Rene's birthday

Everybody has a birthday, right? Why, even the most profound philosophers have birthdays. Rene Descartes, the great French philosopher, was born on this day in 1596. He was the one famous for declaring, "I think, therefore I am," as proof that he existed.

Poor Rene fell victim to his own beliefs, sadly. As Rene was sitting at the bar one evening, the barkeep noticed his patron's drink had gone empty. "Would you like another one?" the man innocently asked.

Rising to leave Rene answered, "I think not."  And he disappeared.

Poor Rene.

Cloyce and the peanut butter muffins

There was this old buddy of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who wasn't the sharpest tack in the box. He didn't mean no harm, but he didn't always think through what he said before the words came out of his mouth. And be honest, and fair to old Cloyce, we all have those moments.

One day his sister in law brought over to him a half dozen freshly baked peanut butter muffins. They were very good too: I had one myself, as I was sitting at the kitchen table visiting. Anyway, after having one over a cup of coffee his sister in law asked, excited to hear what he thought, "So what do you think of the muffins, Cloyce?"

"Oh, I could take  'em or leave 'em," he answered.

"Cloyce," I said, a bit startled myself, "That's no way to thank her for bringing you fresh muffins!"

"Uh, uh, they were good, really good," he quickly stammered.

It was not a good save. 

Obsession

I am not a fan of the sabermetrics push, this seeming willingness to reduce analysis to numbers. It began with baseball but is spreading not only to other sports, but apparently everywhere. And while numbers can be important, as with many other things in life they aren't necessarily the know all be all.

Me Pops liked to talk about Frank Lary, a pitcher on the Detroit Tigers sixty years ago. He was nicknamed the Yankee Killer because he had extraordinary success against that New York team. I'm sure the sabermetricians have an explanation for why but I suspect it was really only simple fate. Sometimes things just happen, they just are what they are. Lary owned the Yanks. That's how it was. Is an explanation even necessary or helpful? 

As I said, it's going beyond baseball. The absurdity is, it seems, to be found in other areas. I stumbled across an article the other day which stared that, after thorough analysis of the structure of various Beatles songs, their hit In My Life,  a truly wonderful song, was with a 98% chance of accuracy written primarily by John Lennon. We should be astounded by that revelation...except that virtually everyone connected to the song, including the Beatles themselves, have long conceded that it was a Lennon song. Why are we even analyzing it then?

I mean, how much more can we know, how much more useful information can additional study bring, when we already know the answer? Especially when there probably isn't a worthwhile final answer, as with that old Yankee Killer Lary. Sometimes it's simply how things happened, nothing more.

Perhaps it helps you to know that a certain right handed batter is more likely to hit a double at 3:12 on a Thursday afternoon in Cleveland with runners on first and third with one out and an easterly wind of 8 MPH off of a lefty pitcher who was drafted from Vanderbilt in the second round and was from Decatur, Illinois, and had blue eyes. Well, there you have it. Place your bets on such hyper trivia. But you'll have more fun just enjoying the game, watching to see what actually happens rather than anticipating bare chance.

Numbers racket

Yesterday was an interesting day by the numbers.

As I drove around for work, my odometer hit 171,171 miles. That's 17-17-17. It's kinds cool.

Later on the odometer marked 171,172 miles. That's 171-172. Pretty cool too.

Then at one of my gas stops, the gas pump clicked off at $39.40. Consecutive numbers, Again, cool.

So yesterday was one for the numbers. Hey, a guy's gotta entertain himself somehow on the road.

Old customers, old friends

A fella came into the old barn yesterday and asked, "Are you Marty?" 

Seeing as I am, I answered yes. He needed a cable repaired, explaining that I had fixed it for him before. As proof, he showed me the invoice from the previous repair, dated 4/23/1996. It was signed: Paid, Cash, Marty Cosgriff.

That was literally the day after my 36th birthday. As I'm scarcely a month from 61, that makes it nearly 25 years since that last job.

I fixed the cable, and the man and I had a pleasant talk. He joked whether the warranty had expired. I joked back that unfortunately it had, and that 1996 prices had expired too. We laughed, and actually had a good visit.

It's nice seeing old friends. And I like days like yesterday.

Would you buy a pet from this place?

The things you see on the road...

In Indiana yesterday - I am not making this up - I saw pet shop. A pet shop with an unusual name. A decidedly unusual name.

Night Stalkers Pet Emporium.

Am I missing something here? As there was a picture of a rather frightening looking fish on the sign with the name, is there maybe a fish called a night stalker? But even if such is the case...

Night Stalkers Pet Emporium?

I'm at a loss.

Lucky Marty Monday

I decided that I wanted hot dogs this morning. You know, because hot dogs aren't just for breakfast anymore. Plus, I simply wanted a hot dog. My house, my rules.

So I open the freezer and pull out a package. And as I wasn't really paying much attention - how hard is it to fill a pot with water, put in the hot dogs, place it all on the stove and turn a burner on (quiet, Ron) - I set them to cooking while I went to check email and not play solitaire, I swear!

When the dogs were ready I went and got the buns, and then mustard from the fridge. Taking two of the tube steaks from the boiled water, I did then notice something odd. The pot seemed more full than it should have. I began counting the hot dogs.

The two on my plate made two. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...seven left. That meant the pack of eight hot dogs actually had nine! Nine! Nine hot dogs! Count them. Bwa, ha, ha!

I sure hope the rest of the week holds such pleasant surprises. 

The elephant in the room

Well, this is liable to get me in trouble among my conservative friends. Perhaps even among my liberal friends. But what the hell. If I may say, you couldn't get in trouble with a better group of people.

We need a clearer perspective on President Trump. True, he was a better President than I expected him to be. I believe most of you are with me on that. Be honest: in November 2016 we were holding our hats and hoping for the best. He came through on a great many things; as a voter for the SCOTUS, I am very happy with what he did there. And he did it with the help of Mitch McConnell and the 'RINOS' if I may say. We should remember that when we're pronouncing the results of our litmus tests.

He strengthened American resolve and was not a toady to the world. I liked that. We don't owe anyone an apology for being American.

Still, he was, to be somewhat kind, a boor. I have to think that that alone may have cost us the Senate: it is fair to consider how many fewer problems we may face today with just one of those Georgia seats. It leaves me to wonder what Trump might have accomplished with a modest amount of decorum. You can draw a line in the sand and be nice about it. Ronald Reagan was, and look at what he did.

I am reminded of a line from the play 1776. John Adams was being reprimanded by Benjamin Franklin about his inability to concede anything to his opponents: 'These are proud, accomplished men, the cream of their colonies, not ribbon clerks to be bossed around'. While that surely doesn't hold as true today where far too many politicians are concerned, it is not terrible advice. Besides, it's virtually impossible to boss those you can't control anyway. But my main point here is that it gets tiresome to hear folks being bullied, especially for the 20% in the middle whom we must appeal to if we are going to sway public opinion. Say what you like about whatever election shenanigans which are out there, how many legitimate votes did Trump (and the Republicans by extension) lose due to the former President's bluster? It's a question we need to ask - and answer - honestly.

In short, a healthy distancing from Donald Trump would not be a bad thing. We got what we could from him, indeed better, far better, than we had a right to expect. Let the Democrats wave their magic wands and create discord and want. Let them show their true colors. It will offer enough ammunition on its own to fight the good fight. 

My son has remarked to me that we could have had the same thing as Trump with Ted Cruz in 2016 yet without the animosity. I think he is right. We need to consider whether that is true. Or even, perhaps, whether it would have been better.

Yellow tumblers

We had a lot of Tupperware as my family grew up. One item I remember getting a lot of use was a set of six ounce tumblers. They were perfect for small children as they had sipper lids for when thekids were learning to use cups. They were also a good size for older kids, six or eight years maybe, holding the right amount of milk or juice at meals.

They were red, blue, green, and yellow. And for reasons I can no longer remember, none of the kids ever wanted the yellow cup. They did not want it with a vengeance, to the point of trying to switch the cups at dinnertime place settings so they wouldn't get it. 

Of all the trivial things I had to anticipate dealing with as a parent raising children, making them use a yellow tumbler would have never been high on my list of potential worry. Yet it became an issue. It reached the point where we had to order our kids to drink from the yellow cup in turn. "Your brother had the yellow cup yesterday. You get it at dinner today!" was never the type of command I thought I'd waste parental authority on as a dad.

To this day I still have no idea what the problem was.

Nuisance calls

We all get nuisance calls I imagine. That's annoying enough by itself. But I get nuisance calls from people I might actually want to talk to, if they'd just give me a chance.

There are folks who call and will not leave a voicemail. Rather, they call three or four or even five straight times trying to make me answer. If you want to get on my bad side, that's how you do it.

Have you thought for an instant that maybe I have other things going on which prevent me from answering? That there might be very legitimate reasons why I can't answer immediately? Maybe I have a blowtorch in my hand, in the middle of working on a repair. Maybe I'm with another person. Maybe - and humor me on this - what you want isn't as important as you think. Maybe, with all due respect, you aren't the only person in my life, let alone the the one I most passionately wish to talk to at any given moment. Maybe I don't even owe you a reason, bub. Such is life.

If I don't answer leave a voice mail. If you are in dire straits (I do recognize that can be the case) could you give me a wisp of time, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, before you try calling back? It's a simple enough request. Especially as I don't have a lot of desire to return the calls of pests. Indeed, that may just delay a response from me, truth be told. 

I will get back to you as promptly as I can. Just give me a few minutes, that's all. It's called consideration.

Doctors in government are politicians

A year ago Tuesday I posted a social media update which said: 'Let's cancel the media and the government for two weeks and see how long this crisis lasts'. It was in response to what were then the new two week lockdowns to stop the spread of COVID. Oh Facebook, you do know how to dredge up memories.

It caused a stir; there were more than 40 comments to the thread. That's okay. I expected comment or I wouldn't have posted. Most of the comments were against me, and that's okay too. You don't have to agree with me to be friends on my end. 

Anyway, I read through the thread. Among the comments one person opined, "I'd rather trust the doctors than the politicians." All right, if that's what you like. Yet I think you forget that doctors in bureaucracies, that is, doctors in government, are politicians.  They work in bureaucracies which by their natures have agendas which are political: to protect their turf and influence. 

Fauci and the myriad civil servants who began offering 'advice' (knowing such would become orders) without much consideration of what they knew and did not, could not know at the time, are politicians. They had to act, they had to do something, even with far from complete information, because that's what politicians do in crisis. They act. So they acted, harshly and (I will say it) inhumanely toward their fellow man, destroying lives and businesses in the process. The still ongoing process, at least in Democrat held states and a few Republican.

But at least the speaker displayed proper distrust of politicians, I'll give them that. They simply didn't consider all whom were politicians.

We need to develop a healthier distrust of government, which is of course run by, I must stress, politicians, even should they hold medical credentials. Because most anyone, once having become a public servant, can't seem to help bring out the whips and chains. To protect us, of course.

St. Patrick's Day 2021

Ah, the Irish. There's so much of them in every one of us. That's not really surprising seeing as there are so many more Irish outside of Ireland than still living on the old sod.

Why is that? Might it be that the soul of the average Irish personality resides in most all of humanity?

An easy examination of Irish culture gives many examples of Irish fortitude, courage, allegiance, patriotism, and an appreciation of simple yet profound human relationships. Who does not, if they have any sentiment at all in their bones, shed a tear when hearing O Danny Boy? Whoever will not feel their chests swell with nationalistic pride when hearing God save Ireland are indeed cold towards patriotism and their homelands and their brethren. Even sublime romanticism exists, heard through tunes like Black Velvet Band.

The more rambunctious bar songs of Irish lore appeal to the common thread of humanity. Have you heard The Wild Rover? A loser comes into his fortune and wins respect; redemption and respect indeed, as dreamed of by so many. Do not we all dream of that, to show everyone else that we've triumphed after all despite our flaws? How can we not believe in ourselves when listening to those happy tunes?

Acceptable extremes appear quite obvious in Irish lore. But do they not appear prominently in all human thoughts? The drunkard who believes God will forgive him if he makes Mass and does the occasional earthly good deed as did Darby O'Gill; will he not be forgiven by his faith in the simple acts which are the primary hope of redemption within the means of the most persons? The music was his, after all, wasn't it? Why? Because he did what he was asked to do within a legitimate frame.

The Irish are fightin', the Irish are sad and humbled; the Irish have been under the boots of their oppressors for centuries. Yet they hold true to what is true about who and what they are and about what defines them: their God. They recognize it even in their shortcomings. Their Irish guilt won't let them admit it, and rightly so.

Yet humanity requires that sort of odd pride, doesn't it? Something found in that profound and nearly humble comment of the rebel Irish soldier to the union Irish soldier near him at Appomattox, when Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia to Grant in April 1865. The Confederate leaned into the Unionist and remarked, "You only won because you had more Irish than we did".

Ah, the Irish. They can teach us something, can't they?

Sound falling

The answer to the question is: yes.

When a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear, it makes a sound. 

Sound is the waves which are caused by the fall. 

Our ears are only the receptors of sound, not the sound itself.

Annnnd go. I've stirred the pot. Let the debate begin!

Monday morning philosophy

I didn't see the Grammy Awards last night, not one minute. There are few current TV shows which I watch, and even those I tend to miss and have to pull up On Demand. And even then I get behind.

Just the same, I don't feel as though I miss anything important. There are days where I believe that everything is simply passing fancy. I don't mean that as a bad thing either, nor do I mean it in any particularly judgmental way, or to be a downer. I'm just not impressed by fads. And far too much of what goes on is, in this or any time, exactly that: a fad.

I prefer the timeless to the current. Give me baseball or golf or curling ahead of cornhole. Tolkien means more to me than Game of Thrones because he speaks to the big questions. I doubt that Game of Thrones does, although to be fair I haven't seen a second of it, as is my wont.

I get more out of reading C. S. Lewis' The Abolition of Man for the thirtieth time than I expect I would get from reading the first thing by a current author, though to be fair I don't pay much attention to current authors either. Unless, that is, they tie into Lewis or Tolkien. That is a small and relatively unknown faction.

We tend to make our current times too important. That's understandable enough: they are our times, they are the times we live in, and to that point they are necessarily important. Still, where they don't interact with the timeless, if they aren't seen as part of a bigger picture, I wonder how truly important they are at all.

There's bit of (perhaps) heavy philosophy for you on a Monday morning. Have a good week.

Cheated

Today, just a few hours ago, the clocks were reset for Daylight Savings Time. Personally, I wish they'd drop DST.

Part of it is selfish. As I like me morning walks, me daybreak constitutionals, I rather like the idea of heading out the door at 4:30 AM for a hike on the longest days of the year. It would be neat, don't you think?

But it's not all selfish. Did it occur to anyone that whoever has a birthday today is only getting a 23 hour celebration? Sure, in the fall there are those who get 25 hour birthdays. But that's the old robbing Peter for Paul thing when you think about it. There's not a decent quid pro quo to be seen.

And then, this year anyway, this is Pi Day: 3.14. Math wonks the world over have, you might say, a slice of their pi taken from them. It ain't right.

This is all on a Sunday no less, a day decreed to be a day of rest. We're only getting 23 hours to recharge for the coming week. And all of you with the 24 beers in a case, 24 hours in a day refrigerator magnets? How's that working for you today?

We're being cheated on all fronts. I blame Biden, but blame Trump if you like. Because it's always the other guy's fault, am I right?

Cookies (not computer related)

Does McDonald's still have chocolate chips cookies?

I remember years ago - and I'm well beyond the point in my life where I can remember years ago - when they sold these little boxes of little chocolate chip cookies. The boxes were about the size that you buy animal crackers in, and the cookies were these hard, small brown hockey pucks with slivers of what passed as the chocolate chips. But to quote my old friend Rick, they weren't terrible.

The approach of Spring is when we find St. Patrick's Day. With that approach we also find that Shamrock shakes, minty green marvels that they are, become one of those limited time offers at many of the aforementioned McDonald's. And I had found back in the day that those chocolate chip cookies and Shamrock shakes went really well together. Really well.

What a frustrating thing to think at 2:48 in the morning, when there isn't a McDonald's open within an easy drive. And who would want to head out in the wee hours just to get a mint shake and cookies?

That would be me. I won't do it. I only want to. But I do believe that my Saturday mission later in the day will be to find out whether McDonald's does still have chocolate chip cookies to go with a Shamrock shake.

The dog did it

I woke up laughing this morning. I believe that's because I was laughing in a dream.

I have no idea where we were in this dream, but my buddy Nick and I were out and about somewhere. Probably curling in a weekend bonspiel, as we needed a room for the night. So we find a hotel.

As we begin to fall asleep in this double bed, I look over my shoulder to see Nick lying on his side facing away from me, but so close to the edge of the bed that I though he would fall out. Then I turn away from him, and here's my son's dog Gaspode, a black and white Australian Shepherd. So I start petting him.

All of a sudden Gaspode leaps over me and, taking one big hop on the middle of the bed, he comes down with all four paws against Nick's back, knocking him onto the floor with a loud thud. Then 'Spode just sits in the center of the bed, studying his conquest.

I raise up and start laughing out loud. Then I was petting Gaspode and saying, "Who's a good boy? He's a good boy!" and laughing like all get out. All the while Nick is laying on the bedroom floor stunned.

Then I woke up laughing and, honestly, looking for Gaspode, wondering where he was. I laughed for about ten minutes before I settled down.

You can't make this up. But I sure hope Nick's all right.

Grandmaw's Tell

I feel as though I've talked about wrestling and wrestling fans a lot lately. Well, why stop a good thing when I'm on a roll?

Poker players often have what is known as a 'tell'. It is a signal by a player which 'tells' other players something about the guy in question. My brother for example had a buddy who, when they played poker, generally laughed and joked. But when he held a good hand he became quiet and serious. That 'told' the other players to be careful about betting against him. Tells are usually the unconscious, unintended quirks of a player.

Me Grandmaw Hutchins liked wrestling. Yet unlike our friend Washington Calhoun whom I spoke of a few days back, she didn't get super excited while watching. She just sat in her rocking chair in front of the TV and payed attention to what was happening.

Creak, creak, creak, went her rocker as she eased it back and forth. Creak, creak, creak.

But she had a tell. When something exciting was about to happen, or at least when she anticipated something big was about to occur, she stopped rocking.

Creak, creak, creak, stop. She would hold the rocker in one position until the throw or the body slam or the punch landed. Then she would start rocking again. Creak, creak creak, waiting for next big moment.

Creak, creak, creak, stop. Grandmaw's Tell. As regular as rain. It let you know what was happening without actually watching the TV screen.

The Army changes a man

A old gentleman who lived in the neighborhood years ago, Mr. Harrison, was born named Billy. That's what his parents named him because that's what they were going to call him. It's pretty simple logic, right?

Apparently not to the US Army. When Mr. Harrison was drafted during World War II, he was asked his name upon arrival at the processing station just prior to basic training. He told them it was Billy (which they should have known as they had found him to draft him). The officer in charge asserted that nobody was named Billy. It was a nickname based on William. His name must be William.

"It's Billy," Mr. Harrison insisted. Of course, at that point he was fully initiated into the Army of the United States via his first full-on, complete and total dressing down. He got the screaming and the berating and the in-your-face from this major or captain or whoever he was, the whole nine yards, after which the officer barked at the guy processing the appropriate paperwork, "Put down William for first name."

That was that. From that day forth Mr. Harrison was William, at least so far as the Army of these United States was concerned.

Blocking (not football)

You ever looked at someone and wondered, 'What in the world are they do doing?' I know I've been looked at that way.

There. I beat you to it.

But anyway, yesterday as I left my house to hike down the block to me Mom's, there was a car stopped right smack in the middle of the intersection at the corner where I live. Right smack in the middle. I bet we could have gotten rulers and measured it out. It could not have been off by much. It effectively had both streets blocked.

Still, you think, okay, maybe it stalled. So I decided to approach the driver (I could see a woman behind the wheel) and offer to push it to the curb behind where my car was parked in front of my house. You know, get the hell out of the middle of the intersection.

As I neared I could hear that the driver was in a rather animated conversation over her cell phone. But before I could get too close the car started (I think it was one of them newfangled vehicles which stall the engine when you put on the brake and restart when you let you foot off) without the woman taking her hands from her phone or the steering wheel. She began creeping down the street, still yammering along.

But then she got to the next intersection and stopped right in the middle of it. I know because she was headed towards Mom's house just like I was by then. She stood there talking for about a minute then went on.

It must have been a hell of a debate. But pull over and talk if it's all that, eh, lady?

Keeping to schedule

Me Grandpaw Hutchins was a great man. He was quiet and kind and would help you any way he could. But he was a man with a plan, a man who had a schedule and kept it.

At 5 AM he rose without the aid of an alarm clock. This meant that at 9 PM he went to bed. Period, end of report. Now, if you were visiting you could stay as long as you wished and help yourself to whatever you liked. But bedtime was bedtime and that was that.

During one visit one summer we were all sitting out in the front yard under the old shade tree and having a fine old time, about two dozen of us aunts and uncles and cousins and grandkids. Right on schedule, Grandpaw Hutchins took out his pocket watch, saw that it was 9 in the evening, and proceeded to head into the house.

"Mal (what me Grandmaw Hutchins called him) you ain't going' in to bed are you?" Grandmaw asked.

"I got to, Mae," he replied over his shoulder, never breaking stride. "It ain't comin' out here to me."

That story has always stuck in my mind. I love the little things in life. 

Bond. James Bond

My reading the last two days has been On Her Majesty's Secret Service,  one of the original James Bond novels by Ian Fleming. Did you know he also wrote Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,  the children's book? Who'd a thought?

It can be interesting to read the book on which a movie is based. In this case, although the movie was a typically fast paced and somewhat campy Bond romp (as many of them were) the book is more story driven. Even at that, the one great chase scene which Fleming weaves is better than almost any I've seen in the Bond films. That's great descriptive writing.

The Bond movies have always been a bit of a guilty pleasure for me. The sophomoric double entendres can be childishly delightful. The Daniel Craig films are more serious; that's not bad, just different. I think I like the older ones better on the whole.

Anyway, I had seen the film version of Secret Service and always thought it a superior edition to the series, even though it's the odd Bond where he's played by George Lazenby. However that may be, the novel makes Bond quite a bit more human than I expected. I like that. I look forward to reading more of the Fleming originals now.

Washington Calhoun

There was a gentleman in the neighborhood when me Pops was growing up with the somewhat regal American gothic name of Washington Calhoun. He was a nice man, Pops opined, great towards everyone among family and friends. If he had a vice at all, it was devotion to wrestling.

When television came along he could feed that vice with regularity. His wife, Mrs. Calhoun, who is all Pops knew her by though one hopes she may have had a name fitting to her husband's, declared that it was almost comical to watch Wash (as she called him) watch wrestling on TV. He'd leap from the couch punching air at the spectacular throw of one competitor by another and yell bloody murder when the heel, the bad guy, would commit some heinous act when the referee's back was turned, unable to believe that the ref could miss such atrocity. 

"A mule couldn't take the beatings those guys take," he once remarked, amazed, apparently never sensing the real reality of televised wrestling. 

The day came however when Mrs. Calhoun had to ween Wash from wrestling. 

If you're familiar with wrestling at all you've likely seen the move where a wrestler would climb to the top of the turnbuckle at the corner of the ring and do a body slam, diving off the turnbuckle with a flying prone pose (arms and legs spread out to form a giant human X) onto an opponent lying flat on his back on the floor. It's a pretty common thing, and often meant to end a match.

Mrs. Calhoun woke up late one night to see her husband climbing the bedpost at the corner of their bed. As he spread out his arms before her shocked eyes, she realized what he was doing. In his sleep, he was preparing to body slam whomever he was wrestling in a dream. "Washington Calhoun!" she screamed.

But it was too late. Fortunately for her, he was aimed away from the bed. Unfortunately for him, her yell was not enough to save him from crashing full on onto the bedroom floor, rattling the windows and causing the house to shake.

Mr. Calhoun wasn't hurt too bad. His nose was bloodied but that was about it. But his wrestling watching privileges were severely curtailed. By order of, shall we say, the management. 

Slow motion breakdown

Me Pops had among his friends a big guy, a mountain of a man as he told it. I don't know if that meant the guy was simply huge in the intimidating way or that he was very fat. Whichever it was, that doesn't matter. I'll call the fellow Cloyce just to give him a name.

Cloyce was a roofer. His company was a decent size, so that he had several crews working for him who could of course be occupied on several jobs at once. So Cloyce basically gave estimates, got contracts signed, and went around inspecting progress.

As it were, me Grandpa Joe once contracted him to put a roof on the Old Barn. The Shop is only one floor tall, with a ten foot ceiling. This meant the roof was about 11 feet high. This meant that what was needed to access it was a twelve foot ladder. As I said, Cloyce didn't do much of the work but he did go around checking on his crews. In the course of things, then, he stopped by to see how it was going at the Shop.

He spoke to Pops and Joe for a minute, them climbed the nearby ladder to look over the progress of his men. Bear in mind that at that point in history ladders were wooden, not aluminum or fiberglass as they are today. As Cloyce returned to the ladder to climb down, the third rung from the top broke the instant Cloyce put all his weight on it. Yet instead of the man falling, and as he has grasped the ladder in each hand on each respective side rail, all that happened was Cloyce dropped a foot to the next rung. Which then broke. Dropping another foot, that rung broke with Cloyce's weight. Then the next, and the next , whump whump, whump, snap, snap, snap, until Cloyce was standing on the ground, still holding the side rails up by his gloved hands. He went down the ladder hesitatingly, in slow motion really, as one rung at a time cracked under his weight.

Grandpa Joe laughed so he hard he had to dab his eyes with his handkerchief. Pops just knew he had a good story to tell in the coming years.

Laughing at myself

I just spent a half hour laughing at myself. Sure, I've done that before. But this time let me tell you why.

I play Words With Friends, a Scrabble like game which in my case is played over my cell phone. In a recent match I was stuck for a word. Then I saw where I could spell 'God' and score nine points. And I actually, honestly thought to myself, "I'll play God for 9 points."

I found that funny. I just hope it's not blasphemy.

A blind squirrel clock

I had to rent a van for this morning's trip to Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) because of the amount of product I was getting. My new old van is good and reliable but would have surely buckled under the weight of what I was picking up. So it was to U-Haul I did go.

For whatever reason, the clock in the rental van was one hour and twenty eight minutes behind. Yep, 1:28 behind. Why that odd number, I don't know. But it bugged me enough that I had to try to set it straight.

At my stop for coffee around 3 AM, before returning to the highway, I proceeded to punch various buttons in various orders trying to find where to reset the clock. Lo and behold, the method paid off: I was able to set the clock to the right time. Thank you, thank you very much.

Yet the key thing is I didn't do any damage. I don't believe so anyway. Well, there was an explosion somewhere after I hit one of the buttons. But it was faint and far away - you could barely see the flash - so I don't think that was me.

So I figured out how to reset the van clock. Just don't ask me to do it again.

Mal and Mae

Clarence Malachi Hutchins was me Grandpaw Hutchins. He was called Mal by me Grandmaw Hutchins, whom he called Mae, her middle name. You need to know that. Don't worry, there won't be a test. You just need to know.

As Mom and I went shopping yesterday, she asked what we were shopping for. I told her coffee, among a few other things.

She brightened up as she told a story from her childhood. "Oh, Daddy used to give us kids coffee all the time, and it bothered Mom," my mother was explaining. 

She continued, "Mom used to yell, Mal, you can't be givin' them young 'uns coffee!"

"It ain't gonna hurt 'em, Mae, he'd answer quietly every time, a little smile on his face," Mom finished. 

"I still hear her say that. I still see him smiling."

"I think he did it just to tease her, but I think Mom liked it just the same," Mom ended with a wistful grin.

Okay, not much of a story. But it's nice to hear Mom talk about her parents and her childhood.