was brought up in a time where men wore hats, even to work, even in less respected occupations. Why, me old curling hat, a Dickees hat I bought only because it reminded me of me old Grandpa Joe's work hat, the hat I wear adorned with curling pins, the hat I bought at Pickford Dry Goods in Pickford, Michigan, is the style he wore to work for many years.
Of course, his last work hat was different. It was an abomination of pressed, woven flat plastic, weaved to look impressive. It was what I chose to keep, along with his Rosary, when me Aunt, lookin' over his property, allowed us grandchildren a choice of. She allowed me to keep them both.
To my shame, I cannot find his Rosary, the one adorned with his name from the Rosary Shrine of St. Jude here in Detroit, Michigan. But I have his hat. I wear it just now.
It is dirty, oily, and fits a little tight. And I wear it because, well, I wear it. I think maybe I'll ask to be buried with it. You know, so I can offer it back to Joe when the time comes.

The doctors pass the test

Now me Grandpa Joe had this friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who suffered from pancreatitis most of his life. I don't know how he dealt with it but he did. I'm not sure all that much could have been done for the man sixty years ago anyway.

Cloyce lived in Detroit for most of his life, but moved to another state, I believe Minnesota for what that's worth, at some point. And there he began feeling the symptoms of his disease quite acutely. He developed pain in his abdomen, and nausea. It became strong enough that he went to the hospital, where the doctors began performing a series of tests.

One after another they came back negative, confounding the doctors. A few days passed and the medicos still couldn't figure out the problem. On about the fifth day, a doctor came into Cloyce's room and said somberly, "Cloyce, I'm afraid you've got pancreatitis."

"Yeah, I know that," Cloyce responded.

Incredulous, the physician dropped his clipboard on the bed. He asked, more demanded, "Why didn't you tell us?"

Cloyce explained simply, "I wanted to see if you knew what you were doing."

Good old Cloyce.

Crissmas

I am increasingly of the opinion that we overdo Christmas. The secular world, in its drive for getting more and more things and keeping the economy afloat (as though buying trivial fluff is an obligation) has, no doubt in my mind, hijacked Christmas. But even among Christians, I believe we've become too much into the process and not nearly enough into the real point of the Holiday.

That real point is the birth of Christ. Cards and gifts are fine, but they kind of miss that point. I mean, shouldn't we be giving gifts and keeping in touch with family and friends all the time? If we're only doing that around Christmas then the whole thing strikes me as, well, shallow, even desperate. Christmas slowly becomes a backdrop; I believe that the most honest reason the Charlie Brown Christmas special had become so classic is that it puts the Nativity front and center and, properly, makes the froth the unimportant background.

I don't intend this to knock gift giving and celebration. What brings this on is an article I read this morning. You may find it here:

https://www.intellectualtakeout.org/blog/cs-lewis-lost-parable-meaning-christmas?fbclid=IwAR1JjLGWW4g8pfcUDAzxiiEe89PqIrETKzUEhxsyfRrZpNf2sB_QZyhI5y8

If we do things without meaning, then the doing, of course, becomes meaningless. I fear we are headed that way with Christmas, and I wonder if it might be better if the secular world did not celebrate it at all than to celebrate it shallowly. Christians should not do that simply as a matter of their Faith.

The train wreck at the altar

You think I'm going to write about someone's wedding, don't you? Well, the joke's on you. Sure, we all know marriages which have been disasters waiting to happen. But this is something completely different.

Yesterday I went to Mass at St. Hedwig, where I graduated from high school over 40 years ago now. It reminded me of a band concert from way back then.

I was in the high school band, playing tuba. Yes, it was surely the best use of Marty's blowhard ability ever, if the least inspired. We would have our Christmas concerts in the Church. The altar would be moved aside, and risers put in place for the choir. The band would be arranged below the choir, closer to the altar rail. Carols and hymns would be sung and played. Those concerts were always great fun.

Anyway, one year we set up for the concert. At seven that night we began. All went well for the first four or five numbers; we sounded quite good, I thought. I played almost exclusively background as tubas do. I had the melody part for all of two measures in my entire high school band career, and I nailed it. But more on that, perhaps, later.

Anyway again, it was on about the sixth tune that we lost it. Mister Bacharowski, our band director, Mr. B as we were allowed to call him, tapped the dais. One, two, three, he mouthed, in the timing he wanted. Yet before he could raise his baton for us to start, someone jumped the gun. I don't know who, but it happened.

An instrument began playing, followed by his section. Then the choir began, and the winds, then the brass, and pretty soon there was the oddest cacophony of noise ever heard from a Church altar. Every voice, every instrument was rising to a crescendo then dying, the sounds mixing into themselves like a torrent of ill wind followed by vaguely quiet confusion. And then repeated. Every person and instrument sought something which would bring order to the mess. Everyone stole glances at everyone else, seeking some hint as what to do. Let me tell you, you cannot make order out of such chaos. It was an awful din. It wasn't even as organized as an orchestra warming up before a performance. You could at least glimpse a hint of real tunes, real organization in that.

Mr. B finally gave up, tapped for us to stop, turned and made some quip to the assembly, and returned to his minions. His raised eyebrow said to forget what just happened and move on. So we did, and finished the concert in proper style.

The song we botched by the way was Do You Hear What I Hear? There is a certain irony in that, don't you think?

Donut anxiety

For a few years I taught college test prep classes. In an attempt to make students feel more comfortable and, hopefully, more open to learning, we allowed food and snacks in our classrooms. So I thought little initially when a young woman brought coffee and a donut into class one day. She set down her coffee, put the donut on a napkin, and, with the rest of the students, dutifully opened a textbook to the page I had indicated.

I began to expound about English grammar. She listened quietly and wrote a couple of notes as I went along. After a minute of two she took a pinch, literally a pinch, hardly enough to call a crumb, off of her donut and ate it. I thought quietly to myself, and very calmly, 'Take a bite of the donut'.

I continued with my lecture. Before long the young lady had another infinitesimal bit of her donut, then a tiny, bare, meager sip at her coffee. 'Eat the donut,' I said to myself, a little more encouragingly.

Rules of the comma were the rule of the day, so I pressed on. She took another vague nip of her pastry. 'Take a bite of the donut,' said Marty to himself, becoming perturbed at her manner of consumption.

After an explanation of comma rule three and a note about such, another pinch of donut. 'Take. A bite. Of your donut,' I thought emphatically. By then it looked as though a mouse had been nibbling at it rather than a human being eating it.

Comma rule five followed comma rule four. Pick, pick, pick at the donut. She wasn't eating the doughy ring so much as slow torturing it. That pastry was undergoing a horrible, painful death. My pulse raced; a drip of sweat formed on my forehead. My blood pressure rose volcanically. In my mind I was yelling, 'For the love of all that's good and holy in this world, take a bite out of that stupid donut!

The math instructor appeared in the doorway. We tagged teamed our classes and she had arrived to do a math review. I finished up, gave a homework assignment, and rose to go to the other room to talk about the comma there. As I made my exit I took a furtive glance over my shoulder. The young woman had just had another atom of her snack.

'Eat that donut,' the math teacher thought calmly. I could see it in her eyes.

The day so far

I had to go to Electric Eel, the company I sell for, early this morning. That's no big deal. I drive to Eel in the wee hours regularly. But late yesterday I was speaking to a customer in Urbana, Ohio, a scant 15 miles from Eel. He wanted me to stop by today but couldn't meet until 9. No problem; I can handle that.

So I went to bed last night thinking, okay, I don't have to leave at 1:30 in the morning like I typically do. I can leave about 3:30 and make my trip comfortably. So I set my alarm for 2:45. That would give me plenty of time to run through the shower and be out the door by half past three.

I was wide awake and staring at the clock by 1:15. I was awake before then, I'm not sure how long, but you know how that goes. Even though you haven't heard the alarm, even though you know you have tons of time, there's simply no way you can force yourself back to sleep, is there?

I was on my way well before 2:45. The alarm on my phone let me know that as I drove south along I-75.

Hangin' Marty

Jury duty is a drag. Yes, yes, yes, I know how important of a right trial by jury is, although I'm not that sure how many of the people I sat with in the jury room yesterday I would want on a panel where I was in the dock. But so it goes...

The coffee was free but weaker than a skip's sweeping. The magazines were about what you'd find in a doctor's office: I read a Golf Digest article about whether Rory McIlroy would win the Masters...in 2014. And as if jury service wasn't tedious enough, the movie they had us watch was Maid in Manhattan. I tried to doze, but that's difficult in a room with the least comfortable chairs imaginable. It was a long six (or so) hours.

Still, they paid us cash as we left, so that's something. We were given vouchers as we left the jury room, presented them to a cashier down the hall, and got forty bucks cash money on the spot. I never imagined that. Sure, that forty is already long gone. But at least I didn't have to wait eight weeks for it. And I didn't have to hang anybody for it either.

Sophie's Stare

As many of you know, I taught adult education for 23 years. One of my favorite students was Sophie, a woman who had returned to academia in her sixties to finish her high school diploma. She had had to quit school as a teenager to work to help her family, and wanted the achievement of a diploma. She worked diligently and earned her sheepskin.

But perhaps the best thing she ever did for me as my student was help me maintain discipline. You see, while we catered to adult students we took in regular high school students who needed to make up credits to graduate on time. They didn't necessarily have the best work ethic (they would not have been making up credits if they had) and could at times be as disruptive as high schoolers could be.

One evening two young men were sitting at the back of the classroom while Sophie had taken her usual seat front and center. The guys began to whisper to each other and chuckle lowly, and soon become enough of a distraction that I had decided to say something to them. Yet right before I could, Sophie set down her pen and turned around to glare at the guys. It took a few seconds, but when they noticed her staring them down they picked up their pens and got back to their schoolwork.

This pattern repeated itself two more times that night. The guys would get a bit rambunctious and Sophie would turn to face them, whereupon they'd sheepishly return to task. And after that night they never gave me any more trouble.

I had to ask Sophie how she did it. The elderly Polish matron squinted her eyes at me and said, "I give them the grandma stare."

I had never actually faced the Sophie Stare myself. Judging by its effect on those two lads, I'm glad I never did.