2020

This is it, December 31, 2020, the last day of the year. What we're supposed to do now, if we are to be traditional about it (and I am generally traditional), is write a reflection on the year just past.

Well I don't wanna and you can't make me. 2020 has merited about every negative adjective in the book and I don't wanna think about it no more. I have not stayed up to greet the New Year in about five years now but I might, as the current Internet meme says, stay up tonight only to make sure 2020 leaves and then I'm done with it. Finished. I will not write a reflection on it. End. Of. Story.

I'm saving that for my video blog, which will be available in the next few hours. But a written ode to 2020? No way. Sayonara, 2020. Good riddance.

Would Pops and Joe approve?

We're busy. That's as good as it is unexpected in these COVID days. When all this fear mongering began in February I presumed (when you presume, you make a pre out of you and me?) this year would be in the tank, a completely off year. Yet it's been good, presumably (when you pre...oh, skip it, they didn't get it the first time) because we're part of the waste disposal industry. With so many more than usual folks stuck at home, well, when drain cleaners are more in demand drain snake sales and repairmen become more in demand too.

I've told you my joke, haven't I? I sell drain snakes; my mind's always in the sewer.

Stop groaning. So we've been busy enough that I've done something which me Pops nor his father before him, me Grandpa Joe, rarely if ever did. I've begun turning away business.

To be sure, I turn away nothing ordinary. All the major brands, especially Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs!) get prompt treatment. But off brands, and believe it or not there are drain snake off brands which are the drain snake equivalent of Yugos, out there. And we've begun turning them away. It's too hard to get parts for them, and the folks who buy them don't care to pay going repair rates (which is why they got the Yugo drain snake anyway).

My only worry is, will Pops and Grandpa Joe forgive me? Or is there a level of Purgatory I'll have to go through which no one else will see?

I hope it is only Purgatory...

The time in between

We all like this part of the Christmas season, don't we? The week in between Christmas and New Years Day, where the holiday feel is still upon us yet the exhaustion of the time is gone? I know I do.

It isn't, and I feel as though I say this a lot, that I don't like Christmas and even the anticipation of Christmas. Yet I don't care at all for the trappings of it. I am admittedly lazy about the decorations and preparations for Christmas. This is in part because I am lazy about what I consider unimportant (and much of what 'must' get done for Christmas is indeed unimportant) but also because the devil in the details has reached the point of taking over Christmas. Christmas is spectacularly important on its own. We do not need the perfect backdrop to improve on that. I'd be okay simply enjoying time with family and friends watching the specials, listening to the carols, eating pizza and leaving it at that.

The week in between I think supports this point. We're beyond the traps yet still have time to enjoy that holiday feeling. The pressure and the worry, the very things which Christmas is supposed to relieve us of (yet we hoist upon ourselves), is actually gone. We can simply enjoy the time now.

I'm not sure Christmas gets any better than this week in between.

Bumper jokes

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

Driving north on Interstate 75 earlier this year 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.

Cosplay Christmas

I will confess up front that I am about to go way too far to relate a simple enough joke. But that's okay. I have the time to kill and apparently you do too.

Cosplay (you'll need to know this) is when you dress up for fun as a favorite character of yours from the fiction world, sort of like dressing up for Halloween or a costume party. To be honest, I used to mock it. Then they day came when I realized that when I am buttoning up one of my Detroit Tigers jerseys as I put it on I feel, if only for a moment, that I actually am a Detroit Tiger. So anymore I cut cosplayers a bit of slack.

Now, one thing that our family and a great many others have done for Christmas is get Christmas poppers. They're little gift wrapped sleeves with tiny gifts in them. You can read about them here:

https://www.whychristmas.com/customs/crackers.shtml  

What you do is you and a friend grab opposite ends of one of the poppers and pull. It pops open and you get the contents. Then you do it again so that the friends gets gifts too. 

It is a neat little bit of childlike fun, and while the gifts are only the trinket variety hey, remember, it's fun. Yet I've noticed that there is one common gift which seems to be in each and every popper: a small paper crown. You know, the kind with eight or ten points on it, just like Jughead Jones wore in the old Archie comics.

We were watching a Christmas special yesterday as a family in the show got out some poppers. Soon enough everyone was wearing one of those paper crowns. Soon after that someone else remarked, "Cosplaying Jughead is a treasured family tradition for us."

Look, reading this this far for that payoff isn't my fault. As I said earlier, you clearly had the time to kill. 

Christmas 2020

Born to raise the sons of earth

Born to give them second birth

Hark! The herald angels sing

"Glory to the newborn King!"

Merry Christmas everybody

It's Christmas Eve

Tonight is the night. God, who loved the world so much, sends his Son into the world as the weakest thing possible: a child, an infant, a mere baby. He could have sent hordes of angels or simply taken the just to Heaven and obliterated the evildoers. Yet He didn't...because all human life is sacred and He wanted all to have a shot at salvation.

Stop shopping. If you don't have what you need by now, you've got enough. Stop putting up decorations. The house looks fine. Stop trying to save the world: you won't (and that's why He's coming anyway). 

Don't worry about the food: there's plenty in the larder, undoubtedly enough that you ought to give some to the needy. And not just the old can of asparagus at the back of the shelf. Something instead which the poor and hungry would appreciate as you would.

Don't fret if you don't see everyone, each family member and friend dear to you, at Christmas or at all during the holidays. You know you love and appreciate them. They know this about you as well.

Stop saving the economy and start saving yourself from all which ails the world. Do what you can, and none of it in excess, and wish everyone a Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Christmas Eve Eve

Is that okay? Is that all right? Can I call December 23 Christmas Eve Eve? The Eve of the Eve of Christmas?

I suppose I just did, eh? Well, why not? The anticipation is pretty much there just the same as with December 24th by now, isn't it? 

My Christmas Eve Eve 2020 will be spent in part driving through small towns looking at their Christmas decor. Sure, I'm working. But it almost doesn't feel like work in such an atmosphere. 

I should do this every year. And thus Marty decrees: from this day hence shall the Twenty Third of December every winter be Christmas Eve Eve. Thus shall it be written; thus shall it be done.

Happy Christmas Eve Eve everyone!

Grandma's kitschy tree

Of all the family Christmas trees I remember I think I remember me Grandma Cosgriffs as the most interesting. She didn't seem, if my memory serves me much (quiet Ron) to have this particular one for very long. It makes an appearance in the Charlie Brown Christmas special though, in the tree lot where he gets what turned out to be the beautiful little real tree.

Be that as it may, I think we've all seen ones like me Grandma's. It was silver (or maybe white; Ron may be right to chide me about my memory) and sitting in front facing it was a slow turning, fan like thing. But it had a flat, circular pan rather than blades on it. The pan had three colors, red, blue, and green I believe, with a light behind them. As the pan spun, it lit the tree the different colors, and even mixings of the colors, as it turned.

These days we might, might, call it kitschy. The odd tree was a source of bemusement for me. It never seemed like Christmas. And even then, it struck me as unlike me Grandma to care for anything so, well, so modern. It felt really out of place in her living room.

As I say, I don't think she had it for very long, perhaps a couple or three years. And I suppose, seeing it impressed me enough that I remember it somehow,  even vaguely fondly, it qualifies as a good Christmas memory. Gotta admit, I am smiling over it right now.

.

The lost drive shaft

These days so many cars and trucks are front wheel drive that I'm not sure everyone knows what a drive shaft is. It was of course (all of us old timers know this) a steel shaft perhaps four or five feet long which connected the motor and transmission to the rear wheels of a vehicle, spinning them so it could move. Make sense?

So anyway, one day years ago an old friends of me Pops, whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, told him the tale of the lost drive shaft.

While happily driving his pickup on the freeway one fine afternoon Cloyce suddenly realized that the vehicle had stopped pulling. It was slowing down rapidly, and extra gas applied via clomping down on the gas pedal merely raced the engine. At that point a glance in the rear view mirror showed Cloyce the reason for the trouble: his drive shaft had come off and was going end over end backwards on the road behind him.

Imagine that. A long steel rod larger in diameter than a balled fist was, I suppose you could say rolling, making its way south on the freeway and having a good old time about it. It was traipsing along end over end, changing from laying flat on the pavement to standing its whole five foot tall and back to laying down again at will. And a car was approaching it as the drive shaft bore down on the car.

Cloyce was quickly praying that nothing bad would come of it. But as he told me Pops excitedly, "You wouldn't have believed it Bill, but right as that car was to meet it, that drive shaft laid down flat, the car drove over it, and it picked itself up right after. It didn't touch that car at all. It was a miracle."

A miracle which had the diver of that car's heart in his throat I'm sure.

The drive shaft came to rest and rolled to the shoulder without any other incident. Cloyce steered the pickup to the shoulder, walked back and grabbed his errant drive shaft, admonished it for being so playful, threw it into the bed of the truck, and went off to find a phone to get a tow. all the while thanking his lucky starts it wasn't worse.

Obligatory Sunday

It's the writer's equivalent of walking upstairs and forgetting what you went upstairs for. When I popped awake an hour ago I knew exactly what I was going to write. It was perfect too. You'd have been amazed.

Now, gone. I suppose I didn't help myself. There's the obligatory trip down the hall first thing in the morning (you know what I mean) and the obligatory cup of coffee. Then there's the obligatory look at Facebook and the obligatory check of email, and of course logging onto Blogger to write brought the obligatory look at my most recent stats (they're good). Then there was the obligatory correction I had to make to my blog from yesterday because, accuracy (thanks Jay). Then there's the obligatory putting on a sweatshirt because I'm cold. And then I would write...this.

The worst part is that when I woke I knew I had a good idea. Ah well. Glad I have a good sense of obligatory thinking up drivel. Now I'll have to get the obligatory pen and paper for the nightstand for he next time this happens.

Thurl and George

It's 3:20 on a Saturday morning. I have Christmas tunes on via the Sounds of the Seasons channel on Music Choice. Right now it's playing some pop drivel by the Jonas Brothers. Who are they?

I like this time of day. It's quiet; a good time for reflection. Good thing I'm nowhere near a mirror though. That reflection might not be pleasant.

Hey, wait; they're playing You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch. I gotta listen to it.

Okay, cool. Did you know that song (the Grinch one) is sung by Thurl Ravenscroft? He was also the voice of Tony the Tiger for over 50 years. It's true. It's like how Heat Miser from The Year Without A Santa Claus is also voiced by the narrator from the Underdog cartoons, George S. Irving. I like knowing things like that. It's trivia, but trivia is neat.

Speaking of trivial, I had shrimp ramen yesterday. From Dollar General. For lunch. Just so you know.

All right, back to work on a new book I'm writing. The idea just came to me Monday and I've already written 6500 words. Wish me luck! 

Shrimp ramen

Shrimp ramen. Yep, that's what I'm going to have for lunch today. Shrimp ramen.

I was in a Dollar General yesterday (you've heard of Dollar General, haven't you?) and they had scads of shrimp ramen for sale. So I bought some. And I am going to have shrimp ramen for lunch today.

Yep. Shrimp ramen.

From Dollar General.

For lunch. 

Today.

I should have bought more than the three that I did. I'm planning a big lunch.

The Cleveland Baseball Club

It seems, in keeping with the spirit of the times, that the Cleveland Indians are going to change their name. Well, so be it. They are within their rights to do that, even if such a choice is a gutless, puerile attempt to seem relevant to those who don't even care about sports in general or baseball in particular. Those petty tyrants will have their way.

That concession made, I wonder where that leaves the Notre Dame Fighting Irish? As a person of Irish descent, and with the apparent right to be insulted which the current political climate demands, I suppose I must be offended by that. Then there's the San Diego Padres; have you seen the goofy monk swinging a bat which is one of their logos? As a Catholic, do have I the right, indeed the obligation, to be enraged by such a picture? And I haven't gotten yet to the Wake Forest Demon Deacons. My Protestant friends and family should be chomping at the bit, they should be in arms about that, oughtn't they?

I am not upset at all by the University of Notre Dame (well, at least their athletics), the San Diego Baseball Club, or Wake Forest. Nor should I be. They're employing monikers for fun, people. For fun. None of those mascot choices in their natures put anyone down. Neither does the name Indians. Period.

Still, again, the Cleveland Baseball Club has the moral right to change their name. If they open to suggestion, I recommend the Pastel Unicorns. 

Great. Now I've brought the wrath of unicorn nation down upon me, haven't I? After all, I'm being unjust to non-pastel unicorns.

Deer Cloyce

I don't know about in other states, but in Michigan if you hit a deer while driving you can harvest the animal even if it's not deer season. Yet that can be more perilous than you think.

A customer of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, hit a deer while trekking along up north several years ago. It did little damage to his big old van but the deer was killed. Cloyce and a buddy who was with him heaved the unfortunate animal into the back of the van, figuring they would have themselves some free deer meat and deer sausage. There was only one problem. The deer wasn't dead.

Cloyce found that out several miles down the road when the back of the driver's seat got kicked hard. He glanced up to see the deer glaring at him through the rear view mirror. That's when the real fun began.

The enraged and injured deer showed its displeasure by wreaking havoc on the interior of Cloyce's van. It jumped, it kicked, it bit at Cloyce and his passenger. It pounded its head at the walls of the van and seat backs. The motions rocked the vehicle back and forth so hard that Cloyce had trouble keeping his van under control. And the deer, I don't know, brayed, bleated, roared, whatever noise it is that deer make, until the sound itself was deafening.

It took Cloyce about a mile to find a spot next to the road big enough to pull into. When he could finally stop, he and his friend leapt from their seats and into safety. They watched as the van was still being beaten up from the inside, until Cloyce muscled up the courage to open the sliding door. The deer shot out like a shell from a shotgun and ran about 50 yards into the forest when it collapsed, presumably really most sincerely dead by that point.

But Cloyce had lost his appetite for deer sausage by then.

Hark, Charlie Brown

I mentioned my favorite Christmas novelty songs one day last week. I think I got into trouble over Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. I would have thought Christmas at Ground Zero might have been the one to draw ire. Oh well.

But as to my favorite straight out Christmas song, one which takes Christmas seriously, that's a tough call. Schubert's Ave Maria always brings tears to my eyes; what a glorious, glorious tribute to the Mother of Christ. It's beautiful in Latin, and the thing is you don't have to understand the language to comprehend the profound beauty of the song. 

Midnight Mass at old St. Dominic here in Detroit always ended with Joy to the World, and as such meant Christmas, to me, had begun. That would have to be near the top of my list. I've always had a soft spot for O Little Town of Bethlehem, and I love Adeste Fideles too.

Yet I would have to say my favorite is likely (I say likely because our feelings for songs do tend to ebb and flow a bit) Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. And I mean precisely how the Peanuts gang sings it at the end of the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Maybe that's too sentimental of a choice. But when the kids all yell, "Merry Christmas Charlie Brown!" then launch into that hymn, well, I still get chills no matter how often I've seen the show.

So, it's Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. But I may be open to suggestion.

Little lights

I need batteries. Double A batteries, to power the small artificial Christmas tree in the bedroom window.

I don't know where the other trees are, but one year my oldest son bought several of them and placed them in various spots throughout the house, to aid the sense of Christmas. They're only a foot high with small lights.  But they look cool in the dark when they're the only things lit.

One is still I think (I hope) in a far corner of the basement. Now that one really shone out. I remember going into the basement in the dark, not turning on any lights, groping the wall as I made my way carefully down the stairs, just to see the impact that little tree made in the darkest part of the house.

For me, that's become Christmas. The little light in the dark. So one of my stops today as I take me Mom on a Sunday drive will be to buy double A batteries. It will delightful to wake up tomorrow morning to the light of the small tree in the bedroom window.

Dishonor

Here's an interesting thought, which I remember from a sermon years ago: did you know that every time you sin you violate at least two Commandments?

It's like this: if you steal, thereby breaking the Seventh Commandment, you have also broken the Fourth, Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother. Why? Because in stealing you dishonor your parents by indicating they raised you poorly, that they taught you stealing is all right.

A lot of truth to that I dare say.

Reflections on walking

I took a morning walk this morning, well before sunrise. I was out the door at 6:20 in fact. Why not? It was a warm morning as mornings in December go, about 40 degrees, and no rain or snow in sight.

Years ago I would have never gone out in the dark just to traipse around the neighborhood. You never know where the boogeyman might be laying in wait for you, right? If anything I would be out long enough to get into my car and get going somewhere. But the childish fears of the dark are gone. I simply don't fret about it. I just walk. 

I do find too that in some ways being out in the dark is as compelling as being out in the sunlight. 6:20 in July is typically sunny and comfortable. 6:20 in December is cold yet psychologically comfortable if isolated. I feel delight in both, truth be told.

To be sure, I keep my head on a bit of a swivel this time of year. But I try to do that in summer as well. I keep a watchful stare far into the darkness or distance as the case may be for odd movements or shadows. Yet they are invariably simply other folks walking themselves or their dogs, or on the way to work. The world may be a dangerous place. It just ain't all that dangerous when you think about it.

My two philosophic cents for you this morning. Have a great Friday all!

Comic books

By comic books I do not mean what you think I mean by comic books. While they're certainly some great comics out there, I'm talking about comedy books. Comic novels.

I have read some great books on thought, history, and personages. Many of my favorite books are classic detective stories, tales I would not have expected to like while still in my teens. I have read all the original Sherlock Holmes books and short stories (The Hound of the Baskervilles may be the best non-fiction book ever) as well as all the canon Ellery Queen murder cases. And On the Eight Day stands out even though it is the least Ellery like of all his whodunits; my favorite of those is The Egyptian Cross Mystery. One of his detective stories I think he might have meant as comic, There was an Old Woman, a book I found strange given EQ's overall collection of works. But that aside put aside, I can't recall reading any great comedy novels.

I've read Robert Heinlein's Job: A Comedy of Justice but upon reflection I'm not sure it qualifies as a true comedy. He's know as a science fiction writer and I like his straight sci-fi better. Although I can't ultimately agree with his basic philosophy, he's one of those rare people whom I can read with profound enjoyment even though I firmly believe his outlook on everything wrong. His stuff is that well written and engaging.

I've read Magic Kingdom For Sale: Cheap, by Terry Brooks. I liked it, and if you like takeoffs on Tolkien style fantasy it's worth a read but not laugh out loud funny. But after that I can't think of any good comic novel I've even came across let alone read. The few I've tried never draw me in, never keep my interest. 

Any suggestions, dear readers? To save you trouble, the only comic novel I've really liked is Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis. It was funny enough but became dry towards the end.

It's so easy to fix a snake

 No, Mungo! Never kill a customer! -from Monty Python's Dirty Fork sketch

Those are certainly words to live by. I have never come close to killing a customer. At least, so far as the police know. But I have snapped at a couple of them.

Several years ago during a period when we were extremely busy and running about one week to ten days behind in repairs (not unlike now quite honestly) a guy walked into the old barn. He had a machine which wasn't running and wanted me to take a look at it. I said I would, but that if it required anything serious he'd have to leave it and I'd get to it as soon as I could.

I followed him out to his van and he produced a little General Sewerooter Junior which had wires hanging out of the motor in a terrible jumble. A real bird's nest, me Pops used to say. It would have taken an hour simply to sort everything out, to get all the wiring back in place so that I might then start diagnosing the real problem. On top of that, his cable was tangled inside the drum. I shook my head and said to the man, "You're going to have to leave that with me."

He began, "Well all you have to do is..."

I cut him off right there. "Then you do it," I replied, admittedly rather harshly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Then you do it," I repeated. "If it's all that simple, why are you bringing it to me? Why don't you have it done already?"

"You don't have to get that way, man," he protested.

In me best Grandpa Joe voice I half yelled back, "Yes! Yes I do! Everybody thinks their mess is so easy to fix after they messed it up worse and then expect a miracle from me! I'm not putting you in front of anybody else for this!"

The man left. I didn't kill him, but I haven't seen him since either.

Textbook Cloyce

A good friend of mine back in high school, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, was the first of our friedship circle to earn his driver's license. He was proud of that, as a teenager would be, and we envied him, as teenagers would. But the first time I rode with him proved to tarnish some of the luster on his driving ability.

I happened to be around when his mother asked him to go to the store for something or other, so I went with. He drove the few blocks to the neighborhood supermarket and, seeing the parking lot jammed, decided he would show off his skills by parallel parking on the street. He pulled just past an occupied space, lined up his seat with the driver's door of a parked car, shifted, then turned all the way around in his seat, arm over the back, and began to gently give the family's old station wagon gas. It was all textbook, exactly as many of us learned in driver's ed. 

Rrrrrrrrr, the engine revved easily upward. But the car didn't move.

Cloyce looked confused, but went on applying the gas. RrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRR...but still nothing.

RrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. He was soon giving it too much gas. The engine was racing as though at Indianapolis yet would not even try to move. He finally let off the accelerator, and saw that he hadn't shifted all the way into reverse. The car was only in neutral. Seeing this myself, and seeing as this was in the days before texting, I began Rolling On The Floor Laughing Out Loud.

Cloyce punched me in shoulder, hard, and made me swear I wouldn't tell anyone about this tale. But as I haven't seen him in ages and the statute of limitations having surely ran out, I decided to tell it today.

Asphalt Frank

I have often found myself, well, okay, I haven't exactly found myself there as I drive there quite purposefully, in Hessel in Michigan's glorious eastern Upper Peninsula and pondering, remembering what once was. And what once was was my Uncle Frank teaching me the precise way to turn around in the driveway.

He had retired here, and while the house already existed the garage and the driveway did not. So he had a garage built, a very good one from where I still listen to Tiger baseball and will again in the future, and a driveway laid from asphalt. And the asphalt needed precise care.

As such, he instructed me on how to turn around on it without doing damage. You pull up and turn hard left, then go hard right to back up into place, all the while moving so that the turning of the wheels did not grind into any spot on the asphalt. Never, never stop and turn the wheels in one place. Keep your car moving.

After about an hour of practice Uncle Frank was satisfied that I could make the maneuver. And ever since then, I have made the maneuver rather well. I think.

Uncle Frank is gone better than 24 years now. But I have not and will not harm his driveway. He has seen to that.

We have Aquinas

In my life I have been blessed by the presence of many good Dominican priests and nuns. Some were pastors, some teachers, and many just good friends. I don't say things like this lightly but I thank God all the time for sending them my way. They have been a great help and comfort to myself and my entire family in too many ways to count.

This Tuesday December 1st one of them, Sr. Willard Reagan, passed away. She was the guidance counselor at my kids' High School, St Alphonsus in Dearborn, Michigan. The school is gone but the memories and the relationships live on, even in death.

This probably means more to me than most folks can ever appreciate, and it has meaning on such a profound level that I doubt I can really fully explain it, but as soon as I learned of her passing I heard her voice in my head telling me, "We have Aquinas. We know."

A bit of background, which I'll keep as brief as I can. St. Thomas Aquinas is perhaps the greatest philosopher in Catholic history. His writings and preaching on life, the universe, and everything are a treasure trove of right thought on all the trouble in the world. He was also a Dominican monk, and the Dominican order of priests and sisters are justly proud of him. On a more personal note I take it as a mark of the Divine that Aquinas's feast day is me Pops birthday, January 28. I like that kind of serendipity.

One day as I was hanging around St. Alphonsus for whatever reason Sr. Willard spotted me. She was excited that a nephew of hers had been given the command of a ship in the US Navy. She was proud of that, and told me that of everyone she knew she thought I would appreciate the news best. I did; I was happy for her.

This led to a conversation about things of this Earth. We soon agreed that some things are really right, and others really wrong, no matter what any one person might think. Truth exists. And that's when she remarked, in a quietly confident tone, "We have Aquinas. We know."

Yes we do, Sr. Willard. We know. Not only from Aquinas, but from good teachers and leaders such as yourself. Godspeed.

Please observe

Me Grandpa Joe had a way with words. In fact, Joe's ability to make the word hell declarative of many and varied emotions would find its modern equivalent in I am Groot, if that means anything to you. Trust me, the analogy fits.

Be that as it may, his use of language could actually be rather profound even in areas where mild expletives were not at all involved. I doubt that most of my cousins or other family members knew the pleasure of hearing Joe remark, when leading into a happy explanation or in demonstrating a welcome development, "Please observe."

Grandpa Joe said that whenever he had found a solution to a vexing problem at the Shop. We had our share of vexing problems at the old barn, believe me. But to cut through to the point here, if a particular issue had been tormenting us for many hours (or sometimes days) it sounded delightful to have Joe stop you and say those two simple words, please observe. It meant a problem was solved.

I thought of that a few minutes ago as I solved what had been a recent vexing problem involving a snake repair. Try as we might, neither me brother Phil nor I could get a piece of threaded pipe, the leg of a machine which sits as a tripod, out of the body of the unit. The leg had broken off flush so that there was nothing to grip it.

At a hardware Phil had discovered a tool to extract the broke piece yet we could not get it work. In desperation, as I didn't want to heat the body of the snake for fear of making things worse, worried that if I made it worse the ornery thing would need a body as well as a leg (and who knows how long that would take, our supply lines being disrupted by COVID) I heated it anyway, carefully. Within a few minutes, lo and behold, I used that tool that Phil found and walked that broken pipe right out of the body of that machine.

And now I cannot wait to tell Phil "Please observe," as soon as he gets back to the Shop. I'll have to channel my inner Joe Cosgriff for full effect.

On This Day

As I am wont to do on such occasions as when I have writer's block or am just plain lazy, let me offer you things which you could find out just as easily as I on the Internet, but without driving traffic to Marty. Yes, today we will see what happened on this day in history!

On December 3rd, Sir Thomas Herriot brought the first potatoes into England, from modern day Columbia. The pomme de terre, the Apple of the Earth as the French say, comes from South America.

In 1908 today (huh?) Edward Elgar's First Symphony in A was performed in Manchester, England. I understand it had a good beat and you could dance to it.

On December 3, 1967 the first heart transplant was performed by Dr. Christiaan Barnard in South Africa.

December 3, 1818 saw Illinois become the 21st State. A shout out to the Illinois Cosgriffs!

Ozzy Osbourne is 72 today. I wonder what profound mumbling has to offer...

There you have it, A few items of note today. Use this knowledge wisely.

It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas

Okay, now it's December. Now I will talk about Christmas. 

I really don't hate Christmas. I really love it. I have great memories of the Holiday season with a great many people, some are gone and some remain as John Lennon says, but all pleasant. But me being me, I'll start off being funny. Or attempting to be funny as you like it.

My favorite Christmas songs of the novelty genre are:

1. I Really Don't Hate Christmas, by Dr. Heinz Doofensmirtz. You see, he's an evil scientist and like evil scientists he hates everything. But he doesn't 'hate' Christmas so he can't destroy it. Make sense?

2. Christmas at Ground Zero, by Weird Al Yankovic. A truly funny take on traditional Christmas carols and traditional Yuletide themes. I love it! Classic Weird Al. Look up the video, it's a hoot.

3. I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas, by Gayla Peevey. Simply a cute, fun song with an infectious beat.

4. You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch, by Dr. Seuss. Come on, you love it. Especially knowing he's good guy at the end.

5. Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer, by Elmo and Patsy. A must on any Holiday shuffle.

That's it for now, and I'm only just getting started! Merry Christmas everybody!

Oh, the weather outside

Got up this morning and out the door before sunrise and cleared the first snow from the walks and the cars. It's not that I am or should be overly proud of such an achievement. It's only what a guy should do, right? But, well, I got out and cleared the first snow of the winter. And that's what eats at me. It's the first snow of the winter.

How many more snows are coming? How many more inches or feet of the white powder are lying in wait for me? It's just December 1st, after all. We can have snow into April. In fact we have. I remember one 6 or 7 inch snowfall on the last day of curling once, the first Monday in April that season. Twice in my life baseball Opening Day has been delayed by late snows. So we've, what, around five months of potential winter ahead of us? This after having snow flurries well into May of 2020, as astute readers may recall that I had remarked about. 

But, of course, 2020. 2021 surely can't match that, can it?

Please, please tell me I did not just hear a voice say, 'Hold my beer.'

Joe's curling pin hat

He was brought up in a time where men wore hats, even to work, even in less respected occupations. Why, me old curling hat is a Dickees hat I bought only because it reminded me of me Grandpa Joe's older style of work hat. It's the hat I wear adorned with curling pins, the hat I bought at Pickford Dry Goods in Pickford, Michigan. 

Of course, his last work hat was different. It was an abomination of pressed, woven and flattened plastic, weaved to look impressive. It was what I chose to keep, along with his Rosary, when me Aunt, lookin' over his property, allowed us grandchildren a choice over. She let me keep them both. 

To my shame, I cannot find his Rosary, the one adorned with his name from the Rosary Shrine of St. Jude here in Detroit, Michigan. But I have his hat. I wear it just now. 

It is dirty, oily, and fits a little tight. And I wear it because, well, I wear it. I think maybe I'll ask to be buried with it. You know, so I can offer it back to Joe when the time comes. 

The potato chip whirlwind

I've written before about trying to win the praises of my son's family's dogs. I think I may have become too successful.

We like chips. By we I mean me, Gaspode, and Riley. They were both shelter dogs, so I understand they will be skittish around new people, or folks they only see every couple of months such as myself. My nefarious plan to curry their favor involves sharing my potato chips with them. This has gotten, for me, a bit absurd of late. I find that, standing in the store to buy snacks I fall to thinking, 'what would they, the dogs, like to try?' It's thoughts I had never thought myself thinking.

Anyway, I share whatever I buy with them. I always, always, mind you, get the first chip. I will be the Alpha dog. Then I give them each a chip up to three, my also always getting the next chip, the fourth then the seventh in order. I get a share of my larder too. 

We stop at three because if I have to watch my chip intake they have to watch theirs. If restraining what I eat is good for me (if we can believe my doctor) then it's good enough for them too.

The whole thing however has reached the point where the first time the dogs see me in the morning they follow me around until I offer them chips. The second time they see me they follow me around until I offer them chips. The third time they see me they follow me around until I offer them chips. It's reached the point where if I'm checking my phone for calls or texts they think it's a sign that I'm getting chips. If I sit down to play solitaire at the computer they think it's a sign that I'm getting chips. Pats on the head or stroking behind their ears are, of course, acceptable substitutes. But you can feel the disappointment.

I think perhaps things have gone a bridge too far. I just pushed away from the computer to turn off my percolating coffee, and the pups followed me into the kitchen looking for chips. I did not give them any. But I feel bad about it.

George Washington's Thanksgiving Proclamation

The following is George Washington's Thanksgiving Proclamation, fitting issued for a much earlier November 26th Turkey Day:

Whereas it is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor; and Whereas both Houses of Congress have, by their joint committee, requested me to "recommend to the people of the United States a day of public thanksgiving and prayer, to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favors of Almighty God, especially by affording them an opportunity peaceably to establish a form of government for their safety and happiness:"

Now, therefore, I do recommend and assign Thursday, the 26th day of November next, to be devoted by the people of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be; that we may then all unite in rendering unto Him our sincere and humble thanks for His kind care and protection of the people of this country previous to their becoming a nation; for the signal and manifold mercies and the favorable interpositions of His providence in the course and conclusion of the late war; for the great degree of tranquility, union, and plenty which we have since enjoyed; for the peaceable and rational manner in which we have been enable to establish constitutions of government for our safety and happiness, and particularly the national one now lately instituted for the civil and religious liberty with which we are blessed, and the means we have of acquiring and diffusing useful knowledge; and, in general, for all the great and various favors which He has been pleased to confer upon us.

And also that we may then unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications to the great Lord and Ruler of Nations and beseech Him to pardon our national and other transgressions; to enable us all, whether in public or private stations, to perform our several and relative duties properly and punctually; to render our National Government a blessing to all the people by constantly being a Government of wise, just, and constitutional laws, discreetly and faithfully executed and obeyed; to protect and guide all sovereigns and nations (especially such as have shown kindness to us), and to bless them with good governments, peace, and concord; to promote the knowledge and practice of true religion and virtue, and the increase of science among them and us; and, generally to grant unto all mankind such a degree of temporal prosperity as He alone knows to be best.

George Washington's Thanksgiving Proclamation, 1789

Anyone who claims that we weren't founded on Christian principles, read these words well and carefully. And have a wonderful and happy Thanksgiving in that light.

A joke, by Charles Martin Cosgriff

Driving through Indianapolis yesterday I saw a billboard which advertised Expert Collision. And I thought, who needs that service? I can do a pretty good job of such things on my own.

Thank you, thank you! I'm here until Tuesday.

A sledgehammer and an ax

You can have fun with tools. You can have a lot of fun with heavy tools, such as a sledgehammer and an ax. Me and me Grandpa Joe proved that one day in dismantling a stove.

Joe had bought this house to fix up and either sell or use as a rental property. It had this monstrous iron stove in the kitchen; I believe the place used to be a social club of some sort which offered meals. Whatever the reason it was there, it was the biggest stove I'd ever seen outside of a restaurant. 

What was pretty clear was that it wasn't carried into that kitchen but assembled there. We had no idea how to dismantle it, so we approached the problem the Cosgriff way. We got a twenty pound sledge and a large ax and began hammering and hacking away at the behemoth.

It wasn't long before chunks and slivers of iron were flying all over the place. I was a teenager, a kid who didn't even consider basic safety equipment such as goggles, and God knows the thought never entered Joe's mind. We just had at it, striking at the dragon's maw until there were small enough bits and pieces to carry out of the house and to the scrap yard. Within about a half hour of attacking the thing it was vanquished. It was no more.

Damn, that was fun. One of me best times with me Grandpa Joe.

The putts

I know what I'm not doing. Really, I do.

My only birdie, my only one under par in golf, was on the 8th hole, a par 3, at Dearborn Hills Golf Club on August 2, 1990. It was a 180 yard hole and I was on the green off the tee. I had about a twenty five putt on a wide arc to birdie. I didn't actually know what I was doing. But lo and behold, I struck the ball and into the cup it went. Marty birdied.

Leap forward to 2018, to my only no putt. I was off the fringe, in the second cut, on the second hole of the back nine, my third shot off the tee. One of my playing partners said I should not putt, I should chip. But I struck the ball as he spoke.

The ball jumped slightly, rolled rightly, and slipped into the cup. My only technical no putt. 

So I have no putted. I feel I have nothing more to prove in golf.

Not nearly enough info

An older gentleman came in the Shop the other day, wanting to know about a switch for his snake. When I asked what he had, he stooped over and with bowed arms demonstrated that his had a large drum. I apologetically said that that didn't really help me. I needed a make and model to get him the right switch. 

He went right back into the same motion, the same position, explaining, "It has a big drum, like this." 

"Sir, that simply doesn't help. Drums can be cage type, spun aluminum, or plastic. Maybe something else. And there's dozens of snakes with large drums." 

He was obviously dejected at that. "So I have to bring it in to you?" 

"Either that, or call me with a make and model. Even then I'd rather see it, because things can get changed over time. Maybe someone put a different motor on it. An older machine might need a different switch from a newer version." 

"Well, let me see if I can get someone to help me bring it to you." I genuinely felt bad for the old gent. But what he was asking was like needing a part for your car and describing the vehicle as having four tires. He simply wasn't giving me enough information to help

Yet I still feel bad for the guy.

Joe Biden's Olive Branch

Joe Biden wants to reach across to me and call a truce. It's time for putting the anger and harsh rhetoric behind us to 'unite' and 'heal', he coos at me. 

Well, here's the deal, Joe. I can't do that, because what you want of me I cannot in good conscience support. I don't want the Supreme Court packed. I don't want First and Second Amendment liberties gutted. I don't want abortion (and shame on you calling yourself Catholic while supporting it). These and a good many other issues I will not compromise.

Do you know why? Of course you do. There are things on which there is no compromise. Either I get my way or you get yours. Period. The fact is you won't compromise anyway. Especially adding on the insidious, hateful, and patently vile invective you and your supporters have wantonly thrown at me as a conservative, I don't believe you when you say you want to 'heal' the 'soul' of our country. You want your way, simple as that.

Guess what, Joe? I get that, so far as it goes. I want my way too. We vote and things happen, for well or ill. That's how this Republic, not democracy, works. Sometimes you win, sometimes I do. As such, my obligation today becomes to counter you any and every time you try to do things which are harmful to this great Nation. I will not unite with you. I will fight for what's right. You, sir, are not right on the great bulk of the issues. I must do what I morally and legally can to stop you. And I will.

So save me your hollow words. 2022 and the House are in my sights now. If you actually do what you say you want to do, the bi-elections will rightly condemn your Presidency.

The war of wills between Mom and Grandpa Joe

Grandpa Joe was one of the few men I knew who taught their kids to call them by their first name. Every now and then I might hear my own Dad call him Pops, but almost always Dad called his dad Joe. So did the rest of Joe's kids. The only other guy I knew who did likewise was Joe's friend Ed, who had his kids call him Ed. I have no real idea why they wanted things that way, but they did.

With my older brother and I as Joe's two oldest grandkids, he set out to have us call him Joe as well. On a day when we were both barely toddlers and only just beginning to speak, he came by the house to encourage us to call him Joe.

Me Mom would have none of that. Where she came from, Mom was Mom and Dad was Dad and Grandpa was Grandpa and so on, and that's all there was to it. She told Grandpa that the first one of us who called him Joe would be punished. He was a grandfather and he would be grandpa. Joe figured she didn't mean it and went to call her bluff. But Mom meant it; God bless them, they were both pretty stubborn.

Eventually one of us called him Joe and got punished. Joe was honestly horrified; he didn't want to see a kid punished over some such as that. So in the true spirit of ending partisan warfare a compromise was reached between me Grandpa Joe and me Mom, a pact likely brokered by me Pops. Joe would be Grandpa Joe. Each side uneasily accepted the terms of the truce. Joe was henceforth, for us anyway, Grandpa Joe.

As an adult, though, working with him, I did at times call him Joe. Hell, I often to this day when speaking about him consciously call him Joe out of reverence. But I never let that get back to Mom.

The old kid on the block

Among what other things I accomplished at the Shop this morning was to install new cords and switches on an Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) for a customer as he waited. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name.

After I was a few minutes into the project Cloyce remarked, "You're making that look easy, Marty."

"Thanks," I replied. "I've been doing it awhile. As a matter of fact I bet I've been doing it longer than you been on this Earth."

"Well, I'm 43," Cloyce offered.

"There you have it. Me Pops started me at this when I was 13, so I've been at it 47 years." I explained.

We chit chatted and soon enough I had the job done. Cloyce paid me and left. Right after he was gone I turned to my brother Phil and said, "Nice kid, that Cloyce."

Did you catch that? I referred to a 43 year old as 'kid'. How old am I?

Big Jim again

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.

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 no way for no reason. But if he were, it would be with something more substantial than a crowbar.

Walking through Woodbridge

Walking through Woodbridge...

There's new house going up a few blocks away. It has that wrap around the exterior which will become an underlay of same sort, the workers having not yet put up the brick or clapboard or aluminum siding covering. The underlay has printed all over it, 'Cloyce's Lumber...we're more than lumber!' Well, why limit yourself in name then? I wondered as I passed.

Walking through Woodbridge...

Inka dinka doo

As I learned to love baseball from me Pops, I also learned to love doing crossword puzzles. I still typically buy the Sunday paper simply to get the three big crossword puzzles which it offers. I imagine I could just get a crossword puzzle book and save money, but old habits die hard. Quiet Ron.

It always impressed me that Pops did the puzzles in ink. I never had that kind of confidence. But one day recently I thought to myself, self, why not try? You never really know what you can do until then. So I sharpened my pen to attack a crossword in ink.

I suppose my first mistake was sharpening my pen. It made a mess of the sharpener and got ink on my shirt. Fortunately the shirt was tie dye, so at least I can camouflage that embarrassment.

On to work. When writing I've developed the sloppy trait of not connecting the top horizontal bars of the letters E and F to the supporting leg, but that is readily corrected with either pen or pencil. You just connect them. Yet I rarely like how my letter S comes out so that I often erase and redo it. You can't do that in ink so easily. I tried writing over the original effort several times, trying to make that stupid S look right, until all that was left was a small square of black ink. Rats. But then, hey presto, I could claim the square was whatever letter I liked. It helps get correct answers I tell ya what.

The trouble deepened when I found myself trying desperately to correct the look of any letter which I decided I didn't like the look of. The O was never round enough and the angled leg of the Q too (or not enough) angled, and the intersection of the horizontal to the vertical of the capital T was not mathematically precise. So I overwrote a lot of them too. In the end, I had one large black ink square superimposed over what had been many small black ink squares. In fairness to me, there were a relative handful of letters plain to see. Relative being the operative term, and plain to see being a questionable assertion.

I think I got some answers right. And Pops, I came to realize that there are many things where I will never be as good as you. One of those is doing crossword puzzles in ink.

Veterans Day 2020

Veterans Day is upon us. One Hundred and Two years after the guns fell silent in Europe, in the Eleventh month on the Eleventh Day at the Eleventh hour, we honor our Veterans. It is a good thing.

It would be difficult to begin a Holiday with a more sublime, dramatic flair. After four years of war, in the War to End All Wars as it was called before World War II overwhelmed that naive and hopeless plaint, the fighting stopped. Originally it was Remembrance Day and/or Armistice Day. Now we remember all Veterans.

We say thank simply because we can't say anything more profound. Our Veterans deserve more than that, especially the ones who haven't really come yet, whether MIAs or suffering from war related issues and injuries. 

Still, we say thank you. From the bottom of our hearts.

Quick thoughts

Monday Monday...

What a difference a year makes! Last year on November 9 we had ten inches of snow in Detroit and super cold temperatures. Today it's sunny and may make 75!

Biden is going to be the next President (let it go, fellow conservatives) but so? This was on the whole a GOP election: we gained in the House and the Governor's offices and state houses, and will almost certainly keep the Senate. There was no blue wave; he has no mandate. And besides, now that the Democrats don't need it to scare people, the COVID crisis will be over January 21.

Anything else, Marty?

No, that'll do today.

Monday, Monday...

Bad post Beatles

Yesterday I mentioned my favorite songs from each of the Beatles as solo artists. Today I will tell you my least favorites.

I don't actually have any George Harrison or Ringo Starr efforts which I don't like. They have some bland things out there but nothing which makes me wretch. But there are two, one each by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, which are simply bad songs.

Sorry Lennon fans, but Imagine is a cloying tune with an insipid and banal message. He's basically saying there's nothing to live for. End of story.

For Sir Paul, it's Temporary Secretary.  It's McCartney's attempt at technopop, and it's embarrassingly bad. Stomach churning bad. Not even bad enough to be good. No. Where. Close. It's awful.

There you have them. My work here is done.

Post Beatles

My favorite John Lennon post Beatles song is Instant Karma! 

George Harrison? I would go with his cover Got my Mind Set on You.

Band on the Run for Sir Paul.

And with Ringo Starr, it would be Oh My My.

I just thought I'd share that with you this morning. I know you've been curious.

The Sun yet shines

Let's not make this any harder than it has to be, shall we?

We don't know who'll be the next President yet and may not know for awhile. That's not a pleasant thought. As such, I have one bit of advice for my fellow Republicans: don't waste political capital on a losing battle.

We do not want to be Al Gore, okay? He and his Democrat allies put the country through a ton of unnecessary haggling in 2000, and for what? To lose something they were going to lose anyway, while perhaps turning off people for a couple election cycles. Don't do that.

Yes, if there's good and solid evidence fight it out in the courts. That would be your right under such conditions. But don't go to the courts just to go to the courts. It's unbecoming, and arguably wrong. Quite frankly, it's what the left does, and admittedly does so well: effectively crying to momma merely because they don't get their way. Courts are and should be last resorts.

Don't interpret this as my giving up on the Presidency or the President. I just finished saying that if there's evidence, fight. I'm simply cautioning that if it ain't there it ain't there, and no point doing anything but accept that.

We kept the Senate and gained in the House. There was no blue wave; Biden and the Democrats do not have a mandate. 2022 isn't that far away, and in a worst case scenario, a Trump loss, then let's work on getting a Trump in 2024 without the bombast. Ted Cruz or Nikki Haley come to my mind, maybe Kristi Noem, but that choice is for another time.

We gained a lot in four years and have a firewall today. Don't lose 2022 extending 2020. 

Everything coffee

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. But I do like certain flavored coffees. This pecan praline is quite nice; the Michigan maple I have in the larder is very good. I love highlander grog with its taste of Scotland. On the road to Arizona last year 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 raspberry lava cake coffee again. But I will look sharp for it on my next journey out west. Hell, I look for it at truck stops when I'm on the road now. It can't hurt, and they will put out the occasional flavored java.

Now autumn is here of course 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 around now, 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.

Over and done with

There. I'm done. I cast my ballot, the Number Four voter in my precinct. It is finished, that nearly yearly task we perform most Novembers. I don't think anything will be on the Detroit ballot in 2021, so I might get a break.

Anyway, what it means for all practical purposes is that I go to work. I have motors to install on two machines and quite frankly, the money I'll make on those chores is more critical to me than my vote. There's a pickup to made in Ferndale, which I'll send my brother on so that he can take Mom for a ride. That too is more critical to me than my vote.

As I said yesterday, it's not that I don't care about the outcome. Yet in the direct and immediate sense business, both personal and, well, actual business, are more important. I said a Rosary this morning for my candidates as well as for peace and quiet no matter how things turn out. Not that I'm God's gift nor believe my prayers any kind of linchpin to hold our country together. But I think the prayers better for the U S of A than any single vote.

I'm not saying I will or will not watch election returns yet those are hours away no matter what. I'm telling myself that I won't: might as well take a melatonin after work and get some sleep. There's no point fretting over the results; they will be what they will be and I will find them out when I find them out. And then I will, as I also said yesterday, get up tomorrow and go about my life. It's the best, the right, thing to do.

Onward and onward

Now we're on the downside, onwards towards an election and Christmas. How's that for putting two disparate things together?

But it's after Halloween and then there is that pesky election tomorrow, followed by the kind of sort of forgotten holiday of Thanksgiving. That's sad, because we should be giving thanks to a far greater degree than we give and get. That's consumerism for ya.

I really don't want to say much about the election except that I'll be glad when it's over. On Wednesday morning no matter what happens I'll check my e-mail, respond to what needs responding, and go to work. Because that's what we should do. 

Do I care who wins? Of course I do. But my vote isn't going to mean a tinker's damn when all's said and done. I don't care who wins what, there's going to be a lot of things done in the coming months which I don't agree with yet cannot affect. It's just part of the human condition. Cast your vote, hope for the best, and get on with your life.

I believe that's the real trick to it: live your life well so that you become better and those around you might just too. That's the best vote you can offer for yourself and everyone else.

Halloween 2020

I suppose, 2020 being 2020, I should not have been disappointed. I expected our trick or treat turnout to be lower than normal. But I didn't expect it to be dismal either.

We had around 30-40 trick or treaters where we usually have hundreds. This on a date which typically turns out to be the most active day on the calendar in my Woodbridge neighborhood. Last night it was mostly, if you'll excuse the joke of sorts, dead.

It's really sad when we let our fears control us to the degree we have. Yet that should all be over after Tuesday, right?

All Hallows Eve

 Happy Halloween everyone!  

Joe's urban exploration

I have lived in the Woodbridge district of Detroit for well nigh on 61 years now.  It's a nice place to live. I enjoy my morning walks here.

I can't tell you how many nearby houses I would love to get a look inside. The styles of architecture (don't ask what the specific styles are called; I only know that different houses look different) are fascinating. There are squarish brick structures and clapboard homes, and thin ones and wide ones and ones with turrets. One wonders what imagination developed some of the sizes and variations on homes found in the old neighborhood. 

That thought this morning jogged my memory into the times, three I believe, where me Grandpa Joe and I went exploring old houses. He'd see an older and clearly abandoned home and half bark, "C'mon, boy" to me and we'd go check it out. I doubt me Mom would have approved.

It was keen though to see the insides and how they were laid out. Then, too, you could tell what rooms and shelves and whatnot had been cobbled in, that were not part of how the original interior had been set up. But perhaps I think the keenest thing was being in there with me Grandpa Joe, him just being a bit of a kid himself with a kid in tow.

I think he was a bit of a kid, honestly. And I mean that in a kind way. Yeah, he was ornery and demanding and gruff and arbitrary. Yet I think he was just the same fascinated with the world around him. What was where, what was what, that sort of thing. Creation, if I may risk going way out on a limb, interested the man. That made for a few quiet and calm adventures between me and him as the days went on.

The experiment

In an hour or two, I shall call a fellow and tell him his machine left for repair is ready. I am very happy that it is ready: on repairs, I don't get paid until jobs are done. So be it.

The fellow will profess over the phone to be quite happy too. He has admittedly waited awhile, as we at the Shop have been dealing with the vexing and somewhat paradoxical problem of being quite busy while having trouble getting parts. COVID for us hasn't slowed business (indeed for us at the old barn 2020 has been outstanding) but it has made it tough at times. The rub is that this particular fellow has been rather outspoken about why can't he get his machine, he really needs it, he's losing money, blah blah blah and ditto ditto ditto. 

Fair enough, so far as it goes. But allow me to tell you why I haven't been overly worried or allowed myself to become rushed about getting his repair ready: he won't come pick it up until after the first of the year, about nine weeks from now as I write. He's the type of fellow who rushes you yet takes his time picking up finished projects.

Me Pops used to say that everyone's in a hurry until it's time to lay the money down. That's not true of all people of course but it is true of the squeeky wheel to whom Pops ultimately refers. We've had plenty of them over the years.

I'll let you know how this turns out, and I promise you I'll play fair. But I am quite certain that you will be reading many unconnected blogs before I tell you January 7, 2021, that our fine fellow has finally gotten his machine out of Shop hock.

The Empire of the Golden Delicious

I was hoping today for an inspiring or edgy or perhaps even coy title. Something like The House of the Rising Sun or Day of the Triffids. No, no, no, not Day of the Triffids. But I offer what I offer. And what I offer is about apples.

In the fall I always head out to an orchard and buy apples, both for cooking and eating. I preferred for the longest time Golden Delicious apples for eating while typically buying Northern Spys for cooking. Northern Spys; there's a tale of intrigue in there somewhere. Civil War and all that. But at times I try something different for cooking: Jonathans or Galas or Cortlands or, to be honest, whatever's cheap. This year I chose Empire apples.

They're. Yummy. I tried one just to taste it (why else would you try one?) and you know what? They're better than that old favorite Golden Delicious.

Now I don't want to cook them. The Empire apples I mean. I want to love them and shine them upon my shirt and eat them all up. Yet I'm not sure I should drop another twenty five bucks a bushel (apples seem expensive this year: I can usually find bushels for around $15) just to make Marty's World Famous in His Own Small Mind Applesauce. 

Life is hard.

Sunday drives

Sunday is typically my day with Mom. We go to lunch, do a little shopping; lately we've taken longish country rides to see the fall colors. If I don't let myself become melancholy, which can be difficult, my being sentimental, they are good times. Mostly they are good times.

Her memory isn't what it was, as we expect. Still, we have fun. One of her favorite things to say lately has been, "Have we eaten? Let's go where they have horse." You know, a variation on I'm so hungry I could eat a horse.

This past Sunday we went by Burger King. She asked me to get her a cheeseburger. As she unwrapped it she showed it to me and asked, "What is this?"

I studied it and replied dryly, "It's supposed to be horse."

Mom got a good laugh out of it. But after a bite or two I think she knew it was a regular old cheeseburger.

Dr. Haffner

Humility should, perhaps, prevent me from writing this. Yet it has been on my mind a lot lately and I want to talk about it, as it was one of the quickest yet most profound moments in my life. And I knew it at the time. So if you would kindly indulge me and ignore any hint of arrogance, I would appreciate it.

Dr. Haffner was my instructor for an Education class called Reading in the Content Areas. My apologies but I do not remember his first name. I still don't actually know what the point of that class was, but so be it.

We argued all semester, as our basic philosophies of education, our outlooks on life, were radically opposite. I won't bore you with details but it began with the fact that he taught that all things, all things, mind you, are relative and that there are no eternal, objective truths. As too many of you probably know by now, I firmly believe in objective truth. Life simply makes no sense without such a doctrine at the core of our actions.

Part of our grade rested on a 20 page term paper reviewing a book about education. I chose to write about The Abolition of Man, a spectacular little book by C. S. Lewis asserting that the doctrine of objective truth is at the center of any good and useful system of teaching. 

On the day of our final exams Dr. Haffner told us that he would give us back our reviews as we handed in our exams, and offer us a word or two on what he thought about them. The students who left before me, I had noticed, had a couple of minutes of quiet talk with him as they were given back their papers.

When I walked up he took my test and handed me my essay. But when I went to grab it he held on, so that we both stood there kind of staring at each other. It's melodramatic to say such things, but it felt as though a hush came over us. Finally Dr. Haffner said to me, in a kind of quiet, thoughtful tone, "You really believe this, don't you?"

"Yes sir, I do," I answered in a subdued voice.

He released my term paper and offered me his right hand. "Good luck, Marty," he said with a great and deep sincerity. I simply said thank you, a very grateful thank you, and left.

I really feel, in that moment, we had truly understood each other and that we parted with an enduring mutual respect despite our adversarial stances. It was no more than half a minute, but maybe the most profound and sublime thirty seconds of my life. I actually choke up a bit when thinking about it.

I don't know where you are these days, Dr. Haffner. But I hope you are well.

A semi-serious question

We are told these days that we must love our children unconditionally and that that means supporting their life choices no matter what. So my question is...

If they decide to become bank robbers do I have to drive the getaway car?

Dear me

A friend of mine was unfortunate enough to hit a deer while driving hone from work early yesterday. Thankfully he's okay, yet he can't say the same for his car. Hopefully it can be fixed and roadworthy soon. 

I read his tale on Facebook around 2 o'clock in the morning Friday, as I was marking time before heading out on a road trip. The little voice we all hear but don't always listen to told me to be extra cautious as I drove, to watch closely for deer.

Sure enough, a little before 5 AM and a few miles north of Kenton, Ohio, I looked to my right to see a doe running at full gallop towards the road, out of a farmer's field. Man, that animal was fast. I didn't think deer could run like that. I slammed on the brakes and it was in front of me before I knew it, but somehow we didn't hit. Whether it missed me or I missed it I don't know, but I'm glad of it either way. I don't think it passed more than twenty feet in front if me crossing route 68.

I'm sad for my buddy's rum luck but I wonder if maybe it saved me my own accident. But I feel I owe him a big glass of chocolate milk, his favorite drink.

Making lemonade

I had a spot of rum luck last night. On my way to the movies a freeze plug blew in my van. By the time I had gotten a tow and had the car at my mechanic, it was too late to see the film. And I had pre-bought the ticket too.

C'est la vie. So it goes. I have just the same been trying to seek the ol' silver lining. It might have been worse: I might have been stuck on the shoulder of the freeway had it happened earlier in my trip. But I had gotten off the x-way and was on surface streets, where I was able to jump into a wide open parking lot when the break occurred. I could get out of my van and walk around without having semis shake me up every ten seconds.

Since I have a scheduled trip to Springfield and then Celina, Ohio tomorrow, it could have happened on I-75 in northern Toledo at 3:15 AM on a Friday. That would not have been fun. Or maybe the plug might have blown 50 miles after I was loaded with drain snake equipment and parts on a lonely two lane blacktop halfway between Springfield and Celina. Again, on a Friday, when the weekend beckons. In fact if I wasn't headed to a Wednesday movie, those things become rather scarily likely.

When life gives you lemons, so they say, and why not? Imagining it had gone better, that I had had no trouble and had seen my movie, really is fruitless. It aggravates you all the more. 

Things worked out as well as the could. I may as well believe it for the best.

Road work

I made a 600 mile loop on the road today, but that's nothing. My top run is just over 902 miles. Yes, in one day. And my goal is to trip a thousand. But even I'm sure that total has been surpassed by my dad or my grandfather. Likely by both.

We're drivers, we Detroit Cosgriffs anyway. I come by my affliction honestly. Pops and Grandpa Joe loved to be on the road.

Joe liked to go on the road to wherever it led him. He would simply take off, go out west, say, riding the rails in his younger days, or to Mexico by car. Maybe Alaska even, or up the 401 through Ontario with my brother Phil until they ended up in Quebec where neither understood the language and ate boot tongues with cheese sauce. Je ne sais quoi. Joe had many interesting things happen to him that way. Some will certainly be blog fodder as I recall them.

Pops, he traveled mostly for business. But man did he travel. The folks at Electric Eel, the company dad sold for and I do now, called him the Road Warrior. Forget Mad Max; Pops had him beat by many untold miles, traversing these United States and even Canada for the business, for Electric Eel. He loved the road, and the road, him.

I'm retreading many of those miles now. And I'm gaining a deeper understanding every day of my forebears' love of the open road. There's a freedom to it, an openness you rarely find elsewhere. I flatter myself that I'm anywhere near the men they were. Yet every now and then I hear their voices through mine.

After making a delivery this afternoon, after offering tips and answering questions about the unit I had delivered, one young man was astounded that I was returning to Detroit this very afternoon. "You're going back to Detroit today?", he asked incredulously.

"Hell, yeah,' I told him. "You think we still travel by stagecoach?"

Your rights and my rights

I'm becoming more libertarian as I get older, although I doubt I can ever be fully libertarian as the individual is no more the arbiter of rights than the state. Our rights come from a higher power than ourselves, Lansing or Washington or the European Union or anybody. Further, our true rights are absolute against outside forces: I have the right to life until natural death unless I myself abrogate it of my own volition. If I'm trying to kill you you thus have a right to kill me if that's what it takes to stop me. 

Rights also imply duties. If you're going to argue, oh, um, say, that people have a right to health care the proper first question is, who has the responsibility to deliver it? If you answer society or government, what you're really saying is me. At that point I have the right to ask why am I responsible for your health care? I'm not responsible for getting your food, clothes, or housing. What makes your health care (and I could add many other things to this question, such as education) my job?

Further questions include, what is health care? Is abortion or a sex change procedure health care? Should people who don't believe in the propriety of such things be made to pay for them? Morally, absolutely not.

A very interesting article on these and other issues related to the supposed health care right can be found here:

https://fee.org/articles/is-health-care-a-human-right/?gclid=CjwKCAjwlbr8BRA0EiwAnt4MTnMnlpEJ5R2sN4oc0i90k-muqj7lTU1hYykvMdQesYoUWGBqUMY9hBoCekcQAvD_BwE

The article does allow that true health care, health care truly necessary for people to live rightly, is important, because of course it is. I will even argue that we do indeed as individuals have a moral obligation to help those in any kind of real need to obtain proper health care (among other things). As such, I believe that demanding society or government fund certain admitted needs amounts to passing the buck and neglecting your own duty towards others. God, if you care to be seriously religious about it, tells you to help your fellow man, not make someone else see to it. Any way you slice it, once you start saying that such and such admitted need is a right, you are in a quagmire with no easy escape outside of violating the true rights of others.

You may fairly ask, Marty, who is responsible for health care then? Well, the same person primarily responsible for your food, housing, clothing, education, and myriad other things.

You.

Out for blood

Me Pops used to give blood regularly. One day as he went to do so he ran into an old friend, whom I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. "Where you headed, Bill?" Cloyce asked. 

Pops told him. "May I ride along?" Cloyce then asked. 

Sure, Dad told him. He assumed his buddy might want to give blood too. 

They soon arrived at the Red Cross building. As a nurse began to prep the old man she asked Cloyce, "Are you here to give blood too, sir?" 

"No," he answered. "But someone told me that blood donors get a shot of whiskey afterward to help replenish themselves. Bill don't drink, so I figured I could get his shot." 

They made Cloyce wait for Pops out on the sidewalk.

The fight is on

As I take my morning walks these days, I always pass Sam's house. When I do I always think of his relationship with me Grandpa Joe. It was, ah, an interesting friendship.

Sam would come by the old barn regularly. His mission seemed to be to needle Joe. It must be admitted, he was very good at that.

Once Joe had me younger brother painting a car of his with a sponge brush and a can of off the shelf paint. Now, I know that's not the best way to paint a car, but it was Grandpa's car and Patrick didn't mind to get paid to paint it however he was told. Sam happened by and exclaimed emphatically, "You can't paint a car like that!"

"The hell I can't!" Joe replied with an incredibly equal incredulity. And the fight was on.

Another time Sam was paying a visit and Joe was going on about something or other which concerned him. When he finished his rant Sam remarked sullenly, "Ah, I don't care, Joe".

Joe barked in response, in an incredibly accurate and proper response, "Yeah, but I do!"

"I just said I don't care!" Sam yelled in reply. And the fight was on.

Similar events occurred countless times over the years. Sam would show up, a conversation would start, sometimes slowly, sometimes explosively, and those two old coots would end up arguing, howling at each other over some kind of nonsense.

The darn thing is, I think they both looked forward to it. I am inclined to think that the more modern term 'frenemies' would describe the situation well.

A Bob Newhart joke

Several days days ago I told you one of me Pops' favorite jokes. Then I regaled you with one of mine. Today I will tell you what Bob Newhart's favorite joke is.

A man was having an affair with the boss's wife. One afternoon they were alone in a hotel room, and in the throes of passion the wife yells, "Kiss me! Kiss me!"

The man responded, "I shouldn't even be doing this!"

A Marty joke

Yesterday I offered one of me Pops favorite jokes. Today I offer one of mine.

I went into a bar and asked for punch. The bartender told me that if I wanted that I had to wait in line.

I looked around and looked around. But there wasn't a punch line.

A Dad joke

One of me Pops favorite jokes, undoubtedly an old one and retread several times in many ways, was as follows.

Two life long friends were baseball fanatics. I'll call one Cloyce and the other Eb just to give them names. Cloyce and Eb loved the game. They loved it so much they made a pact that whoever died first would come back to let the other one know whether there was baseball in Heaven.

As it happened Cloyce passed away before Eb. And surprisingly Cloyce actually appeared to Eb a few days afterwards. "I have two things to tell you, Eb," said Cloyce.

"Well, what's the first?" Eb asked in anticipation.

"There is indeed baseball in Heaven," spectral Cloyce said.

Eb was overjoyed. "That's great Cloyce, just great! So, what's the second thing?"

"You're staring in left field this Saturday."

Reading into it

My current read is a biography of G. K. Chesterton. But that's not the important point here. It's that in reading that book I came across a laugh out loud sentence which I think may have been a mistake of the author's. Not a bad mistake, but I found it funny.

At one point she mentions that a group of intellectuals during the late 1890s founded "...the Center for Psychical Research in Cambridge." I immediately thought, 'There's so much psychic phenomena in Cambridge alone that it needs its own research body?'

I laughed out loud. I'm sure it was unintentional or overlooked. But I found it hilarious.

Ok. Perhaps I am too easily amused.

Car care

Upon leaving my teaching job one night years ago I found a young woman, one of my students, standing in the cold in front of the school. We struck up a conversation as she was waiting for her ride, and she mentioned that she almost had saved enough money for a good used car. "My Aunt actually offered me her two year old car for free rather than trading it in," she told me. "But as nice as that was of her I didn't take it. I don't want to have to care about a car." Her emphasis was on care.

I get that. Nice and shiny and new is, well, nice. So nice in fact that you have to care about it. I understand of course that you have to care about it enough to keep it in good running shape: change the oil, have good tires, fix a cracked windshield perhaps. But this young woman's point was more that, when something is in really great shape, you care about everything. A little ding or scratch becomes a catastrophe, because it ruins nice and new. A ding or scratch on something already dinged and scratched means nothing. Especially with something like cars, whose only purpose is getting you from point A to point B, why worry over minutiae?

That's part of why I always buy used cars. Perhaps I take it to extremes (quiet Ron) but I've never cared about an extra ding or a new scratch. It's only a car. Nothing more.

Short sighted

One of the nice things about Saturday (even when I still need to put in a few hours at the Shop) is that I can take my walk later. Yesterday I wasn't out the door until almost 8; 6:30 is more typical because work starts earlier Monday through Friday. It was also 66 degrees above Fahrenheit, positively balmy for October. I wore shorts and a tee shirt.

This was a conscious decision on my part. 66 and with a light breeze blowing meant it was likely to be the last day this year I could dress as though it were still summer. I meant to take advantage of that. 

This morning it's projected to be 51 by eight AM, cool enough that sweats and a hoodie are sure to be the suit of the day as I traverse around Woodbridge. Yesterday was surely the last hurrah: after going through the wash, the short pants won't see the light of day again until, maybe, April. The long cold winter has begun.

TGIF

Today is Friday. It absolutely is Friday. I made my stops in Indianapolis as scheduled and made great time getting back home. Everything went exactly as it was supposed to, because today is Friday. Not Thursday.

Doesn't feel like a  Friday though.

What did I miss?

I woke up this morning thinking it was Friday. Honest. I even noticed that a Facebook friend woke up with the same feeling.

This feeling persisted even as I took my morning walk. You know how days 'feel' a certain way, right? I spent the whole walk feeling as though it were Friday. It reached the point where I was actually reassuring myself, Marty, it's Thursday. It. Is. Thursday. I was reminding myself of what I did at work yesterday, what I ate at meals and who I spoke to on the phone. Yes, yes, it's quite certainly Thursday, I kept repeating internally.

Then I rounded a corner to be greeted by two entire rows of trash cans and recycling bins lined along Commonwealth Street. The screwy thing about that is that Friday is our trash day. And this wasn't an isolated can or two but whole rows. Needless to say I immediately questioned my own sanity all over again. I even pulled out my cell phone for reassurance. The screen was blank, the battery dead.

Arriving at my shop, which does not have a clock or a calendar because hey, we have cell phones for those sorts of things these days, I was still confused. But getting back home for a few minutes has assured me that yes, this is Thursday.

Friday, please stop messing with me, okay?

With apologies to Dr. Donoso

As well as reading more I'm trying to get back into writing more. As faithful readers know this particular blog has been around since 2008, but I also have books available. My first, A Subtle Armageddon, is out in both print and a kindle edition. You may find them here:

https://www.amazon.com/Subtle-Armageddon-Infinity-Book-ebook/dp/B076TSSGT4

Don't worry, this isn't entirely a sales pitch, although my offerings are selling like cold cakes and my mother desperately needs that surgery. I simply found myself thinking about that day in 1982 when I had my first real and deep inspiration to begin work on what became ASA. 

I was sitting in a philosophy class in room 332 of the Briggs Building on the University of Detroit campus. Dr. Anton Donoso, a truly fine teacher whose class on American Philosophy I thoroughly enjoyed, was lecturing, I think, on William James. For all I do remember of that day I don't recall exactly who he was talking about. Anyway, I had had this germ of an idea for a book for a few years by then. I even knew where it would end, though I didn't know how I'd get there. And that particular evening, well, in a fit of inspiration, I began writing. By the time class was over I had hand written almost ten pages of that first novel.

I have long wondered whether Dr. Donoso even noticed what I was doing, and if he did, did he think, wow, there's one student really into my lecture, the way he's scribbling on his notebook. And that, if it was the case, I've always felt bad about. So, wherever you are today Dr. Donoso, I apologize. I really did like your class. I was just distracted that day. I hope you forgive me.

Best of all possible worlds?

I have made no secret of the fact that I have become something of a night owl. It's really neat to be wide awake and active (well semi-active; how much can actually you do in the middle of the night?) (quiet Ron) when all the world is still and serene. Yet I have to admit that I'm finding even that world beginning to distract me.

Reading has become my pastime, as I've let known on these pages. I can't read enough and am always looking for new books. So there's point one. But a point two has arisen lately: with the Kindle my kids bought me  a couple of Christmases ago (Sure Marty, throw them under the bus) I find things to read on there. It's more than entire books which cost me nothing. It's also short articles, some worthwhile and some tripe which I still waste time on. Time on those adds up, especially when you figure in the typical Facebook and Facebook like diversions.

Now Decades TV has throw itself into the mix as point three. The Bob Newhart Show (the one from the 70s where he is a Chicago psychologist, and boy could Chicago use some psychology now) airs at 12:30. Get Smart is on at 1:30. Car 54, Where Are You? follows quickly at 2:30. Three all time faves of mine. 

My nights, well, my wee hours of the morning, are packed. Roll over, turn off the alarm, watch Bob Newhart. Read a half hour, tune into Maxwell Smart. Troll Facebook and adroitly comment on the past day's events if I'm not too interested in The Phil Silvers Show (Sgt. Bilko you are a conniver) until Toody and Muldoon's antics at 2:30. Then read again, if, and only if, I am not intrigued by The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis (Maynard G. Krebs sure is lazy, eh?). Then read until I take my early morning nap (catching glimpses of The Abbott and Costello Show), waking anytime after 6 for my morning walk.

My worlds are colliding. How can I distract myself from my own distractions?

The right question

Same old Lions?

It just seems the right question for a Monday morning in the fall...and now you get two weeks to think about it.

The two edged sword

Knowledge is good. I believe the movie Animal House taught us that. Following the theme of what we can learn from movies, I want to briefly mention what I think we learn from my personal favorite movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey. It addresses the question of knowledge too.

When the monolith appears to the apes early in the film (Spoiler alert: a monolith appears to apes early in the film) the pre-humans are frightened, then curious. Summoning up their courage, they touch the monolith and are given knowledge. Well, what's the first thing they do with it? They learn how to better get food. They eat better. That's a good thing, of course. But what's the next thing they do?

They attack the neighboring tribe of apes.

What does that tell us about knowledge? First that, yes, John Belushi is right. Knowledge is good. But is our use of knowledge good? And that, my friends, is what I will leave you with today.

A scientific theory

There is one very vile habit that the pedants have, and that is explaining to a man why he does a thing when the man himself can explain quite well — and quite differently.  If I go down on all-fours to find sixpence, it annoys me to be told by a passing biologist that I am really doing it because my remote ancestors were quadrupeds.  I concede that he knows all about biology, or even a great deal about my ancestors; but I know he is wrong, because he does not know about the sixpence. 

Now you may very well ask, indeed I hope that you do ask, just what the hell this is all about. Well, it is about Mr. G. K. Chesterton, or more to the point, about an argument he is making which is quite worth making. And that point is that we cannot actually explain everything about ourselves by presuming to understand our remote, prehistoric past. 

Such presumption can be rather arrogant. It is being made about cultures which we have not and cannot see. We do not know that our ancestors were quadrupeds precisely because we did not live with our ancestors; in fact we do not know with any certainty who they are or were. We might make guesses, and very educated guesses about them indeed. But that is all we're doing. 

Science has its limits, particularly science which has no power of observation. And that is why I do not trust presumed science. It is all too often inference rather than observation based. With science, inference, while sometimes necessary, isn't fact. And that's the fact of the matter.

May firsts. Sorta.

My furnace kicked on at about 6:50 this morning for the first time since May.

On my morning walk I could see my breath. Very starkly. For the first time since May.

I thought I had layered enough but I didn't get past being cold on my walk until after about 15 minutes. That's the first time that's happened since May.

What worries me the most about all this is that in May I had seen snow flurries on my walk as late as the 12th. That's how long the cold held this year. Not that, with the 2020 we've had, that should be surprising. So, I wonder with trepidation, how soon will I see flurries again, for the first time since May.

The furnace just kicked on. For the second time since May. I hope that's not a portend of things to come.

Uncle John's pep talk

 Me Pops, you need to know (as many of you do) was the oldest of eight in his family. Me Uncle John whom we call Zeke was the youngest, and there were twelve years between them. Just in front of Uncle John at positions 6 and 7 in the family order were two other sons. The four of them at one time or another worked for me Grandpa Joe in his welding shop. Now you have all the information you need in order to understand my tale today.

Zeke was a young teenager and work simply wasn't going well for him one day. Try as he might, whatever he touched did not turn to gold. All turned to dust, maybe, and he'd even have to sweep that up. It was, according to me Pops, a rough day for the kid.

So Pops decided to do what a good elder brother should. When there was a break in the action, he sat down with his youngest sibling to offer encouragement. Ah, give it time, things will go better, stiff upper lip and all that sort of thing. Pops decided to finish the speech with a flourish. Waving an arm across the inside of the Shop he said, "And remember, Zeke, one day all this will be yours."

Uninspired by the sage words of me Pops Uncle John sat, dropping his shoulders a bit and becoming even more glum. "When you and Mike and Jim get done with it, I don't know if I want it." he said.

Until the last time he told that story, me Pops laughed loudly over it. Honesty can hurt. But it can be darn funny too.

The One not so Absolute Truth

I am loathe to write this, in part because of the stink hole it nearly always leads towards. Yet it springs from something which is profoundly irritating and merits, indeed demands, refutation. I become almost instantly furious whenever anyone in trying to defend a position makes a statement either exactly, or very similar to, everything's subjective.

That is wrong on many counts. It is vapid. It is banal. It is trite. It is, I will say it, evil. And as subjectivity claims to hold the One Absolute Truth, namely that there is no truth, it is arrogant. It is, and I think this is the premier philosophic charge to be brought against it, intellectually dishonest. The person asserting it should almost always know better.

Yet they argue it, with passion and, well, finality. It is a tiring and endless assault to counter them. As Plato says, if you challenge them in detail they will simply continue to produce detail, and tie up the debate in useless nausea. They may get away with this tactic in the abstract, but in the concrete, in the world where we need to know what is actually true (was George Floyd murdered or not?), where there are actual facts to be gathered, analyzed, and from which are drawn true and just results, it is the realm of the charlatan. 

Murder of course is an abstraction, and facts as facts are meaningless. In the realm of mere fact, all that happened in Minneapolis was that someone killed someone else. End of story. If you are going to argue that what happened was wrong, you must go beyond mere, hard fact.

Plato further teaches that if you challenge the subjectivists on principle they will merely assert there are no principles. Remember, they own the One Absolute Truth. But if all is subjective, and this is where the true intellectual dishonesty comes in, what exactly are they debating? What are they arguing for? How can even they know the One Absolute Truth is true?

I believe part of it lies in the idea that because there are different opinions among different peoples there cannot be one truth. The subjectivist argues an oversimplification: that the simple existence of differing points of view means all views are valid. They are confused about two things: one, that differences may come from a simple lack of understanding (and thus, if all involved are open to honest debate, truth can be found through conversation and logic) and two, that there are mistaken and sometimes evil people in the world who will create confusion merely to further their nefarious goals. Such people know the truth. Yet they actively seek to subvert it.

The subjectivist cannot, by definition, be arguing for any positive moral good because there can be no positive moral good in pure subjectivism. If all is subjective then no one thing is any more true or good or valuable than any one other. On that level, the murderer is equal to the one who dotingly cares for his ageing mother. 

The case against subjectivity and subjective morality is so plain that I cannot imagine anyone really believes it. I think rather they talk themselves into believing it. Subjectivism of necessity involves deceit, and particularly self deceit. It involves lying to yourself, and, by easy extension, others. It involves the worst type of misleading: piping yourself and friends and family into the abyss of nothingness.

C. S. Lewis opined you will invariably find that the one who argues all is subjective most certainly holds beliefs which he does not think subjective. He wouldn't debate you otherwise. For the true subjectivist logically, when challenged, must respond to adverse opinion simply by conceding whatever point is at hand, because that belief, and again I stress subjectively, must be as good as his. In short, we really have nothing to discuss, and can only be left with a might makes right world. The stronger person, or the one who gets the drop on the other, gets his way. Or hers; whatever.

If there is no objectivity then there is no truth. And if there is no truth, all human acts are pointless. The only rational approach to our earthly condition, if all is subjective, is rank despair.