Burnin' gas

This is going to be one of those entries which probably isn't as funny as I think it is, especially as I didn't witness the joke. Still, I'll give it the old college try. After all, I did graduate from an old college.

I went to work early this morning to get a machine done for a fella who wanted it five days from yesterday (let's see how quick he actually gets to the Shop for it) and as I was leaving to come home for a bit the guy across the alley was trying to get his old van started. This he managed, but boy, was that thing burning gas. You could smell it, strong and engulfing the air all around. It was an odor I hadn't come across in years. Since back when we had a couple hundred old Hobart welders in fact. The smell of a motor burning too much gas is one you remember.

Anyway, it reminded me of a time when old Amos Sheffield was working for me Grandpa Joe. Joe sent Amos out to pick up a gas drive, a welder powered by a gasoline engine. When Amos got to the job site he himself smelled that smell. He knew the Hobart would need work once back at the old barn.

The foreman sauntered over to Amos as he hitched up the machine to his vehicle (a car, because Joe at the time didn't believe in pickup trucks) and remarked, "The old girl worked pretty well, but it sure was burnin' gas."

"What?" Amos asked incredulously. "You got one of our machines to burn gas? How'd you manage that? I gotta let Joe know about it. I can't believe you made one of our welders burn gas," and on and on, as me Pops would tell it, until the foreman finally smiled and said "Get outta here," and went about his business.

Yeah, probably not that funny a story. But Pops liked it.

Going where?

I'm late. I should have been out the door a half hour ago. Instead I'm writing to see where this leads.

That's the nice thing about Sundays though. I don't have to take my walk super early because I have time. No getting exercise out of the way just to get to the Shop for a head start on the work day. Just hang around until I decide, okay, time for a walk. Then I take that walk.

I believe I'll head out about seven. Not exactly seven, about seven. Seven's a good time, take a walk, get a paper, maybe a cinnamon roll, have a coffee and read the comics. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

Where was I going with this?

What goes around

Two Fridays ago a woman who owns a property management company came into my shop. She has some drain snakes which her employees use for, wouldn't you know it, property management purposes. She asked for this part and that cutter and her bill came to $93.07. After giving me $93 she began digging into her purse for change. "Don't worry about the seven cents," I said. She thanked me and left.

Yesterday she returned for two more things. Her total was $68.18. Handing me sixty eight bucks she then immediately laid a quarter on my desk. Smiling, she said, "Now it's my turn: don't worry about the seven cents!"

 Serendipity. You gotta love it.

Black Lives Matter and Black lives matter

I will cut straight to the chase here: I believe, as any rational and compassionate human being should, that Black lives matter. But I do not, will not, and cannot support Black Lives Matter as a movement.

You want police reform? I do too. Where police actions are unwarranted, especially when they are unwarranted and deadly, we must work to weed out bad cops and punish offences which are against God and man. No sane person should be against this.

But I will not support Black Lives Matter. The movement is unabashedly Marxist and seeks not reform but a remake of American society. I do not want their ideas to succeed. If you do, remember Marxism has failed every single place where it has been tried.

Black lives do matter. They matter very much. Black Lives Matter, however, is dangerous.

Late Father's Day letter

Hey Pops, how are you today?

Business is absolutely booming. The coronavirus panic hasn't hurt us one lick. I'm not sure without crunching the numbers but I think we're having the best year in a decade. Now I just need both the work and the old barn to hold up another ten years and I'll be fine. Yeah, I know you and Joe never intended to retire. Maybe I shouldn't either. I suppose I have ten years to make up my mind then, eh, the good Lord willing and the crick don't rise.

They're actually, supposedly supposed to play baseball this year. MLB is looking at a start date of July 24. As much as it hasn't affected us that virus has done a number on the grand old game. I bet you're glad you ain't gotta worry about bizarre things like viruses anymore. I imagine you still worry a bit about about baseball, it being baseball and all. We had a lot of good times hitting and catching back in the day didn't we?

People complain about roadwork in Michigan but I don't see it much better in Ohio and Indiana. They're still working on rebuilding that interchange at I-75 and US 68 in Findlay, and there's so much happening on Interstate 70 heading into Indianapolis that I have to factor in more time going there. And of all things Main Street is closed in Arlington Ohio for 120 days to be rebuilt. I never thought that little town had enough traffic to damage the roads. But I found a way around it, out into the country. I'd say it's a nice side trip but it's always dark when I'm driving that stretch, so I can't says how pretty it might be. All told though, I like being on the road. I know very well now why you and Joe liked it so much. Beats looking at Phil trying to work too.

Mom's all right such as we can expect these days. You know the situation quite well of course. Just keep your hand on her shoulder and it'll all be fine in the end.

Seven years now. Wow.

Until next time,

Marty

Cloyce steak

A friend of Dad's, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, had decided that he wanted steak for dinner. So he went to the grocery store and bought a large steak, at the then whopping sum of $5 (it was in the early 1950s). But on the way home on what was a stifling day he decided, in Pops's words, to stop for a tall, cold one. Cloyce left the steak on the front seat of his car.

When he came out of the bar, the steak was gone. As I said this was early 50s, so folks rarely locked their car doors. Well, Cloyce was upset. But still, he really wanted steak, so he went back to the store and bought another even at the then high cost. He was that determined to have steak.

A few minutes later he walked triumphantly into his house. "Guess what we're having for dinner?" Cloyce called to his wife.

"Steak," came the reply from the kitchen. It turns out Mrs. Cloyce had been walking by the bar while Cloyce was having his cold one, recognized the car and, seeing the steak, knew it would go bad quickly on the hot day. So she opened up the car and took the food home. But she neglected to look for Cloyce, knowing that he was not necessarily in the bar as in the old neighborhood there were various stores all over and he really could have been anywhere. She just wanted to get the steak home and start cooking it.

So Cloyce had steak two days in a row. Pops said that it was considered a win-win.

Quick change

You've all noticed I should think that when you're in Michigan the overwhelming majority of license plates are Michigan plates. Shockingly, it's the same way in other states. In Ohio most plates say Ohio. In Indiana, Indiana and in New York, New York. But get this: when you're driving and cross a state line the majority of plates changes almost immediately.

Yes, that's going to happen. But I mean it happens absurdly fast. Cross into Indiana from Ohio and in about 17 feet nearly all plates say Indiana. It's true I tell you. You would figure it would take a few miles of travel yet it doesn't. Cross a state line and bam! It's like a magic trick, the change happens so fast.

Okay, so don't believe me. But watch how quickly it happens the next time you're driving into another state. You will be amazed.

The beginning of the end

Have you stopped to think that maybe we should think differently about summer and winter?

We tend to hate winter and love summer. Fair enough; I am pretty much in that boat too. Still, it occurs to me today, now that summer 2020 is actually begun, that we're on the downside of the year.

Give it a thought. With the first day of summer we've had the longest day of the year. The days get shorter and shorter and shorter until, you guessed it, winter. But when winter starts we're on the upswing. After the first day of winter days start getting longer. We've bottomed out. We're not at the end of things but the beginning of them.

Or do you care, and I'm just overthinking it?

Make 'em laugh

What weighs more, a gallon of water or a gallon of butane? A gallon of water, because butane is lighter fluid.

I bought the world's worst thesaurus today. I mean, it's awful. Awful.

After I was shopping yesterday the cashier couldn't scan one of my items. "That must be free," I told her.

Did I ever tell you about when I was fired unjustly from my job at a calendar factory? All because I took a couple days off.

My son complained during the winter that the house was too cold. I told him go stand in the corner. He demanded why. I said the corner is 90 degrees.

There: dad jokes. I get to tell them today and you have to laugh at them. Happy Fathers Day.

You're welcome.

A curmudgeon moment

Some days the curmudgeon in me gets really ticked off about the lack of basic courtesy and consideration in this world.

As I finished my daily constitutional I opted to go to the local gas station and party store for a bottle of water. They have strawberry Dasani there and I really like it. Anyway, as I arrived there there were, not one, not two, but three cars angled in towards the door. They were blocking easy access to at least four of the gas pumps as well as access to the store. And there were six perfectly good parking spaces wide open to the side.

What, are your legs broken that you can't walk an extra fifteen feet to get your morning joe? Isn't that what our dads would have asked us?

Is your time so precious that you get to make other people walk around your car or maneuver their cars around yours to get gas because you need to save three seconds getting in and out?

The arrogance of some folks really makes my blood boil. Maybe that's why my doctor is now talking about giving me blood pressure meds...

Watch your step

Of all the troubles in the United States today, of all the troubles in the world at large, I just had one of the scares of my life come from one of God's furry little creatures. On my walk this morning I was threatened very definitively by a raccoon.

I came around a corner and heard this violent hissing. At first I couldn't see what or where it was and took another step. Then I heard it again and, looking around and finally down, this raccoon was letting me know in no uncertain terms that my presence was most unwelcome.

That scared me. There was that instant where I didn't know what to do: do I run, do I keep walking, do I back off, what? The animal leaned back into the hedge it was up against and hissed further warnings so that I about half expected it to pounce. I noticed no foam at the mouth, which I thought good. But how much that would matter if it actually attacked I don't know.

After a long second or two where I had momentarily stopped I simply altered my course and crossed the street at an angle, my head cocked around to keep an eye on the animal. It hissed one final time and slid back into the hedge. That was fine by me.

Perhaps I had startled a momma concerned for her kids. I in fact assume that, for if it was rabid, well, I'd likely be in Harper Hospital just now. And you wouldn't hear about this until tomorrow. For me, I'm simply happy I didn't take one more step forward. I'll surely avoid that particular hedge the next few days as well.

Smile, smile, smile

I find myself literally giggling at myself more and more lately. Sure, many of you have laughed at me in the past: I haven't forgotten that. Sometimes I've laughed along with it. But now it's more about the growing realization that I am not getting younger.

As I bent over to pick a wrench up off the floor today I realized exactly how far away the floor was and how much my body did not want me to bend down to pick that wretched wrench up. I laughed at myself over that. As I turned a screwdriver to adjust the clutch on a machine my shoulder positively begged me not to do it. I did it anyway of course. But I giggled at myself over my own body resisting me.

It's not as though I haven't known that aging meant bodily resentments. It's just that I didn't expect to find aging genuinely funny.

Oh well. Better to laugh than to cry I suppose.

Pride goeth

I related a tale of woe to yon reader yesterday, of an admittedly minor hassle I had to deal with. You might refresh your memory here if you like:

https://thesublimetotheridiculous.blogspot.com/2020/06/no-good-deed.html

Yet that does not tell the whole story. I rather wondered even at the time whether God was giving me a minor lesson in humility.

You see, when I decided to go ahead and assemble the customer's machines, I was quite proud of myself and my decision. 'Yeah Marty, you're the man, showing all this consideration for your customer' I was figuratively thinking to myself. 'You know what good customer care is'.

Then the hardware, the parts I needed to set up the second machine, weren't in the box so that I had to go grab them from my supplies. And I can't help think that perhaps the Almighty was sending Marty a message that maybe he shouldn't be quite so happy with himself over simply doing his job well.

I'm giggling at that thought, on no small account that I was a little too proud of me indeed.

No good deed

A customer had not one but two units shipped to him which were, unfortunately, defective. The base plates were not properly machined out on either one. Consequently, I picked them up to make corrections. So it goes; all things made by human hands are subject to issues. It's part of the job.

He had repacked the units into the shipping cartons so that I had to unpack them at the Shop. No big deal: it only takes an extra thirty seconds to remove them. I start with one, replacing the defective part. But rather than repack again I thought I'd just assemble the machines for the customer. It would save him time and be good customer service. And, why repack, right? I proceeded to completely assemble unit one.

That done, I unpacked unit two. I discovered that the hardware, the nuts and bolts and clips and what not which are necessary to put the thing together, were not there. Either they hadn't came from the factory or, more likely, the customer had inadvertently not included them in his repackaging of the machine.

What's a fellow to do? I wasn't about to disassemble the first one because I couldn't more easily assemble the second. I went to my own supplies for the various items and put unit two together. All the while giggling that no good deed goes unpunished.

First World problems, eh?

It's all in the name

Michael Baldwin, Bruce.

Michael Baldwin, Bruce.

Michael Baldwin, Bruce.

Is your name not Bruce?

No, It's Michael.

That's going to cause a little confusion. Mind if we call you Bruce to keep the record straight?

I'm feeling a bit silly this morning. If anyone can figure this out, I owe you an invisible silver plated award.

Section 504

One of the nicer things which the corona panic has brought about has been the replaying of big games in local sports history. Last night I watched a replay of the final major league baseball game at Detroit's Tiger Stadium. I enjoyed it so much I watched the replay of the replay at two this morning. It's not conducive to a good night's sleep, but it was worth it.

I was there with my family that day, September 27, 1999. I had not seen the game since. We sat in Section 504, Row M, Seats 11-15. They were in left field, which gave us a perfect view of Robert Fick crushing the grand slam which sealed the win. I screamed, "Go, Go!" all the way until the ball hit the right field roof. Then I screamed even louder in, no hyperbole here, thanksgiving, because I knew the game was over. The home club simply can't lose its last game in a grand old ballpark.

As player from all eras were introduced and paraded onto the field afterwards, I saw so many heroes from my youth. Mark "The Bird" Fidrych, came out first. He ran to the pitching mound, getting on his knees to groom it as he did as a player, and produced a baggie to fill with mound dirt. Willie Horton cried unashamedly as he jogged out to his left field position. The recently departed Al Kaline, after helping in the broadcast booth during the telecast, had perhaps the loudest cheers as he walked to the right field spot he owned for two decades.

We stayed after for as long as we were allowed, even getting to catch a final view from the bleachers at my oldest son's behest. The usher was just locking the gate, but he let us in. I don't think he wanted to yet I believe he appreciated our wish.

So there you have it. A game I haven't seen in twenty years I watched twice in one night. Maybe something good has come out of things after all.

The real trouble these days

I hate to comment too much on political and social issues these days. Part of it quite honestly is me. I get upset and, if I'm not really careful, I lash out, especially when provoked by an unfairness of some sort. And it's fair to say there's a lot of unfairness going on, don't you think?

Yet we can't change things, we can't learn the good from the bad, without talking honestly but fairly. That, I think, is the real trouble today. Too many people say they want truth when what they want is to have their way.

That's fine if their way actually leads to truth. But again, we can't ever know if it leads to truth unless we can talk, honestly and fairly. We all need to do a better job of that, because once the finger pointing and name calling begins we are all just shutting the other guy out.

Once you call me racist because I intend to vote for President Trump this November I will tune out absolutely everything else you say after that. My thoughts on the President are nuanced and, to a very great degree, forced by circumstance. If you are unwilling to examine the nuance and forces at work behind my decision, we can't fitfully discuss whether I ought to vote for him or not.

I try to play fair with this idea, as I should. Once someone refers to President Obama as O'Bummer or some derogatory term, they get shut out of my mind too. I dismiss them as someone who does not really want honest, fair, and charitable conversation.

You want to talk to me, talk to me, and I will strive to treat you with the same dignity. You want to insult me, well, I can insult you too. And it will get us exactly nowhere.

A Detroit Monday

When I went to bed in Hessel last night, I was staying until Tuesday. I had made mind up, no doubt about it, Tuesday it was.

Then I woke up this morning thinking about what needed to be done at work. By the second cup of coffee I was unsure of my plans. By the time I emptied the pot for what made cup three, I had actually already began packing and cleaning. I was going home.

Now I'm home and, having already answered some work related e-mails, I intend to write a few more. Then I'm heading up to the Shop to try and get a couple things done there. All on what was supposed to be the last day of a short vacay.

Ain't conscience a bugger?

A Hessel Sunday

It's Sunday morning here in Hessel. The sun is out, the coffee is on, and the newspaper crosswords await my pencil. Me Pops always did crosswords in pen. I don't have that confidence.

The coffee is a holiday blend. That seems fitting as Hessel's holiday banners are still up. If Hessel can have Christmas in June I may as well get in on the spirit.

In fact, I believe I'll stay until Tuesday. Who says you can't have too much of a good thing?

Ontonagon and Gogebic

Ontonagon and Gogebic may sound alien to you. They were indeed alien to me at one time. They are that no more. I have paid them visits.

Ontonagon and Gogebic counties are the westernmost counties in the far reaches of Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. They make up two of Michigan's Eighty-Three counties. They are further from Detroit by road than our nation's capital. Until yesterday, Friday, June 5, in the Year of Our Lord 2020, I had not seen them.

I have now. As I had to be in Marquette, Michigan, a tad over half way to those those rural regions, on 6/5/20, I decided after business was there transacted to proceed on west young man. A significant part of me wished to get back to Hessel in Michigan's quite glorious unto its own right eastern U.P. Yet the call of the then unknown, the siren of the west, was strong.

I answered. Went west did I young man, and by such action I have now been in each and every county in me home State of Michigan. I have visited all 83 counties of this, my home and noble State.

Who says Marty does nothing in the moment, nor has he a bucket list?

You should vote in person

There are several reasons why I don't like mail in voting. Five came to my house yesterday, as forms asking everyone in my household to vote by mail. The trouble is, three of those voters no longer live here. They live out of state.

Such inaccurate voter rolls with the obvious opportunity for fraud worry me. What's to stop me from requesting ballots and voting for myself and three of the four?

I won't do that of course. Yet that's because of me and my principles and not due to the diligence of the Detroit City Clerk's office. They wouldn't know. What's worse, they wouldn't check. If they actually checked up on things, we would have gotten two and not five ballot requests.

Outside of legitimate circumstances, you should only vote in person and on election day. This insures against fraud while serving the true purpose of elections: as a snapshot of what the nation thinks on that day, not days or weeks before (or after).

What might change between your voting by mail and election day that might cause you to reflect and alter your vote? You don't know. You cannot know. That is why we need an election day and not an election season.

A comet by the tail

I have to imagine that almost everyone knows about Halley's Comet. Its orbit brings it close to Earth about every 75 years. The last time it was nearby was 1986. A group of friends and I actually went out to see it then, and I found myself thinking about that on a drive recently as I happened to pass the park where we watched it.

To say I was geeked to see it would have been understatement. As a child I recall me Grandpaw Hutchins talking about when it passed in 1910, when he was a 11. He described it as very bright, and a spectacular sight. Some folk, he explained, thought it was the end of the world, the sight was so unusual. It turns out that Earth actually did pass through the tail of the Comet, so it surely was an awe (and perhaps fear) inspiring event.

Needless to say that after years of self induced build up I really wanted to see that thing return. I mean, I really wanted to see it. And so I did: as a tiny line on the lower western horizon from where that group of us spied it. Halley's Comet wasn't inspiring at all, let alone menacing.

I wish it had been better, especially I don't expect to have the chance to see again as it will be 2061 when it returns and making it to 102 years old is highly unlikely. Still, I have me Grandpaw's description of it. And I have the memory of his memory too, which ain't a bad thing.