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?