Pops' patience tried again

Remember the other day I spoke about how me Pops didn't mind doing my favors but you needed to hold up your end if the bargain? Well, there was another instance where the old man held his ground, firmly and simply.

A customer called late on a Saturday and said he needed his drain snake fixed for a couple Sunday jobs: would Pops meet him early Sunday to fix it? Reluctantly Dad told the man yes. "I'll be at the Shop at 7:30. Be there then, because my family goes to the 9:00 Mass and I'll need time to get ready." This was back when men wore suits to Church.

"I'll be there Bill!" the man promised.

Of course he wasn't there. Dad waited until 8, then locked up and went home.

About 8:40, just as Pops and me Mom had all us kids piled into the station wagon and Dad suited up, he heard a loud, constant horn honking. Turning, he saw the customer's truck rushing down the street towards him, tearin' up jack. He got even with Dad, rolling down the window of his van and yelling with a smile, "Man, I'm glad I caught, you, Bill!"

The old man looked him in the eye and said, "You're just in time to be too late!" He got behind the wheel of the family car and we were on our way to St. Dominic's Church, leaving the man sitting on the street.

I don't whether the guy ever came back. I don't think me Pops cared. 

I'm only thinking

What's the first thing, and I mean the very first thing, that you have to do before you do anything, anything at all? You have to think about doing it, right?

But does thinking about doing it mean that you will do it? Does it mean in fact you must do it? Does it commit you or anyone else to doing it, or force them to alter their plans, their course of action? Of course not, to all three questions. Thinking about doing something means only that you are considering that option, nothing more.

It does not mean that you are intending to run roughshod over someone else or their plans. It does not mean that you are, have, or will insult or embarrass anyone. Thinking about doing something does not of necessity mean that you intend to put the screws to somebody. Sure, it might. But not of necessity. You may well simply be thinking about doing something. I would even go so far as to say that for most people most of the time that's the extent of it. They are merely considering an option.

This means too, generally anyway, that you are going to explore that option by any reasonable means. You will consider how it may affect other people; you are willing to adjust or abandon the idea if it will cause unwarranted consternation. Indeed you will consider whether you really want to do it at all. I mean, if you're a decent, sensible fellow that's all part of thinking about it, right? There is no harm done, no offense committed, merely by thinking of something. It matters not either where and how the thought was first expressed. Taking the thought process to mean any more than that is, usually, senseless. Childish in fact. It's that simple.

Dusty played bass

Dusty Hill, the bassist from long time rock/blues band ZZ Top, died yesterday. I was profoundly sad to hear the news. Sure, they could have been less raunchy. Yet few of us are without sin, not that that excuses it, and boy, they could drive a beat.

Sharp Dressed Man is one of my favorite songs ever. Every girl's crazy about one, right? Not that I've been to that many concerts but their performance at the Michigan State Fair back 2005 (August 17, according to Wikipedia; who knew concert tours could have Wikipedia pages?) was the best live show I've ever seen. 

One of the bad things about getting older, and I hope this doesn't sound flippant because I mean to be serious, is that more people die. Yet a kind of good can come out of that. It makes you remember the past more vividly. I can actually see and hear them performing, and amazingly clearly, from that night 16 years ago. How and why my son Charlie and I decided to go, I think it was rather last minute, I don't recall. But I'm glad we went.

Dusty just left Houston. I hope he meets Jesus coming down from Chicago. Rest in Peace, man.

Nolympics

I don't watch the Olympics anymore. It really has little to do with the wokeness which surrounds so much of it, although that's a factor. A big part of it is an increasing disinterest in sports in general. Baseball is the only game I pay more than scant attention to these days.

But with the Olympics in particular the lack of paying any serious attention began about 2008 with the Beijing Games. A great many folks seemed to marvel at the precision of the Chinese, and I will admit that the Opening Ceremonies were impressive on a certain level. Yet it must be said that that was simply Red China trying to show the world how great it is. We should not be impressed with the theatrics of an oppressive regime. Arguably it's only pigs with lipstick.

I know sports and politics can never be completely separated yet I feel they should be. I don't care to be lectured by rich and famous athletes about what a stupid little weasel I am or what a horrible country I live in (while those cowards kowtow to Beijing). I have zero interest in a communist nation being allowed to promote its system on a world stage. It only makes me want to say, and the horse you rode in on. 

So while I may linger on an Olympic broadcast as I channel surf the Games won't occupy my time like the once did. They don't deserve my time these days. It's that simple.

Better be ready

Me Pops didn't drink or carouse. Indeed he was pretty straight laced his entire life. Even in high school, where he was well regarded, he was seen as a good, dependable guy.

He didn't play formal school sports but would often give rides to football games and the like to friends who wanted to go. There was only one hard and fast rule: if Bill Cosgriff  told you to be ready at 1 you better be ready at 1, because he would not wait.

This rule was made by necessity. Dad often picked up several friends at a time for an event and the event began at a set time. It was a fairness issue for everyone involved to be ready when it was agreed that you'd be ready.

One of my Aunts reminded a girlfriend of hers of this. "When Bill gets to your house you better be ready or he will leave." The girl didn't think much of it. Her boyfriend was the star of the football team and Bill wouldn't risk offending him.

So Dad got to her house with a couple other people in tow and the young lady wasn't ready. Her mother had stuck her head out the door to indicate she'd be ready in a few minutes. Me Pops threw the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. A girl already with the teens in the car asked incredulously, "You're not actually going to leave her are you Bill?" Dad just kept driving.

The truant managed to get the game a few minutes late. Afterwards she complained to her boyfriend, "I'm sorry I was late; Bill left without me."

I don't know what she expected but it wasn't what she got. "Were you ready when Bill told you to be ready?"

"No," she answered sheepishly.

"Then I don't blame Bill for leaving you." It was the sort of respect the old man commanded.

Some of you may not agree with such an attitude. Me Pops would leave you behind just as quick too. If you ask somebody for a favor you have to do your part, simple as that.

Hey Presto

I'm sure I've said this before and I'm equally sure that every one of you out there are incredulous at the prospect. I'll go so far as to say that you probably don't believe it. Hell, I don't blame you. With my track record I don't believe I believe it myself. But it's true: I can be taught. And self taught no less.

In trying to get my writing career, such as it is, off the ground, I've resurrected a manuscript which I hadn't touched in about 15 years. When I decided to work on it I first had to find it. You know how computers are: everything's right there on your monitor or on your hard drive. If, and this is a big if, you remember how and where and under what title and form you saved it. That's when we discover HOW COMPUTERS ARE. They are literal. Very, precisely literal. Maddeningly, frightfully, disgustingly literal. A capital letter which should be small and, hey presto, your friendly Dell has no idea what the hell you're talking about.

Still, I managed to find the document. And it was blank, blanker than a Democrat's mind (insert Republican if it makes you feel better and I'm very sorry I offended you please don't cancel me) even though the word count function insisted there were more than 62,000 of them. What to do, what to do.

I selected 'copy' for the entire document, copied it, opened a new text document window and, hey presto, it appears, visible words and all, in the new window. Only rather than quote marks at the start and ending of someone speaking there were vertical lines. Again, who to do etc.

I select copy all again, copied the entire document again, pasted into an open text window of a different writing program and, wait for it... wait for it...hey presto! The entire manuscript was there, and with quote marks around spoken words and phrases.

So I can be taught. Inspiration, where do you come from? And now I get to begin submitting what will hopefully soon be another book, one of them novels we hear so much about. Hey presto, it could happen.

This day in Marty history

Facebook really has the pulse on my life. This morning I was reminded of two things which took place on July 25 in my history, one cool, one, well, I guess funny.

On this day in 2016 my son Frank and I saw the Detroit Tigers take on the Boston Red Sox at Fenway Park. The Tigers won 4-2. Jose Iglesias cleared the Green Monster with a two run homer in the top of the sixth. Fenway Franks, the hot dog sold at Fenway, are incredible! I want to go back to the old ball park both to see it and have a couple more of those dogs!

In 2014 on this same July 25 I was given my first Senior discount at a Wendy's in Indiana. Seven years ago I got my first senior discount. I wonder how much money I've saved since letting my pride get out of the way?

So there's Today in History. My history.

Really Cleveland?

The Guardians? You really intend to call your baseball team the Cleveland Guardians?

I'm just going to say it straight it out: it's a bloody stupid name. I don't care what you think about the old Indians moniker, Guardians is inane. It simply reeks of trying to go way, way out of their, uh, way to be inoffensive. Had the Pastels already been taken? How about the Melt Into The Backgrounds?

Spiders would be better. At least there's an historic precedent for it. If you're going to take on a losers' name at least Spiders has merit, losers that they were. Or go way back and become the Cleveland Forest Citys, at team which briefly existed in the 1870s. But the Guardians?

I'm glad I got my Chief Wahoo cap before all this nonsense started.

Progress is progressing

I don't want to get my hopes up but my Detroit Tigers are playing some seriously entertaining baseball lately. They've won six straight for the first time in awhile and aren't simply mailing it in anymore. Cool. Akil Baddoo for Rookie of the Year!

At the start of the season I had hoped they might contend by 2023. Today 2022 doesn't appear to be off the table. We'll see.

That's what I got for you today folks: my quick thoughts on the hometown nine. Have a good one.

Tow what

Tow trucks these days don't actually tow. They have large, flat beds which can be angled towards the ground and vehicles are winched upon the bed. The bed is then brought back to level, the car secured, and off to the mechanic. Or impound if your day is going particularly bad.

One day I took a call from a new customer about having his drain machine repaired. He arrived shortly thereafter with his drain snake secured onto the bed of his tow truck. It was, for me anyway, a strange sight.

Now, large drum or cage type snakes can weight 250 pounds or more quite easily and take up a pretty fair amount of space, so I get that you couldn't tool around with one in a Yugo. Still, they are far smaller than your typical car or van. 

The man of course unloaded the machine exactly like he would a car, turning the bed to face downward and rolling the thing gently to ground level. He had to work that day, so on his way to his first real tow he brought his drain machine to me, in a very unique way.

It's probably not all that funny. I even give the man props for inventiveness. Still, I doubt I'll ever see a drain snake being towed again. It certainly looked odd.

Rumors of wars

My Facebook feed this morning offered me its usual list of recommended items and articles for my perusal. I wish I understood algorithms better simply to figure out why our Facebook overseers think I like what they think I like. You see, I don't think I worry as much about chaos and disintegration as Mark Zuckerberg apparently believes I do.

One article in this morning's suggestions spoke about the parallels between the current United States and the fall of the Roman Empire. We're going down that road, I'm afraid. Yes, yes indeed. The writing is clearly on the wall.

Maybe so, maybe no. The future is unwritten; we cannot, simply cannot, know exactly where we're headed. And while certain things might be very good conjecture, they're still mere conjecture.

I remember reading articles in the Seventies which purported to alert me then that we were going the way of the Roman Empire. Yet lo, here we still are today.

Republicans thought the Barack Obama Presidency was the end of history as we knew it. Democrats thought it of Donald Trump. We've survived them both. I'm not shocked.

All this worry is brought on by people who thrive on worry, whether it's reporters or the White House or the myriad individual hand wringers among us. We forget that, as the Good Book says, there will be wars and rumors of wars; part of the lesson there is that we should not put too much stock in such nonsense.

I suppose this is my long winded way of saying stop panicking, everybody. It doesn't help us solve the very real problems which exist of which the fear mongers try to take advantage simply to get their way. Don't give them that power over you. You're only helping them get what they want: your fear, because it feeds their hunger.

Turning them phrases

While listening to the radio this morning I heard a song, one of many which employ the same sentiment, where the singer laments someone he 'used to know'. But doesn't that mean he stills knows her? I mean, who's he talking about if he doesn't still know who they are?

It's a little like when I was explaining to a small group of family about a new (to me, anyway) way to fill a cup of beer. There was a cap at the bottom of the cup, and the bartender held the cup over a post, pushing up the cap and filling the cup from the bottom. My aunt looked at me, confused, and asked, "But don't all cups fill from the bottom?" I guess they actually do, right?

I'm not one of those who argue that language is vague and confusing. I think the poor use of language and/or honest error either on the part of the speaker or the listener can make it appear confused. Still, the little incongruities can be fun to notice.

Sort of like, when we were loading trucks back in the days working with my grandfather, Grandpa Joe would bark, "Raise 'er down!" when ready to place a load on the truck bed. 

A grand feeling

Who knows why, really, that rather obscure memories sometimes just pop into our heads? 

Yesterday and without any obvious prompting I remembered buying $100,000 candy bars, now called 100 Grand, at the bookstore at the University of Detroit as a freshman 43 years ago. They were a quarter each at the time. I would buy four and savor them over the course of a day. 

The memory came out of nowhere and was so strong I could damn near taste the chocolate and crisped rice. A happiness flowed over and through me which was virtually indescribable. I truly felt like I was back in the Student Union building on campus enjoying a quiet moment between classes. It was that powerful and sublime.

I wasn't in a party store and I wasn't hungry.  Indeed I had no desire for a snack at all. There were no ads in the paper I had just read and the radio was not on to perhaps have set things in motion. I was sitting at my desk at the Shop waiting for a customer to arrive, sipping on a coffee. Then suddenly I was at old U of D and feeling very good about it.

It's a feeling I cannot recreate with any satisfaction even as I try to writing this morning. I can't come near it. But man, it was profound this past Saturday morning and I simply have no clue what triggered it.

Heavenly help

We Catholics know that when you can't find something you pray to St. Anthony for help. I did that just yesterday in fact and promptly found what I had misplaced. It truly works.

Several years ago one my aunts, a sister of me Mom's (that's typical of how someone becomes your aunt) lost something important. Mom's side of the family is overwhelmingly Protestant whereas Mom converted to Catholicism after she married me Pops. That's important to know only because you won't appreciate the story otherwise.

Mom suggested her sister pray to St. Anthony. In fact my aunt's exact prayer was, "St. Anthony, I don't know you but my sister does. Please help me find what I'm looking for." Lo and behold, she found it in the next few minutes.

Few things are more powerful than sincere prayer, eh? It knows no denomination.

Surviving superstition

I'm not sure the reasons behind it, but Amos Sheffield whom I've mentioned a few times once went through a spell where he needed many surgeries. For whatever other reasons of which I am also unsure, me Pops ended up the contact person for him. Amos had no children and what family he had were all living in Kentucky.

I should mention here that Amos was extremely, indeed fervently, superstitious.

One day during the course of all Amos' health issues he had to have a surgery fast. It was a we need to know this instant, don't dwell on the answer, we'll lose him if don't operate immediately situations. Yet Amos himself was in a coma and could offer no instructions. Pops happened to be in the hospital and was approached about what to do. Operate, he of course told the doctors.

The surgery was done, and Amos came out in flying colors.

Well past any danger a couple of weeks later, Amos still lay in the hospital recuperating. Me Pops went to pay a visit. As they talked, Pops could see that Amos was calculating. Eventually he asked, in a fit of pique, "That was my thirteenth operation. Why'd you let them do it?" he demanded of Pops.

"What was I supposed to do?" Dad responded incredulously.

"When was the surgery?" Amos then demanded.

"I dunno. Two Fridays ago I guess."

"That was the Thirteenth!" Amos exclaimed. "You let them operate on me for the thirteenth time on Friday the 13th?"

"You're made it, didn't you?" Dad said with a wave of his hands. But I suppose when superstition gets a hold on you, it grabs tight.

Size 7

This is probably more funny to me than it will be to most of you, my readers. But I found it so funny at the time that I almost busted a gut trying not to laugh out loud.

There's a Monty Python skit (Quiet Ron, and bear with me) where John Cleese answers a phone and all you hear is his side of the conversation. The conversation was nothing but Cleese responding 'yes' to the apparent questions coming from the caller. The reverie was only interrupted once.

Cleese was responding, and I'm including the interruption for brevity's sake, "Yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...size 7...yes...yes...yes...yes" and so on until he hung up. Or the skit ended, I don't remember which.

One day at the Shop me Pops answered a phone call. And I tell you true his entire end of the conversation was Yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes... and so forth. From back at my workbench in the old barn, near enough the office that I could of course hear, all I could think was, "If he says size 7 I'm going to lose it."

There you have it. Funny for me, and hopefully at least enough to bring a smile to your face.

Lilac, not lavender

We all daydream don't we? Dream home, dream vacation, dream trip; we all think those things eh? For some it's a dream car. My dream car is a 1967 Cadillac. A lilac one, because I will not call it lavender.

Me Grandpa Joe had one like that. The last car with tail fins, modest though they were. I have no idea where he got that Caddy, but I know he had it painted lilac because there was a sale at the car paint place.

I remember well the day we discovered Joe had it. We got back home from visiting Mom's folks in North Carolina and me Pops pulled up to park right behind that Caddy as we got home. "I wonder who's purple Cadillac that is?" He wondered aloud.

 He should have known.

That car became my delivery car. Joe being Joe, he had a hitch put on that thing for delivering Hobart welders. He put it in the fleet. And  ol' Marty got to deliver them welders with it. Proudly, if in retrospect.

That was the car I drove through four feet of water in Milan. I'd link you to that blog but I'm feeling lazy just now.

A friend of Joe's joked that he once saw a line of welders a mile long bein'  pulled by a big purple Caddy. It was that Caddy.

And that's my dream car. A lilac '67 Caddy with modest tail fins. And maybe an old Hobart welder to tow behind it.

The little bakery

While at a farmers market up north recently I came upon a vendor of baked goods. He had chocolate chip cranberry cookies which were delightful, and carrot cake scones which were out of this world. I guarantee you I will seek out this baker the next time I'm in Hessel. Such small businesses merit our support.

Still, something unrelated to his wares caught my attention. It was the stickers which he apparently was forced to add onto each of his baked goods packages. The stickers warned me with an underlined emphasis, 'This product was produced in a kitchen unregulated by the Michigan Department of Agriculture'.

My first thought was, good. We need more of that. We need the government farther out of our lives. 

Do you know that it never once occurred to me that I might have been in danger from this guy's baked goods? Why should I even have presumed such evil? A small business especially in a small community where it needs to treat people well or simply not survive has, inherently, my best interests at heart. Note: I did not die, nor was I harmed in any way by the cookies or scones. 

I have however and on several occasions in my life been seriously ill from eating tainted foods which had indeed been and undoubtedly quite thoroughly inspected by my government. Department of Agriculture oversight did not save me from calamity then.

I say, more power to this little baker in Hessel working out of his own kitchen, and less to the bureaucrats who have no real hand in the actual satisfaction of consumer wants and needs. More power to the people who actually want to address consumer demand and less authority to the folks paid to look for wrongs to be righted. Such paragons of virtue will always find evil. Their jobs rely on it.

A public service announcement

I just want to take a moment here to remind everyone that if you play music too loudly, it will annoy the neighbors.

Other good ways to annoy the neighbors are to take their parking spaces, allow your dog to bark at all hours of the night, leave your bulk trash on their curb, and burn copious amounts of incense next to wide open windows backed by fans on low to blow the smell straight into their houses.

You're welcome.

Wither the Old Dominion?

Being on the road quite a bit I see many trucks and many truck lines. I've even learned where some of the companies call home, or, at least, where their trucks are commonly plated. If the truck has SAIA painted along the side of the trailer the license plate will be Louisiana. Heartland Trucking hails from somewhere in Mississippi. Bourassa trucks are from Quebec. You get the idea.

Yet one freight line vexes me as only a student of history can be vexed, and that is Old Dominion.

Perhaps a bit of historic background would be handy.

The State of Virginia is the Old Dominion. It became known as such because during the English Civil War in the mid-1600s it had largely sided with the British monarchy. As such, King Charles (you can be certain with a name like that he was one great king) after the War called it his reliable Old Dominion. 

What confuses me, what obscures the entire issue here, is that Old Dominion freight lines are headquartered in a place called Thomasville. In North Carolina.

This angers me. I have read for years that Americans don't know their history and up pops this heinously egregious example. North Carolina isn't the Old Dominion, doggonit. Virginia is. I want to know who's responsible for this confusion. The American Student has the right to know.

History teaching in these Unites States are in shambles, I tell you what.

Up and at 'em, down and out

While I don't actually work out, loyal readers know that I walk for 45 minutes to an hour a solid five days a week, and often six. Indeed I have walked as many as seventeen days straight. Yes, I count. What else are you supposed to do when walking seventeen straight days? Besides, that sort of thing feeds on itself and sort of encourages exercise. I mean that.

Admittedly I don't watch my food as well as I should. Oh, I watch it. I just watch too much of it and then eat it all. Too fast. Especially corn and potato chips, although a few chocolate fudge cookies might find their way into the mix. They're a great follow up to a dry salad.

I'm reasonably active for the proverbial man my age. I do not live a sedentary lifestyle. I'm active at work, lifting things and moving them around, loading and unloading my van and the like, walking from place to place routinely at the Shop. Stairs are no problem. I go up and down them as if they're made for getting between levels. My joints don't bother me as a rule: there's only the occasional body aches and pains which, I am told, are the rule and not the exception as I age. Sure, my back bothers me with annoying regularity. But remind yourself what I just said.

My point here is that I don't think I'm in bad shape. Then why has it become so hard to get in and out of cars?

I love my van, and with no small reason. Besides needing one for my job, I can get up into a van and then down and out with ease. Getting down into a car and then up out of one can be, well, even I find it funny as I struggle to bend my body just so to make it happen. I don't remember having to twist myself a full one eighty before, trying to find the right angle for entering a car or excising myself therefrom. 

This may be precisely what a man searching the landscape for an excuse might say, but I do believe that cars are lower than they once were. The old cars I used to drive before vans became the biggest part of my driving regimen didn't seem so close to the ground. Is it about aerodynamics? Just let me get into the car and the extra ballast and will see to that.

So I wonder: is it a matter of flexibility? Do I need to work on that to become more agile and make the ups and downs of car entry and exit easier? How might I do that?

The first friend or family member who says 'yoga' will be disowned. If you are not a friend or family member I will make you one simply to disown you. In the meanwhile I will be content with 'cars are lower'. It makes sense to me.

A polite no thank you would have sufficed

Years ago I knew a man whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name. He seemed like a good guy, though he spoke in broken English with an accent I never could place. We would see each other occasionally at neighborhood meetings and such.

One day while making small talk before an event he told me that he walked everywhere he went. I didn't think much of it at the time: he could do what he wanted on that count, right? But one night after a meeting it was raining rather hard. Very hard, in fact. Remembering his habit, I offered Cloyce a ride home. In my car, of course.

A look of complete horror flew into his eyes. "No, no, no," he protested vehemently. "Cars bad, cars crash, people die. No, no no." But then he realized the situation and said, trying apparently to mollify me (I was not insulted but I understand his concern) he said, "You're nice man. Nice to offer ride. But no. Cars bad, bad, bad." He raised an umbrella and walked on out into the storm.

All I can think is, he must have had one bad experience with cars. Either that, or he'd heard about my driving.

Hah. I beat every one of you to that punchline, didn't I?

Cousins have your back

When me Pops graduated from High School in 1954, him and his cousin Jerry took a three week trip out west to celebrate. They drove an old station wagon, figuring to spend some nights sleeping in the back to save on hotel costs. Sometimes one of them would drive while the other caught a nap. 

Being young and naive, and consider too that it was the middle Nineteen Fifties, they occasionally picked up hitchhikers. They only had a scare once.

Pops had picked the guy up while Jerry was asleep in back, dozing under a blanket. Everything seemed all right at first. But then the man began talking out of his head. It was all nonsense stuff, me Pops recalled, yet the guy was getting himself all worked up and increasingly animated, throwing his arms around to emphasize this or that point, and growing angry.

"What am I gonna do?" though the old man, traipsing across the barren landscape of I believe New Mexico. Glancing at the rear view, he realized that an apparently awake Jerry was worried too. Dad had seen a hand reach out from under the blanket and stealthily grab an empty glass Coke bottle, sliding it back with him obviously for use as the weapon Jerry was increasingly convinced would be needed.

Thankfully nothing came of it. When they had reached the hitchhiker's destination the guy readily hopped out, said thanks to the boys, and went about his day. Yet they stopped picking up hitchhikers after that.

Check check

I have gotten everything I wanted out of this past weekend, and more.

Quality time with the Ohio Cosgriffs: check.

A decent amount of weekend walking: check.

Not one but two Fourth of July fireworks and parades: check check.

Decent picture of two sandhill cranes in the wild while on a morning walk: check.

Back home safely: hopefully in the next few hours. Then, the Good Lord willing,  a final check will be added.

In the air

I think it's gonna rain. I can smell it.

That's a nice sensation really. A gently breeze, lightly gray clouds, the water of Lake Huron just a few feet away as I sit on the porch up north. Soon I'll hear the tapping of the raindrops as they hit the tin roof of the garage. All on a July 5 Monday, technically a holiday since the 4th was a Sunday this year.

The big things have their place but it's tough to beat the little things in life. I may even be able to get a walk in before the rain and enjoy the world just that much more.

July 4 2021

We're still a great nation which has done great things. While we have our flaws, and who isn't flawed, we exist as a beacon of hope for many. And we are certainly not nearly as bad as even too many Americans seem to think. But hubris is, like all error, endemic to the human condition.

So I'll grill today and then go see fireworks tonight, and be thankful for the blessings of being an American.

God Bless the USA. Happy Independence Day everyone.

The Lord of the Pringles

I've done it. I've spoiled the dog. Isn't it interesting how when you have a pet such as a dog, it becomes 'the' dog, as though no other such animals exist on the face of the Earth?

He's not even my dog. He's Gaspode, my son's family's Australian Shepard. He's a cool dog and he likes potato chips. Well, like most dogs his palate is not really all that well defined. But when he and I get together it's all about the Pringles. Or the Better Mades or the Ruffles or the Lays. I told you his palate wasn't all that well defined.

So he eats whatever I have on hand and follows me around as soon as he sees me to see what I might have available. The anticipation on his face gets right to me, so much so that I have to give him a salty snack every time we meet. But you know what? His weight problem isn't my weight problem, nor is mine his. 

So we get along just fine with our chips, and he doesn't mind one bit being spoiled.

Literally in plain sight

I could not find a machine which I knew was in our Shop for repair. We do all the obvious things when we take in a unit, including tagging the thing with the company or customer's name and a brief description of the problem. Yet I could not find this one particular drain snake.

I searched for over an hour with no luck. Eventually me brother Phil came in. "Do you know where the drain machine for Cloyce's Plumbing is?" I asked, with no small amount of exasperation.

He literally, and I fully realize that the term literally is literally overused but it literally applies here, turned to the machine immediately to his right, took the attached repair card in his hand, and remarked, "You mean this one that says Cloyce's Plumbing on it?" 

The thing was literally (that word again) right by the coffee table, a place where I should never have missed it. "You didn't have to make it look that easy," I responded just a tad timidly, exactly as me Pops would from time to time when in a similar circumstance. 

I could have sworn I had checked that tag and others several times. You do wonder how we can sometimes miss the things right in front of you.

The damage is done

I feel much better this morning. That's good, because I felt lousy yesterday.

There's not a lot of doubt in my mind that yesterday I did in fact have a reaction to my COVID shot. Tuesday I had my second dose of the Pfizer vaccine. Wednesday, I certainly hope, let me know its working.

Headachy, nauseous, weaker than I've ever been in my life (quiet Ron), and hotter than blazes. I don't mean warm, I mean hot. Fiery hot. I had never felt like it before. Ever.

But, the bright side. Two Tiger tickets and two $10 off an entire purchase at Meijer coupons. And the Tigers game I chose has a free floppy hat giveaway for the first ten thousand adults. I will be in that number. I guarantee it. Oh, and I'm safe from the corona virus. That's good too, right?

The Tiger game is against Toronto. Would I be too much of a twerp to, ah, sell one of the tickets to a Canadian baseball fan? At face value of course. Then I would be really ahead on the whole thing.