No Weather Tricks I Hope

Halloween lately has seemed lame. Last year of course was COVID, but the weather hasn't been particularly cooperative in ages, as I recall. But the forecast today appears to bode reasonably well here in the D. Sunny, breezy, and a high of around 58. So from my early morning perch, the day holds promise. 

In the meantime, Happy Halloween y'all.

Shredded Washcloth

Someone that I know bought a spaghetti scrubber. I think it's for washing dishes. It's just like this:

https://www.smallflower.com/products/goodbye-detergent-all-purpose-spaghetti-scrub?variant=37056484245655&gclid=CjwKCAjw2vOLBhBPEiwAjEeK9v_3NSxUHWUU-5RpgUTvP6uRBqFjqdYfM2__r5GO5kqf8yIV09FWtxoCZX4QAvD_BwE

It looks like a shredded washcloth quite frankly, and it appears to have grit a little like sandpaper. And I really don't get it's purpose. Or after all these years, have I finally learned that we have to scrub our spaghetti?

Seems tedious.

The Other Near Detention

I wrote yesterday of how I almost got a detention in high school for something I totally did but totally got away with because, well, my good (at the time) reputation proceeded me.

The only other time I came close to detention was in my freshman year. But doggone it, I was in the right that time.

It was May and we were in Gym class and it was warm, so the instructor took us outside to play softball. I'll call the gym teacher Miss Cloyce just to give her a name, and because, yes, I'm still upset about the injustice 47 years later. I suppose I can hold a grudge.

Be all that as it may, in my first at bat that day I singled. The next batter hit a ground ball to the kid playing first. Now, in baseball, when you're on first and there's a ground ball you have to run for second base. It's called being 'forced': because it's a grounder the batter has the primary right to first base. This means a runner already occupying that base is forced to vacate. Make sense? If not, take my word for it. But you can look it up if you like.

Now in this case, the first baseman fielded the ball, took three steps, and touched the base. That meant the batter was out. But since the batter was out, I no longer had to surrender first. I could have returned to it because there was no longer a runner behind me, the batter being out. I was no longer forced. That means that in order for me to be put out I had to be tagged, because I had two safe spots I could choose between. 

After the opposing player touched first, which I obviously saw, I continued towards second anyway. She threw to second. The second baseman caught the ball and touched the base. I slid; he did not tag me. So I was safe, under the rules of the game.

Miss Cloyce called me out because the throw from first beat me (which it did) and the kid touched the bag ahead of me with control of the ball (which is true). But neither address the rules of baserunning.

I took exception. I pleaded my case, arguing to a degree which likely shocked my peers (believe it or not I was a quiet kid at least in ninth grade) that no, I was safe because a tag was required because the force was off. Miss Cloyce said I was wrong. I was not. I insisted upon this point quite vehemently.

I kept it up until she said, "Say one more thing and you get detention." I sputtered and stammered, but went to the bench, muttering.

To be fair, I know you can't argue too harshly with a teacher, so I do admit that Miss Cloyce had to play the detention card, for the sake of discipline and respect. But dammit, I was safe.

A High School Yarn

Dad really loved this story. When I first told it to him, he laughed in that hearty guffaw of his which I loved to hear. Still hear, in my fond memories. Of course, I didn't tell him the tale until 25 years after the fact, well after the parental statute of limitations on schoolboy mischief had expired.

Back at good old St. Hedwig on Detroit's southwest side, this was in the 1977-1978 school year, there were I think 26 of us Senior boys who had not earned the 1/2 credit of Art required for graduation. Someone in the administration had developed, or perhaps the course already existed for exactly such contingencies, something called Art Appreciation. It was kind of an Art class, though we didn't do much real Art. We read about artists, did reports on styles and types of Art, and made the occasional stab at what might in a stretch be called Art. Those projects were not much if any better than first grade macaroni pictures, but it got us guys off the hook for that precious half credit so we could graduate.

The instructor, who'm I'll call Miss Smith, had a large box full of yarn for use in classes where actual artistic endeavors were attempted. One day, she left the room for whatever purpose, and some yoyo opened the box and began throwing balls of yarn at the rest of the class. What followed was the delightful chaos of less than mature schoolboys hurling yarn at each other, bouncing each skein off one another's heads and laughing like idiots. Fortunately, someone was wise enough to act as lookout. With the cry, "Smith's coming!" someone held the box open and we tossed the yarn back in as quickly as possible. By the time she was back in class we were all back at our seats, apparently doing our work.

This happened another time or two, with the same face saving result. But next time the guy tossing the yarn from the box took the tape off the end of each ball as he distributed them to the class. Miss Smith had taped the ends of the yarn to the skeins to know where the ends were, and of course to keep the yarn in order.

It goes without saying that Senior boys doing mischief cared little for such sensible ideas. We threw the balls of yarn at each other anyway, just having stupid fun, not at all concerned that the yarn was quickly unraveling as each skein flew across the classroom, the strands all weaving into and across themselves. This went on for about five minutes until the lookout yelled, "Smith's coming!"

Everyone immediately froze, all stuck in place either while picking up a ball to throw, eying our next target, in the act of follow through after a delivery, or right before letting one fly. Only our eyes moved, roaming between each other and the massive yarn tangle we had inflicted upon the art room. Then, all of us, as if one thought, began frantically trying to roll up all that yarn; there were dozens of skeins worth strewn about. Very quickly realizing the futility of the exercise, we abandoned our cause, and stupidly jumped to our seats and went back to the pencil drawings we were supposed to be working on.

Miss Smith returned to spy the most magnificent display of yarn carnage imaginable. Lines of color, from pastel to primary, were strewn everywhere and in every hue: over the tops of cabinets, across her desk, even over the shoulders and under the feet of all of us students. I might go so far as to say it was a work of Art itself; you know, maybe we ought to have gotten assignment credit, now that I think about it. But we sat there working as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

"Would someone care to tell me what's going on?" Smith asked.

Can't you see? We're working on our pencil drawings. Practicing shading, just like you taught us.

Giving the silence a few seconds to itself she finally asked, "Is no one going to tell me what happened here?" What's to tell? We're doing our Art. We want to graduate.

Seeing the futility of her situation, she calmly went and called for Sister Principal.

Now, Sister Principal was a old line, strict, authoritarian nun. She had to be, to deal with miscreants such as we senior guys. She entered the room and repeated both of Miss Smith's questions, with no further insight into the situation. She began slowly pacing the room, glaring in turn at every one of us. She intended to make someone crack, like a commandant at an Army camp with errant minions.

You need to know here that I had kept myself pretty clean in high school. No detentions, no mischief, and I had decent enough grades. I was no goody two shoes, no brown nose who would rat anyone out either. I just stayed clean. I got along with everyone so far as I remember, with no real incidents. But I was fully participating in this fiasco. Willingly, I confess.

Sister continued around the room; we kept at our work, even subtly brushing strings of yarn off our sketch pads as we scratched at them. She wasn't going to break; neither would we.

The dismissal bell rang. We all started to put away our stuff and gather our backpacks to leave. Sister sternly announced, "No one is going anywhere until we get to the bottom of this. If no one speaks up, you'll all get two detentions: one for this, and one for being tardy to your next class." We slumped down into our chairs. This was going to take awhile, until Sister decided that the inevitable detentions were her only recourse.

Sister Principal continued her slow tour. She came around the table where I sat with about 7 other guys, giving the deep glare all around, stopping directly behind me. I knew it, I thought. I'm the first to be grilled.

The deafening silence seemed to take forever though it was only mere seconds. Then I actually heard her open her mouth: here it comes. I'm on the spot. Be strong, Marty. Go down with the ship. But she said, "You may go to your next class, Mr. Cosgriff. We all know that you would never participate in such nonsense."

What could I do? I wasn't about to rat the guys out, nor confess my guilt either. I slowly gathered my things, mumbled a quiet, "Thank you, Sister Principal," and went to my next class.

So my official record stayed clean. To be sure, there is a part of me who feels sheepish to this day. But the imp on my other shoulder does smile about it. And Pops thought it was a great story.

My Two Cents Worth

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Why, I've become adept enough that I monitor my banking activity online, thank you very much. I've even learned to get comfortable with and use the ATM in the lobby of my bank. I make deposits and withdrawals all by my lonesome. It's what the bank wants, and you can't fight the onslaught of history, right?

I'll leave that last question alone for now. But technology is not without its issues, and I had one yesterday while banking. The first machine failed to work properly. It wasn't my fault, the bank employees assured me. They'd been having trouble with that particular ATM all day. Moving to the next machine, everything worked fine.

But in checking my bank account online this morning I noticed an unexpected deposit for, I am not making this up, two cents. Yes, two Lincoln coppers. Two entire pennies. The explanation was that it was an interest payment, an apology of sorts, for my trouble with that first ATM. 

So you ain't gotta worry about Marty's two cents no more. It's laying right in the bank. But if you upset me enough I may still give it to you.

Not Just for Roofing Anymore

Me Grandpa Joe once had this big black Cadillac, I think it was an Eldorado, and it was a monster. A veritable battleship. I mean, that thing was huge. It's passing by would cause a solar eclipse. And like most of Joe's cars, it was, well, unique.

We never did get the brakes working quite right. You learned while driving it to anticipate traffic lights, slowing down blocks away when it looked like the light would go red soon. Me Uncle John known in some quarters as Zeke once suggested we install those big parachutes like they have on drag racers to help the car stop on time because, being big and heavy, it took a lot to stop that vehicle. The engine required so much work that Zeke also quipped that once he saw the car on the street and almost didn't recognize it with the hood down.

But what got me the most about the car was the first time Joe had me changing the oil. Crawling under the belly of the beast to drain the motor, I couldn't help but see that the oil pan had apparently once sprung a leak. The clue? The pan was covered in heavy roofing cement.

I called to me Grandpa, "There's roof cement slathered on the oil pan. Maybe it used to have a leak."

"Does it look like it's leaking now?" he yelled back.

I studied it closely and replied, "No."

"Then we won't worry about it," Joe answered.

A typical Grandpa Joe view of a typical Grandpa Joe car. Damn, I miss that old man.

What's to Understand?

You know, you don't have the talk the same talk to come to an understanding. Really. 

A older Polish fella named Stanley was a drain cleaner who used to come by the old barn to get his snakes and machines repaired. I liked Stanley. He was cool guy.

He was from the mountains of western Pennsylvania, where his father worked in the coal mines. Stanley liked to tell the story of his father and his father's best friend, an Irishman who lived nearby. Both Stanley's dad and the Irishman were from their respective old countries. Stanley said that his father's heavily accented English and the friend's brogue made it hard enough to understand either of them in routine conversation. When they were drinking, they each lapsed into their native tongues.

Stanley explained that the two buddies would sit on the porch of Stanley's family home and drink on Saturday nights, recovering from the work week. As the drink took effect, they fell into Polish and Gaelic (quiet, Ron) respectively. The fascinating thing was, despite speaking different languages, they were always in total agreement. Stanley said his dad would rattle off something in Polish and the Irishman would nod approvingly. He'd then give his opinion on the matter, whatever the matter may be, in prosaic Irish. And Stanley's dad would reply in the Polish equivalent of, yeah, yeah, shaking his head in agreement. All this even though the one didn't know a peep of Gaelic and the other not a syllable of Polish.

It does make you wonder what might actually have been said. But it was a release valve for them any way you slice it.

How would I know?

Charlie Rich was a 1970s country singer of some note. I rather liked him, myself. His two biggest hits as I recall were Behind Closed Doors and The Most Beautiful Girl.

Now, I understand artistic license. Sometimes you have to write or sing things a certain way simply because the words fit, or you are going with the flow of the tune. But one line of Most Beautiful Girl which always jumped out at me was, Did you happen to see the most beautiful girl, that walked out on me?

Well, I don't know, Charlie. How many girls have walked out on you? I mean, most beautiful is comparative, right? What are we comparing this particular girl's looks to: women in general or the women who've walked out on you? I just can't answer the question without knowing that.

Have a great day everyone.

Get Real

Years ago we took our then young sons to see the then new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie. A friend asked what I thought of it. "Well, it was all right for a kids movie, but there was some mild swearing I don't think was necessary."

"Don't be such a Dad!" he chided me. "They were only going for reality."

What, again, was the movie all about?

Teenage. Mutant. Ninja. Turtles. 

I don't think reality was high on the menu.

Laying the money down

They're always in a hurry until it's time to lay the money down. That's an old saw of me Pops, and it holds true as much now as whenever he first said it. Yet it still amazes me that it happens, that people will hold off on paying for things which, theoretically at least, pay for their living, their food and trucks and houses and such.

For larger projects and orders, except from well established customers, we get significant down payments. Even then, with as much as half down, we'll have folks leave things hanging for weeks, or even months. Yet there are repairs which we simply do and trust that they guy will return. Generally that involves things which we can easily sell to someone else if it comes down to it.

A good example is repaired sectional drain cables. If a fella doesn't return after awhile we just sell them. I won't bore you with the details, but we can make it up to the original customer if it comes down to it. Why, I would even honor our oldest obligation on that count.

We have a man, whom I won't name even though you wouldn't know him and he won't see this, whom we owe six cables from 1983. We called him several times back then until the old man decided it was no longer worth his trouble. Yet if he comes in today I will give him the cables he's owed. I will even sell them to him at the price we charged back then, nine bucks a cable (they're $35 each now) just for the novelty of it. And out of an odd respect for the chutzpah it would take to try and claim them 38 years later.

Hey, it may even make good PR, right?

It won't be on my account

I'm not letting myself be played this time around. Oh, no, no, no.

Thanks to reading an article online brought to me by the Internet and our trusted mainstream media, I won't be caught unawares by shortages. It seems that among anticipated potential shortages in the coming months, toilet paper and coffee are high on the list. Well, I for one won't be driven to madness over it.

In recent days I've bought what's supposedly the equivalent of 114 rolls of toilet paper (why isn't it bathroom tissue anymore, which sounds so much better?) and will likely buy more in the coming days. And coffee, oh, you other hoarders won't be getting a leg up on me. Thanks to Ollie's Bargain Outlet and Cedarville Foods I have six large cans of Chase and Sanborn, my coffee of choice. I figure I'm set for about a year and a half on java.

There are other things which maybe, might be subject to unavailability. Carbonated drinks are among them. But the bottom line is this. I won't be caught wanting when the shortages which may be, could be coming, according to our wise and knowledgeable experts and their media friends. I'm all set on coffee and, uh, bathroom tissue. And I am also satisfied knowing that I won't be part of the coming problem either. I figure I can gouge you-all for about twenty bucks a pound on the coffee alone.

A needed change

I love baseball, especially October baseball, especially October baseball when I don't have a stake in it. If there's anything positive about my beloved Detroit Tigers not making the postseason, it's that I can watch the games for their own sake rather than chew my fingernails to the bone fretting over the performance of the Detroit Nine. 

Like most baseball purists (and I certainly am one of those) I don't like changes to the game and I worship tradition. There are rumors swirling around that the National League will adopt the designated hitter next year, a move I will offer a giant raspberry. Pitchers should bat. Period. It's in the natural order of things; anything else is barbarity.

Now, where was I? Oh yes: as a purist I don't care for the various innovations which have crept into the grand old game. But after last night's ALCS match between Boston and Houston, I have to come down solidly in favor of using the existing technology and going to the robot strike zone.

It's time. Human umpires are making too many glaring mistakes calling balls and strikes and that element simply has to be removed from the game. Human judgment affected last night's game far too profoundly. J. D. Martinez was called out on strikes in the fourth inning on a pitch clearly out of the strike zone, while the Red Sox lost what should have been an inning ending strikeout in the top of the ninth, after which the Astros scored seven and put the game away.

Yes, yes, yes, the Red Sox still had other chances. They didn't do well with runners in scoring position. Still, how different does that fourth inning become if Martinez gets first base and the Sox have two runners on with one out? How different is the outcome of the game if Boston gets the strikeout they should have gotten to end the Houston ninth? Conjecture, true, so that we never can know for certain.

Still, fairness demands we make things as right as possible. One way to do that is with robot strike zones.

The Incredulous Curmudgeon

I can be a curmudgeon. I can be impatient. I can be astounded, outraged, and incredulous all at once too. Would you like to know, as my old friend Cloyce might say, "How could that be?"

It could be like this: I walked into a gas station the other day to pre-pay for my gas. I am increasingly using a debit card at the pump to avoid precisely the type of situations which I then encountered.

The woman in front of me was buying $100 worth of scratch off lottery tickets. That's frustrating when waiting in line for something simple - give me thirty bucks on pump four please - but it's how things are. I can accept that. And at least the woman asked for five $20 tickets; she could have wanted 100 one dollar scratch-offs, right? So it should still have been a quick transaction. 

Note the operative term, should have been. The attendant slid the tickets through the slot below the glass, and was given a debit or charge card for the purchase. But then - I still can't really believe it, and perhaps you can't fathom it - she slides them back along with a quarter and tells the man, "Scratch them off for me." She doesn't ask; she orders it. 

I think all three of us in line behind her openly groaned. The look she gave us in return in was, basically, um, ah, blank you. I was here first.

The attendant, equally astounded, took a moment to react, and I don't blame him. How exactly do you react when faced with an inherently bizarre demand? He finally shoved them back out at the purchaser and said, "You scratch them."

She grabbed her tickets and stormed out, all the time muttering about how rude people are. One guy behind me clapped as she left.

I should have joined him. But what was in it's turn funny was the attendant, as I paid him, held up the woman's coin and remarked with a grin, "And she forgot her quarter!"

Mom's Marathon Redux

The Detroit Marathon has come and gone (hah!) and I have to say the day was grand, a cold, early start notwithstanding. Mom got up in plenty of time for it, insisting all day Saturday that she wanted to see it. 

She was quite pleased. Dressed up for winter and even draping a quilt around her, she sat for the the entire 45 minutes it took for the runners and walkers and bicyclists to pass. "This is nice!" she said constantly, waving regularly at the participants.

It especially pleased her to hear people shout compliments about the Halloween decorations spread about the lawn. "I'm glad they like Sammy's yard," she remarked several times. Moms appreciate when their kids are appreciated.

On that note, one woman took a minute to say to Sam directly, "You have a very sincere pumpkin patch." He always has pumpkins all over the place. And Charlie Brown fans surely appreciate the compliment.

Mom's Marathon

"What are they putting out?" me Mom demanded of me brother Phil, watching a crew shoving signs into the curb in front of her house.

"The Detroit Free Press Marathon is Sunday. It's coming down our street," he explained as they sat on the porch. So no, it's not 'her' marathon, and obviously she's not participating directly. Still, it's an event, and events are cool, right?

Mom is surprisingly excited about it. I doubt she ever considered before exactly what a marathon is, other than knowing it's a long race. But now, she's looking forward to sitting on her porch tomorrow morning, a free front row seat to the annual Detroit Marathon. "I bet they'll like the Halloween decoration Sammy's (another of me brothers) put out," she opined. 

Sports never interested Mom, but the idea of watching the race from the catbird's seat really appeals to her. She's excited like a child. I hope the weather's great, and am myself happy for her. Not to get all sappy about it, but especially these last few years, I'm really happy when she's really happy.

Ella's right at mile three, runners. She'll be waving at ya.

Understated Joe

Me Grandpa Joe could be, indeed he generally was, the kind of guy to go off on a dime. We expected it, quite frankly. He also had many uses for the world, 'hell', many of them actually rather profound in their employment. But at times he might actually be understated on both counts.

As a rule me Pops answered the phone for Joe's welder rental business. Joe only answered when Pops was out or otherwise occupied. One time he took a call (I don't know where Dad was) from an old but annoying customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, wanting to rent a welding machine. It seems though that on Cloyce's last rental there had been issues with whichever of Joe's units he had. Cloyce decided to use the opportunity of having the boss's ear to lament them.

He made the mistake of calling when things were very busy at the Shop. Still, Joe listened, holding his tongue surprising well. He waited until a break in Cloyce's litany of woe to say to him calmly, "Well, I'm so busy right now that I don't know if I even want more more work. So you can either stop whining and tell me when and where you want a machine, or keep talking until I tell you to go hell and hang up this phone."

Cloyce shut up about the troubles and got his welder. Maybe he was reading between the lines, or rightly caught the undercurrent of me Grandpa's intent.

Mom's Guard Nuns

Me Pops used to travel to a lot of trade shows as part of his job. Mark, one of the guys who regularly attended shows with him, often teased him that my Mom had ways of keeping an eye on him as he moved about the country. She had spies everywhere, he told Pops, so he better be good.

Needless to say Mark got a big laugh one day as he was picking up Dad at an airport in some distant city. As me Pops walked along the hallway after departing the plane, unbeknownst to him he was being followed closely by two nuns in full habits.

They weren't following him per se, of course. They simply happened to be getting off the plane immediately after him. But Mark would have none, ha, ha, of that. "See? Your wife's got people checking up on you!" he cackled at the old man.

Even Dad saw the humor in it.

Commercials Irritate Me: A Curmudgeon Story

I fully realize and completely accept that I'm old school. I will add, however, that I don't see anything wrong with that. Ain't that exactly what an old school old man would say?

What brings this on is a commercial which just played for the umpteenth time. It's the one where Little Caesar's pizza is promoting its new pizza calzone hybrid. Hybrids all are the rage these days, you know.

My thing is, if you want pizza, why don't you get pizza? Or, likewise, a calzone if you want that. Still, that leaves the question: aren't pizzas and calzones essentially the same thing anyway? The style is different but the substance is the same, so far as I can see.

And what's the point of all this choice? Really. Doesn't it all just run together and become a blur? That's sure what it seems like to me.

Get a pizza. Or get a calzone. I don't care. But don't talk to me about the hybrids. Because, I tell you what, you're just being played. They don't care about food innovation. They just want your money.

For the record, get the pizza. Better value. Yes, that's old school old man talking again. You should listen to him.

Morning coffee at the Shop

There were two things in particular which I loved to hear me Grandpa Joe say and they were both associated with working for him. They were, "Let's get that coffee,"(as though there was only one coffee in the world) and, "Let's get them vittles," (as though those vittles) whenever he decided it was time for a break.

It struck me even back then that his words sounded almost as though we had to hunt them, had to track them down, as if the coffee pot didn't just sit there on a table by the office or that the snacks weren't right alongside it. The vittles were the snacks which he always had me or me Pops or me Uncle John buy for the morning coffee break. Joe paid for them; I think he genuinely liked treating us, but I don't doubt at all he looked forward to them too.

Vittles were the height of the workday for a young boy like me. There were always single serve and two for everyone, an assortment of cupcakes, pies, donuts, and cinnamon rolls. I hoped every morning for a Hostess French Apple pie, which was really only their apple pie with raisins added, but it seemed significantly different. Joe and Pops and me and whomever else was there would lay into them vittles like we hadn't ate in days. Uncle John rarely did, and I don't know why. He would buy a paper and sit nearby reading it as the rest of us fell into sugar induced stupors. At times I wondered if something was wrong with him, but that was surely the kid in me thinking such stuff.

It was 15, maybe 20 minutes of the day. But man, I miss gettin' them vittles.

I will if you will

Despite what some of my friends on the left might say, I am more than willing to follow the science. In fact, I'm willing to make you a deal. If you will follow the science that a unique and individual human being with his own personal DNA is created at the very moment of conception, I will more readily consider your arguments for vaccine mandates and climate change.

Any takers?

A Sermon (though not on Religion)

One of the arguments made across the political and national spectrums in favor of vaccine mandates and vaccine passports is easily summed up as, the government makes us do other things, so why not those?

This is an intellectually dishonest argument; it is simplistic and ignores a great many things. To begin with, an awful lot of the things government compels us to do are in fact morally wrong. We can debate about the specifics, but suffice it to say (and I believe that in their hearts even my liberal and progressive friends would agree) that there are areas where existing government intrusion into our lives is wrong. Or are there actually folks out there willing to argue that an act or idea is right merely because a government thinks so? Let's hope not.

Yes, there are times and places where government does in fact have the right to cajole individuals into acting certain ways and in certain manners. But as a practical matter governments cannot dictate every move we make (though they may try). If government were to attempt to really make us do right rather than wrong in every conceivable instance (if we could actually conceive of every instance) I assure you that the amount of new regulations necessary would make the current tax code read like a children's book. The ifs, ands, and wherefores would require that much analysis. And they would still be incomplete.

Yet governments must act against the truly awful things which may occur in the world. I have to believe that, as a matter of right reason, there are guides and standards which we can appeal to in determining where and why they can act. Indeed anyone who argues for any public act at all must, in their hearts, believe this too. Aquinas taught that as government can't see to everything, it should only prohibit (or by logical argument encourage) only those things so vile and debased (or so good and and laudable) that without whose prohibition (or sanction) civil society could not exist. 

The question then becomes, is COVID so great a threat that it requires massive government intrusion into our lives?

Emphatically, no.

Duking it out

Ever since I found Duke's Mayonnaise this past Wednesday I have been using it on nearly all my foods.

Ham and cheese sandwich? Duke's!

Turkey and cheese sandwich? Duke's!

Roast beef sandwich? Duke's!

Corned beef and swiss sandwich? Duke's!

Tuna sandwich? Duke's!

What do you use with fried fish instead of tartar sauce? Duke's!

You need a dip for potato wedges? Duke's!

Out of milk for your breakfast cereal? Duke's!

Okay, maybe not that last thing. But you get the idea. I'm Duking it out! I bought two more jars already. It's. That. Good

Unnerved

My Shop is right by the corner of Rosa Parks Boulevard and West Warren in Detroit. There was one bad accident at it yesterday, I tell you what.

I didn't see it but I heard the braking and the impact from inside the old barn. The sounds alone told me it was bad. A Chrysler 300 was speeding and struck a Jeep, sending it into a telephone pole so hard it broke off the pole about three feet above its base, leaving the rest hanging over the intersection held up by the phone wires. This was no old pole either: it was only recently put up and was still green from the waterproofing applied to it. I was told by an eyewitness that the two young men driving the Chrysler jumped out and ran off, leaving that car blocking Warren. Clearly they were fleeing something.

The elderly gentleman driving the Jeep was badly shaken up, but thankfully not hurt. He was walking around and talking to the police almost immediately, and the EMS techs seemed to think he was fine. His Jeep was hit so hard that it broke off the passenger's rear tire when the vehicle hit the curb: it had spun off the telephone pole and struck the curb hard enough to do that. The tire was laying flat on the sidewalk supporting that side of the Jeep.

I don't mind saying that I was a bit unnerved. Not only because of the sound and the fury, but in thinking about how often myself, family members and friends have driven through that intersection. Life is scary sometimes, you know?

Conditions for Marriage

The following is a joke. It is only a joke. Please put your sectional, religious, and political preferences aside and take it that way, a bit of humor which has become part of family lore.

On the surface, you wouldn't think me Mom and me Pops could make a marriage work. Dad was a Catholic, a northerner, and a Democrat. Mom was Southern, Baptist, and from one of the few Republican enclaves in 1940s Dixie. Yet they were happily married for 56 years and had seven wonderful children. Particularly the second.

As me Pops himself told the story, when he proposed Mom (obviously) said yes, but with three conditions. "I will raise my children Catholic. I will even raise them Yankees. But I will not raise them Democrats," she told him.

Well, two out of three ain't bad, Pops must've figured, because he accepted her terms. And things worked out. Pops even became a Republican. 

Put up yer Duke's

I can be difficult to please. If when curling I need a draw through a port to grab a piece of the button, nothing less will do. But I can also be easy to please. In fact, I can be flat out childlike at times with how easily something pleases me.

At the local supermarket, University Foods here in Detroit, I stumbled across Duke's Mayonnaise. Folks in Michigan likely don't know about it, but it's a sandwich staple in North Carolina, where me Mom is from and I have a ton of extended family.

I couldn't buy it quick enough. I couldn't get home quick enough to make a ham and cheese sandwich with it. It was so good that I'm almost certainly going back to University tomorrow to buy another. Or, perhaps, two, if the best buy date is far enough into the future.

I haven't had Duke's in 35 years. Maybe it's nothing but sentiment talking, but it's really good. All that would make it better would be liver mush and Cheerwine (the best cherry pop I know and another North Carolina special). Liver Mush on white bread with Duke's mayo might be the best sandwich ever.

So I can be easily pleased. As such, finding Duke's out of the blue and right around the corner sure made my day.

A Matter of Trust

The things you think when you're awake far too early in the morning...

Ice-T came up in a commercial for Car Shield, an extended warranty car insurance provider. After going through the motions of explaining why the company's insurance plans were so good, he ended the ad with, "I trust Car Shield with my car. You should too."

Okay, if it actually helps, I trust Car Shield with your car too, Ice-T.

Favorite Sons

Yesterday was a good day. I managed to find what I was looking for at Meijer, namely Old Spice deodorant. Regular old Old Spice, not all the hipster variations which seem to dominate the brand lately. What in the name of all that is good and holy is wolfbane anyway? 

With such a difficult time finding it, having actually found what I wanted I bought four. That should hold me for a minute. Quiet Ron.

Being Sunday of course me Mom was with me. As we rode along she remarked, "I am enjoying this! I like the ride and the company!" Then turning towards me she asked, jokingly, "Who are you?"

"I'm your favorite son," I answered. It's become a running joke between us really.

But she got me pretty good yesterday. "Well, if that's what it takes to get you through the day we'll say it."

Give her a rim shot. She earned it.

Not just for winter anymore

There was once this good ol' boy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who considered himself the neighborhood innovator. Some of his ideas, to be fair, were kind of clever. But most of the time all he did was jury rig. That's okay too so far as I'm concerned, if it's a decent enough adaptation.

Cloyce had an old Chevy Bel Air, I believe it was a '65, and what it needed was a wheel alignment. It drifted sharply to the left (this is not leading to a political joke I assure you) and really needed front end work. But ol' Cloyce didn't want to put that kind of money into the car. So he looked around in his garage for what was handy and found an old snow tire for the Chevy. He put it on the car on the left front.

That stopped the drift. His theory was that the snow tire, having deeper tread, made up for the amount of space which had been created by vehicular wear which led to the drift. Based on the results, I'm inclined to say he was right, as he drove with that winter tire for about six months before he got rid of the car.

It was a jury rig. But hey, it worked for him, and considering the types of cars I drive, who am I to argue?

Stating the obvious

A customer picked up his brand new Electric Eel Model C yesterday. As he looked it over like a kid with a new toy he said, "Man, that's one bad mother..."

We both then exclaimed at the same time, "Shut your mouth!" and laughed uproariously.

Yeah, it was kinda obvious. He was clearly going for the joke, and it was pretty easy to anticipate. Still, it was a fun few seconds. I like moments like that.

Dropping In

A family member dropped in out of the blue yesterday, and it made my day.  I'm rather tickled that he felt comfortable enough to do it.

It seems to me, and perhaps I'm remembering poorly but I think it's true, that at one point people were okay simply dropping by. Oh, I don't doubt that many folks still are, but it feels to me as though it's a practice not so prevalent as it once was.

I know me Grandpa Joe was good for that. If he wanted to see someone he went and saw them, to the point of stopping by when in North Carolina to visit me Grandpaw Hutchins just to do it. Just because it was a good thing to do. Now our lives have become so scheduled that perhaps too many of us don't feel right simply stopping by to see friends and family.

That's too bad. We miss deeper friendships when we don't feel free to drop in.

But maybe I'm just becoming that old man who thinks things aren't as good as they used to be. Still, I wonder.