Near and minor injury

Getting older means, among other things, being more careful about little stuff. Stuff such as picking up your feet when you walk.

Hiking around the neighborhood this morning I nearly went end over end when I hit my left foot against a slightly high section of sidewalk. I manged to keep my balance, not falling even though I took a couple drunk looking steps regaining my balance. Laughing as I got back to walking properly, I reminded myself that, particularly as Woodbridge and the Wayne State University area have their share of uneven walks, I really should pick up my feet as I go along. Or at least pay better attention to where I'm headed.

But wait, there's more. As I took my glasses out of my pocket when I arrived at the old barn with morning exercise over, I pinched my finger between the earpiece and the lens as I went to put them on. I tell you I drew blood. Putting my glasses on. Can you imagine that?

I would should you but it's my middle finger and, you know, decorum.

Systemic anything is only a conspiracy theory.

Oh, I'm probably going to regret this post, because I know how it's going to play out. It'll end up with nobody listening to anybody. My 'side' will say flip, yours will say flop, and it will end up a pointless quagmire. Why bother?

But, hell, there is that part of me which asks why not try? We really do need to have open, honest, and non-hostile conversations about uncomfortable questions. So, here goes, despite my knowing that I will be seen as part of the problem at least by some of my friends and family.

You assert there is systemic racism. I do not think there is. Oh, there's racism, absolutely. But it is endemic, a sad reflection of our human condition. It happens because people at times follow their fallen, imperfect natures, saying and doing bad things for irrational, evil reasons. We have racism for the same reason we have thievery, libel, and murder. Imperfect people will do imperfect things. It's simply how the world is.

This does not and cannot mean we should not do something about human ill will. Where racism exists we must root out and punish it, just as we should with all evils. Part of that however does not mean making more of an individual evil than it is. Labeling racism systemic does exactly that.

To use what I think is an easy example (though it will denied such) let's look at the recent Kenosha situation. What happened to Jacob Blake, if it was racially motivated at all, could not have been systemic. The police went after him because there were outstanding warrants for him. The warrants were issued by courts based on the testimony of citizens about the accused. And then he resisted arrest. So for the incident to be an example of systemic racism, the citizens, the courts, and the cops would all have had to have been in on the conspiracy, and Blake's own resistance would have to have been a non-factor. I just don't buy it. 

To be sure, it is within the realm of possibility that he was shot because he was black. Yet that decision would have had to be made terribly fast, and under the circumstances, his continuing to resist even after not one but two taser attempts failed, I think it highly doubtful the cop thought about shooting him simply because he was black. He may have panicked into overreacting, perhaps. Even then, it would be the officer who shot at fault, not the system. 

Justice is primarily individual, A did something wrong to B, and typically no more than that. It follows then that justice would be better served when approached that way. Wanting more than that out of it is dangerously divisive, and unjust in its own right.

The harmless Catch-22

Dad jokes.

Don't but flowers from monks. Only you can prevent florist friars.

I'm opening a car repair shop. I'll call it Auto Correct.

And then there's the ones which ensnare young kids in a vicious catch-22. My own Dad's favorite was to ask a kid, "If you have twenty-six sheep and one of them died, how many would have left? " If naive, unsuspecting child answered 25, he's say no, you'd have 19, insisting he said twenty sick sheep. If poor, unfortunate young 'un actually replied 19 me Pops would insist he said 26. It was a vicious, unwinnable cycle.

But no long term psychological damage was done. I don't think.

The trouble with justice

I sure opened a can of worms yesterday with my Facebook post. I simply remarked that no sports were cancelled for Cannon Hinnant, a wholly innocent five year old boy murdered in cold blood. The implication (if it isn't obvious enough) is that athletes are stopping play to protest guys who got in trouble with the cops without regard for circumstances over which the trouble began. I find that repugnant, quite honestly. Say what you want about George Floyd or Jacob Blake, and I believe myself that there's evidence enough with each incident that the police might have done wrong, they brought it on themselves to a degree. Yet we're okay destroying property and walking off our jobs for that. I can't be the only one who sees something wrong with that picture.

The thing is, the thing we need to remember when we're talking about doing the right thing, is that justice at the end of the day is individual. If George Floyd was wronged, he was wronged, and it was the Minneapolis police who wronged him. If Jacob Blake was wronged it was the Kenosha police who wronged him. Neither can or should be taken as pro forma evidence of systemic racism. I fear we are superimposing an idea on top of essentially individual circumstances when we do that. 

That's not justice. For anyone.

Let's talk about the weather

Old guys talk about the weather. It's what they do. So, me being an old guy and you being a properly courteous and deferential youngster who will listen to me politely, I'll talk about the weather.

The Internet is a positive boon to old guys where weather is concerned. I just finished checking the radar and it's raining. Just like it was when I checked it five minutes ago. Or maybe four. You lose track of time when you're delighted.

Then there's the nice colors on the radar screen. Ohh, dark red, maybe even deep purple (you just had the opening guitar riff from Smoke on the Water run through your head, didn't you?) coming our way. What does it mean? The handy chart over to the side tells you very heavy rain is coming. Be still my heart. Will we get it? Will we?

It's tracking downwards on my screen. My live, real time radar feed that is. But that means it's heading south or southeast compared to my position. Nuts.

I'll leave it at that so as not to bore you (though I know you're not). I could do this all day myself.

For animal lovers

I'm far too proud of this quip. But, then, I'm far too proud of most of my quips.

As I watched a TV show in the wee hours of the morning, there were two characters talking about pets. One remarked to the other, "You know, you can tell a lot about people by how they treat animals."

I immediately thought, "Hitler loved dogs."

I'm simply making the observation. You are welcome to draw whatever conclusions from that you like.

Rising in the west

Have you ever had one of those experiences of extreme confusion? I have them all the time (quiet, Ron). In fact, I had one this very morning.

I couldn't take my walk because of morning rain. But as we're very busy at the Shop I went up there about 6:15 to tackle our backlog. When the time got to around 8:30 I'd decided to take a break and come home to check my e-mail and have a bit of breakfast. And, you know, maybe blog.

As I approached Avery from the direction of the old barn, heading east it might help to know, I saw light against the houses on the far side of the street. What threw me was that at half past eight in the morning light shouldn't be coming from the west, should it? The sun still rises in the east so far as I know.

That perplexed me. I mean, I was genuinely thrown off. It actually seemed as though the sun was shining from the west.

Of course, what it was (as I realized after a moment's thought) was the light growing in the west as the rain clouds moved east. But it did give the appearance of a western sunrise. So I'm not crazy.

Or at least, that can't be used to prove it.

Dry heaves

Dry salad. That doesn't sound appetizing at all does it? But that's what I'm going to try to have for lunch. Only that.

According to the five lettuce bag, and I ask, who ever even suspected there were five types of lettuce, it's only 15 calories per serving. Of course there are two and a half servings per bag. So I'll have eaten (as I will eat the whole bag in an attempt to keep a part of my piggish eating habits) thirty-seven and a half calories. For lunch. How do small game animals survive to become yummy meats for us?

I did buy a bag of apples which are supposed to be about 70 calories apiece. So wow. With an apple I can top 100 calories for the midday meal. Hoo-ray. All this after 200 calories of oatmeal this morning. 

But I vowed I would take my diet more seriously after the weekend. And Monday began well. I only had two slices of pizza and a brownie for breakfast. That's good, right?

At least I bought two bags of lettuce. If the first ain't enough I can splurge and hit 75 whole calories of leafy, leafy, I want to sat goodness yet that doesn't really apply does it?

Acting out vicariously

Facebook certainly can keep us in the loops of many people and many things. It tells me this morning that eleven years ago today I was standing on my front lawn talking to the actor Terrance Howard.

A film was made in Detroit in August and September 2009 and some exteriors were shot in my neighborhood. They even used my next door neighbor's house for some interior scenes. 

It was pretty cool. The crew asked if they could set up equipment on our lawn and we told them yes. Next thing I knew, I was standing out there watching them watch over monitors the actors acting in the house next door. It was definitely odd hearing the acting going on as I watched it from out of sight.

Immediately after that they reviewed the scene. That's when Terrance Howard came out to watch it too. I stood next to him as he explained why he did this or that or why the lighting was such and such. I have no idea anymore exactly what he said. I was too much into, "I'm standing in my own front yard and Terrance Howard is telling me about acting!"

A very neat memory. And I wouldn't have even realized it was 11 years ago today without Facebook.

The diet talk

Thursday I had my semi-annual checkup, and it was nearly all good news. Everything is fine except my weight (why do doctors care so much about what I weigh?) and my blood pressure, which is marginally high at 136/80. "I think your pressure would be okay if you'd lose about 20 pounds, " the doc opined. "Keep walking like you do but eat less. What did you have for dinner yesterday?"

" Hot dogs, " I answered.

"How many did you have?"

" Two. "

"Marty, how many hot dogs did you have?" my doctor reasked knowingly.

My chin hit my chest in shame. "Four." I tried to blame the mustard. "It was stone ground, " I pleaded.

"Eat less Marty, and we'll see you in February."

I suppose by January I should start my diet then.

If I had a hammer

This is going to be one of those silly stories which I find funnier perhaps than it actually was. But, hey, my blog, my rules.

Whenever we install fittings into the ends of drain snake cables, we always place the cable end onto the flat, back part of a vise and hammer the final wrap of the steel cable down so that it's flush against the end of the fitting. Usually it takes a couple, maybe three, hard raps on the cable to align everything.

My brother Phil beats holy hell out of them. Setting the cable on the back of the vise he proceeds to positively slam the cable into submission, bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam, then checks his work. Never, and I mean never, satisfied that he has the end properly subdued, he always repeats the process, bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam, and will then allow cable and fitting to follow the shaft of light to their final destiny.

That, for me, is funny enough. But one day years ago as Phil worked on cables me Pops had come up to me to talk about something or another which needed doing at the Shop. Dad of course was in front of me talking. But he stood with his back to Phil. I could see my brother clearly as he toiled.

Dad began explaining what he wanted done while I, as surreptitiously as I could, looked at him as he spoke while glancing at Phil installing a fitting. I knew what was coming: my brother studied this fitting and laid it on the vise, then bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam.

As he struck the errant cable wrap Pops, annoyed at the interruption, pursed his lips, let out a harsh breath through his nose, closed his eyes, and let his head drop slightly into his chest. When Phil stopped Dad began talking again.

I realized what the immediate future held though. Phil had pulled the cable up for inspection, was unsatisfied, and went at it anew, bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam, interrupting me Pops again who reacted the exact same way. Pursed lips, harsh nasal exhalation, closed eyes, drooped head. And it was all I could do not to laugh, not only seeing Dad's frustration but anticipating it that second time with Pops completely unawares.

Maybe you had to be there. But I still find it hilarious, though I bit my tongue not to laugh at the time. 

My brother's a quarter horse

'Give no quarter' is an English phrase meaning cut no slack, show no mercy. My brother Phil gives no quarter. You'll see what I mean in a minute.

As a salesman, I have no trouble talking discounts if the amount is there to warrant it. I don't believe Phil minds either, if things are fair and equitable to all. Yet there are customers we deal with who, to use Phil's own words, "If you tell them it's free they'll ask you to deliver it." He means there are folks who expect a break no matter what.

To illustrate, one day when I was gone and he had the run of the Shop, as guy came in who always, always angled for a better price. Phil would not give an inch.

"C'mon, man, how about ten off?" he asked. Phil responded negatively.

"A couple dollars? A dollar?" the man pleaded. Phil remained steadfast in holding the line.

The guy continued, "How about a quarter?"

"Nope," my brother answered.

"You mean a quarter means that much to you Cosgriff?"

Phil replied with out missing a beat, "It means that much to you."

Well. Said. And now you know he gives no quarter.

A Mother's love

Mom and I were out at Meijer this past Sunday. I was looking to make an appointment for an eye exam if you must know, and I took her along for the ride. 

While we were in the store I decided to look around a bit. Hey, even Marty shops occasionally. Too, it does give Mom a bit of exercise (as the doctor ordered), and we always have a cart for her to hold onto anyway.

I began looking over some shirts. "Those are nice," Mom commented.

"Yes they are. I believe I'll get one," I responded, putting my selection in the shopping cart.

"Do you think Phil (my brother) would like one?" she asked.

I thought for a second and answered, "Yeah, he might."

"How much are they then? I'll buy him one," Mom decided out loud.

I replied, "Twenty dollars."

"No!" she immediately, emphatically said, turning away from the shirt display.

We left, had a bite of lunch, and I brought her home where Phil lives with her. Once inside, she went into her room for whatever reason and I went to the kitchen, where my brother sat with a cup of coffee. "Well, bro," I said, "I know Mom loves you, but she doesn't love you twenty dollars worth."

Phil broke down in tears.

No he didn't. He simply looked over his coffee mug, confused. But upon explanation he agreed that he didn't love himself twenty dollar shirt worth either.

Mom's shingles

Mom has been doing pretty well lately. She did hit a bit of a low point in June. She had developed shingles and then dehydration, which required a three day hospital stay. Let me tell you, you do not want to get the look I got in the wee hours of the night I spent with her in Harper Hospital. When they woke her up at some ungodly hour to check her vitals and do a quick ultrasound, well, she looked at me the same way she did when I was a kid messing up. 'It's not my fault, Ma, the nurses are the ones doing it!' I wanted to say.

Anyway, she's rebounded back to how she was before all that. As I sat with her yesterday she talked about that hospital stay. "What was that I had?" she asked.

"Shingles," I replied.

She followed up with, "How'd I get that?"

I looked here right in the eye and answered plainly, "The roof."

Mom stared back for a minute and the burst out laughing. "I suppose I would," she cackled.

So we can still joke. Even, as I do, poorly.

Coffee anyone?

As I made a cup of coffee at the Shop yesterday using my Newark Keurig, I thought to myself, should I clean this out? I bought it second hand in 2018 and washed it thoroughly then. But I haven't washed the old coffee maker out since. I wonder if there's still two year old water molecules in it?

Of course, there's our old glass percolator at home. It was a wedding gift from me Grandma Cosgriff, and I still use it all the time. And I have washed it since 2018. I know I have. I absolutely have.

So, anybody feel like dropping in and having a cup of joe with me?

The new sports normal

What's this I see? I'm having to strain my eyes to make sure.

Noise? Hand clapping? Live, not canned, cheers?

Actual people, not cardboard cutouts, sitting in a baseball stadium during a baseball game? 

Yes, it's Korean baseball and the stands are only about twenty percent capacity. But the point is that 2020 has gotten so weird that it seems odd to watch a sports event with real folks in attendance. It honestly took me several minutes of watching this morning's game to realize, hey, people! 

I still feel a bit like, what's up with that?

Christmas in August?

This is August, right? It is August? I want to ask and establish that up front.

I realize too that this has been a very odd year, so that perhaps the months don't mean so much this time around the calendar. But this is August, correct?

As I took my daily constitutional this morning I saw all kinds of bulk trash on the street curbs. Nothing special there: Friday is our trash pickup day here in Woodbridge, and every other Friday is bulk trash day. This is simply the other Friday.

However, what caught my attention was, not one, not two, not even only three, but four live Christmas trees (well, the remains of live trees I should say) set out for pickup. Okay, maybe one was not from Christmas. But the other three had the tree stands still attached to the trunks at the base. 

Were they left from Christmas in July festivities? One might suppose such. Yet two were so brown and dried out that I must imagine they were left about, perhaps in basements, since the real deal in December. 

So, Christmas in August? Did I miss the memo?

Simmons Road

Simmons Road is a nice drive. It runs maybe 15 miles north and northwest of Hessel, Michigan in the eastern Upper Peninsula. I think what I like the most about it are the areas where the trees form a canopy over the road. They are thick enough at points where the sunlight is noticeably dimmed. I don't mean dimmed like shady. I mean dimmed like twilight. It's a rather nice sight at two in the afternoon. If I tended toward the horror genre I could describe it as foreboding. But that would not be fair. It is serene and quiet and deserves to be mentioned as such.

There are other areas both in state and out of state I'm sure which are as compelling. M-119 in the tip of the Thumb is close. It is as I understand the least used signed highway in Michigan. The one time I drove it it was definitely unhindered by fellow travelers. I seem to remember (help me out, southern family) some dirt back roads in North Carolina which were similarly tunnelish. I enjoyed walking them as a youth.

Simmons Road runs through what used to be the town of Simmons. As near as my feeble research can tell, it disappeared from state maps in the middle 1960s. I have a Michigan map from 1964 which still notes it (it shows Islington too, just south of Cedarville which is east of Hessel) and a 1955 road atlas which shows it as well. The only reminder I noticed last Friday is the Simmons family cemetery. It appeared kept up and had graves marked as recently as 2016. Someone still has eyes for Simmons. That, I will argue, is good and well.

Anyway, I like driving the road less traveled and Simmons Road is a great example of one. If I get back in the fall I will aim for the time of the changing leaves. I have to believe it would be an especially beautiful drive then.

Childhood leukemia

I feel the need to be somber and to the point today. My grand-niece, my brother's granddaughter Audrey, has begun chemotherapy for leukemia. As always in times like this, your prayers are much wanted and will be much appreciated. If you feel like you can help in a more direct manner, here's a link to the Go Fund Me page which was begun to help with the natural expenses which come with these sicknesses:

https://www.gofundme.com/f/23p6o6m8o0?utm_source=customer&utm_campaign=m_pd+share-sheet&utm_medium=copy_link_all

Thank you very much. 

No to new things

I don't like trying new things. Do you want to know why I don't like trying new things? Do you really?

Since you asked, I shall tell you.

When I was last in Hessel over the Fourth of July holiday last month I strolled down to the Farmer's Market. They have it every Sunday during the summer in Hessel, from 10 until 2, and it's roughly the equivalent of about one and a half city blocks from our place in town. An easy, a very easy, Marty walk.

A baker from Rudyard was there then. She had among other things a most excellent carrot cake. It had close to an inch of marvelous buttercream frosting too and was absolutely delightful. Grudgingly sharing it with my family whom I was with (I merit sainthood for that act alone) they too agreed that it was exceptional.

So yesterday arrives, maybe five weeks after that particular Farmer's market, and I am in Hessel. I simply cannot wait for Sunday to arrive, anticipating like Pavlov's dog a slab of that carrot cake which I might delight in all to my lonesome. With hot coffee because, of course, heavenly carrot cake (with thick buttercream frosting), cannot be savored completely without hot coffee. My tongue lathered at the very thought.

Rudyard baker was not there. I may never partake of her carrot cake again, I now solemnly realize. C'est la vie, opines philosophical Marty. Such is life.

And that is why I don't like trying new things,. You may adore them then, like a tease, they are no more.

Four times going yard again

Four Detroit Tigers hit home runs in the first inning of yesterday's game (August 8, 2020) against the Pittsburgh Pirates. That hasn't happened since 1974. I remember that game because I listened to it on the radio just as I listened to yesterday's game over the air.

To be sure, the circumstances were different. Yesterday I sat in the garage up in Hessel; in 1974 I was sitting at the dining room table behind me Pops, who sat at his desk doing his nightly paperwork. 325 miles and four and a half decades make a difference, don't they? 

He had this little black and white transistor radio which he used almost exclusively for listening to Tiger games. I bummed it often. If there's one thing I'd like to still have from childhood, that radio is it. There's a lot of memories of the tinny sound of Ernie Harwell and Paul Carey from back then.

Niko Goodrum, Miguel Cabrera, C. J. Cron and Jeimer Candelario hit them yesterday. Al Kaline, Mickey Stanley, Bill Freehan, and the light hitting and woefully unpowerful Ed Brinkman (me Mom called him a 'banny rooster' for the chicken-like way in which she said he ran) did it way back when, July 29, 1974. That's all of 46 years ago folks.

I was 14 then. At 60 now, I'm older by 22 years than me Pops was on that day (to save you the mathematical gymnastics, he was 38 in July 74). He uttered an unbelieving 'whoa' when Brinkman hit his round tripper. Whether at the Detroits hitting four so closely together or merely at Brinkman's part of the accomplishment, I'm not sure. 

Funny thing is, and I remember thinking this quite distinctly on that day in '74, 'that don't happen much'. Forty-six years later I now get to add, 'indeed'. 

Rain, I don't mind

I like bright, warm, sunny days as much as the next guy. I especially like them on vacation, just like, I suppose, the next guy. But I don't mind a little rain either. Even when I'm in Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. In fact I like one day of rain when I'm here.

I like the soft drumming of the rain on the tin roof of the garage. I like sitting on the front porch with a hot coffee as the gentle, cool breeze wafts the fresh smell of the rain across it. I like watching the drops of water hit the the water of the lake in front of me.

Mind you, it can get to be too much. A couple years ago my son and I stood in the aforementioned garage one July afternoon and could hardly hear each other talk during a torrential downpour. Drops of water were pounding that tin roof so hard that talking was more shouting, and we were within arms length of one another.

But as to typical, run of the mill showers, a soft drumbeat on tin is soothing. And rain, as Paul McCartney explained talking about the Beatles' song Rain, is a good thing. Why not praise it?

So I'm watching the local weather radar today to see when the rain forecasted is to arrive. I want to be right here in Hessel when it does.

How could dat be?

"How could dat be?"

It was a query voiced by one certain friend of the family, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, whenever he didn't understand something. We've probably all expressed such or similar remarks when we have been confused.

Me Pops liked to relate the tale of when he, Pops, had a car which spewed out all of its coolant. When he added some and started the engine, the new fluid poured out within a few seconds. It turned out he had blown a freeze plug.

Freeze plugs, I assume large gas engines still have them, are small metal discs machine pressed into ports on the side of a motor. They're called freeze plugs because if the engine got so cold that the fluid inside began to freeze and expand, they'd pop out, saving it from greater damage. A freeze plug you can replace. You crack an engine, you're replacing an engine.

A freeze plug could pop out at any time; it didn't require cold to go bad. As with so many other things in our fallen world, sometimes things just go bad for whatever reason.

So Pops was replacing the popped plug (which had chosen a hot summer day to blow out) when Cloyce happened around. "Whatcha doing Bill?" he asked.

"Replacing a freeze plug," the old man answered.

"How could dat be?" Cloyce exclaimed incredulously.

Dad replied with his own confused query, "What do you mean?"

"How the hell did a freeze plug pop out on a hot day like this?" demanded Cloyce.

After he stopped laughing me Pops explained how it could happen anytime. It didn't depend on the cold.

Every Marty's a comedian, or, every comedian's a Marty

As I strode out of my neighborhood dollar store yesterday I heard the sound of a man's raucous laughter. Then I heard, "Hey, hey!"

I turned towards the call and pointed at myself. "Me?" I asked stupidly of this fella standing about 50 feet away.

"Yeah you. You look like that comedian, uh, what's his name. Don Rickles. You look like Don Rickles."

"O-kay. Thanks, I guess," I responded.

"No, no, not him," the guy began again. Apparently thinking deeper he decided, "Jack Benny. That's right, Jack Benny. You look just like him."

I just laughed and got into my van and drove home. I'm still not sure what his intentions were.

What a hockey puck though.

Dad's sage snake advice

I delivered a good used Electric Eel to a fine gentleman yesterday. He only needed it for his own property, and it was a good deal for us both: I made a sale and he got a quality drain cleaner at a good price. "I'm not even telling my friends that I have one, or they'll want to borrow it," he explained to me.

I actually slapped my knee and said, "I'm glad you said that. It allows me to tell you me Pops advice on drain snake ownership."

You see, Dad always said there were three rules to owning a drain cleaner.

Don't loan your snake.

Don't loan your snake.

Don't loan your snake.

He would always point out three fingers in quick succession as he recited those rules: pointer, middle finger, ring finger, holding them all up together at the end to emphasize the idea. Folks think drain cleaning is easy. And while it's not brain surgery it does require experience. They'd borrow the snake, damage it somehow through lack of knowledge or ability, and then never get it repaired for you (or promise to pay and not reimburse the owner). It's a fact of life. Probably with a lot more tools than drain snakes too.

So the lesson for today is: don't loan your snake, don't loan your snake, don't loan your snake.

Frank the Diplomat

Diplomacy isn't just for diplomats. Why, I bet we could get on a lot easier in life day in and day out with a little more tact in our own everyday affairs.

I explain this with one example in mind. A few years ago my son Frank and I drove to Pittsburgh to see both the Tigers and PNC Park, where the Pirates play. It was raining buckets for most of the trip. The folks in Detroit will remember it as the day the west side flooded. Local drives which should have taken twenty-five minutes took three hours or more. The rain was that heavy and constant over many hours.

So perhaps we should not have been driving to western Pennsylvania, as the rain was like that all over the middle west. Instead, I kept on keeping on. We already had our tickets, and who knows what could be done if we didn't make the game that day. Yet the volume and intensity of rain was a concern for my son.

Still, Frank didn't make a big deal of it. Rather he at one point opined matter of factly, "You know Dad, I wouldn't think any less of you if you wanted to pull over for a while."

I think I actually chuckled a bit. He made his point without being shrill or demanding. In fact, I believe he was properly considerate of his old man.

And that's how diplomacy should work. Everyone should employ it.

I don't actually remember if I pulled over though. But I think I did. For a short while, anyway.

What we can do

Unless we are particularly blessed we struggle with things. It's simply part of the human condition. I think though that half (if not more) of dealing with the pressures and issues of everyday life lies in not allowing them to root at you; not allowing them to consume your being.

Lord knows I struggle with that. But to take the point further despite my own failures on the matter we really do need to learn, as that old saw instructs us, to know the difference between what we can and cannot control. Control what you can. Don't fret too much about the rest.

I can't control the recent events, peaceful protests or riots or whatever they actually are, in Portland. I can have nearly zero affect on them. As such, I need to pray that all will be well and let the problem go. It is not, and I do not mean this as flippantly as I may be accused, my problem, in any direct and immediate sense. We can apply this salve to quite a lot of troubles in the world too.

I am not in any way, shape, or form saying that we should not do anything at all with regard to Portland, or COVID, or world peace, world hunger, or world insert your own pet cause here. But let's face it: what all can we do? After voting and talking among your friends and being charitable with your money and time, what else is there that a little man or woman can do? Because in the grand scheme of things, most of us are, on Earth, little men and women.

Where does that leave us? I believes it leaves us at the task of making ourselves better by looking at the ways we can directly help others. I don't expect that when we meet St. Peter at the pearly gates he's going to sit back, fold his hands across his chest, let out a heavy sigh and ask "So why didn't you end the crisis in Portland?" I suspect, unless you were at the time of Portland unrest the President of the United States or Mayor of that city, we will be asked questions like, "Why didn't you offer to jump start your neighbor's car that bitter winter morning?"

"Why didn't you buy that street urchin something to eat?"

"Why didn't you give your change to Ronald McDonald House?"

If we do those things or a great many similar others we may well become big men and women to those folks. We certainly will become better men and women ourselves.

Internal argument

I took my usual morning walk about an hour ago. But I argued with someone as I walked. Myself.

I lumbered the four blocks to Wayne State University's athletic fields, which I typically make a circle or two of as I go. They're about a mile around so a couple loops takes up a big chunk of my daily grind. I arrived at the corner of Warren and Trumbull and began hiking east along Warren.

"What are you doing?" my internal voice asked me, vaguely panicked.

"Taking my walk?" I responded to me questioningly.

"I know that, but what are you doing?"

"What do you mean what am I doing?"

"You're going counterclockwise!"

"Yeah, so?"

"We go clockwise around Wayne State!" my voice demanded of me.

"So I'm doing it differently. Big whoop."

"But, but..."

"But what?"

"But we go clockwise around Wayne State!" insisted me.

"Who is this we? It's just me and, and, me."

"You know what I - we - mean. We go north on Trumbull and, you know, clockwise. It's what we always do."

"Not always," I responded smugly to that guy in my head who sounded a lot like me, as I continued resolutely eastward on Warren.

So I walked around WSU counterclockwise. Twice. But now I'm wondering if maybe I should have went clockwise. If maybe I ought to retake my walk.

But I hate being told I told you so.