Defending the Shop

For protection, me Grandpa Joe kept a shotgun just inside the office door of the Shop. It never was used in self defense, though it almost was once.

A friend of me Pops, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, had stopped by the old barn for a visit. While he was there a group of rather unsavory looking fellows came down the alley which ran alongside the building. They looked dangerous, as if they might have had ill intent. Cloyce went into the office and grabbed the shotgun, reaching inside a desk drawer for the shells he knew were there. He didn't confront the thugs. He simply had the gun and shells at the ready. Pops just kept working.

When the group had cleared the area Cloyce said, "Red (at one time people called me Pops Red because of his hair then), you only got three shotgun shells."

"Yeah?" Dad asked in reply.

"There were four guys."

Pops put a hand on Cloyce's shoulder. "My friend, if you drop the first three and the fourth one keeps coming, give him the keys to the place."

There's something to be said for that.

Black Friday 2019

No, I'm not going to write about shopping excess or the irony of people wanting more after a day of supposing to be thankful for what they already have. I mean, it's been done by others. And by me. A lot. Or at least enough. In fact I have three other ideas for today, so I'll throw them all at the wall and see what sticks.

I appreciate my son carving the turkey yesterday. I always detested that job. It's nasty, indeed just plain yucky, and is one of two things which could make me vegan if I had to do it regularly. The other is a trip to rendering plant, which I spoke about here:

https://thesublimetotheridiculous.blogspot.com/2018/10/render-under-somebody-else.html

So thanks Chuck!

Today we put up the Christmas tree and other holiday decor. It's good to have same said son and his family here to help, because it's just more fun with the kids (even if they are all in their thirties). We've long hit the remember-this-ornament-remember-that-one stage. It's more fun with more folks involved.

Number three, number three, paging idea number three...oh yeah. It was to be a remembrance of me Grandpa Joe's old friend Amos and his overabundance of Thanksgiving good luck at a Church festival years ago. But it turns I wrote about that last year. You can read about it here:

https://thesublimetotheridiculous.blogspot.com/2018/11/amoss-turkey-day.html

And now you have it: the three ideas I had to blog about today. It's kinda the written equivalent of a clip show I suppose. But people like clip shows, don't they? I know lazy writers do...

My dream car

We all daydream don't we? Dream home, dream vacation, dream trip; we all think those things eh? For some it's a dream car. My dream car is a 1967 Cadillac. A lilac one.

Me Grandpa Joe had one like that. The last car with tail fins, modest though they were. I have no idea where he got that Caddy, but I know he had it painted lilac because there was a sale at the car paint place.

I remember well the day we discovered Joe had it. We got back home from visiting Mom's folks in North Carolina and me Pops pulled up to park right behind that Caddy as we got home. "I wonder who's purple Cadillac that is?" He wondered aloud.

 He should have known.

That car became my delivery car. Joe being Joe, he had a hitch put on that thing for delivering Hobart welders. He put it in the fleet. And  ol' Marty got to deliver them welders with it. Proudly, if in retrospect.

That was the car I drove through four feet of water in Milan. I'd link you to that blog but I'm feeling lazy just now.

A friend of Joe's joked that he once saw a line of welders a mile long bein'  pulled by a big purple Caddy. It was that Caddy.

And that's my dream car. A lilac '67 Caddy with modest tail fins. And maybe an old Hobart welder to tow behind it.

Meandering Saturday

Last night I was channel surfing. It caused me to rethink a few things.

I watched two episodes of The Flintstones. That's a small survey sample admittedly, but it wasn't so cheesy as I expected to remember. I actually remember watching them in prime time when I was 5 or 6. They aged well. Me, I ain't so sure.

Then I watched MASH. My apologies but I can't find the asterisk key to spell it out correctly. Anyway, what struck me the most was Hawkeye. He was really kind of a jerk. But it was also only two episodes.

Of course, what I wanted to see was a baseball game. But I suppose it's the wrong time of year for that, eh?

Next I watched a couple episodes of the reboot of Duck Tales. I'm sure I've said it before, but that reminded me that cartoons can be entertaining. More so than a lot of presumed mature programs.

I followed that with starting into my latest reading, Theodore the Great. It's about Teddy Roosevelt. I'll let you know what I think, because I'm sure you all want to know.

Bye for now.

Gas cap odometer

Just when I figure I can't have anything more unusual happen to one of my famed Cosgriff cars, something more unusual happens. On my new old van rather than the mileage appearing on the odometer, the odometer says gascap.

The van's been running fine. Indeed I ignored it for a few weeks (I first noticed it before Halloween). The cap seemed to be on snugly, so as is my normal approach to all things mechanical if ain't broke I don't fix it.

Still, as it was so highly unusual even for me I did eventually stop by my mechanic for his opinion. Do you know what he told me? "Don't worry about it. The seal probably isn't perfect and the sensor is picking that up. Sand around the end of the neck where the cap goes if you like, but it won't hurt anything."

I have long believed that far too many of our warnings are overwrought. This incident, if it qualifies as an incident, ahem, seals the deal for me. All these warning lights just cause us to panic unnecessarily. If there's a real problem you'll know without much of a hint.

It was Saturday when I saw my mechanic. I still haven't sanded the thing and I'm not sure I ever will.

On the fence

Lord knows I'm not on the fence about anything. Maybe I should have titled this about the fence.

As I took my morning walk today (I still go out weather permitting I only dress warmer) I noticed not one, not two, but three new fences. Okay Marty, what's your point? My point is they were all built with the slats going sideways, right to left, rather than up and down. Nothing wrong with that of course. But it looked on, not one , not two, but on all three, supremely odd.

I think part of it was that it was honestly scrambling my vertigo. I still have trouble with quick movements, and there were gaps enough in all three fences (perhaps three quarters of an inch between boards) so that if a car passed by its headlights would ripple along all those horizontal boards. I honestly felt dizziness coming on, so much so that I had to avert my eyes on passing each barricade. It's been several months since I've had a serious attack, but I became afraid I'd bring one on.

And these fences do look weird. I suppose there's a reason for them; artistic licence among fence constructors maybe. But you're messing with my reality man. Stop it.

Simple economics in school

When I taught high school level economics I kept it very simple. I hoped to instill in students a sense of exactly what they might deal with in real life. One such lesson involved what sales meant.

One idea was that when an item was on sale for, say, 10% off, that they did not save ten percent but only spent ten percent less on it. That doesn't make a purchase bad of course. But unless they actually put that ten off in the bank, they hadn't saved anything. I in fact had gotten that idea from me Pops years earlier, when I was maybe, heh, heh, ten. A friend of his was showing the old man something and bragging about the ten off he saved. Dad merely asked, "So's where's the money you saved?"

Another concept was the old buy one get one free come on. You aren't getting either one free: you're spending half as much on each. Again, that doesn't mean it's a bad deal. But you are not getting a freebie. Free means all yours at no cost and with no strings attached, no demands on you as a consumer.

I don't know if these helped but it was what I taught.

Graphic Canadian pizza

The things you see on the road...

As I drove down into Ohio this morning I saw a sign which said: Jet's Pizza/Canada RX. Now what that meant (and I know it) was that in that particular plaza there was a Jet's Pizza and a store selling prescription drugs from Canada. Still, I couldn't help thinking, well, pharmaceuticals, okay. But do we really need to import pizza from Canada?

Farther down the line in Kenton, Ohio is a company called Graphic Packaging. Every time I pass it I wonder, exactly how graphic is it? I mean, is it stuff like, ooh, no, dude, get that outta here kind of graphic?

I do entertain myself quite well when driving. I fit my sense of humor.

A joke

Yesterday I took my mother to breakfast and afterwards we did a bit of shopping. With her mind failing she frequently asks the same questions over and over. But we can still joke.

Yesterday it was, "Today's Sunday, isn't it?' She must have asked me a dozen times, and each time I just answered yes it was, just as you're supposed to. But after one time she said, "I have trouble telling Saturdays and Sundays apart."

"Yeah," I replied, "I have that trouble with Mondays and Thursdays." She laughed at that.

Okay, maybe it was a he's my son I have to laugh kind of laugh. But we take what we can get, eh, and she seemed to like it.

Sports and politics

After a day of overhyped college football, with the upcoming overhype for Sunday's NFL games, after a week of heavy breathing about impeachment, I've come to an analogy and a conclusion.

Sports and politics share one thing: they're both too often just noise. And both too often too self important.

I take Ron's advice quite a bit anymore when I come across either on TV. I change the channel. They ain't worth my time.

The hell with you

Is it ever acceptable to tell a customer to go to Hell?

Yesterday a man left a machine with me for repair. That's cool. That's what I do. He even bought the part he needed. That's cool too. I only have to charge labor. He wanted a receipt (I needed him to leave it overnight). That as well is cool. I would have given him one anyway; it's a standard business practice. At that point he left.

He returned within about 90 seconds and started taking pictures of his broken machine. While I stared at him he explained, "I just did some upgrades and want to be sure I get my machine back."

That's when I thought I should tell him to go to Hell and take his machine with him.  I didn't, but if I had, would have I been wrong?

A CFL Odyssey

While channel surfing this past Sunday I stumbled across a CFL, Canadian Football League, game. It was on ESPN2, so there must not have been much else to air.

Hey, my many Canadian friends, I joke!

Anyway, it reminded me of all the relatively minor differences between the two games, the NFL here with the CFL there. Let's see how many I can list:

Three downs instead of four.

A one yard neutral zone between the offensive and defensive lines.

12 men on the field per side rather than 11.

Numerous men in motion on the offensive side of the ball, and towards the line of scrimmage. That takes getting used to. I was constantly looking for the motion flag.

Red penalty flags instead of yellow.

The 'rouge', the single point a defensive team gets if the offense can't get the ball out of the end zone on a punt or kickoff return.

A longer field (110 yards) with deeper end zones (20 yards). They don't have a 50 yard line but a centre line at the 55 yard mark.

A wider field (not sure by how much).

No fair catches on punts, but a five yard halo to allow the catch.

A three minute warning at the end of the half or game. Apparently it takes longer for Canadians to see to their needs (Hey, I joke again!).

Is there more? Maybe. This is what I remembered, and without the help of Wikipedia I might add. I have watched a few CFL games in the past.

My buddy Ron and Mr. Don Cherry

Don Cherry tells it like it is. If you don't like it, change the channel.

This is a comment from my friend Ron in response to my blog yesterday. I was talking about the firing of hockey legend Don Cherry by Sportsnet in Canada. You can read about it here:

https://thesublimetotheridiculous.blogspot.com/2019/11/buckley-had-it-right.html

What I like about my buddy's comment is that it reminds me of, well, me in the past. Years ago when I would rant about the content of television shows or music on the radio, virtually all of my liberal friends would say, "Marty, if you don't like it, change the channel." Things as they are, it's about the best advice I could get.

Well now, liberal friends, I will second Ron's advice: If you don't like what Don Cherry says, change the channel.

Man, I love throwing people's words in their faces. Thanks, Ron!

Buckley had it right

I have read in many places that liberals want tolerance, diversity, and inclusiveness. I do not believe them. The treatment of two Dons, Cherry and Trump, illustrate to me that they do not mean these things when they say them.

Don Trump is of course President of the United States. Don Cherry is a Canadian hockey icon who supposedly attacked immigrants by saying they ought to wear a poppy, a symbol in honor of Canadian war dead, to show their support of the fallen. He meant everyone ought to wear a poppy, but the hyper-sensitive among us won't consider that. You can read about it here if you like:

https://globalnews.ca/news/6155243/don-cherry-out-as-host-of-coachs-corner-following-poppy-controversy/

I honestly don't see where his comments were all that outrageous. Nor do I find all of President Trump's rants so outrageous as we are supposed to think. I think each of them could use better filters, yes. Yet I also think the left condescending and arbitrary about much of what Don and Don say.

The progressive left says it wants tolerance and an end to hype and hyperbole. Well, okay. But you might notice that they are unwilling to include the two Dons in their ever so inclusive and tolerant world. And it's quite convenient yet typical of the left to exempt non right wingers from the standards they hold against the President and Mr. Cherry. We can conclude from this that they are not really so tolerant, not really so inclusive, as they claim. Why else do they rarely offer examples of leftist intolerance (try speaking at a US university if a you're a conservative commentator) to substantiate their claim that we all need to be considerate, tolerant, of others?

The irony for me is that, as a conservative, I'm willing, indeed I admit, that I'm not interested in open ended diversity, inclusiveness, or tolerance. I believe there are lines in the sand which cannot be crossed if we hope to maintain a civil society. It's my progressive, leftist friends who proclaim that diversity and so forth are the cat's meow yet quite routinely act exclusive; witness the hubbub over Cherry while the Canadian PM is still in office despite appearing in blackface years ago. The direct and obvious inference is that liberals can't be racist because, well, liberal. It's hypocrisy, plain and simple.

The fact is the left does not want diversity: they want everyone to agree with them. The exact sin they regularly and disdainfully accuse the right of committing.

I'm sorry, but I have little, ahem, tolerance for that type of intellectual dishonesty. Bill Buckley had it right: the left says it wants diversity yet is shocked when it finds it. How quaint.

Miami Atlantis

We had six inches of snow yesterday here in Detroit, Michigan. If you can believe the weatherman. And I quite frankly have trouble believing him.

Last week at this time we weren't expecting any snow for November 11. Then it became about an inch, then one to three, then three to five, and four to six before finally, supposedly, getting six. This pattern seems to me to occur routinely. In the summer it involves rain and higher temperatures, but you get the point.

These are the things I think of when I hear all the fear and loathing about climate change. Miami is going to be under water in the year 2100, but you can't tell me Detroit will have a half foot of snow a week in advance. All of this with no consideration of whether we might be better off with Miami underwater, either.

Poor jokes aside, if you want me to believe what you say about climate change in the long run you'll need to improve on your ability to predict climate change in the short. Until then, call me skeptical - highly skeptical - that I can rely on your opinion that Miami will be the next Atlantis.

Veteran's Day

Why is it that we often only appreciate the American Soldier when he is fighting Nazis?

That is the fault of the Hollywood Left, quite frankly. For whatever bizarre reason, and knowing them it must be somewhat bizarre or selfish, it seems that the soldiers most fondly recalled are those from the WWII generation. Without a doubt, they deserve that praise of course. This isn't to doubt their service or their bravery. We should recall them. The American Soldier, and his compatriots from Canada and Great Britain and France and China and dozens of other nations from around the world fell while fighting that menace. The Nazis were awful, to be sure. They may have been at least to that time the worst threat the entire world had faced, and a threat to the United States as well, to be sure. But were they only reason the American Soldier fought and died?

Did not the American Soldier fight and fall at Lexington and Concord? Citizen soldiers, yes, they were. And they stood their ground, refusing to allow the Redcoats to secure a garrison of patriotic supplies at Concord, pestering the British all the way back to their garrison at Boston. Did the American Soldier not fall at Fort Ticonderoga, or Bunker Hill, or at Saratoga? Did he not fall at the retreat from Manhattan, or while fighting the Hessians at Princeton or Trenton, or was their blood not shed as they attacked redoubts numbered 9 and 10 at Yorktown, the attacks which were key to victory at that famous battle? Why do we not remember that American Soldier?

During the Wars which we do not remember so fondly, at sea against the French in 1798, at the Raisin River right here in Michigan in 1813 during the War of 1812, did he not fall? Was he not injured, did he not serve? At Tripoli during the Wars in 1804 and 1815? Why do we not remember the American Soldier from then?

Do we remember Fort Sumter? Do we remember Antietam? Do we remember Bull Run, battles One and Two, or the siege of Vicksburg? Do Chambersburg and Gettysburg, Gettysburg, the battle which many historians argue is one of the ten most critical battles of World History, World History, mind you, mean anything these days? Do we appreciate what that means to our nation even today?
The doughboys in World War I; do we know them these days? Yes, they are universally gone now. They should not be forgotten.

World War II and Korea live in our memories. Yet we forget Korea. That is, other than with the greatest cynicism, as presented by M*A*S*H. Why do we recall only with disdain the great victories of the American Soldier in Vietnam? Why do we not acknowledge the tremendous victory of the American Soldier of the TET Offensive during the New Year of 1968? The Viet Cong were blown off the field of battle as an effective fighting force for a year, an entire year, and the media which hates conservative America called it a military loss. Why do we forget you? Why do we forget the American Soldier of Operation Iraqi Freedom? Why do we forget the American Soldier who toils each day in Afghanistan? Why do we forget the American Soldier who toils each day holding the Al Qaeda militants at bay at Guantanamo, safe from attacking their fellow citizens?

We should not. We should not forget you any more than we should forget the veteran of Granada or Operation Desert Storm, of Panama or Haiti or the 200 or more military operations in our history. Has every action of the US been right? No; we are human. We have made mistakes. Where we have, nature and nature's God rightly demand we regret them and make amends where we can. Yet even then we must not forget that our sons and daughters have not died in vain. There were part of the greater cause, willing to serve their nation whenever or wherever it called. We must give them their due too.

The Nazis have not been the only evil in the world. They may not have been the worst evil, either. Other evils have arisen; evils whose blood soils the hand of the American Soldier. He was always and everywhere concerned with rightness and justice no matter what. And that, dear friends, is how we ought remember him.

Silent Sitting

Me Grandmaw Hutchins, we lost her in 1979. I believe it was June 18. It was something like that anyways.

I took the call from me Pops. He and Mom happened to be in North Carolina when it happened. For what it's worth, I'm happy for Mom that she at least had a few more days with her mother at the end rather than being 700 miles away and getting a call herself.

Dad told me Grandmaw had passed away suddenly. I remember the days right after that were profoundly different. I remember feeling weird, lost, after that call. At the risk of hyperbole, even the sunshine felt dimmer though it was a clear summer day. It was a bit after noon, as I was getting lunch.

Apparently he had called his folks, me Grandpa Joe and me Grandma Cosgriff, either right afore or after he had called home, where I and me older brother and just younger sister stayed while everyone else had went down south that year. It still seems surreal.

I had little initial reaction: I believe I was simply shocked. Her passing was genuinely out of the blue: she turned to say something to my mother and her head just hit her chest. The doctor said she was gone before her head hit, it was that quick and severe of a stroke.

I told me sibs. Then, not knowing what else to do, I just went back to work at the Shop, dazed though I was.

When I got there me Grandpa Joe waited, alone for whatever reason, pulling on a cigarette, a Carlton, as he sat by the coffee table. I went back to work, just like that, like normal.

A moment later, seeing as Joe had a coffee, I made me one, I dunno, just because. And we sat.

Joe pulled again on the cigarette. "I'm sorry about your grandmother," he said, unusually quietly, after a minute.

"Thanks," I said. I sipped at my coffee.

After a bit I said, "Well, not many kids get to have four grandparents until they're 19. I guess I'm lucky."

"Yeah," Joe said. He pulled again at his Carlton.

And we sat there. We just sat.

Memories. I actually cherish this one, not of course because of me Grandmaw's death. Heavens no. But that silent sitting with Joe just seemed to fit the bill right then.

Lucky Thirteenth?

I'm not sure the reasons behind it, but there was an old family friend named Amos who once went through a spell where he needed many surgeries. For whatever other reasons of which I am also unsure, me Pops ended up the contact person for him. Amos had no children and what family he had were all living in Kentucky.
I should mention here that Amos was extremely, indeed fervently, superstitious.
One day during the course of all Amos' health issues he had to have a surgery fast. It was a we need to know this instant, don't dwell on the answer, we'll lose him if don't operate immediately situations. Yet Amos himself was in a coma and could offer no instructions. Pops happened to be in the hospital and was approached about what to do. Operate, he of course told the doctors.
The surgery was done, and Amos came out in flying colors.
Well past any danger a couple of weeks later, Amos still lay in the hospital recuperating. Me Pops went to pay a visit. As they talked, Pops could see that Amos was calculating. Eventually he asked, in a fit of pique, "That was my thirteenth operation. Why'd you let them do it?" he demanded of Pops.
"What was I supposed to do?" Dad responded incredulously.
"When was the surgery?" Amos then demanded.
"I dunno. Two Fridays ago I guess."
"That was the Thirteenth!" Amos exclaimed. "You let them operate on me for the thirteenth time on Friday the 13th?"
"You made it, didn't you?" Dad said with a wave of his hands. But I suppose when superstition gets a hold on you, it grabs tight.

Guns and America

I will begin by saying that this is a political blog. I will follow up by saying that I fully and completely support the Second Amendment. I say that unequivocally because many of my friends and relatives who support gun rights will now think I don't believe in them. And all because I think that individual rights in America do not revolve around gun ownership.

Do you think our guns won the Revolution? They did not. French guns and Dutch money won the Revolution. Without that our guns meant little: it's that simple. We would be more British than American today without outside help which, I must add, didn't really care about our gun ownership anyway.

But to the point: our rights do not revolve around gun ownership. Our rights are about the ideas which support them, namely life, liberty, and property (I wish Jefferson had said property and not pursuit of happiness, but that's an idea for another time). Quite bluntly then, there are more, and I will argue more important, issues than gun rights. What's more important is encouraging the belief that rights are based on our overall obligation to do our part to create and manage a just society.

We need to convince people that our rights, all of them, come from God. We need to emphasize that if our rights, all of them, are not protected as a whole then each individual one means less. If we don't believe in free speech or freedom of religion, our insistence on gun rights is superfluous, and even shallow and unworthy of us, because guns can protect even evil, as history clearly shows. Gun ownership and gun use by themselves are moral neutrals.

So then, as a practical matter it is not our guns which keep us free. It is our attitude towards freedom, our patriotism and more importantly our belief in a just God which keep us free. Lose that attitude, or worse, allow the nation as a whole to lose that attitude, and your right to have a gun means zilch. That right will be squashed alongside every other right.

Crowbar tales

Among the various tools we used when working on the old Hobart welders of me Grandpa Joe's were crowbars. We might use them to inch a heavy part into place or lift one momentarily out of the way to access another part. We might even use them to check gas levels in their tanks as few of our machines had gas gauges. But you get the idea: we used crowbars, at times for genuinely productive purposes.

A couple of days ago I spoke about Big Jim. He was a huge, mountain of a man, but also a helpful and nice guy who liked to joke around a bit. You can read about him here:

https://thesublimetotheridiculous.blogspot.com/2019/10/big-jim-and-heavy-cables.html

One day me Pops was out servicing a welder on a job that Big Jim was running. Dad finished the repair and went to let Jim know he was all set. He happened to have used his crowbar last, so he slung it across his shoulder as he made his way to the field office to speak to Jim.

He opened the door of the trailer and as it was winter closed it immediately to keep the heat in. Jim was sitting behind a desk looking over whatever, and he stopped when he saw Dad. Then a look of true terror spread across his face. Jim harshly pushed back from the desk and, holding his hands in front of his face and turning away, cried, "Hey, Bill, can't we just talk about this?"

Me Pops, temporarily forgetting he held a crowbar on his shoulder, puzzled about what Jim meant. Then he remembered the tool, and laughed along with Jim.

The fact is, me Pops would say later, he wouldn't go after Jim anyways. But if he were, it would be with something more substantial than a crowbar.

A variation on an old Marx Brothers routine

I wasn't really sure what to title this post. Free Ice? didn't seem right. The thousand percent profit margin is a bit wordy. What I chose is a bit too cryptic. Oh well.

The things you see on the road. A party store I drove past in a small town the other day had a sign out front advertising its current sales. That's common enough. Some of the prices in fact looked pretty good. But perhaps the best sale on display was: 0 lb. ice for $1. For a buck you could get no ice.

Yes, I know that's not what it meant. I'm sure that the number 1 which was surely in front of the 0 had fallen off. But that's simply not funny, is it? And obvious, rational explanations make Jack a dull boy. Further, they avoid the next natural question.

Could you afford to actually get ice?

Being silly on Saturday

One of my favorite cartoons as a kid was Scooby Doo, Where are You! According to Wikipedia, that pseudo-trustworthy source of information, the series began in 1969. Why an exclamation point rather than a question mark was used in the title I'll leave to the professional grammarians for debate. They seem to love such argumentation.

Anyway, it was the first TV show that I remember making it a point to watch. True, nine year old kids in that day lived for Saturday mornings as at that time Saturday mornings were devoted to kids programming. But I woke up early in those days specifically to make sure I didn't miss an episode, even though I don't think it was on until mid-morning, 9:30 or 10, something like that. I liked the show that much.

Everyone knows that Scooby along with Shaggy are the comic relief in the series. But I think Scooby was in fact, in some secret life, and emergency room doctor. Just listen to the lyrics: the second verse starts with, "Come on Scooby Doo, ICU." As in, to the ICU, stat, doctor.

As though he was needed, immediately, for his medical expertise.

Like he had to rush straight away to help some poor soul in physical distress.

You know, doctors, ICU, puns, plays on words and so on?

I, I'll stop now. I know I'm forcing it.