A lack of golf fanaticism

My golf league was cancelled yesterday, an event I didn't mind one whit. I do like the game much more than I used to. But I have my limits.

I don't want to play in the rain and cold. Yes, I know you can dress for it, but why? There's no relaxation in that. You're just more entombed in additional clothes. I do not want to become one of those golfers who think like fisherman from the old joke.

You don't know the old joke? Well, it seems two guys were out fishing on a lake in a steady rain. The lake ran along a golf course. There were two guys on the course trying to play in the adverse weather. "Look at those two fools, playing golf in weather like this," remarked one fisherman to the other. He was oblivious to the irony.

I ain't oblivious to irony, and I ain't oblivious to the idea that sports and games aren't fun in poor conditions. I wouldn't play baseball in a field of cobblestones or football in a thunderstorm. I don't like golf in the cold and wet. It just ain't fun.

Cloyce fears cars

Years ago I knew this guy: I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. He seemed like a good guy, though he spoke in broken English with an accent I never could place. We would see each other occasionally at neighborhood meetings and such.

Somehow or other it came out that he walked everywhere he went. I didn't think much of it: the guy could do what he wanted on that count, right? But one night after a meeting we found it was raining rather hard. Remembering his habit, I offered Cloyce a ride home in my car.

A look of complete horror flew into his eyes. "No, no, no," he protested. "Cars bad, cars crash, people die. No, no no." But the he realized the situation and said, "You're nice man. Nice to offer ride. But no. Cars bad, bad, bad." He walked on home into the storm.

All I can think is, he must have had one bad experience with cars. Either that, or he'd heard about my driving.

Hah. I beat every one of you to that punchline, didn't I?

Idiot lights

All cars have warning lights, which come on on your dashboard when the vehicle wants you to fear something's dramatically and horribly wrong, causing you to rush to a mechanic who is all to happy to take piles of your cash simply to turn the light off. They were once called idiot lights, but I suppose the PC culture has caught up even to that and has given them a more kind, humane name.

Whatever. I ignore the pesky things. I have yet to have a car which hasn't had the check engine light on the whole time I've driven it. So long as it starts and gets me where I'm going, it's not important. My engine will tell me when something's truly wrong. Like it won't start, for example.

My seat belt light stays on. I don't know why, because I always have my seat belt properly across my lap and shoulder. Yes, I really do. So I pay no heed to that.

The ABS light has been on on my van for, I don't know, months now. But the old Chevy Venture stops readily and easily, so I don't care. There's a door ajar light always glowing at me. But again, the doors are secure, so so what?

I did have a scare yesterday though, when a light I never noticed caught my attention. For whatever reason, I hadn't seen it before: a bright orange light which highlighted the capital letter D. I admit, I panicked. What in the world could that one mean?

It means you're in drive, you maroon, my mind quickly told me.

Yeah, idiot lights. Sometimes they do let you know who the idiot is.

Audia's

As I made my way down I-75 early today on my way to Springfield, Ohio and the Electric Eel plant, I passed the Clark Street exit. Now, I don't know about you, but for me the Clark Street exit does, has, and always will mean one thing.

Audia's Pizza.

You took the Clark exit to Junction, then a right on Junction to Porter and there you were: Audia's. We got our pizza from them for years. It had thick, gooey cheese and those little pepperonis which curled up when the baked, letting the oils pool inside them. In other words, real pepperoni. And the pizzas always came in those large brown wax paper bags. Okay, one would be in a box, and the one in the paper would sit on that.

Whenever I was the one sent to pick them up, then 12 minute ride home was almost torture, waiting to sink my teeth into that pizza. Maybe it just tastes so good in my memory because I'm sentimental, but man, it was good.

Audia's was a mom and pop place and they were both disappointed that, when they decided to retire, none of their seven kids wanted to take it over. They were swell people as well as great pizza makers.

I never pass the Clark exit without thinking about them. And their pizza.

The day after

Easter Sunday was, of course, yesterday. For me, it was a good day. If nothing else, I ate a lot.

I know that because I woke up this morning still feeling full. Breads and pastas and the good old Easter ham will do that to a guy.

Thank goodness I had no intention of starting back on the path to eating better until after all the holiday food is gone. Looking into the fridge this morning, that might be awhile.

On food

For the Catholics of the world this is a fast day, being Good Friday. So I figure, why not tempt everyone of you out there (you know who you are) and talk about food?

Left to its own druthers, my personal menu is simple. My diet consists of quick and easy eats. I could eat pepperoni pizza and hot dogs all day long. In fact, I have.

Burgers and tube steaks beyond hot dogs, brats and Italian sausages and the like, are high on my list. Straight up friend chicken is tough to beat; while on the road lately I have renewed my friendship with Colonel Sanders. And what, I ask you, can beat a good plate of steak and potatoes?

As I think about it, the only area where I like variety is with pop. Being a lifelong and proud Detroiter, I find the many Faygo flavorings delightful (except fruit punch, which they apparently don't make anymore, and good riddance too). Vanilla ginger ale is great, when you can find it, although with regular ginger ale I prefer Canada Dry. Yes, my Detroit roots make me feel as though I'm two-timing Vernor's. But it ain't like I don't like it. I just like Canada Dry ginger ale better. And Schweppe's. But after that, it's all you, Vernor's.

Oh, and finally, I love fried fish perhaps best of all, and that makes today bearable for me. I will break my fast this afternoon with a fish dinner from St. Francis Cabrini here in the D. So all that other stuff simply isn't particularly tempting to me this day. If it is to you, my work here is done.

Saving sacred spaces

The fire at Notre-Dame cathedral in Paris has left many people in a giving mood in the hopes of reconstructing the Church. Yet not everyone seems happy at the prospect.

I've seen several comments on facebook about why it's not important to rebuild the edifice. There are other more important human needs to consider and Jesus doesn't care about buildings, are the sort of memes I refer to. But does He not care about buildings?

Christ threw the money changers out of the Temple because of their desecration of it. He routinely went to Temple and participated in what was taught there and what rituals were performed. When separated from his parents as a youngster, He expressed surprise and dismay that they did not expect Him to be in His Father's House.

My point simply is that there's nothing wrong with repairing and maintaining sacred spaces. Indeed, it is a good and holy practice. To suggest Jesus would not care about restoring Notre-Dame is presumptive and insolent.

Giving blood

Yesterday I had a doctor's appointment. They took blood.

I then went home and paid my taxes. So I guess I gave blood twice yesterday.

At least what the doctor ordered will help me stay healthy.

Sharp objects

As I drove along Grand River Avenue outside of Detroit the other day, I saw a tool shop. It had a large sign in front which announced proudly, 'We sharpen anything!'

Really, thought I. How about, ahem, my wit?

I am far too proud of that one.

Cloyce and the blood blister

When we moved into our house, the upstairs bathroom had a nice mahogany toilet seat. But as with all things human made, it eventually broke. I went to the hardware and bought a decent replacement. We simply threw the old one in the common dumpster which we shared at that time with about six neighbors.

Several days later I happened to be visiting in my neighbor's house; I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. Excusing myself to use his washroom, I saw a nicely refinished mahogany toilet seat. "Where did you get this, Cloyce?" I asked.

"Out of the dumpster. Isn't it cool? Someone was just throwing it out; can you believe that?" He had taken the thing, scrubbed it clean, reglued and refinished it, and put it on his commode.

I answered, "Yes I can, because it was mine. I can't believe you took something like from a dumpster!"

"It's perfectly good," he protested. But that didn't keep Cloyce from chastising me several days later when the seat had rebroken and left a blood blister on the back of his thigh. "You toilet seat did it to me," he whined.

"Serves you right dumpster diving stuff like that," was all I said.

Coffee tales

We Cosgriffs, at least us Detroit and Illinois Cosgriffs, loves our coffee. I actually get the urge double, seeing as me Grandpa Hutchins, me Mom's Dad, loved his coffee too. Anyway, family lore, and by family lore I mean that both me Pops and me Grandpa Joe insists it is true, holds the following tale.
When me Pops was about 5, Joe took him along on a train ride to visit family in Illinois. In Chicago I believe, they had to switch trains. There was a layover of a couple hours, so Joe takes his eldest into a diner at the station to mark the time and grab a bite.
The waitress approached right after they had grabbed a table. Setting down menus, she followed with the typical, "Can I start you boys off with something?"
"Two coffees, one black, one half and half," Joe responds.
As Joe tells it, me very young Pops looks up at him and asks innocently, "Joe, you gonna drink that coffee with cream?"
"Two black coffees," me Grandpa corrected himself to the waitress.
That's knowing how you like your coffee, folks.

The bonspiel I remember

I've curled for a few years now, and I have been blessed with enough good teammates over time to have made a mark on the game, at least locally. I've been on two league championship teams and won my share of bonspiels (curling tournaments). Yet perhaps the bonspiel I remember most fondly was the one I didn't win.

A little background is necessary first. There was this woman at the Detroit Curling Club about twenty five years ago, a pleasant woman whom everyone liked, and I just can't dig her name out of the back of my head. I can see her, I can even hear her voice, but I'm drawing a complete blank on her name (and it would be wrong call her Cloyce). I recall that she was a self-described Army brat. Canadian by birth, her father was a career man in the Canadian military and she grew up all over the world. Somehow she and her husband and family ended up in Detroit, curling at the old DCC. She was, as I said, very personable, very likable.

Anyway, one weekend we were curling in a two day tournament, myself, my buddy Rob, my sister, and my son Chuck. It was hosted by the DCC. And everyone played well in front of me, we caught some breaks, and lo and behold, we're in the championship game.

I had never won a bonspiel before. That final game was a good one, tight all the way. Each side made some great shots, each side had a few miscues, and it came down to my last rock, the last shot of the game.

I just missed it. My rock nicked another, just barely touched it, and that little bit of misdirection left my stone maybe a quarter-inch from scoring. We lost a tough game by about as closely as you can come to winning while losing.

To say I was disappointed is quite the understatement. But curling teaches you to be a good sport. We shook hands with our opponents and offered congratulations, and went to the locker rooms to change.

Every other game was done ahead of ours, so everyone else was already sitting at their tables in the viewing area of the Club. I was the first person up from our group, and, admittedly despondent, trudged for our table.

That's when this wonderful woman looked over at me, set her drink down, and yelled, "Yay Marty!" and started clapping. Everyone else began to clap, and there were a few other yay Martys too. I just nodded my head at everyone and sat down smiling. It was a great feeling, like me tell you.

Before leaving the Club that night I gave her a big hug and a heartfelt thank you. I still can't remember her name.

But I will never forget her.

Roadside repair

Cars are better today; I don't think there's any doubt about that. They are built better and last longer. The only real downside to that is that they are more difficult to fix when there is an issue. Forty years ago, back in my day, sonny, I pulled an engine on the car I had at the time and replaced a rear main oil seal on my own. I never gave it a second thought: it needed it so I did it. I'd never attempt such a thing these days.

To give you an example from even farther back in Cosgriff history, and which shows that car repairs were even simpler way back when, I'll tell you the tale of me Grandpa Joe and his brother, me Uncle Bill.

There were driving around one day and whatever old vehicle they were in threw a rod. A very simple and I'm sure unsatisfying explanation of this is that a piston rod came off the crankshaft in the engine. If the piston can't work, and it can't if it's not connected to anything, the car won't go (or at least go very well or very far). So what did those two venerable brothers do?

They found a ditch deep enough for their purposes, straddled it with the car, crawled under the vehicle and fixed that thrown rod on the spot. Then they went on their way.

Granted, me Uncle Bill had a reputation as a cracking good mechanic, and they certainly had tools on them. Still, doing a major engine repair, one that likely took an hour or two, on the side of the highway while lying in a ditch, well, you ain't doing that very often if at all these days.

Grandpa's big black Cadillac

Me Grandpa Joe once had this big black Cadillac, I think it was an Eldorado, and it was a monster. A veritable battleship. I mean, that thing was huge. It's passing by would cause a solar eclipse. And like most of Joe's cars, it was, well, unique.

We never did get the brakes working quite right. You learned while driving it to anticipate traffic lights, slowing down blocks away when it looked like the light would go red soon. Me Uncle John once suggested we install those big parachutes like they have on drag racers to help the car stop on time because, being big and heavy, it took a lot to stop that vehicle. The engine required so much work that Uncle also quipped that once he saw the car on the street and almost didn't recognize it with the hood down.

But what got me the most about the car was the first time Joe had me changing the oil. Crawling under the belly of the beast to drain the motor, I couldn't help but see that the oil pan had apparently once sprung a leak. The clue? The pan was covered in heavy roofing cement.

I called to me Grandpa, "There's roof cement slathered on the oil pan. Maybe it used to have a leak."

"Does it look like it's leaking now?" he yelled back.

I studied it closely and replied, "No."

"Then we won't worry about it," Joe answered.

A typical Grandpa Joe view of a typical Grandpa Joe car. Damn, I miss that old man.

A simple request

I know that they have as much right to be on the road as I do. I know they're much heavier and much larger than my van, and that makes gaining speed tougher. I even concede they have as much right to pass others on the highway as I do. But could I ask one thing of you, those of you who drive semis?

Could you find a way to pass other semis while going more than one-one thousandth of a mile an hour faster than the one you're trying to pass? Our destinations, the twenty of us who get caught behind you when you do this, are important too.

Thank you.

It's early, but

I am so happy that it's baseball season. It's about the only sport, other than curling and golf, that I care deeply about anymore. And I'm not always sure about golf.

My Detroit Tigers have started off well. They're 5-3 after eight games, which I honestly did not expect. Winning a series against the Yankees while only scoring six runs was quite a surprise too. If you would have told me the Tigers would have won five of their first eight games while only scoring 17 runs (not even two per game, and they only reached that pinnacle in hanging a five-spot on the Royals yesterday) I would have said you were nuts. No one wins much, much less five of eight, with such anemic offense.

But hope springs eternal, and baseball comes with the spring. If their pitching keeps up and the bats wake up just a bit, Detroit could make it an interesting summer here in the Motor City.

First things

Ah, sometimes the little things in life, and I mean the really little things, stuff we too often pass right by without a thought, are indeed the best things.

The smell of fresh coffee right after you open a new can.

The salty aroma of potato chips immediately upon ripping a bag open.

You car starting the first time, right when you've picked it up from mechanic.

The aroma of leather on a new baseball glove.

Many things happen so fast we don't think about them. But the next time you open that coffee can, take a second and enjoy that first waft of freshly ground beans. It's worth it.

Not just for breakfast anymore

This or something similar has probably happened to other parents. Hopefully it was with equally uneventful results.

When our oldest was in second grade, he met his mother and I one morning and proudly told us that he had made his own lunch for school that day. We did all the proper oohing and ahhing which parents should, praising him for his effort. Still, when he turned his back my wife thought it best to have a look at what he had packed.

Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, okay.

A napkin, good.

Apple, very good.

A bottle of beer. Okay, that of course had to be switched out for a juice box. We then explained to our son, kindly because we didn't want to ruin his pride at being otherwise considerate, that he was too young for beer and that the school wouldn't allow it. He was okay with the explanation.

Can you imagine how quickly we would have been called to social services though, if she hadn't checked his lunch box?

The almost robbery

Father Thomas Smith was one of the Dominican priests I mentioned last week whom I remember and admire. As mentioned he's the one who shagged flies with my family one fine summer Sunday, keys jangling as he frantically chased baseballs with me bother and me Pops and me. And as with the Fr. Murray I spoke of the other day, Fr. Smith once dealt with, well, really only a threatened robbery.

Five or six blocks away from St. Dominic, where Fr. Smith was pastor in the Seventies, was St. Leo, at that time headed by Fr. John Morrell. Sadly one night, and thankfully he was not seriously hurt, two men broke into the St. Leo Rectory on him and took what cash he had and a few other items. He called Fr. Smith about the incident right after it occurred.

In hearing the tale, Fr. Smith was properly sympathetic and asked what he might do to help. "Double bolt your doors," Fr. Morrell replied.

"Why?" Father Smith asked incredulously.

Fr. Morrell continued, "Because they demanded to know where the next nearest Church was, and I panicked and told them St. Dominic."

Thanks a lot, thought Fr. Smith. But fortunately nothing came of it.