And so it begins

You know the Terminator scenario, right? It's where the robots and all the machinery of technology become sentient, self aware, and try to destroy mankind? Well, I think it's actually started, and it's begun with the traffic lights.

Three times this week I've been driving when I've noticed a light in the distance turn red. Each time I figured I was far enough away that all I had to do was take my foot off the gas and slow down, not enough to stop but to let me make the light without stopping. I expected the light to turn green before I arrived at it, when I could accelerate and move on.

Yet every time I would reach a point where I had to begin lightly applying the brake, as I was coming too close to the signal.

The light would stay red. Pretty soon I would be pressing down a little harder on the brake pedal.

I would begin decelerating more rapidly. The upcoming signal would stay red. It would stay red until exactly the moment when I would come to a full stop right at the signal. And exactly at full stop, the traffic light would turn green.

I'm telling you, the traffic signals have become sentient. And they're toying with us.

Father Murray foils the robber

With a lead-in like yesterday's (where I spoke of the Dominican priests I've known) I figure I pretty much have to follow up today with a story about one of them.

Fr. Murray was small man, maybe cracking five-foot-two. I don't mean that he was frail looking, only that he was, well, short. But he could take care of himself.

He liked to walk around Matthei Field, the athletics area for the university next door to St. Dominic where he was stationed for awhile. Early one morning he was accosted by a ne'er do well who demanded his wallet. Father refused and the man attacked him, even shoving Father to the ground. Yet the brave and by then thoroughly incensed little padre fought all the way. He kicked like a mule, using the ground as a steady to enhance his blows. He put a hurt to his assailant, until the thief finally gave up and ran off.

Relating the story to someone after he had returned to the rectory, Father was asked what was in his wallet. "A dollar," he answered.

"A dollar? Why didn't you just give it to him rather than risk something worse?"

"It was my dollar," Father Murray replied emphatically.

You gotta love that spunk.

The side trip

I write to you this morning from Olive Branch, Mississippi. It's a nice area just a tad southeast of Memphis. And I'll have you know I drove here, all 800 miles, yesterday. I intend to drive the entire 800 miles home later today. I like driving; I don't see why so many bemoan it.

Anyways, on the way through Kentucky I got to thinking that maybe I was close to the Dominican Priory where many of the old pastors of St. Dominic, the Church I grew up in here in the D, had trained, so I thought maybe I'd check it out. The Internet being the wonderful thing it (generally) is, I pulled into a rest area and behold, Springfield, Kentucky was the next exit. The Priory itself was about thirty miles off the freeway. But I had time, so I took the side trip.

St. Rose of Lima is a beautiful little country church on a tall hillside outside of Springfield. It has an unusual octagonal tower which makes it rather unique, causing the Church to stand even higher on the hill. Behind it was a small cemetery where a few of the priests I knew are interred. Fr. Thomas Smith, he was the one who came out and shagged flies with my brother and I and me Pops that summer Sunday ages ago. Fr. Thomas Hennessey; he baptized my daughter, and in so doing gave one of the most beautiful little sermons I've heard. Father James Murray was a small, nervous preacher. But if you got him mad, well, there's a couple soon to be blogs there, good ones both. Fr. Ralph Townsend, Fr. Ballard, Fr. Sibila; it was sad but it was sublime to see such names of such folk whom I haven't seen in years on the granite markers behind the Church.

The building was open so I went inside. I lit a couple candles and said a few prayers for those deceased priests who have meant so much to me. The Dominican fathers individually and as a group have influenced me in such profound manners that I can't begin to express how grateful I am that they were a part of my life. I'm truly happy the Holy Spirit spoke to me yesterday morning. It was Him who inspired me to actually go, because I almost did not. Business, making time on the road and all that rot, you know.

But that's one of the reasons I like to drive. It can give you time to do stuff you could not otherwise do, and I have from time to time thought I would like to see that Priory.

Maybe I do have a bucket list after all. Maybe it just presents itself as things go along.

Jerry

His name is Jerry. For the life of me, I can't think of his last name.

He's been at my current Church, Holy Trinity in Detroit, very often of late. He shuffles in, a real and honest shuffle which shows his years, and sits over to the side during Mass. Back in the Nineties at old St. Dominic, he and my son Frank split the readings at the 7:30 Sunday morning service. Frank would do the first reading, Jerry the second. It seemed to really please him to share the duties with the youngster.

I remember he used to work in maintenance at nearby Wayne State University.

I've tried a few times to engage him in conversation. I've introduced myself as from St. Dominic and his confused demeanor appears to brighten a bit. I've said I remember him from then, and remind him of how he and Frank used to do the readings. He smiles, remarks things like, "St. Dominic, really?", and we chit chat a bit. I mention others that he would have known, parishioners and priests and such. He shakes his head knowingly, yet I get the impression he doesn't quite grasp who I am or recall the old times particularly well.

I keep an eye out for him now. I try to keep him in my prayers.

His name is Jerry. And I just feel like writing about him this morning.

The mouths of babes

I love the old barn, even though it's old. And decrepit. And cold in the winter, and lots of other things. But it has something pretty cool: history. Even if that history can lead to a put down.

The Shop began its history as a horse barn more than 100 years ago. Most folk don't realize it, but at the end of World War I the car hadn't really taken over yet. As such, a lot of neighborhood households still had carriages, and carriages needed horses. So the old barn was built, well, as a horse barn for the locals. It went through several manifestations, as a mechanic shop which morphed into car detailing, then welding and welder rentals, and now my snake repair shop.

One day a customer was in to pick up a few things. Obviously not working but merely doing some running around, he had his nine year old daughter in tow. The customer, who I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, asked about the Shop's origins. So I started into the tale, "Well, it began as a horse barn..."

The youngster wrinkled up her nose and said, in that honest way young kids talk, "That explains the smell."

Cute kid you got there, Cloyce.

Fr. John

One of our pastors at old St. Dominic in Detroit was Fr. John. We liked him a lot, and he was comfortable enough to show up at our house unannounced for coffee and conversation. Those were good times, back in 1990-1991. The only bad thing was that he insisted on walking home, alone, after dark. He wouldn't take a ride; it was only four blocks to the rectory, he said, and he liked the quiet. He wouldn't even let me walk the dog along with him. I mean, I'm a lifelong Detroiter who genuinely feels comfortable around the neighborhood. But safety's safety.

So I did what my conscience compelled me to do. I put the dog on the leash and I shadowed him. I'd give him about a block head start and then I'd follow him until I was sure he was safe at the Church.

And as it was, Fr. John liked to meander. He liked to take different routes home just to see different things. Then he would stop to smell the roses, so to speak. If something caught his eye, a building under renovation, a star or satellite in the sky, maybe even an actual flower, he'd stop to study it. And boy, could he study. Sometimes it was 45 minutes before I got back home.

One day he caught me. I got a little too close and he spotted me, coming back to assuage my fears. "Don't worry about me, Marty. I know where I'm going if something happens."

"I don't doubt that," I replied. "I just don't want St. Peter's first question to me to be, why'd you let that priest walk home alone at midnight?"

We had a laugh, and he finally indulged me and let me walk him home after visits.

Useless phrases (again)

Here's another couple terms for the useless phrase and words pile: nationally ranked. I saw that one on a billboard promoting a local institution. My first thought was, all it had to be was on a list garnered nationwide to be nationally ranked. Placing 498th out of 500 would qualify for that. Big deal.

Then reading about a Detroit Tigers prospect this morning, I came across the praise, such as it is, that he has 'legitimate times in all his performance numbers'. But similarly to the above paragraph, isn't a low time a legitimate time? Sure, it was meant as a compliment, so it's easy to presume his numbers are good. So why not just say 'his numbers are good?'

That's my two cents for today. See you tomorrow.

The Irish on St. Patrick's Day

Ah, the Irish. There's so much of them in every one of us. That's not really surprising seeing as there are so many more Irish outside of Ireland than still living on the old sod. And when you have St. Patrick's Day celebrations in such diverse places as exemplified by Buenos Aries, Argentina, you know that the Irish mystique pervades world culture.
Why is that? Might it be that the soul of the average Irish personality resides in most all of humanity?
An easy examination of Irish culture gives many examples of Irish fortitude, courage, allegiance, patriotism, and an appreciation of simple yet profound human relationships. Who does not, if they have any sentiment at all in their bones, shed a tear when hearing O Danny Boy? Whoever will not feel their chests swell with nationalistic pride when hearing God save Ireland are indeed cold towards patriotism and their homelands and their brethren. Even sublime romanticism exists, heard through tunes like Black Velvet Band.
The more rambunctious bar songs of Irish lore appeal to the common thread of humanity. Have you heard The Wild Rover? A loser comes into his fortune and wins respect; redemption and respect indeed, as dreamed of by so many. Do not we all dream of that, to show everyone else that we've triumphed after all despite our flaws? How can we not believe in ourselves when listening to those happy tunes?
Acceptable extremes appear quite obvious in Irish lore. But do they not appear prominently in all human thoughts? The drunkard who believes God will forgive him if he makes Mass and does the occasional earthly good deed as did Darby O'Gill; will he not be forgiven by his faith in the simple acts which are the primary hope of redemption within the means of the most persons? The music was his, after all, wasn't it? Why? Because he did what he was asked to do within a legitimate frame.
The Irish are fightin', the Irish are sad and humbled; the Irish have been under the boots of their oppressors for centuries. Yet they hold true to what is true about who and what they are and about what defines them: their God. They recognize it even in their shortcomings. Their Irish guilt won't let them admit it, and rightly so.
Yet humanity requires that sort of odd pride, doesn't it? Something found in that profound and nearly humble comment of the rebel Irish soldier to the union Irish soldier near him at Appomattox, when Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia to Grant in April 1865. The Confederate leaned into the Unionist and remarked, "You only won because you had more Irish than we did".
Ah, the Irish. They can teach us something, can't they?

Fun Facts: March 16 edition

I've done it before, I'll do it again. When completely writer's cramped, Marty will go for the cheap out. In other words, I present: This Day in History, March 16.

Jerusalem was captured by the Babylonians on March 16, 597 BC. I've always wondered how they knew back then it was BC.

Today in 1792, King Gustav of Sweden was assassinated at a masquerade ball. Way to put a damper on a party, Count Jacob Johan Anckarström, the shooter. And shooting the king in the back, no less!

March 16, 1802, saw the creation of the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York. Go Army!

In 1829, Ohio created High School night classes. This is critical to me as I taught night school for almost 25 years. Go Ohio!

In 1830, the year after 1829, March 16 saw the slowest day in New York Stock Exchange history as only 31 shares were traded. It must have dull waiting for the closing bell.

On March 16, 1872, the first Football Association (soccer) championship was held as the Wanderers beat the Royal Engineers 1-0. This was followed by the first soccer riot when a passer-by was apprehended and forced to watch the entire match.

The American League was formed on March 16, 1900. The Chicago White Stockings, Washington Senators, Milwaukee Brewers, Cleveland Blues, Boston Americans, Philadelphia Athletics, Baltimore Orioles, and the DETROIT TIGERS were the original eight teams. Go Tigers!

By the 1900s there are so many things listed on the sites I've trolled that I don't care to cull through them. So for everyone out there, This Day in History (until 1900).

Beware

Everyone knows what today is (are?). A soothsayer famously warned of today.

Beware the Ides of March.

Now, as I understand it the ides are simply the midpoint of any given month. So I wouldn't put too much weight in today being the halfway point of March.

Unless you're Julius Caesar of course. Then, beware. Be very ware.

Yes, Mae

Grandmaw Hutchins did have an infectious laugh. When she was delighted with something she was delighted with it and expressed that delight freely, even if the joke was on her.

I remember one summer day sitting with her and Grandpaw under the shade tree (y'all remember the shade tree don't ya?) and she was talking at him about all sorts of subjects. Every few minutes she'd pause and glance at her husband, whence he'd smile and say in his quiet, genteel manner, "Yes, Mae."

She'd continue her monologue about fixin' the chicken coop or weeding the garden. Eventually she would again stop to check if he was payin' proper attention. "Yes, Mae," Grandpaw would respond.

Onward and upward for Grandmaw Hutchins. She'd go off on another mini-harangue about what needed doin' or what was coming up and at each break in the action Grandpaw would respond with a grin, "Yes, Mae."

After one more affirmative response she looked at me and proceeded to laugh out loud, in her uninhibited, wonderful cackle, exclaiming, "That old man ain't got his hearing aid on!" She thought it was the funniest thing in the world. She surely knew he'd done it purposefully.

Grandpaw just answered simply, again as if on cue, "Yes, Mae." I think he figured she was onto him by then.

Roastin' ears

I don't believe that I've spoken much about me Grandmaw Hutchins. Let's rectify that situation, if you don't mind.

She confused my brother Patrick one day without meaning to. She instructed him to go out to the fields with his grandfather, obviously me Grandpaw Hutchins, and pick some roastin' ears for supper. "Roastin' ears?" a confused Patrick asked. "Yes, roastin' ears," she impatiently replied. Then realizing his confusion she added, "Corn."

"Oh yeah, corn," Patrick responded. He went away repeating questioningly under his breath, "Roastin' ears?"

Grandmaw burst out laughing. "He didn't know what roastin' ears was!" she exclaimed delightedly.

I laughed with her, not wanting to admit that a city boy like me didn't know either. But man, that event sure tickled her.

I had more to say about her, but I might just leave that for tomorrow.

A Cloyce shave

When me Pops was growing up in the near west side of Detroit, the old neighborhood had a bit of everything in terms of services. There were grocery stores, hardwares, drug stores, and barber shops among others. Dad's favorite barber was on Hamilton Avenue. His barber's least favorite customer was a man I'll call Cloyce, just to give him a name.

The barber hated Cloyce not because of who he was but because of what he had, which was the toughest beard in existence. He was very difficult to shave, and several times a week Cloyce went to the barber for a shave. This was in the days of the straight razor, so that shaving required delicacy. That was fine unless the beard wasn't delicate.

Yet Cloyce seemed oblivious to how hard he was to shave, even though it was no pleasure for him either. One day, me Pops related, he was in the barber shop waiting his turn for a haircut while Cloyce got a shave. Cloyce himself grimaced several times as the barber nicked him regularly despite his best efforts. After a few minutes the job was done, the styptic pencil liberally applied, the ordeal mercifully over for both.

Cloyce got out of the chair and paid, then he asked the barber, "What does one of those straight razors cost?"

"About four bucks," was the reply.

"Here's five," said Cloyce, handing the barber a Lincoln. "Give me that one you just used."

The barber shrugged, took the money, and complied. Cloyce held the razor up to the small crowd in the shop. "Everyone sees that I bought this fair and square. It's mine to do as I like, right?"

There were nodding heads and murmurs of assent. Cloyce then took the razor and snapped it in half. "I don't want anybody to go through what I just went through," he explained as he tossed the broken tool into the trash can. He still had no clue that the fault wasn't the barber's or the razor's but, rather, with nature.

Fish Frydays

I like this time of year, and for rather selfish reasons. I know that it's Lent; it's supposed to be a time of renewal. But what I like seeing the most renewed are the Friday Fish Frys in so many Churches.

Catholics cannot eat meat on Fridays during Lent. That's one of the reasons fish frys are so popular. Part of me wishes the Church would go old school and ban meat eating on all Fridays during the year just so that fish frys might happen around the calendar. Technically Catholics are still supposed to go meatless on Fridays or offer some other penance in its place, but that's another question.

I have been pining for weeks for the fish fry at St. Francis of Assisi here in Detroit, and this afternoon I get to actually attend one. For the next seven Fridays ol' Marty will be in fish heaven. Thursdays will become interminable as the days before Fridays as I long for the next day's dinner.

Yeah, I'm kinda missing the point of Lent thinking this way. I'm a little too happy about a time meant for seeking forgiveness. Yet that time will come, and probably from gluttony as I lament eating too many fish filets this afternoon. And hey, pining counts as penance, doesn't it?

Thoughts on Ash Wednesday

Today is Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent for Christianity in general, and Catholics in particular. It is a time of penance, something we all need. We all need to atone for our failures, for our sins.

Humanity is fallen; the world around us is fallen. That's why people do wrong, and genes mutate into cancers and such. Nothing in our universe is perfect, but there is a difference between we humans and the lower animals and inanimate things nearby. We can choose. We can decide whether to do well or ill. It is what makes us special, and separates us from all else.

But surely these next few weeks aren't for Christians alone? It would seem that no matter what you believe, or whether you believe anything at all, you would still think it a good idea to improve yourself, or to do good things for those in need around you. Even if you cannot bring yourself to believe in something beyond humanity or beyond the universe itself, you can still make the effort to make yourself a better person and enrich the lives of those whom you come in contact with day in and day out. It's the one area where the seriously religious and the secularists can surely agree with each other, don't you think?

So try to become a better person this Lenten season. Smile, help people, discipline yourself in the positive habits of mind and body. You might be pleasantly surprised as the good habits formed become a part of you. The folks around you may be downright shocked. And we'll all be the better for it.

Cloyce confusion

Sometimes as I get older, often as I get older if you read this blog too closely, I find myself making honest and kinda dumb mistakes. Mistakes like yesterday's.

A customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, called and asked if his machine was ready. I told him sorry, but the news was pretty bad. He needed a motor, and was looking at $600 parts and labor.

There was stunned silence on the other end of the phone. Eventually Cloyce said, "But Marty, I brought it in for you to weld a broken handle." And he did. It was a different Cloyce who needed a motor replacement. When I saw Cloyce's name appear on my phone, I assumed it was that Cloyce.

I did laugh out loud as I apologized profusely for the confusion. Once I explained it Cloyce the first laughed too, although I could tell it was more a laugh of nervous relief. He was pleased, very pleased indeed after initially hearing he had to have a motor, with a $35 weld job.

When I hung up I added his last name to his number on my contact list. I then called the other Cloyce with his bad news. He didn't think it was funny, but took in stride and is having me install the new motor anyway.

I'm everywhere and anywhere

While checking my personal e-mail a few minutes ago I noticed that AOL has me as being in New York, New York. I don't think I am.

The Weather Channel's website told me that I'm in Washington, DC. I'm not, though I probably should be. We'd be all better off if I were, right? Right?

Blogger quite rightly (so far as I know, reality being apparently subjective this morning) has me in good old Detroit, Michigan. Why is this?

I had to do a restart on my computer, so perhaps it's all simply that certain resets did not go through properly. You know how computers revert to previous settings; I have been to New York for example and perhaps AOL via my desktop reverted to when I was actually there. However things are, we all know where I really am today, don't we?

In your hearts.

Have a good Monday everybody.

Not your stuff

As I've said before, and quite contrary to his father (me Grandpa Joe) little could set off me Pops. But what did set him off, set him off.
We sell things, drain snakes and drain snake parts and accessories, as many of you know. So we have often fielded calls about this or that. 'Cosgriff, do you have a 3/4 cable?' and the like. If when taking such a call we did in fact have one, me Pops would of course answer that yes, we did. "Cool, Cosgriff. I'll be down soon to get it."
When, as happened with some regularity, they didn't come down soon to get it (and this was before credit cards were used to hold things) Pops would sell the cable to someone else. Invariably, sometimes several weeks to a month after vowing to quickly get it, the original caller would arrive. "I'm here to get that cable, Cosgriff."
"I sold it," me Pops would plainly say.
Incredulously, late customer would snort, "Aw man, you sold my cable?"
"No, I sold MY cable!" the old man would snort right back at them, except with deeper emphasis. It was his until it was sold, not some latecomer's, who would then get a lecture on how me Pops owned it until HE sold it, because that that was how direct sales worked.
Such attitudes irritated me Dad, and I'm with him on that.

It's a cereal morning

I elected to have breakfast cereal this morning. My selection was easy, as the only cereal in the house was a bag of knock off Lucky Charms. And there was no milk so I ate it dry. I figure saved some calories. No milk ought to make up for all the added sugar.

I don't eat cereal a lot anymore, and there is one cereal which I will never eat again: Cinnamon Toast Crunch. You know why? It's because for the last several years that cereal's advertising has featured pieces of Cinnamon Toast Crunch ambushing and eating one another. That's just sick. Any breakfast food which tries to sell itself on cannibalism is more than I can stomach.

I will not apologize for that pun. It's too delicious.

As was that one. No apology there either.

Wayland and Winchester

By now I am sure I've well established that me Grandpa Joe was not particular in his habits or person. Yet that won't stop me from driving the point home all the more.

I remember the first time I took an overnight trip with him. We spent a night in the little town of Wayland, Michigan, where Joe found a run down hovel of a motel. The cost was $14 per night with two double beds. Even I knew back in 1977 this was so cheap that it would have been a giant red flag waving furiously to almost anyone else. But not me Grandpa. He took the room.

The floors were not carpeted or even tiled. They were bare cement; the bathroom floor too. I could not get myself to shower or have a drink of tap water. The mattresses on the beds caved in towards their middles; it was a challenge to crawl out of bed in the morning. You more rolled uphill, then down getting out of bed. The TV got exactly one channel which at least had Tiger baseball, so there was a plus. Joe let me watch the game, though probably because he had little choice.

Years later found us in Winchester, Illinois, in the west central part of that state. It was smaller than Wayland, and there was a restaurant he liked. It is not an overstatement to say that nothing, not one thing, in that whole eatery matched. No two chairs at any one table matched, nor was there a matched chair in sight at all. No two tables matched each other. No tiles on the floor matched, as myriad solid colors mixed with lines and swirls and circles each ending abruptly at the edge of their respective one foot squares. But at least the floor was covered.

The frames on the doorways had various framing, and not even the counters matched (there were two, each with pies and snacks displayed which honestly did look good). To be fair, the restaurant was quite clean. Oh, the food was indeed good too. I just don't remember exactly what I ate, having been taken in by the overall ambiance of the place.

I mean, there is something to be said for atmosphere.