Stove up beefhearts

There are things which folks say which I never understood. Pops used to say, when disgusted at some tool or whatever, "Whoever invented that ought to be beat through Hell with a beefheart". I don't quite get it but I like it. It's somehow quaint.

Grandpa Joe used to talk about being all 'stove up' I never got that one either. Until recently.

What he meant, speaking in general terms, was that when you had been active for a while and then sat for a while, your muscles tightened up. You became stiff and sore; achy. It might take a few steps before you were walking comfortably because your joints weren't limber.

Well, after taking my walk yesterday I got back home, to sit at my computer and check e-mails, hammer out a blog, and yes, play a few hands of video poker. Then when I went to get out of my chair, my back was tight, my shoulders sore, my knees ached, and it took about 15 steps to walk fully upright comfortably. I was all stove up.

Sometimes you just have to experience something to get it.

Wisdom and experience on a Friday

A few years ago, on a Friday as it happened, I was replacing a light fixture in our upstairs hallway. Easy peasy, right? Only the ends of the electrical wires feeding into the fixture were badly frayed. So I thought I ought to peel them back a bit.

All went well until I was trying to shave off about a half-inch of insulation from each side of the power cord. I had just thought silently to myself that the knife I was using was particularly sharp and that I should be careful. But Hell, I'll be done in a second, right?

I was done in a second. Done enough for my knife to slip and cut every bit of an eighth inch deep into the pointing finger of my left hand.

It hurt and it bled. Luckily I was five feet away from our upstairs bathroom. I jumped into it to the sink and held my bleeding finger, bleeding like a stuck hog as the saying goes, under hot water for several minutes. Then I applied pressure, fixed gauze and white tape, and stopped the blood flow. I then finished the job. Carefully, and basically with just one hand.

A few minutes later I was explaining to my daughter the lesson I'd learned: cut away from yourself. I added, trying to be whimsical while waxing philosophic, "Experience is when you learn from your mistakes. Wisdom is when you learn from the mistakes of others."

My darling daughter only smiled sweetly and said, "You just learned from experience. I just learned from wisdom."

Well, what could I say?

The hole in the Joe

The Joe Louis Arena, or simply the Joe to Detroiters, is soon to be gone. With the Red Wings hockey team in a new stadium, the Joe is being deconstructed rather than torn down. As such, it's now in a state where you can see inside it from outside.

It is an odd, sad sight for a building that has brought concerts and circuses and four Stanley Cups to the city. I drove by yesterday and took a few pictures just for posterity's sake. Of course, that made me deeply sentimentally aware of what the arena meant to me and my family.

We went to hockey games there and watched on the big screen when the Wings won the Cup playing the Capitols in Washington. There were arena football games featuring the Detroit Drive and No-vo-boy-o-vic. Our family saw the circus there and even indoor lacrosse. My eldest son saw professional wrestling on several occasions, and I want to say he saw Kid Rock in concert when Mr. Rock was still only locally famous.

Seeing that hole in the Joe was sad for me. Not the closing of Detroit's Tiger Stadium sad (our sentimentality being generally stronger over our own youthful experiences) but sad just the same. It may be poor taste or bad timing to say this, but with the Joe only 40 years old well, it shows me all the more that Americans don't really take history to heart.

And so it goes. Farewell Joe. I will and do miss ya.

Walking and Reminiscing

As I took my usual morning constitutional around my Woodbridge neighborhood this morning I found myself thinking about the things which used to be here as opposed to the things which are here now. It was a nice walk.

At the corner of Forest and Trumbull there was once a store called, I believe, Hattie's. Hattie sold mostly clothes and fashion accessories, hats and the like. It was the kind of store you used to see in neighborhoods when there were true neighborhoods. Across the street was an old Cunningham's Drug Store. Detroiters remember Cunningham's, don't we? At one time it was a thriving local chain.

Next to Hattie's was the Marble Bar, which me Pops said had a reputation for being rough even back in the forties. But I remember being impressed with its facade: an art deco monster which read, surprisingly enough, 'the Marble Bar' in rising maroon letters left to right, all set on a ledge which ran above the entrance. A half block down Trumbull the other way sits a liquor store which fronts a dollar store. The whole building used to be an A&P way back when I was not even ten.

At Trumbull and Merrick was once the Trumbull Merrick market, the bread and milk store I've spoken about I'm sure. Now it's the Woodbridge Pub and has helped developed a good vibe in the neighborhood. Immediately next to it is a pizza store. I like their pizza okay, but it's really just pretentious, overpriced hipster pizza. I say that with all due respect. If you like it, cool, and it does have a good reputation. At least among the pretentious.

Just down from that was Kashat's Party Store, which is now something called Armageddon Beach Party. I gather that it's supposed to be a boutique of some sort, but for my increasingly old man tastes its wares are simply bizarre. Again, if you like that sort of thing, fine. But I rather suspect that more folks than just old men would likewise think it bizarre.

So that's it for today. I'm not particularly melancholy nor euphoric just now. I'm just thinking about the old, and new, neighborhood.

Bad sports

I didn't golf last night. To be sure, my league was on, despite the very certain rain which was coming. But I don't play golf in rain. Period.

I wasn't alone in this as my golf partner bailed too, on the same grounds. Which brings me to my point today: while I care less about sports less every day that doesn't mean I never enjoy them. It doesn't mean I don't have a philosophy about them. A very big part of that philosophy is that we shouldn't play in bad situations, situations unsuited for fair play.

I reject out of hand the argument that everyone is playing under the same conditions. I argue instead that the conditions should be good for everyone because good conditions allow us to play whatever game the best way it should be played. For example, curling on bad ice, ice where the stones run straight maybe, is not fun. You aren't curling: you're playing against the point of the game and begin thinking in wrong ways. It's called curling because you make the stone curl. If the stone ain't curling, you ain't curling.

Baseball isn't played in heavy rain because it affects the sport too much. It slogs down the runners and the ball and the defenders, and the argument that everyone has to deal with it does not address the very real way the conditions change the game. When I want to play baseball I want to play baseball, not slide around on a field of mud puddles. Football quite frankly should not be played in bad weather either, for much the same reasons.

And golf as well. I want to play as the course was made to be played and not around casual water and across soggy greens. I want to curl when the stone curls because that's the whole point of the game. If field conditions are bad, let's stay inside and play euchre. We can play whatever other sport on better days.

Things on the road again

A couple more of things hit me as I drove through northern Ohio last week.

Just south of Toledo is an exit for Ohio State Route 582. The signage for the exit reads that 582 will take you to the towns of Luckey and Haskins. When passing I found myself thinking, 'Oh, that Luckey Haskins!'

A few miles down the road I came to Arlington. You know, the village with sibling issues. Anyway, I noticed a building for sale. The sale was being handled by Farthing Real Estate. So, I wondered, might the company be owned by Hobbits?

Come on, on long drives a guy has to find ways to entertain himself.

What I wanted to say

Sometimes I really want to be a smart aleck. That's okay too, among family and friends in playful situations. But generally when working, you have to choke down that urge.
I called a customer yesterday morning to tell him that his machine had me stumped (yes, some things are beyond even old Marty). I told him I tried everything I knew to try but to no avail. I suggested he pick it up and take it to an electrician, as the motor simply would not run for me. I even suggested a place for him to take it to, someone I've known for years who is honest and does good work in a timely manner.
The customer was at the Shop within the hour. As he wheeled his unit towards the door he asked, "So what do you think I should I do?".
This is where not being a smart aleck is important. I said, as though I had said nothing exactly like it sixty minutes ago, to take it to the electric motor shop.
Yet that is not what I wanted to say.
I wanted to say, perhaps, I have no idea what to do, simply to see if he'd remind me I had recommended someone. Because he would then remember, you know, even though he just seemed himself ignorant of what I had said on the phone.
Or, it occurred to me, I might have led him through an entirely new process. I might have explained the situation in snide detail.
I might have started with: Okay, here's the deal. Try to keep up.
I sell and repair drain snakes. It's what I do to make a living.
Are you with me so far? Good.
I wanted to call and tell you that I could fix your machine for this very reasonable price in this perfect time frame, because I sell and repair snakes. I wanted to be able to repair your snake, not send you away.
Still with me?
Now, all that being said, don't you think that if I had had any solid idea what to do I would have done it? Why might I have you pick it up to take somewhere else otherwise?
Got that?
Good. Because I was afraid I might have to repeat it.

Coffee flavored with everything

As I type this out I am drinking a pecan praline flavored coffee. I can't help wondering what me Pops and me Grandpa Joe and me Grandpaw Hutchins, avid coffee drinkers all, would think of such a thing.

My family's history with coffee has always been for it brewed strong and black. Honestly that still is my favorite way to drink it, even though that method is going by the wayside it seems. When I'm in a hipstery type coffee shop and ask for a large black coffee I get that look: it either means that they don't actually know how to  make it like that anymore or I'm from an alien world.

Maybe I am. Yet I do like certain flavored coffees. This pecan praline is good; the toasted hazelnut I have in the larder is very good. I love highlander grog with its taste of Scotland. On the road to Arizona last month I tried and adored a raspberry lava cake coffee, and was delighted that my increasingly fallible memory was still able to find the gas station and restaurant where I found it first while on my way back to the D. I may never find it again. But I will look sharp for it on my next journey out west.

Now autumn approaches and I look forward to, well, not all things pumpkin spice but certainly to pumpkin spice coffee. Then too, there's a shop called Frontier Town in Romeo, Michigan which brings in a holiday blend coffee every October, in anticipation of Christmas. Yes, we celebrate Christmas far too early. But that holiday blend with its touches of cinnamon and nutmeg and I swear a vague hint of apple is worth the consternation of other holiday excesses.

My respective grandfathers I think would turn their noses at such coffee travesties. Me Pops I believe would try some flavors while sticking more firmly than me to the traditional brew. And I will readily admit they are right: strong and black and without airs is the best coffee. I typically still take it that way.

I'll figuratively sneak out behind the barn for the occasional contraband flavor just the same.

Signs of the times

I noticed yesterday morning they've put new mileage signs on Interstate 75 south of Toledo, Ohio. You know, those markers which tell us Detroit is 89 miles away and the like? Well, the first new sign I saw had the distances to Dayton and then Cincinnati. That makes sense of course, their being in Ohio. But the third city listed was Tampa, Florida. It was from there 1,103 miles further south on I-75.

That was good for a chuckle. Then the next sign listed a couple Ohio towns again...and Atlanta, Georgia. It was a scant 852 miles along the way.

Methinks someone at the Ohio Department of Transportation has a sense of humor. Or an extreme case of wishful thinking. Or just too much time on their hands, who knows?

A quick, funny, maybe not quite PC joke

Bumper stickers, eh? They really tell the world what you think.

Driving north on Interstate 75 this morning I saw a car with one of those 'bumper stickers'. It read:

Retired teacher. Every child left behind.

If you don't find that funny, you're wound too tight. I laughed for miles myself.

Anti-theft cars

I don't believe this applies anymore; it likely hasn't applied in 30 years or more, with all the changes in engine technology. But we used it back then, and it worked 100% of the time.

Before clubs, before ultra sensitive car alarms, it was hard to keep the so-called professional thief from stealing your car if he really wanted it. And while I'm sure others may well have come up with the idea, me Pops or me Grandpa Joe one had come up with it around here.

Cars at one time had distributors and coils. A wire ran from the one to the other as the distributor (as I recall) 'distributed' the spark to the cylinders of an engine to cause the small explosions necessary to make it go. But without connection to the coil (which stored power, again as I recall) there was no spark to distribute. So take off the coil wire and your car would not start. No way no how.

So we would remove the coil wire, the cord between the distributor and coil, when we were home for the night. And not one of our cars were stolen after we put that practice into place. Yet we did have a couple cars stolen which had all the fancy anti-theft devices in play.

Yeah, we knuckle dragging Cosgriffs weren't always so dumb. I bet if you have a car made before about 1985, you could still use this method today.

Service without a smile

Years ago an old buddy of mine from high school called me late one Saturday afternoon and said that he knew a bar in Wyandotte (a suburb south of Detroit) which had great steak dinners at a low price and asked if I wanted to go. Sure, I told him. He picked me up and off we went.

It wasn't exactly a dive bar to be fair. Yet it rivaled dive bars for, uh, ambiance. We arrived at around 7 PM and, to my surprise anyway, no one was there except the bartender and a couple of her girlfriends. They sat chatting at the bar as Tony and I took seats at a table. The bartender took her time about coming to take our drink orders. "The service isn't great but the steaks are," Tony advised me. At some point afterwards our drink orders were taken.

We waited for our beers. And waited. And then, really waited. It reached the point where I asked my friend, "Where is she with our drinks?" Exactly as I finished uttering the question, a beer bottle came down over my shoulder, the bartender actually slamming it on the table top right in front of me. I could almost here her bark, "Here's your stupid beer!' She didn't, but her actions implied the angry quip very strongly.

We waited. And waited some more. Finally she came round with an order pad. I told her I wanted the steak and salad. "Salad dressing?" she asked impatiently.

"French."

She turned to Tony, who likewise said steak and salad. I have no idea what distracted him, but he didn't hear or misunderstood her question when the 'keeper asked him what kind of dressing. "What?" he asked.

This young woman got right down in his face. From inches away from Tony (I tell you they were virtually nose to nose) she demanded loudly, emphasizing every syllable, "Sal-ad dress-ing!"

His hands on the table balled into fists. I honestly thought he was going to belt her in the mouth and briefly prayed he would not, gasping as I did so. Tony quickly shook it off and replied testily, "Italian."

Our steaks came - after a long interval - and they were very good. As I finished I decided I wanted another beer. I held my empty bottle up for the bartender to see, shaking it gently. Then I did it again. And. Again. "She's not gonna bring you one. She's not gonna bring you one," Tony said over and over. Yet she did, even if on her own schedule. I said thank you in a kind voice, because I won that little contest.

Tony got a second beer himself. When we were done with those drinks we paid, even leaving tips. Not great tips but decent, the 15% which was typical at the time. I stood up to leave.

I was out the door and onto the street ahead of my friend. Yet I heard him absolutely explode in laughter as he left the bar. "Do you know what she just said to me? Do you know what she just said to me?" Tony demanded.

Confused, I shook my head no. "She looked at me and with a big, wide smile said, 'Have a nice day fellas!' Like nothing was wrong!"

Well, they were good steaks. And service notwithstanding, or perhaps with standing, I do remember the place.

Q-bert

Q-bert was, is, an old video game. As I recall, the character made its way around mazes to a goal of some sort, avoiding hazards along the way. He particularly hated snakes, a fear many of us share.

A few years back two guys were in my Shop, waiting as I repaired an emergency job for their company. As I worked they talked, mostly about Q-bert this or Q-bert that. After awhile I realized they weren't talking about the game but about a person. Finally I asked, "Who's Q-bert?"

 "Sam," one guy responded, naming a fellow employee that I knew from their company.

 "Why do you call him that? I asked, confused.

"Because when he sees a snake, he runs away."

Remember I sell to plumbers who use 'snakes' to open drains. Sam heartily avoided snaking drains.

Yeah, it's a groaner. But kind of clever just the same.

Grandpa's lawn

Me Grandpaw Hutchins was a quiet man. But like most quiet men, he could make himself very well heard when he felt the need.

As an older man he couldn't do as much as he once could, a trial we all must face. Yet as with most all seniors he was not, of course, useless. He still did whatever he could for himself and by himself. And one thing he could do and took pride in was mowing his grass.

One day one of my uncles was out mowing hay on his own property. He lived near me Grandpa, and figured he might do his father-in-law a solid and mow his lawn after he finished his own chore. So when the hay was all done, he drove his tractor the short piece down the road to Grandpa's house, lowered the large mower behind the tractor to yard height, and commenced to cutting the grass.

Grandpaw Hutchins heard him soon enough, and went onto his front porch to see what was up. When he spied me Uncle mowing his lawn, he did nothing. Nothing, that is, except stare at my uncle the whole time he was working. Me uncle quickly caught sight of Grandpa himself. He explained to me that Grandpa simply stared at him the whole time, at every pass of the lawn he made. Uncle soon realized he had made a mistake in taking on Grandpa's chore.

"His stare told me all I needed to know," Uncle said later. "I'll never do that again."

Me Grandpaw Hutchins had gotten his point across emphatically, without saying a word.

He actually said that?

My brother Phil's got my back. He keeps the best interests of me and my business at heart.

I'll try to make this story as succinct as I can. We picked up a sewer machine from a new customer and installed a cable. Phil was to meet this guy at his car wash at 2 yesterday afternoon to return it and get paid cash; the customer picked that time himself. When Phil arrived, he wasn't there, so my dutiful sibling called the fella. "I can't be there for at least 40 minutes," the man explained, without apology.

"Then we'll have to reschedule," Phil said. He knew he had to get back to the Shop to help me finish a large order promised for first thing this morning.

"All right," the guy responded. Then he asked, "Are you going to leave the machine?"

Phil answered simply, "No." He is a man of few words.

When Phil was back at the Shop, he unloaded the machine and told me what happened. Cool, I thought, you did the right thing. We went about putting that order together.

A couple of minutes later I stopped to ask my brother, "Wait a minute. He asked if you were going to leave the machine?"

"Yep."

"He actually asked that?"

"Yep."

"The words which came out of his mouth were: are you going to leave the machine?"

"Yep."

I laughed out loud. I mean, what the hell? This guy we don't know from Adam, whom we were giving free pickup and delivery to, whom we did not charge an installation fee even though his old cable was very difficult to remove, simply expected us to leave him the repaired unit at his place without payment?

I have since been in turn astounded, angry, and amused by the chutzpah of the dude. It's confusing to me that he'd expect that, then I get mad that he would, and then I find the whole episode hilarious.

Are you going to leave the machine? I still laugh at that, all the time I'm writing this. I mean, what the hell?

Joe's righteous anger

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Joe was winding down Cloyce made the mistake of remarking, "You don't have to be so loud, Joe."

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

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

Two things about a Marty car

This morning, I saw my son off as he drove my old Chevy Venture to his home in Ohio. As he and my daughter-in-law were wanting a vehicle and as I had bought a new old car in June, I did the Dad thing and simply gave them the old van. For their use, doing nothing more than tooling around town where they live, it really should be good for awhile yet.

But it got me to thinking, specifically about the age of the old van but also in general. It was made in 2000: as I remarked to my son before he left, that meant it rolled off the assembly line when he was still in high  school. Now that's putting perspective on things.

Further, I think that it may well be the first time in my life that I passed on a car for continued use rather than selling it for scrap value. As a rule I run my cars into the ground, replacing them only because abject necessity demanded it. I feel okay about the deal though. I took reasonably good care of it. The old Venture truly ought to be all right indefinitely, especially with the relatively limited miles of only driving it in the local environs.

So I've set a new standard for Marty cars. Let's see how long that lasts; probably only until I get rid of my new old van, if I were to, ahem, venture a guess.

Thinking about Little League

There's been a lot of Little League baseball on ESPN lately. I enjoy watching it; seeing kids live out dreams is pretty cool.

Regional championships had been going on since Wednesday. The Little League World Series finals begin this Thursday, August 15, in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, the home of Little League. In many ways August has become my favorite baseball month simply because of League play. One day I think I'd like to spend the week of the Finals in Williamsport, just for the atmosphere. I might actually like that more than seeing March Grapefruit or Cactus League games at the big league level.

About the only tough thing about it is that I always feel bad for the kids who lose. There's no point playing the game if you aren't trying to win, yes, and there are lessons of grace and sportsmanship in losing. Still, they're kids. If you don't feel a bit bad you're kinda cold, I think.

At the end of the day it's just a game though. That may be the most important lesson they could learn. At the risk of appearing hypocritical I do wonder if playing such games to a national television audience is actually counterproductive: we make sports too important to kids still too young and impressionable to fully appreciate the big picture. That won't stop me from watching a lot of their games. I simply hope that in the long run it's a good, positive experience for all involved.

Driveway pay

Years ago me Pops helped a friend of his put in a driveway. This buddy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, was an all right, stand up guy. He was actually a little put out when the old man absolutely refused to take any money for his help.

On a Sunday afternoon a few weeks later Cloyce and his wife (I'll call her Mrs. Cloyce just to give her a name) arrived at Dad's front door. "We're going to a country music show on the east side. Wanna go?" Cloyce asked Pops.

Me Pops loved country music. "Sure," he answered. He went to step through the door: Cloyce stepped to block his way. Pops stepped the other way; so did Cloyce. "What are you doing? Let's go," Dad asked, confused.

Cloyce answered definitively, "We ain't going nowhere til you leave your wallet behind, cause you ain't payin' for nuthin' today."

Dad smiled and left his billfold. He knew Cloyce was trying to pay him for his help, and why offend a guy's gratuity?

Be like Joe, sometimes

Me Grandpa Joe would lose his temper at the drop of a hat. Lord love him, it was often uncalled for and childish, something I believe even he would admit now. But let me tell you, some days I actually respect his loss of temper and want to emulate it. Yesterday was one of those days.

A customer brought in an Eel and said it needed a reverse switch. To save me time, he said (I don't doubt for a minute he tried to fix himself but couldn't in fact) he had bought a switch to me. I asked him to leave the machine as I had many repairs in front of him, but promised I would get to it promptly.

Now, I don't care what you're told, unless it's obvious you never take a customer's word on a repair. If a man tells me his machine doesn't run, the first thing I do is plug it in and hit the power button. With the aforementioned job, the first thing I did was put my jumper wires on at the reverse switch. The machine ran both ways; he had a problem in his wiring.

I called to tell him that, and to give him an estimate on rewiring the thing. His incredulous tone told me he wasn't sure he believed me. "But I'm sure it's the switch," he responded from his end of the phone.

That put me out a little bit but I kept my tongue. "Sir, I bypassed the switch. You've got a break somewhere in the wiring," I said. Again.

"But I tested it myself. It has got to be the reverse switch, man."

Those words set me off, truth be told. Yet I held myself in check, took a deep breath, and said, "My friend, you can come down to my shop right now, I will do nothing else to your machine, and I will show you. Your switch is fine. You need new cords."

That's what actually did happen. What I wanted to happen was to fly off the handle and yell at the top of my voice, "No! It does not got to be the reverse switch man! It does got to be the cords! I tested it, I know what I'm doing! If it was the reverse why didn't you have it fixed already instead of bringing it to me? If you knew what the hell you were doing, you wouldn't have brought it to me!" And so on and so forth.

He agreed to the price and I rewired the machine, even allowing him the $15 cost of the switch he brought me. I could keep it in my stock and would use it eventually. Yet when he picked it up he was still mystified that it wasn't the reverse switch. And I still held my temper. Barely.

At the end of the day it was the best thing to do.

Cloyce's contraption

Me Pops could fix a lot of things on drain snakes. Yet there were a few things beyond him; at least one of those you might forgive him his inability to repair.

One day this guy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, brought in a machine, if you could call it that. The man had cobbled it together apparently with whatever he could find which was even vaguely useful. The motor was from a dryer, the drum looked like a trash can reinforced somehow with long steel rods, and the belt a mere rope tied to fit. It was all bolted upon the frame of an old grocery cart. It looked, uh, ah, er, well, saying it reminded you of a Rube Goldberg is unfair to Goldberg's admitted cleverness. But it worked somehow, at least for awhile.

One day the frame broke. No, it more than broke, it fairly shattered under the weight and the pressure of a spinning 'drum' with a heavy cable. Cloyce brought it in to the Shop for repair. "You'll have to leave it until tomorrow, Cloyce," me Pops explained.

Cloyce wanted it while he waited. "Why can't you do it now?" he demanded.

"I gotta wait until Kroger's closes tonight so I can go steal a shopping cart!" the old man barked back. Then he just told Cloyce to just get the thing outta there.

So maybe it wasn't that he couldn't fix it but simply didn't want the bother.

Mom and Pops and the gambling houses

Me Mom used to like to pull the lever of the old one armed bandits with some regularity. Me Pops would take her to the various casinos, playing a few rounds of video poker typically, but he tended to tire of the games more quickly than she did. He would wait for her patiently after he was played out.

She liked to try new places. Once while me Pops was on a sales trip and she rode along, they stopped for a bite in Chester, West Virginia, up in that state's thin panhandle. Noticing they weren't from the area the waitress asked conversationally, "So are you folks going to try the new casino up the road?"

"We are now," me Pops responded with a wry laugh.

Me Mom, Lord love her, always expected that this trip was the one where she was going to hit it big. Wherever they were at, she firmly believed that it was her time, right then, to win the big jackpot. It was kind of sad to see her afterwards, when she invariably lost and was honestly and obviously dismayed she wasn't leaving the betting parlor as a millionaire.

Pops was always more retrospect. "The winners didn't build the casinos," he'd say.

True enough. Still, I would have loved to see Mom win big once. And for more than my own nefarious reasons too, wise guy.

The oatmeal raisin journey

You either laugh with it or cry over it. I suppose it is better to laugh, and I assure I mean no mockery towards my mother and her condition as I tell tales such as this.

She's taken quite a liking lately to these particularly large oatmeal raisin cookies which are kind of hard to find. Naturally enough then, when any of us siblings find them we buy her one (or more if they're available). Especially as her doctor's orders are to encourage her to eat just about anything unless in absurd quantities, we keep things like those cookies at the fronts of our minds.

So when I had Mom with me yesterday running errands and stopped for gas, I was delighted to see exactly one of those gems in a basket by the cash register. It was the only one (of course) but still, you take what you can get.

Hopping back in the car I said, "Look what I found!" as I handed her the cookie.

"Is that for me?" she asked, childlike and with a wide smile.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, tickled myself.

She said she would have it later, after lunch. She's still a Mom and saw no reason to spoil a meal. She set it on the console between our seats.

A little while later we ate. A little while after that she looked down and saw the cookie. "Is this mine?" she asked, wide eyed and hopefully.

"Yep, Have at it," I encouraged her. But she decided to wait a bit.

We were gone about five hours, and several times we had similar exchanges. Each time she put off eating it. Whatever; I didn't care that much. It was hers after all. She could have it when she wanted.

Eventually I had her back at her house. She dutifully picked up her oatmeal raisin treat, and I helped her up her front steps and inside.

Once in the kitchen she went to my brother Pat and thrust the cookie into his hands. "Here. I brought you something," she explained. He happily took it (I don't begrudge Patrick that BTW).

I just sighed and half-smiled. What are you gonna do?

I'll buy her one of those oatmeal raisin cookies the next time I see one just the same.

English hillbillies

Now, me Irish heritage Pops, he married a hillbilly. A proud hillbilly. So being immensely proud of her meself, I'm a half proud hillbilly, me maw being from the western hills of North Carolina. And I do indeed wear that half badge fully proudly.
Now also me Pops grew up in the mixed village of nearly downtown Detroit. So mixed in fact that even a few pure Englishmen still survived there back in the day, when me Pops were young. One of them whom me Pops knew well was Mr. Britton. That be no joke, pun, nor misdemeanor. His name be Mr. Britton. Mr. Britton was a true, fine son of Olde England. And, having committed himself to the northern United States, he (to his shame) hated American hillbillies.
They was the scourge of the earth, them rapscallions of the Appalachian Mountains of the eastern U-nited States. He spewed venom at them always, everyways, and many ways in between.
Well, it happened that a long, tall, thin son of England, every bit of six foot one as it be, one appropriately monikered Slim, an emigrant himself of England as Pops recalled, delivered product to me Grandpa Joe's shop. And one fine morning, he came by with a truckload of fine product. And one morning, me Pops happened to see Mr. Britton opening his garage that he might take his fine Chevy out on a morning trek.
"Mr. Britton,' me Pops called, "I have here a son of your land."
The two exchanged greetings, after which old Slim asked, "So where are ye from?"
"Birmingh'm", answered Mr. Britton proudly, forgettin' the vowel.
"Ah, bloody hillbilly are ya?" responded Slim immediately. Apparently English folk from Birmingh'm were, in English parlance, hillbillies.
As Pops told it, Mr. Britton yanked his cigar from his mouth, tossed it angrily on the ground, stomped its flame out, and, falling into his Chevy, sped away. But Slim, he merely opined, "Ah well".

The tortoise and the hare, sort of

Pop Turner lived near the Shop while his brother in law, who we called Tall Glass, lived nearby as well. Pop's real name was Frank; I don't recall what Tall Glass was actually named. Okay, some people called him Goldie because his last name was Goldsmith. We called him Tall Glass because me Grandpa Joe stuck that moniker on him. He drank from a long, tall glass, Joe always said with a smile.

Pop and Tall Glass were both nearly sixty when I knew then. They got along well, but as with many families sometimes a little animosity would break out. Usually this was just a shouting match, and usually when they'd both been drinking. Yet it was rarely more than that.

One such rare day occurred while me Pops (not to be confused here with Pop Turner of course) and I were the only two in the Shop and were having a coffee. As it was a warm summer day we had the big truck doors open, sitting by them to catch a breeze. After a minute or two we heard the ruckus. Pop and Tall Glass were at it; the gist was that Pop wanted chicken but he wanted his brother in law to go get it. Tall Glass resolutely would not.

Soon Tall Glass appeared, staggering down the alley in drunk fashion. He was yelling, "Come on man, no. Stop it," as he stumbled along in slow motion. Next Pop appeared, likewise speed and balance challenged. He was yelling at Tall Glass to go to the store for him, and was in slo-mo function as well. Only Pop was brandishing a shovel, holding it uncertainly above his head like a bat, ready to beat Tall Glass into doing his will.

If he caught him. The guys made their way down the alley, probably the slowest, most serpentine chase scene on record anywhere. Dad and I just looked at each other and shook our heads. Eventually Tall Glass fell, allowing Pop to get within maybe 15 feet of him. He begged his brother in law for mercy.

Dad sighed, "I better go do something before one of them gets hurt." He went out and took the shovel from Pop, who in fact surrendered it rather meekly at me Pops' command. Dad explained firmly, in almost his Dad voice, that wanting chicken wasn't reason enough to bust a family member's head open. Then he helped Tall Glass off the cement, and escorted the two to their respective homes, making them promise to behave.

Ah, memories.

Shave like Marty does

I saw it on a shelf in a closet as we went through the house we had just bought. It was a boar's hair shaving brush with a orange brown handle and hair which had a black stripe near the tips. At that very moment I knew we'd be good friends. But I closed the door and left it to sit that day.

A few years later I was in a drug store and stumbled upon some cakes of shaving soap. I remembered that mug brush, bought two of those soaps, and came home. My wife gave me a coffee cup with a broken handle, of which the cakes fit into perfectly. From that day on I was fully old school. I have shaved with a mug and brush since.

I think I get a closer shave that way. My face feels better too. Wally, my old barber, said it was because of the oils in the shaving soap. I believe him; that's how he shaved customers. I'm at the point now that shaving with cream makes me feel like I just had a pie smacked onto my face. That might not be so bad if I were Soupy Sales, but I'm not. Even when I travel I just use soap for shaving.

We had a great relationship, that brush and I. Then the hairs popped out of the handle one day awhile back. I was beside myself wondering what to do. I didn't want to buy another brush: we had become too close, me and the old one. But fortunately the hairs came our in one big clump (I suppose I should have expected that they'd all be glued together) and my wife had some waterproof glue which she used to re-attach the bristles to the handle.

Now all is well. I still have my old friend, and I still have the best kind of close shaves.

Pretend you're right here!

Me Grandpa Joe had a way about throwing himself into his work. Sometimes he literally threw himself into it. Or among it, between it; I'm not exactly sure how to describe what I'm about to describe.

I remember a day when I was just 16 and he decided I needed to learn how to back up a trailer. That was fair enough so far as it went. As I worked with him delivering welding equipment and we often delivered smaller machines with a two-wheeled trailer, it was a good idea. Yet his teaching methods left a few things to be desired.

Quiet and tact come immediately to mind. I love that old man and I miss him every day, but he truly subscribed to the concept that the louder he was the better you'd remember and the quicker you'd learn. Higher decibels equaled greater understanding.

The loudness of his screaming instructions did not seem to help me initially. Neither did his insistence on visual examples: I cannot tell you how many times he would jump right in between car and trailer as I vainly tried backing the trailer into place, each time yelling, "Pretend you're right here! Right here!" But you're right there Joe! Right where you're telling me to be!

As I recall, me Pops returned from wherever he was at that point and calmly took over. I soon mastered it, and I do mean mastered it. I could back up that old trailer perfectly into a space with four inches of clearance to each side. And I do wonder if maybe, just maybe, Joe's intensity actually helped.

I do know me Pops calm certainly didn't hurt.