Halloween Night

Tonight is Halloween, a day that I've come to look forward to more and more as time goes by. I think maybe it's the atmosphere: we simply don't have many days when there is a true neighborhood wide party feeling. My area, Woodbridge, and many neighborhoods I fancy, come to life in a manner which simply doesn't happen often.

Oh, they'll be the occasional annoyance, mild pushing and shoving, even an adult or two who want free candy. That last one used to burn at me, but not so much anymore. You can't let the twerps ruin your mood. And hell, it's just cheap candy.

I don't like that trunk or treats are on the rise, and I despise anyone who suggests we move Halloween to the last Saturday of October. I mean, I understand the arguments for these things. I simply disagree with them. Deeply and fanatically, to the core of my being. Can we leave some traditions alone, pleeeeeease?

My family will take turns passing out goodies and walking around the hood. I'll wander a bit through my mother's yard, where my brother Patrick goes to town with the outdoor decor, and just be happy to be around it. Then when we're done we'll go inside and order the Charlie Brown Halloween special to cap off the night.

Happy Halloween all!

Could the vegans be onto something?

I got a mini-lecture from my doctor after my checkup Monday. My blood pressure was up after having been good for about three years now, but I have not watched my diet at all in the last six months. Not even in passing, although I did gain a mere two pounds in the last half year. On top of that, my coffee drinking has spiked up to (honestly) five or so cups a day where he wants me to stop at two. Caffeine apparently contributes to high blood pressure if only in the short term, dash it all. That one really strikes at my Cosgriff psyche, let me tell you. My Hutchins side too gets its dander up at the thought of limiting my coffee intake. Both sides of my family tree are/were heavy imbibers of the bean.

But, of course, the medicos these days try not to dish out pills willy nilly. So I got my talk about eating better and putting the pedal to the coffee brake (yes, I meant that; I'm so punny). Lose weight, watch the carbs, easy on the salt, slow down on the coffee, cut down on red meat and processed foods, blah, blah, freakin' blah. One meal a day should be salad or vegetables only, Marty. Yet to be fair, when I paid at least some attention to my diet and ate somewhat better my BP did go down, from 158/94 to 107/74 my last checkup before this one. It was 146/86 Monday if you care to know.

Anyway, as I morosely walked along the fruit and vegetable aisles at the local supermarket looking for, ahem, good things to eat, I spied a package of broccoli and cauliflower and carrots which you could steam in the bag. All right, methinks, me gotta try something. I bought a bag, and I microwave steamed it when I got home. And It. Was. Good. Very good, in fact. Without butter, mind you!

So maybe the vegans are onto something. If I can find more easy fixes like that (I did also buy some dry salad that I will, I swear, make myself eat for lunch the next two days) I might actually get into the vegan thing.

Not that I expect to actually do that full bore, mind you. I cannot imagine taking that big of a step. It goes against my quite admittedly carnivorous tastes. Still, I never imagined even considering the question a scant few hours ago.

Big Jim and the heavy cables

Me Pops had a lot of great stories about his time in the welder rental and drain snake business. I hope to one day tell them all. One that just popped back into the front of my mind today involved the biggest man Dad ever dealt with. He was a good guy just the same, genuinely helpful and gregarious, and he was big. And strong. I'll leave exactly how big and strong to your imagination. But think bigger than you think big is.

To give an example of his size and strength, there was a job where me Pops was delivering welders along with the heavy cables necessary to weld with. These cables weighed a touch over a pound a foot. That particular day Dad had several 200 ft. lengths to deliver.

Guys were coming up to the back of Dad's truck and doubling up, two to a cable, to carry them over to the tool crib. Big Jim walked up and offered Pops a shoulder. "Put one there, Bill," he instructed.

"They're two hundred footers, Jim."

"Put one there," he replied simply, rotating his shoulder. So Dad did, setting it on his shoulder as gently as he could. Then Jim turned about and said, "Give me another," indicating his empty shoulder.

"They're all two hundreds," Dad reminded him. Jim replied, "Give me another."

So me Pops set another cable on that shoulder. Big Jim walked away with more than 400 pounds of welding cable on his shoulders as though taking a stroll in the park.

That's strong.

Cloyce-blocking technology

Part of me feels bad for doing it. But it's kind of in self defense really.

I have a certain customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who is honestly a nice guy. He never argues price; indeed he always thanks us for our good service and gives us a decent amount of business. Yet he has one flaw: he's a worrywart. When he leaves a piece of equipment with me he calls constantly, in the range of every couple of hours, checking on its status until the job is done. If he drops off something Monday morning and I tell him it'll be ready Wednesday, he begins calling Monday afternoon.

I've asked him to not do that. He's always been very apologetic when I have, assuring me that he trusts me and likes my work and knows I'll call the minute I have him good to go. And then he promptly calls two hours later.

This is where I feel a bit bad. Thanks to the miracle of modern technology, whenever he leaves something for repair I pull out my cell phone, go to my contacts list, scroll down to Cloyce's number, and block it. When his job is ready I reverse course, unblock it, and call him.

I suppose I should not do that. But a fella gets tired of running to his phone or struggling to get it out of his pocket only to see Cloyce's name there when it rings. It interrupts the flow of work and simply irks me.

No doubt there are worse problems in the world. But still...

Using a cheater

You're about to learn something about drain snake repair, but I'm sure it's a lesson which can be equitably applied to any and all repairs, whether at work or in the household.

The SC-10-A drive shaft on an Electric Eel Model C is held in place with (2) 5/16 allen screws. Most of the time they come loose fairly easily. Yet as all things made by human hands, things don't always go according to plan. In the case of these screws, they sometimes seize. They insolently will not come out. When that happens you either heat them with a torch in an attempt to coax them out, or do what I do. Put a length of pipe over the top of the allen wrench, a 'cheater' as me Pops taught me, to give you greater leverage turning the wrench.

Now, I know there is a school of thought that you should never ever, ever use a cheater bar. Well, me Grandpa Joe and me Pops both believed in them, so I believe in them. So there.

Anyways, you turn the wrench with the cheater, increasing pressure as you go, and one of three things will happen. You will either (A) break the allen wrench, (B) strip the allen head on the screw, or (C) you will hear a tiny but sharp little 'ting' exactly as the wrench turns suddenly. That ting is either good or bad. But usually its good. Usually it means that screw has broken loose and you are seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Your job will soon be over.

The good bad ting. Listen for it when you do your own repairs. And don't be afraid to use a cheater.

The Scotch ad

Although I do not consider myself overly influenced by ads, there was one for Dewar's Scotch from the Seventies I remember very well. It pictured a Scotsman in full kilt and asked the question, 'Do I look like I'm influenced by passing fads?'

I like that. It's not only a clever ad but it makes a fair overall point: don't be too taken in by passing fancies. By and large there's nothing wrong with them of course. But the traditional has its place, a staying power which makes it, well, tradition.

While there are for example flavored coffees which I do like and look forward to (and I certainly like to try new ones), by and large just give me straight black coffee, preferably Chase and Sanborn. Pizzas have myriad toppings anymore but as a rule I'm quite happy with pepperoni and cheese. Even where there's been genuine, significant improvement I wonder if it's all that big a deal. Cars and televisions are much better now than 40 years ago. But at the end of the day they're only cars and televisions. A good book is better than nearly anything on TV these days anyway.

So go ahead and try new things if you want. Just keep in mind that new doesn't always mean better, and that you can't beat the classics.

Angry about a meme

I'm not one to get angry easily. Well, all right, I am, if I'm not careful. So I try to be careful and control my temper. But sometimes I really want to just let it loose.

One such time involves a meme which I've seen a lot of lately. It pictures a woman with items in a shopping cart next to a man who is obviously a store employee. He is telling her, "The self checkout is available. She replies, "No thanks, I don't work here." The point, of course, being that we should not use self checkout lanes.

What I want to know is, how did those items get in her cart? They did because she was walking around the store choosing them. In short, she worked. At the store.

Unless you're willing to go to Sam Drucker's in Hooterville and tell a grocer what you want and have them collect all the items you ask for (then bag and total them up), don't get all high and mighty about not using self checkouts. They're just another option for folks to use.

Go stand in line if you want to; I don't care. But don't be so high and mighty about self checkout just to assuage your conscience. Because when you self shop, you're working at the store anyway.

Hypocritical nimrod.

The art of the sale

Joe Cosgriff is not for sale. Or he doesn't sell things. Or something like that.

When my kids were young we traipsed down the street and visited Grandma Cosgriff and Grandpa Joe quite often, usually once a week. Grandma would often begin such visits with a small list of things available to us: cookies, coffee, candy and the like. Grandpa Joe would quickly stop her with an abrupt, "Don't sell them on it! They know they can have what they want and all they want." Grandma would purse her lips in mild anger, and that would be that. We'd get cups of coffee or cookies and go on about a conversation.

But interestingly, if by some chance Grandma was not nearby, Grandpa Joe would launch into a litany: there's coffee on the stove, and cookies in the jar, and cake on the table (plates on the shelf, forks in the drawer) and so on. Then he would realize what he was doing and add, "But I'm NOT selling you on it. I'm only telling you where everything's at."

It was merely a variation on a theme. But it may have been my first experience with what the politicians would call 'spin'. Grandpa Joe could certainly put his spin on things.

Last night's Lions game

I've said that I don't follow sports as closely as I used to, and I don't. But I do still pay some attention. Yet last night's Lions-Packers game has reaffirmed my decision to pay less attention, particularly, quite frankly, to football.

It's for more reasons than the sheer brutality of the game (and it is too brutal; there are far too many lifelong, debilitating injuries suffered as a result of it). Football officiating, I believe in both the NFL and the college ranks, is simply too much of an influence on the outcome of the games.

I think it's because the rules are too loose. Football officials have far too much leeway in interpreting them, and this leads to far too much individual opinion on what is and is not called. Yes, I know this happens elsewhere: too many baseball umpires have their own strike zones. Yet the strike zone itself is quite clearly defined, and simply needs to be called more exactly across the board. In football, I've been told by a former official that's there's holding on virtually every down. As such, they should only call the egregious examples or ones which directly affect the outcome of a particular play. It leaves too much to interpretation, especially when the action is fast and furious.

I am not one of those who argue that referees and such should not call penalties. I do not accept the argument that they should 'let the players play'. If you're going to have meaningful games you have to have rules. If you have rules they have to be enforced. It's only fair: it's only right. Yet the rules and the people calling them must themselves be fair, must themselves have integrity. Without that I wouldn't want to play. If sports were only about chance, you may as well play roulette or poker rather than a more physical game of any type.

As such, I'm happy that my bedtime now precludes staying up late to watch debacles such as last night's Lions-Packers contest. I'm a happier, healthier man for it, and no thanks to the officials.

The Clubhouse

Well, they've gone and done it. The current owners of the property have torn the Clubhouse down. Undoubtedly that's because they did not know its history.

Me Grandpa Joe had dubbed it 'The Clubhouse' because that's where the neighborhood drunks (and I call them that affectionately I assure you; I thought well of each one of them) hung out in it. It was an old brick garage behind the house Joe then owned, and he didn't care if they used it as a hangout. Pop Turner, Tall Glass (he drank from a long tall glass, Joe would say), L.B., Chuck the mechanic (he was a crackin' good  mechanic when sober), Grandpa (not Joe, but another guy everyone called Grandpa, Heaven knows why anymore), a guy named Watson and a few others. They just sat within its confines on old makeshift benches and passed out whiskey to each other in plastic cups, talking in low mumbles once the juice had been flowing a while.

But then a craps game might break out. Then the whole neighborhood heard the ruckus. Yells and screams and ooos and aaahhs; sure, they shouldn't have been wasting their money like that, but they weren't hurtin' nobody and only vaguely disturbing the peace. They never fought over a result either. They just shot craps and drank.

I did see them pretty down one day though. They had invited Mr. Moss to play with them. Mr. Moss was a dignified old gent who lived on the block. He had a small electric company and generally kept to himself. But for whatever reason, maybe he was bored or had no work, he joined the boys in the Clubhouse that one afternoon. They wanted him to play because he had money. Simple as that.

He proceeded to clean them out. What they hoped would be an easy road to a large payout for somebody became a payout for Mr. Moss. He dominated the game so completely that everyone else was out of money in about 45 minutes. I never seen such a dejected group in my life. Easy Street had become Hard Luck Highway.

I think Mr. Moss felt a bit sorry for them, because he left quickly to return with a couple bottles for the boys. He didn't drink himself but I imagine he felt obliged. And the guys themselves were thankful for a small victory.

I don't believe Mr. Moss was ever again invited to shoot craps with them, though.

Disconcerting discounting

Why? Why do new guys, guys I've never seen before, think they can work me down on price?

Can you do that at Meijer? Can you do it at Home Depot or Kroger, or your neighborhood hardware store? Would you expect that, when told your tab was $220 at any of those places, they'd just round it down to $200 for you? You wouldn't even ask, would you?

Then why do you feel like you can ask me?

Yes, I'm in sales. Yes, I've admitted here that I don't mind a bit of negotiation, if there's volume. But for anybody to believe that a $220 dollar sale calls for me just giving you 11% or thereabouts off, what planet are you from?

Okay, I have a chip on my shoulder right this minute. Can you imagine why?

Raising down

While listening to the radio this morning I heard a song, one of many which employ the same sentiment, where the singer laments someone he 'used to know'. But doesn't that mean he stills knows her? I mean, who's he talking about if he doesn't still know who they are?

It's a little like when I was explaining to a small group of family about a new (to me, anyway) way to fill a cup of beer. There was a cap at the bottom of the cup, and the bartender held the cup over a post, pushing up the cap and filling the cup from the bottom. My aunt looked at me, confused, and asked, "But don't all cups fill from the bottom?" I guess they actually do, right?

I'm not one of those who argue that language is vague and confusing. I think the poor use of language and/or honest error either on the part of the speaker or the listener can make it appear confused. Still, the little incongruities can be fun to notice.

Sort of like, when we were loading trucks back in the days working with my grandfather, Grandpa Joe would bark, "Raise 'er down!" when ready to place a load on the truck bed.

I hate my brother

I hate my brother Phil. Okay, maybe I don't hate him. But he can be annoying.

Phil loves ketchup and he hates waste. As to ketchup, I use it sparingly when I use it at all. And I get it about waste: we shouldn't. But now it seems he's become my conscience about both waste and ketchup.

My mother I were out yesterday and we stopped for lunch at McDonald's. We had to use the self serve kiosk to order and our food was brought out to where we sat. When we were served, there was along with our burgers and fries two small opened and uncovered cups of ketchup, maybe a couple ounces worth max.

I wasn't going to use it. But if I didn't use it it would go to waste. McDonald's I knew couldn't take it back or would simply throw it away. We could have asked for covers and the ketchup would get put in my van, where it would very likely get lost somehow. I would not use it the several months later when I would surely find it, probably gushed all over a seat after something having been heaved upon it. That would be the same as waste and doubly irritating. So I did something I rarely do: I dipped my fries in it to use.

I wasn't using enough, so I ended up dipping my hamburger in it. Just to use it. Just to not waste. Mom wanted none of it, and there was no way I could make her use any even if I should have tried.

I used virtually all of that ketchup. Phil will be happy about that. I on the other hand hate him.

Car warning lights

I fully admit that I tend to ignore the idiot lights on my dashboard. Check engine? Why? It's running fine but a mechanic will surely find something wrong which be a harbinger of an impending nuclear explosion in your engine if you don't get it fixed now! Oil pressure light on? Check the oil; if it's okay  and again, the car is running fine, ignore the warning. The dashboard warnings are there at best as clues to the vague chance that something is wrong, not omens of dire consequences.

Yet I must concede that I was, well, not exactly taken aback this morning as intrigued. My eyes saw the warning, and I'm sure my head went to side to side as a dog's might when contemplating an unknown. Where my odometer, mileage reading, should have been was instead the word gascap.

My first thought was that I have one of those, yes. It fits over the end of the gas tank tube. But still, when I got to the Shop I checked it. It was secured tightly.

The warning came back on when I restarted the car awhile later. Hell, I thought. Another thing I gotta learn to ignore. About the worst thing is I won't know when to get my oil changed now.

Joshua and Greta

Joshua Chamberlain was a somewhat unheralded Civil War hero. In command of the 20th Maine at Little Round Top, the hill at the southern end of the Union line on the second day of battle at Gettysburg, he was told that he must hold his ground at all costs.

Then he ran out of ammunition right as the Confederates were mounting an attack.

He ordered his men to fix bayonets: it was all he had. The thought of  a downhill bayonet charge was unheard of at that point in the hostilities, if not in all of military tactics. Yet it shocked and surprised the Rebels so completely that the assault failed. The Union line held, saving Gettysburg and arguably the entire War for the Federals.

We might look no farther than his upbringing to see why a man would do such a thing. At age 16 while working sunup til sundown on the family farm, an oxcart loaded with about 400 pounds of hay got stuck between trees. "Get it unstuck!" his father commanded him.

"How?" the incredulous teenager demanded.

"Do it, that's how!" his father barked back. The young man put his shoulder into first one wheel then the other, the spent oxen little help. Back and forth he went until, by the power of his own will, the cart was freed.

Contrast this with sixteen year old Greta. She's from Sweden. Raised without any real cares, especially the care of subsistence farming or actually saving a country let alone an entire world, egged on by adults with a political agenda rather than the personal one of raising a child, her every need attended to, brought across an ocean in relative luxury upon a boat, all to yell at adults that they'd ruined her life. Imagine; how many teenagers would have done that without prompting, let alone without guidance and encouragement. Many of us have dealt with it I'm sure. But Greta, well, she's going to save the world. She's been told so.

I don't know about you, but if had to put my hopes for the future in a young Joshua or young Greta, well, my faith is with Josh.