Pops intimidates Cloyce

I spoke of me Pops' judicious use of anger yesterday. When I said it could have a great effect, I meant it.

About twenty years ago an old family friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, dropped into the Shop for a visit. He was treated to a rare but entirely justified outburst on Dad's part.

I don't remember anymore what exactly the issue was, but this customer just kept picking at Dad, and picking at him, and picking at him. About the fourth time through the old man exploded and let the guy have what for, quickly ordering him out of the Shop with an absolute flourish. The fella deserved every bit of it too.

While I stood at the ready in case me Pops needed me for backup, I nevertheless kept at my task. But I could see Cloyce's eyes grow bigger, his jaw dropping in slow motion as he took in the scene. He was riveted by the display of anger, and I think rather impressed as well.

When Dad had finished with the guy, he stomped into the office. Cloyce slowly sidled over to me, all the time never taking his eyes from the office door. "Marty?" he asked in a whisper when he was next to me at the workbench.

"Yeah?" I asked back in quiet conspiracy.

"Remind me never to get Bill mad at me." Cloyce was clearly intimidated, and the anger wasn't anywhere near being addressed to him.

And I bet he never did do anything close to setting the old man off.

Mind your temper

I think I've well established that me Grandpa Joe had a temper. I feel silly repeating that so often as I do but a new reader might not know it. I must be aware of that and thus be repetitive.

Me Pops by his own assertion said he had a bad temper too. I know he had a temper, as I found myself on the wrong side of it (and justly) more times than I care to recount. Yet he seemed not to get irritated at his father with any regularity.

He did of course at times show his anger. I don't remember what it was about but I can only remember being in the Shop once where Dad went so far as to raise his voice at Joe. Me Grandpa honestly appeared cowed by it and backed down readily. That may be exactly what can happen with the judicious use of anger: even those prone to outburst themselves take note.

I asked me Pops once why he didn't display his temper so much around Joe. His explanation was, "Joe was here first, and I figure he has seniority, so I needed to keep mine in check."

Makes sense to me.

Joe's Birthday

Today is me Grandpa Joe's birthday. He would have been 116. Sure, that would not be a likely age for him to have made. But I can imagine the hell he would have raised if he had.

He passed away August 27, 1991, just shy of 86, so we buried him pretty close to his birthday. He smoked heavy from his teens (his doctor at the end remarked that his lungs were probably like leather). No doubt some tobacco farmer lived the high life because of Joe. 

I remember him smoking Carltons. It's a silly thing to be sentimental over but I can still see clearly those red packages they came in, and him opening a fresh one on his front porch, tearing the cellophane off with a carpet knife because that's what he did when something didn't open readily enough. Which, for his purposes, they typically would not. 

He went home in style. Me Pops rented a large black Chevy Suburban and drove Joe back to Jacksonville, Illinois for internment. Joe always promised himself he was going to buy one new car before he died. He never did, but his last trip was in one. I wonder perhaps that was Pops' salute to his old man.

Down at the funeral home in Jacksonville I remember me and me cousin Art were standing by the casket. One or the other of us said, "This ain't right."

"What?" the other asked.

"He can't leave this world without a pack of cigarettes."

"I'll get the smokes, you get the lighter," I said. Off we were to find a store. I bought a pack of Carltons for the first and only time in my life. Art got the lighter. The undertaker solemnly placed both in the vest pocket of Joe's suit.

A little while later we were talking to an uncle, telling him what we'd done. "I don't know that that was a good idea," Uncle remarked. "What if that butane mixes with the gases of the body decomposing? It might cause an explosion."

Hell, Joe would have loved that! Dirt spraying up and the headstone falling over to the side. And I can't help imagining me Grandma Cosgriff lying next to him, shaking her head and tsk tsking. She had to do that often enough in life, and now two of her grandkids go and give Joe one more reason to annoy her. Everyone else in the cemetery would be thinking, 'That's just Joe'. Grandpa would simply be cackling in the way he always did when he found something funny, a hee hee hee as though forced out of his body.

Happy Birthday Joe. I know you're still rooting that explosion.

Then it got good.

It was boring until it got good.

My first live baseball game in two years at Comerica Park last night was a dull one. Aside from an over the fence catch by Tiger centerfielder Derek Hill which robbed visiting Toronto of a home run, nothing much had happened.

Then Victor Reyes pinch hit leading off the Eighth.

He hit a line drive which centerfielder Josh Palacios dove for. Yet he missed, and the ball bounded all the way to the fence. I think everyone in the stadium thought it could be an inside the park home run, given Reyes' speed. I mean, he has wheels. Sure enough, he turned it on and scored rather easily with a head first slide. I had never seen an inside the park home run live, so that was a treat. It gave the Tigers a 2-1 win.

The fact is that I almost missed it. I had had a long day on the road and was very tired. I never leave games early - I've done it twice and once missed a great comeback - but was considering doing exactly that last night. I was that tired. But that little voice in my head urged me to stay. 

I'm glad I listened. Inside the parkers are rare, especially game winning ones. It was worth the fatigue I still feel this morning.

Why I'm conservative, reason number 1,362

I had to make a bank deposit yesterday which included cash among the few checks I had. In chatting with the teller she informed me, just in conversation as I wasn't putting anywhere near those kinds of greenbacks into my account, that every cash deposit of over $10,000 must be reported to the IRS. The justification is that it helps them spot illegal activity, drug runners and money launderers and such.

That galls me. To cut to the chase, it ain't the government's business how much money or in what manner I put it in the bank. It's presumption of guilt, plain and simple. If they believe I'm committing a crime they need to get warrants after they discover just cause. Period.

A large cash deposit in and of itself isn't just cause. Perhaps a fellow had been sticking money in a mattress for years and decided it would be safer in a bank. Yet the particulars don't matter. If the IRS believes I'm doing ill it needs to prove it through due process, not by legally requiring notifications without cause. It's immoral.

The last time I looked we're innocent until proven guilty. We're not supposed to be compelled to testify against ourselves, as such laws force us to do. And that's another reason, really two, why I'm a conservative with strong libertarian feelings.

Throw the ball

I love baseball. Always have, always will. There's no doubt in my mind that it's the greatest game ever. Yet that doesn't mean that I'm blind to its flaws.

Major League Baseball is set to end the seven inning double header games as well as the runner on second rule for extra inning games next year. Good riddance to bad rubbish I say. But the National League is expected adopt the Designated Hitter for the pitchers next year. I don't like that but it's hard to fight the future. Still, I am happy that Shohei Ohtani stuck to his guns as a pitcher in that he wants to bat too. He may be the most complete player in the history of the sport.

What galls me the most though is the pace of the game. In watching old ball games I notice that the pitchers, at least with no one on base, tend to deliver pitches about ten seconds apart. The locally famous Fidrych game on Monday Night Baseball in June 1976 in just under two hours was exciting and compelling and Fidrych THREW THE BALL with a decent pace, a pitch every ten to twelve seconds as I alluded to a minute ago. I know: I began timing, because I was amazed at the pace. These days pitchers stare at the catcher, set, look around, stare at the batter, and finally offer a pitch every twenty seconds or so. And that's if the batter hasn't asked for time, to saunter into his own delays.

Throw. The. ball. Stay in the batter's box. You're either overthinking things or playing a stupid intimidation game of some sort and both stink. Play the game. Throw the ball. That by itself ought to cut half hour off game times, and would be a whole lot more entertaining to boot.

The near miss in Hessel

There is, at the front corner of our lot in Hessel, a stone fence which is wide enough to sit upon I like to perch atop it occasionally where I can see the water down at the far end of Center Street. Center Street begins at Cedar Street and runs towards Lake Huron; Cedar runs across the front of our property. It was from this place where I had the catbird's seat to near catastrophe.

A noise distracted my silent reverie of gazing at the various boats and Ski-doos which danced upon the waters. A motor vehicle approached on Cedar from east, headed my way. Unexpectedly a second noise alerted me of a slight yet speeding pickup truck travelling northward on Center Street. Each displayed all the character of hurried and determined captains directing their respective horseless carriages. Fear crept into my mind. "Gracious!" methought, "Is this calamity which approaches?"

A glance down Cedar showed no evidence that yon vehicle intended to yield; a return stare southward on Center brought similar distress. Ought I prepare my camera phone to capture the incident with a photo sure to attract the attention of the local news hounds? Or would my time be better served with a 'duck and cover' maneuver behind the safety of the stone fence, lest my own body be struck down via airborne debris? 

Thankfully, or so I rightly admonished myself as the thought of spectacular havoc having invaded my head, the small truck patrolling Center elected to obey the red, octagonal traffic sign declaring that vehicles from his vantage come to a full stop before proceeding hence. The discretion of the pilot of the pickup allowed the motorcar on Cedar Street to cruise forth unimpeded and safely, a fine result indeed for all involved.

Taking my blue paisley handkerchief from my pocket, I wiped my brow in relief. Though I would find no photographic market for a pile of twisted wreckage upon the bi-ways of small town Michigan, I was content that distaster was averted. I happily returned to the roar of motorboats, sublime in my safety.

28 minutes

We got back to the D yesterday after a weekend in Hessel, in Michigan's glorious upper Peninsula. It was a small and all too quick family get together. But I imagine all good times are too quick, eh?

Yet it could have been shorter. In this case the early arrivals up North, my eldest son, daughter-in-law, and myself went to the Upper Peninsula State Fair in Escanaba, three hours from Hessel in the western UP. We were on the road there about a half hour after I had gotten in this past Friday.  My daughter-in-law cracked wise to me as we started our journey to the Fair, "I hope you enjoyed your stay in Hessel!" 

Hey, 28 minutes in Hessel beats 28 minutes in a lot of other places, I responded quite truly.

The UP State fair was well worth the brief moments in Hessel. And we managed to stay a couple extra days after anyway.

Mr. Hall

Tom T. Hall, the country singer known as the Storyteller, passed away a couple days ago. I always liked him.

He's likely best known for Old Dogs, Children, and Watermelon Wine, but he had many good songs as both writer and performer. He wrote Harper Valley PTA and sang I Love as well as a personal favorite, Faster Horses (The Cowboy and the Poet). The Ballad of Forty Dollars ain't bad either.

Rest in peace, Storyteller.

Number 11

Bill Freehan, the All Star catcher on the 1968 World Champion Detroit Tigers, passed away Thursday.

Arguably he won the 1968 World Series for us, with the great help of left fielder Willie Horton. Horton's quick, accurate throw beat Cardinals speedster Lou Brock to home in Game Five. Freehan took it and blocked the plate, preventing St. Louis from adding on to their lead while switching the momentum in the Series to Detroit. 

I have an 8 x 11 of that play. It means that much to me and to all Tigers fans. Freehan's number 11 shows proudly to the camera as Brock tries to get his foot in safely. And you know what? Brock is still out.

Al Kaline will always be my hero, yet all those 1968 Detroit Tigers still hold my heart. Godspeed Bill Freehan.

 

A hero in my own mind

Technology, eh? You gotta love it. Especially when you can mock it.

I remember years ago when we had a chess game on the computer, which was the computer around 1994 as there wasn't another in the house, unlike today where we all have our own. I discovered a function which allowed me to switch sides when the game was just about to beat me. A move or two away, when checkmate was obvious, I'd switch sides, make a move or two, and then the computer voice would lament electronically, "Good game. You win." And I would think, computers are so stupid.

Lately I've seen commercials for a device called Hero, an automatic pill dispenser. You fill it with up to 90 days of medications and it will for three months give you exactly the number of pills you need at the right time. I can see how this can be quite handy for someone taking several different meds. But for a snarky fellow such as yours truly, I find myself mocking such admittedly convenient technology.

The only actual prescription medicine I take is a strong Flonase, a nasal spray. I can see myself staring Hero in the face and asking, "How are you gonna dispense THAT, Hero?" 

Then again, I do take a vitamin D supplement each day. Then my thoughts become, so I'll buy a dispenser, fill it to the 90 day maximum, and let it give me one little gel pill right as I rise in the morning. The machine, were it sentient, and I sure hope it isn't, would be thinking, "Really, Marty? Are you underusing me just to be insulting?"

Of course I am. Which is why I'm glad the machines aren't sentient.

They aren't, are they? Please don't tell me I missed the memo.

Race you to the gulag

Yes, it was a stupid, silly thing to say. Yes, it was, and I mean exactly this, mildly offensive. But too much has been made about Detroit Tigers commentator Jack Morris mocking California Angels superstar and Japanese national Shohei Ohtani with an oriental accent while on the air. 

Morris has been suspended and must undergo sensitivity training before he can return to the broadcast booth. But for what? For being stupid and rude? Nearly all of us could stand advanced training on civility, as would any person who has not said dumb, inconsiderate things. But to mandate it? Race you to the gulag.

No less than Ohtani himself has said he's not offended, even complimenting Morris as the Hall of Fame pitcher he is. Perhaps he's only been being deferential. But maybe, just maybe, he's taking the right tack and not letting petty little comments bother him. Maybe, just maybe, he's got the thick skin a hell of a lot more folks in these United States need to develop. 

When most everyone else, it appears, are more offended than the one person Morris' lame joke was aimed at, it may signal that the rest of you need to be considerably less offended for him. What in Heaven's name happened to sticks and stones? Let it go, like water off a duck's back, me Pops would say. And dammit, he'd be right.

Biden and Afghanistan

I won't pretend to know all there is to know about the recent implosion in Afghanistan. But I will say that Biden blaming Trump is specious at best.

He claims he's only following up, out of necessity, on a deal President Trump made. Maybe so, maybe no. Again I don't claim to understand all the ifs, ands, and wherefores. Without knowing all Trump did or did not promise I can't say what is or is not his fault, although for the sake of argument he may well hold some of the blame. But two things occur to me which make it difficult to accept President Biden's claim that it's all the fault of his predecessor and that his own hands were tied.

The first is that it happened amazingly fast and after Biden had been in office eight months. Was his intelligence so faulty that he didn't see this coming? Such a spectacular victory as the Taliban appears to have won could not have happened overnight, and eight months is one long night.

Secondly, the current President had no qualms about countermanding a great many things the former President did. We all saw the plethora of executive orders; Biden handed them out like candy. Yet this One Big Thing he could do absolutely nothing about? Call me skeptical.

Perhaps Biden has done nothing wrong. Yet I doubt that's the case. Things of the magnitude of what happened in Afghanistan generally don't happen without a spectacular failure on someone's part. That might be Trump alone; it may even be the fault of the Afghan people alone. Yet as with all too many too convenient excuses, methinks the President is just running for cover.

124 over 72

At the second of my twice yearly checkups Monday, all my numbers were good. Cholesterol was good, A1C was good, vitamin D was fine, and my blood pressure was 124/72. My doctor was fine with that. I was ecstatic; my BP had been creeping high for about a year and a half and I fully expected to be given meds for it if it had stayed up. 

I almost hate saying things like this, because we all have stories of someone bragging about how good their health was and then keeling over a minute later. But I feel great, better honestly than I have in twenty years, physically and mentally. Seeing that blood pressure drop almost 25 points can help an outlook too. I guess there is something to that exercise thing.

Still, the doc did have to take a minute to excoriate me about something. "You could stand to lose 10 to 15 pounds, Mr. Cosgriff. After all, you've gained two pounds since February."

What is it about doctors and weight? "You've gained two pounds since February," I wanted to say in a mocking voice. Come on, doc, everything's great. Two pounds in six months is, what, 2/3 of a pound a month. Okay, maybe technically I am headed in the wrong direction there. But I ain't exactly eating myself to death either. 

But, all right, I have until next February, me Mom's birthday in fact, when my next appointment has been set, to drop 10-15 pounds. But if I actually do, a big if in itself I concede, I can't help but wonder what he might find to complain about instead. 

3.17

All right, it's not quite pi. But as I'm about to talk about food, close enough.

As usual while Mom and I were out Sunday she asked what and when we going to eat. I said, "I know a place where the bread's fresh and the water's cold."

"That's called home," she groused. "What are we going to eat while we're out?"

"Oh, I'll find something," I answered. "But I only got $3.17."

Thinking for a minute she responded, "Well, that leaves seventeen cents for you to eat on then."

Fortunately I had more than that with me, so we ate reasonably well. Both of us.

Grant, Lewis, and morning sickness

I do read a lot, an assertion which I've made many times over the last few years and with no shame. In fact I've reached the point where it occurs to me that I may use this thing called the Internet, formerly known as the World Wide Web, to seek out books which I've long thought about reading yet am not thinking about buying when I'm in the old brick and mortar bookstores. Yes, they still exist.

Thus yesterday morning found me scouring Amazon looking for titles which I've long known and meant to hunt up for my perusal. One for example is U. S. Grant's Personal Memoirs. They're supposed to be a very good and of course first hand account of his actions in the Army and through his Presidency. Needless to say I found them available, and into the cart they went.

Next I sought out Screwtape Proposes a Toast by C. S. Lewis. Apparently if authors want my attention it pays to use initials, a personal compulsion of which J. R. R. Tolkien certainly took note. Then I brought up William Bennett's America The Last Best Hope, volumes Two and Three, as I have just finished Volume One and enjoyed it so much I want to finish the series. I'll stop with those examples of my search as they demonstrate, basically, what I sought: books of a staid, serious nature. 

Now unless you live under a rock you know that Amazon uses some type of algorithm to aid people in seeking what they desire, suggesting this or that similar product, and I have given you solid examples of what I was after. So imagine my surprise when, immediately after being offered several different styles and versions of the aforementioned books up popped a suggested product called Pink Stork Nausea Sweets. They claim to offer relief from morning sickness for pregnant women.

I am not making this up. Right after a listing for the Bennett books came the idea that I might want lozenges to alleviate morning sickness. After displaying interest in the writings of a historian, an American political and military leader, and an English theologian I apparently must be concerned with relief from pregnancy ailments.

By what inference could Amazon's bots possibly draw that conclusion? I'm at a loss. But if you can successfully enlighten me about it maybe I'll name the baby after you. 

The hubris of the do-gooders

Of all tyrannies, a tyranny exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience. They may be more likely to go to Heaven yet at the same time likelier to make a Hell of earth. Their very kindness stings with intolerable insult. To be ‘cured’ against one’s will and cured of states which we may not regard as disease is to be put on a level of those who have not yet reached the age of reason or those who never will; to be classed with infants, imbeciles, and domestic animals.

- C. S. Lewis

Please indulge me that somewhat lengthy quote, but I find it very applicable to recent history. Since COVID we seem cursed by those in positions of power who apparently feel they know better for us than we do for ourselves. And they appear quite certain of themselves indeed.

Follow the science! Not that science which clearly states that there are only two genders and that human women have human babies of course. Well established criteria are noxious and foreign to them while concepts rushed and obviously in flux (Do masks make a difference or not? Will the vaccine keep me from getting the disease or not?) are beyond criticism. That's precisely how they try to shove us into a box, treating us like 'infants, imbeciles, and domestic animals'. I suspect, however, like Ernst Blofeld and his cat, they treat their animals with greater respect.

Or are we just, and by just I mean only, animals to them? That's my great fear. Are we nothing more than creatures who might, who must, who can only be, ordered about because they, the faux scientists and very real gender benders, know best, have cornered truth? It is a scary thought. Are they 'omnipotent moral busybodies' whose hubris will not, cannot allow them to consider that they may be wrong? If so, they are exactly the wrong types of people to be in government or the Centers For Disease Control. Or running Facebook and Twitter.

Their very kindness stings with intolerable insult. My dear Mr. Lewis, you certainly do know how turn a phrase.

What baseball means to me

If family and baseball means anything to you at all, try keeping a dry eye watching the opening to the Field of Dreams game. I couldn't.

I actually began to write this missive yesterday (the game was Thursday) but could not. I loved the movie; I loved the sentiment even more. When Kevin Costner walked out of the cornfield I choked up. It continued watching the White Sox and Yankees follow him onto the field a couple minutes later. I had absolute, deep seated chills.

True, in the movie Ray Kinsella and his dad were estranged and that gave the story greater poignancy. But damn, I ain't wanted to have a catch with the old man so much in years. I still remember the last one; it's been too long.

One of the last things I did for him, (for me too I suppose) was go out and buy a brand new, authentic Major League baseball and give it to him for his journey. We're going to have a catch with it someday. Hell, he can even scuff it up a bit playing ball up there in the meantime. 

Systemic government

Simply to cut to the chase on this issue, I'm not half so worried about climate change as I am what ours and many other governments might do under its banner. I know that a bright red flag is being waived; we gotta do something now!

The hell we do, quite frankly, especially in light of the fact that virtually everything which comes out of the government and the media are crises. This has nearly always been the case: globalcoolingwarmingclimate panics have been around for decades now. And this is only one example. The entire COVID debacle is another: a crisis was created and then spectacularly mishandled. We're supposed to trust government after that?

Why should we believe for a New York minute that a government (and, I stress, a media) which causes so many problems will magically be the solution this time around? It's hubris, friends, a supreme and self inflating arrogance to think as much. I mean, if we are to believe (I do not, but for the sake of argument) in such a thing as systemic racism, from whence does it come? Government, plain and simple. So the supposed system which oppresses you currently (again, only for argument sake) will not oppress you further if given tyrannically greater power? 

The argument answers itself. But will it, can it in some quarters, be heard?

Joe and Uncle Bill and do it yourself because it's what you do

Cars are better today; I don't think there's any doubt about that. They are built better and last longer. The only real downside to that is that they are more difficult to fix when there is an issue. Forty years ago, back in my day, sonny, I pulled an engine on the car I had at the time and replaced a rear main oil seal on my own. I never gave it a second thought: it needed it so I did it. I'd never attempt such a task these days, flying almost totally blind as I did.

To give you an example from even farther back in Cosgriff history, and which shows that car repairs were even simpler way back when, I'll tell you the tale of me Grandpa Joe and his brother, me Uncle Bill.

There were driving around one day and whatever old vehicle they were in threw a rod. A very simple and I'm sure unsatisfying explanation of this is that a piston rod came off the crankshaft in the engine. If the piston can't work, and it can't if it's not connected to anything, the car won't go (or at least it won't go very well or very far). So what did those two venerable brothers do?

They found a ditch deep enough for their purposes, straddled it with the car, crawled under the vehicle and fixed that thrown rod on the spot. Then they went on their way.

Granted, me Uncle Bill had a reputation as a great mechanic, and they of course had tools on them. Still, doing a major engine repair, one that likely took an hour or two, on the side of the highway while lying in a ditch, well, you ain't doing that very often if at all these days. 

Samurai Politician?

So what do I do when I don't know what to write? Sometimes I try tripe like I did August 8, which floated like a lead balloon. Sometimes I get lazy and copy and paste an old blog and call it new. I figure, especially if the original is more than a year old, readers have probably forgotten it anyway. That doesn't sound condescending at all, does it?

There are times where I do a 'Today in History' thing. It's fun, it can be enlightening even in a trivial way, and in this internet age is extremely easy to do. And it's precisely what I set out to do this morning. Only I got sidetracked.

On this day in 1833 was born in Japan one Kido Takayoshi. Now I want to stress that I have nothing at all against Mr. Takayoshi. Indeed I never heard of him before this morning. He appears to have been a very important figure in the Meiji Restoration, where Japan was reunited (it had for years been dominated by feudal warlords who had the country sliced up into their own little kingdoms) under the Emperor. He was a samurai who helped his country turn more towards the West.

All that's well and good. But I laughed out loud when I read his all too brief one line biography on the August 11 Wikipedia page. It read plainly: Kido Takayoshi, samurai and politician.

Perhaps this merely reflects on my own sophomoric sense of humor but the two concepts seem totally foreign to one another. All I can think of is John Belushi's Samurai Baker, Samurai Accountant, Samurai Optometrist (and the like) schticks. Samurai Politician?

Of course, maybe we could use more of those. It sure would help C-SPAN's ratings.

The elm rustled

The Psalmist says, Psalm 46:11, 'Be still and know that I am God'.

I have experienced many trials in life. This doesn't make me special as we all deal with the various challenges which make life at times a chore, if not, of course, worse. At times worry and fear come close to devouring us. And then, life becomes still. 

Way back in 1985 as we were expecting our second child I went through a period of intense worry. Adulting had become scary; we had the one child already and I couldn't avoid fear for his future and how I might see to it. Now there would be another to add to that worry (and a third a few years hence). You quite easily feel small. You don't know that you can live up to the responsibility. All those things which you can't control well inside you too. The future becomes daunting; what will you do? What can you do?

I dealt with such feelings for several weeks in August and September 1985. It led to an intense sense of fear and, oddly, loneliness. I felt too alone to deal with it.

While walking the dog one day this worry seemed to reach a peak. We, the dog and I, were next to the big elm which still rises above the south side of the house. The future stared me square in the face, the fear was trying to overwhelm me. I remember exhaling heavily. Then a breeze came up, and I noticed the leaves rustling. After a moment all became quiet, and I realized the quiet. Next was stillness. In the stillness, all the worry left. Vanished. In an instant I was eased.

Although I have in the 36 years since still experienced my share of foreboding I have not again felt the same near despair as I had up until the day the elm tree rustled and the stillness descended. It is a fine calm on which to moor my boat. 

More Sundays with Mom

Me Mom gets very repetitive these days. That's understandable and we all just roll with it. There are times where she realizes herself that's she's doing it, repeating herself constantly.

While we were out yesterday she must have asked me a dozen times in the first half hour, "Are we going to eat?" After about the sixth time she paused and cackled, "I'm giving you are a hard time aren't I?" After another pause she added, "But it ain't like you never gave me a hard time growing up!"

"Nuh-uh, Mrs. Cosgriff, them were those other boys of yours giving you trouble!" I protested playfully. Understand here that I have four brothers.

Mom got quiet and commenced to staring at me out the corner of her sharpened eye. When she had stared at me for several seconds she responded simply, "I'm sure you done enough mischief on your own."

What could I say? Moms know those things.

August 8

August Eighth. It strikes me that something should go with that.

We can March Fourth. We can May the Fourth. What can we August Eighth?

Are there any other days of the year where we might might come up with puns and jokes? Does pi day, March 14, count? I don't see why it shouldn't.

Think about it please, just so I'm not the only one doing it.

Confused Cloyce

About forty years ago in an attempt to improve community relations the Detroit Police Department created dozens of what were called 'mini stations' across the city. The idea was to have small offices with perhaps five police stationed in them, where citizens might drop in and more readily discuss issues of crime and policy. Not a bad thing, really, but also not really the point of my tale.

The mini stations were rarely free standing but were rather housed in larger buildings with available office space. One such instance was when a station had been put on the ground floor of a senior citizen high rise on the west side of Detroit. It was placed there reasonably enough for seniors to have access to police services. Not a bad thing really, but also not really the point of my tale.

One day I was driving past the aforementioned senior citizen high rise with a friend of mine as a passenger; I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. As the high rise was centered to a large city block, a sign proclaiming that a Detroit Police Mini station was in it had been placed out at the intersection of two near cross streets. You know, to let everyone know it was there.

The traffic light at the intersection caught me. After a moment Cloyce incredulously says, obviously after seeing the sign, "That's a Mini Station?"

Not thinking much about it I answered simply, "Yeah."

Cloyce continued in amazement, "How big is a regular police station?"

And that is the point of my tale.

Whither the Just War theory?

Should we have or should we have not? That is a question which is asked about many things, not the least of which involves what happened 76 years ago today. We have arrived at another anniversary of the atomic age: the first use of an atom bomb, dropped on Hiroshima, Japan, an August 6, 1945.

It is easy to believe that the US should not have dropped the bomb. Many civilians were killed or injured, and civilians are off target according to the Just War theory promoted by the Catholics and many others. It rests on the idea that civilians are noncombatants, innocents, and should be safe from the traumas of war.

Yet William Buckley, the famous conservative writer and himself Catholic, suggested that perhaps that no longer applies. In the modern world with modern warfare, are civilians actually noncombatants? It's simple enough to see that in Imperial Japan during World War II, civilians were often encouraged to participate in the war effort. Some estimates claim that as many as 70% of the civilian population of Okinawa were injured or killed during the 82 day battle where the Allies occupied the island. To be sure, many were pressed into service. But many fought the invaders voluntarily just the same. Either way, they were hardly innocents.

Buckley's idea does not single out Japanese militarists. Across the sphere of total war, can it be argued that those who work in munitions factories are noncombatants? That those who organize and participate in scrap metal and scrap rubber drives are wholly innocent, or even those who merely buy war bonds? Still, there are true innocents involved, mostly the children. Therein we find the greatest tragedy of human warfare: that it has become so terrible that children are involved at all. But worse: that organizations such as Hamas and the Viet Cong, even the Imperial Japanese and Nazi Germans, have been heinous enough to use them as shields as well as actual fighters. This certainly isn't the fault of the children, but a reality that must be dealt with just the same.

The picture isn't pretty. Surely true innocents must be beyond the targets of war so much as it can be helped. Yet it seems be the face of modern war, a reality which must be dealt with. It doesn't hurt to remember that (by and large) the bad guys started the practices. That is small comfort but we may just have to content ourselves, so much as we can, that much of it is not our fault. Even at that, we must never forget the cost of war.

Hearing others out

I am currently reading a book defending American History as it is, warts and all. America, The Last Best Hope by William Bennett, if you care to know. It's a good read and does not back away from the tough questions.

There are things in the book which I must admit are insightful. One example is when he talks about the Three-Fifths Compromise, designed at the Constitutional Convention of 1787. We've always been taught that the compromise demeaned black slaves in counting each as 3/5 of one person. I do not doubt it. Yet Bennett points out that it actually served as an encouragement at least in some parts of the country to free the slaves. Remember that at the time of the Constitutional Convention all States except Massachusetts still allowed slavery. So for each slave freed a state increased its power in the Congress because it effectively gained population; states which kept people in chains lost representation, or at least it remained static. While far from the best argument for emancipation it's an interesting point, one that is rarely if ever mentioned in the schools. It demonstrates that many of the Founders, at least, were actively trying to end the peculiar institution.

On another occasion he quotes Benjamin Franklin as saying that the older he gets the less he trusts his own opinions and the more interested he becomes in the opinions of others. While I would never imagine myself on the intellectual level of Dr. Franklin, and while I cannot entirely agree with him, I have sympathy for his point. The older I get the more inclined I am to consider other views. I realize that does not always show in my writings and Facebook rants. But it's there in my calm, rational moments I assure you.

To be sure, truth is objective and knowable to all who openly and honestly seek it. There is a line in the sand which we must always trust is a true and undying mark if our actions are to have any merit at all. Arguing against slavery for example only has meaning if slavery is objectively, morally wrong for all people and at all times. Yet as to exactly what people think and how they come to think it, well, I do believe we need greater charity. They may well be wrong about their opinions and stances. But maybe they came to those points of view due to events and circumstances which are themselves entirely understandable if nonetheless errant. A man may be mad at God because his wife died and thus lash out at the Almighty. He's wrong to be mad at God. But that could be merely his grief speaking and not his reason. Our charity demands we give consideration of that.

I'm about half way through the book. But if the rest offers even only a couple more insights along the way I will have to consider it a good use of my time.

The toddler spoke sign language

Frank never was loud about himself. He was the middle child after all, the second son, the second grandchild and in fact the second great-grandchild on the paternal side of his family line. They tend to be quiet. Yet that doesn't mean they didn't stand out on their own talents. Grandpa Joe recognized early on that Frank spoke sign language. Indeed, he respected that fact.

There was always this clear glass cookie jar in Grandma and Grandpa Cosgriff's kitchen, on the second tier of a triple shelf by the back door. It was about eye level for a toddler, someone about three years old, right where he could spy the crunchy, sweet delights beckoning beyond that clear exterior and metal cover. One with a red wooden knob. One always filled with oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, or cocoanut windmill cookies.

Frank never, ever, took a cookie without permission. Grandpa Joe, Great Grandpa Joe to him, always sat in his fancy carved wooden dining room chair by the kitchen table, aligned perpendicular with the back door but pushed right up against that kitchen table, guarded the cookie jar. Frank would toddle behind him, stumble towards the back door, the heavy wood inside door closed during the winter but opened to the latched screen in the summer, and would stop, season notwithstanding, to the side of the cookie jar, and wait.

Joe would give it a moment, knowing Frank was there. Then he'd take a draw on his cigarette, and glance towards the door. Frank would look him in the eye, raise a finger on his left hand, and point at the lid of the cookie jar. Joe would draw another puff on his smoke, then he'd nod slightly. Only then would Frank open the lid on the cookie jar, take a cookie, and toddle away munching on it.

Joe would laugh. "Frank speaks sign language", he'd say.

They understood each other, them adversaries, 82 years and generations apart. 

Me cousin George and me Grandpa Joe

Me cousin George down in North Carolina was a crackin' good mechanic. Me Grandpa Joe up here in Detroit was a good mechanic too. Yet he also tinkered. The two ideas didn't always mesh, and that once led me to hide a truth from Joe.

My wife and I had borrowed Joe's Chevy Nova for a trip to NC to show our six month old son to me Grandpaw Hutchins. Charlie is the only one of our kids who actually met Grandpaw; we have a neat picture of him sitting next to Grandpaw on the couch of the old gentleman's living room. Anyway, a couple hours before we get to Carolina the car starts running rough. It got us there but I knew it might not get us back.

That's where me cousin George comes in. He was indeed an outstanding mechanic and checked it out for me.  He deduced, "The carburetor needs to be rebuilt. I can do for you for the cost of a rebuild kit." At that time such a kit was $13.

I hated to trouble him so I offered simply to buy a rebuilt carb for him to put on. You know, to save him time and effort. "That'll cost a lot more than you think," my cousin said, quite knowingly. But off we went to Sandy Mush Auto Parts. Sandy Mush North Carolina is where a lot my southern kin live.

We got there and George asks what a rebuilt carburetor for a 76 Nova cost. "$91," the counterman answered. I can still see George's head swivel towards me with a look of 'so what do want to do?' even though the look itself told me what he believed we should do. 

Of course I bought the rebuild kit and we went back to his garage to rebuild the old carburetor. 

I couldn't do much, the parts being far too small for more than one guy to work with, although I did help by cleaning out the three larger metals parts which made up the body of the carb. George had some kind of red-purple liquid that you could slosh a part around in and clean it up right fine; to this day I'd love to know what it was. In a little bit he had the carb rebuilt and installed and that old Nova simply purred. I've always been thankful to George for helping out a younger cousin who's money was tight.

Yet that's where my hiding the truth from Joe comes in. I knew, just knew, he'd mess about with that carburetor and it wouldn't be right when he was done. All I told him when I returned the keys and he asked how the car did was, "Just fine, Grandpa Joe, thanks again for letting me borrow it." I don't believe I even told me Pops that his nephew George had fixed it.

I still feel bad about that. But George did me a solid and I will never forget it.

What difference does it make?

There was once a plumber who came to our Shop who was a bit rough around the edges. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. Cloyce was a good guy and a good plumber just, as I said, rough around the edges. Gruff. He was also from England. Not that that matters, except to the story.

One day as he waited for me to put a new cord on his Electric Eel Model C (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) I decided to engage him in conversation and to satisfy my curiosity about a question. "So where exactly in England are you from, Cloyce?" I asked.

He asked in return, "Do you know England very well?"

"No, not really," I replied honestly.

"Then what the (insert common expletive here) difference does it make?"

I was initially surprised, then I laughed out loud. It was vintage Cloyce.

He was from Norwich, just so you know. Although I don't know what the (insert common expletive here) difference it makes.

Shillelagh

I want a walking stick. More specifically, I want a shillelagh. It's pronounced shill-lay-lee. Don't ask me why. I can't hardly figure out English spelling sometimes let alone Irish.

It's a walking stick of a style popular in Ireland. I figure since I walk 5-6 mornings per week depending on circumstance a shillelagh might be a nice addition to my hikes. It would give me the look of a man about town. That is, if a man about town is supposed to look like he really ought to be out in the countryside.

My only question is whether it would be a help or a hindrance. Would it help my pace or slacken it?

Of course I could simply pretend I'm Gandalf, if I could figure out a way to put a light bulb at the top end. And shillelaghs are supposed to double as weapons. Who knows? I might save the day with a shillelagh.

Nah, I'd more likely just look like the neighborhood kook. Quiet Ron.