Fireflies in Ohio

On the way back from Boston a couple of weeks ago I spent a night at the Ohio Cosgriffs before returning to Detroit. They live at the end of a street, and a farmer's field runs alongside their house and up the nearby hills.

A few minutes after I went to bed, me son Charlie came knocking timidly on the spare bedroom door. It was just after dark and fireflies had appeared in the field. This happens regularly throughout the summer in Newark, Ohio, but they are at their height in late June. He thought I might like to see them.

He thought correctly. It was a sublime and fascinating sight. All over the farmer's field, as far as I could see, were thousands of fireflies. They seemed to rise out of the scrub (I have the impression the field hasn't been planted with anything this year, but I don't know) both irregularly and in droves. In the blackness immediately after twilight, it looked as if the field was a veritable wave of twinkling little lights, rolling across the ground and up the hills beyond. 

I couldn't help but think of seeing fireflies as a kid in North Carolina as we visited me Mom's side of the family. There never seemed to be as many as there were that recent Monday night in Ohio though. It was truly an impressive sight, one I wouldn't mind seeing again. And again.

Charlie appeared to feel sheepish about waking me. It was obvious I crashed pretty quickly after stretching out on the bed. It had been a long day (did I mention that it takes forever to drive across Pennsylvania?). But he shouldn't have felt that way. It was a fantastic sight, and I was happy to be woken up.

Analyzing Saturday's Water Issue

Yesterday, you may recall, I lamented the accidental, temporary shut off of my water last Saturday. If you don't recall, you may catch up here: No Water Anywhere

I honestly don't see how the water department employees who shut off my water rather than my neighbor's could have committed such an error. It shouldn't take a brain surgeon to determine which shutoff was mine and which was for next door. Here's why: the shutoff valves for our houses are right next to each other, about a foot and a half apart just above the curb of the street. If you're looking straight at the fronts of our homes, mine is on the right while my neighbor's is to the left. Who would not think that the shutoff on the left went to his house while the one on the right went to mine?

That's a rational conclusion, isn't it? Wouldn't common sense tell you as much? The only other option would be for the lines to cross one another, and that seems clearly outlandish. Anyone without any training in water flow technology at all, I have to think, could figure it out easily. Yet the guys from the water department, with their maps and charts and all the tools of determining how water supply lines are routed believed that the shutoff on the right went to the house on the left, and vice versa.

I should have let them find out the hard way, by going into my neighbor's basement and having high pressure water knock them onto their keisters when they disconnected his water meter. It would have made a great funniest home video reel. But the neighbor needed his meter replaced and I needed my water, so it all worked out for the best. 

Just the same, I do wonder if perhaps some people ought to be made to learn from their mistakes the hard way. Especially when the answer appears obvious.

Water, Water, Not Everywhere

Few things cause panic more than when an ordinarily reliable thing suddenly refuses to perform ordinarily. 

Saturday after work I was powerfully thirsty. I came into my house and went straight for the kitchen faucet without much thought but that I wanted a drink of water. "Dum-dee-dum-dum, going to the kitchen, gonna get a glass of water," was about the extent of my train of thought as I approached the sink. "Nothing to see here, dum-dee-dum-dum, just Marty getting water." So imagine my surprise when, upon turning the handle on the cold water, I was met with gurgling and little more.

"This isn't supposed to happen!" I silently exclaimed, panic desperately streaming into my frontal lobes. "Where's the whoosh? Where's the cold H2O? Where's the liquid to quench my thirst? Where's the Illudium Q-36 Explosive Space Modulator?"

Sorry. Slipped into a little Marvin the Martian there. But it fit the timing and mood of my rant.

Be all that as it may, it panics you when you don't get the tap water you expect, because you always get the tap water you expect, right? 

My intellect, cowering behind my frontal lobes as panic had shoved it frighteningly aside, meekly suggested, "Perhaps you should check if your neighbor has water?" It then cowered a bit lower and winced, as if expecting to be smacked by the back of my hand.

Thinking about the suggestion, I lowered the back of my hand. I went outside and saw that my neighbor was out front with representatives of the water department. They had turned off his - and by his I mean my - water in preparation to do some work in his - and by his I mean his this time - house. They had managed this despite my neighbor rightly asking, "Aren't you turning off Marty's water?" He was assured they knew what they were doing.

I know what I was doing: insisting those erstwhile professionals turn my water back on. But I am glad I caught it when I did. Who knows how long it might have taken to get my water back if they hadn't been made to realize their mistake before leaving?

Called Bluff

Me Mom is always anxious for lunch when we're out on Sundays. Sometimes just for fun, when asked if we're going to eat, I'll throw out an outlandish suggestion. "I know a place where the bread is fresh and the water's cold," is a frequent response which gets the cold shoulder. "I can get that at home," she'll say.

Yesterday she wanted to know where and when we'd eat. "There's a Chinese place I know. We can get octopus." I presumed she would scoff derisively.

"That sounds just fine," she unexpectedly replied. Turning to look at me with a big grin on her face she demanded, "Now what are you going to do?"

She called my playful bluff perfectly. Pointing off to the right I said, properly cowed, "I believe we'll just go to that McDonald's there."

"That'll work too," she responded triumphantly. Mom knows how to get her way.

Time Does Fly

Last Sunday around this time me boys and I were setting off for the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, the Cathedral Church of the Archdiocese of Boston, for Sunday Mass. It's huge, the largest Church in New England if you can believe them Catholics. Then it was off to Fenway Park in Boston for a tour and baseball game. Afterwards we did the greater part of the freedom walk to a few of the historic sites in the city: Paul Revere's home, Old North Church, and the site of the Boston Massacre to name a few. Oh, we saw the Cheers bar too, complete with a cutout of Norm at his corner seat. It was actually rather relaxed for a relatively packed day.

Fenway is a great old baseball stadium. I've been there twice now and look forward to the next visit, whenever that might be. I wish I had taken me Pops there but, spilled milk. 

We had great seats seven rows behind home plate and enjoyed a Fenway Frank, which is perhaps the best hot dog in baseball. Yes, yes, yes: Dodger dogs, Dodger dogs, Dodger dogs. But I ain't been to Chavez Ravine yet, so the taste test will have to wait. For now, the best dogs are Fenway Franks.

I actually found where you can order Fenway Franks online. But it's fifty bucks for five pounds and you are highly recommended to pay for overnight delivery, even though they pack them with coldness insulators of some sort which are supposed to be good for two or three days. That's when a fella has to tell himself that maybe, just maybe, they taste so good because of the company of my sons and the general atmosphere. Reason says they're probably not worth the expense. I gotta admit that I'm tempted to place an order though.

After Take Me Out to the Ball Game at the seventh inning stretch I believe singing Sweet Caroline between halves of the eighth inning at Fenway about the best audience participation event in all of Major League Baseball. The glance me son Frank and I exchanged as the song began (we had been to Fenway in 2016) told me he was as excited for it as I was. I'm glad me son Charlie has now experienced it too. 

I know that a big part of sports is rooting for your region. But it's nice when you're not invested in the outcome of the game, too. We rooted for Boston as they were the home nine, and they won 6-4. The Green Monster was cleared twice by three run home runs, so those were sights to see.

It is vaguely melancholy though when a trip you'd been anticipating for almost six months (our planning began right after the first of the year) is eventually behind you. Yet that feeling is far easier to deal with when you look back and have great memories. Those never leave, never grow old. And the Good Lord willing and the creek don't rise, it won't be the last anyway.

Time Does Fly

Last Sunday around this time me boys and I were setting off for the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, the Cathedral Church of the Archdiocese of Boston, for Sunday Mass. It's huge, the largest Church in New England if you can believe them Catholics. Then it was off to Fenway Park in Boston for a tour and baseball game. Afterwards we did the greater part of the freedom walk to a few of the historic sites in the city: Paul Revere's home, Old North Church, and the site of the Boston Massacre to name a few. Oh, we saw the Cheers bar too, complete with a cutout of Norm at his corner seat. It was actually rather relaxed for a relatively packed day.

Fenway is a great old baseball stadium. I've been there twice now and look forward to the next visit, whenever that might be. I wish I had taken me Pops there but, spilled milk. 

We had great seats seven rows behind home plate and enjoyed a Fenway Frank, which is perhaps the best hot dog in baseball. Yes, yes, yes: Dodger dogs, Dodger dogs, Dodger dogs. But I ain't been to Chavez Ravine yet, so the taste test will have to wait. For now, the best dogs are Fenway Franks.

I actually found where you can order Fenway Franks online. But it's fifty bucks for five pounds and you are highly recommended to pay for overnight delivery, even though they pack them with coldness insulators of some sort which are supposed to be good for two or three days. That's when a fella has to tell himself that maybe, just maybe, they taste so good because of the company of my sons and the general atmosphere. Reason says they're probably not worth the expense. I gotta admit that I'm tempted to place an order though.

After Take Me Out to the Ball Game at the Seventh Inning Stretch I believe singing Sweet Caroline between halves of the Eight Inning at Fenway about the best audience participation event in all of Major League Baseball. The glance me son Frank and I exchanged as the song began (we had been to Fenway in 2016) told me he was as excited for it as I was. I'm glad me son Charlie has now experienced it too. 

I know that a big part of sports is rooting for your region. But it's nice when you're not invested in the outcome of the game, too. We rooted for Boston as they were the home nine, and they won 6-4. The Green Monster was cleared twice by three run home runs, so those were sights to see.

It is vaguely melancholy though when a trip you'd been anticipating for almost six months (our planning began right after the first of the year) is eventually behind you. Yet that feeling is far easier to deal with when you look back and have great memories. Those never leave, never grow old. And the Good Lord willing and the creek don't rise, it won't be the last anyway.

Ear Blind

Perhaps I am a little slow, just a tad, mind you, to do, well, I won't call it necessary repairs to my new old van, because it wasn't absolutely necessary. The old girl runs and had been running just fine. Still, I will admit that maybe, just maybe, I had become ear blind. It didn't sound particularly bad to me. Any way you slice it, I broke down yesterday and had the exhaust system repaired.

The first effect was that upon getting the van from the muffler shop, I ground on the starter after I had fired up the engine. You see, it was then so quiet that I honestly thought the engine hadn't started. So I tried starting it again. But since it had started yet was so quiet I thought it had not started, in turning the key again to the on position all that happened was that loud grinding of the spinning gear in the starter engaging an already spinning flywheel. Metal on metal is an annoying sound; a least three heads in the parking lot of the mechanic turned to stare angrily, hands tightly held upon their ears. Sorry about that, folks.

Twice on the way home red lights caught me. Twice I thought the engine had died. Only once though did I grind the gears. The second time I remembered what I had just had done. It was an odd sensation as well to accelerate away from traffic signals and not actually hear the motor roar as the van gained speed.

So now my new old van is quiet. Too quiet, it seems. I'm sure I'll get used to it. I just hope I don't burn out the starter in the meantime. 

Whither Pennsylvania

Pennsylvania, you're beautiful. You really are. I mean that. You have some very pretty farming valleys and many impressive mountain views. There are escarpments aplenty, where the road clings tightly around a mountainside to steadily open upon a sublime small town scene straight from Norman Rockwell. Yours is truly a magnificent state. I only have one issue. It takes so doggone long to drive through you.

As me son Charlie and I were returning to his home Monday after a weekend in Boston, we entered Pennsylvania right about 11:30 in the morning. We had cleared three states by then, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New York, in a tad over four hours. Yet we did not clear the Keystone State until 6 that evening. The last three hours of our journey were particularly grating; it was beginning to feel that we would never find our way out.

I'm a Michigan man through and through: let there be no doubt about that. Yet I was never more happy to see Ohio in my life than I was when we finally escaped Pennsylvania last Monday. 

Again, I mean what I say, Pennsylvania. You're gorgeous. But there can be too much of a good thing, you know.

Official Everything

I am as big of a free market capitalist as anyone I know. I firmly believe that free market forces, people working and exchanging among themselves with no government interference whatsoever, could cure what ails society much more quickly, efficiently, and especially peacefully than government order and regulation. Still, there are times where I wonder if there is a line in the sand, the other side of which is absurdity.

While at Fenway Park in Boston with me boys recently, we came upon a samples table. They were giving away free small tubes of toothpaste, Dr. Sheffield's Original Toothpaste for what that's worth. Apparently it's a marketing ploy, as Dr. Sheffield's is the official toothpaste of the Boston Red Sox, the baseball nine who call Fenway their home. 

Isn't that a bit much? Do major league baseball franchises need official toothpastes? And what's more, we were given samples of four different types. The first was extra whitening; no surprise there. Then there was peppermint, an okay taste, followed by cinnamon, which is beginning to strain the flavor parameters of mouth care yet is still not particularly outside the park. 

Outside the park...a little sports humor reference there.

The fourth tube is chocolate flavor. I'm not sure at all that that's an acceptable toothpaste flavor. But more so: I don't really understand why anyone would want or need such a range of dental care products. 

There's nothing wrong with any of this of course, other than that it's all rather bizarre. Still, it does leave me to wonder what it might cost me to become the official drain snake salesman of the Detroit Tigers. I have actually sold them snake cables and parts, so the relationship is already established. Could I get a sign on the outfield wall for a reasonable price though?

The Answer, Though No One Cares

In yesterday's blog I offered the following riddle:

As we left on our journey to Boston this past week, my son and I left Ohio, yet were still in Ohio. How could that be?

One dry spaghetti noodle to whomever can figure out that riddle.

I got nothing from it but crickets. Well, nothing except from my sister, and she was wrong, which didn't surprise me.

Well, spoiler alert, if you want to figure it out yourself. Here's the answer, after a brief scroll down:

We were driving and left the state of Ohio into West Virginia. The first county in West Virginia is Ohio County.

So there you have it. Rather simple really, but I was apparently too proud of it.

 

Riddle Me This

As we left on our journey to Boston this past week, my son and I left Ohio, yet were still in Ohio. How could that be?

One dry spaghetti noodle to whomever can figure out that riddle.

Wait, What?

The Facebook page of the neighborhood I live in currently has a image of several fists in the air. Each fist is a different color; there is even a pride fist of several colors. The phrase which is superimposed over the picture proclaims, 'Together We Rise'. Well, okay.

It's nothing but a bit of modernist hokum, really, and relatively harmless in itself. Yet every time I see it my first thought is, but you folks on this same page routinely proclaim, 'Diversity is Our Strength' or some such other equally shallow hokum. So my question becomes, can we all rise together if diversity is our strength? Shouldn't diversity, a diversity typically preached above all else, mind you, hinder our rising in togetherness? Their standard of diversity after all means marching to the beat of a different drum, your own drum, as I understand our more progressive friends to mean. But if we're all marching to our own drums, how are we to, in fact how can we, rise together?

Perhaps I'm overanalyzing. I do believe in what I call small d diversity: we couldn't play baseball if everyone insisted on pitching, nor have a football game if everyone was the quarterback. Yet in the instances of sports, to continue that example, everyone is doing their own individual thing but within a certain coordination, with the same goals in mind. If we are truly marching to our own beats we must, almost by definition, be marching away from or into one another. In the football game of our example, the flanker must be allowed to run into the wide receiver on a play if that's what being himself, being inspired by diversity that is, means. He would have the right, indeed the moral imperative, to run the route he chooses. If, that is, it's all about an open ended diversity.

If our aim is to be our own self, no matter what and whatever that means, then we cannot be working together. Someone will, indeed likely many different and varied folks will, be pulling in separate and irreconcilable directions. It must happen.

If anyone can reconcile those two ideas, I'm willing to listen. But as it is, I believe they want the cake and to eat it too. You simply can't have it that way.

 

A Dad Story on Father's Day

I know I've told this before, but I like it, so I'm telling it again. Happy Father's day to all you dads out there.

Tahquamenon Falls are a natural beauty found in Michigan's eastern Upper Peninsula. There are two falls a few miles apart. The walking trail between the two is around four miles long. I've walked it once, in 1994, with me two sons and me Pops.

We were vacationing in da U.P. as usual that summer and decided to see the Falls. Mom and Dad had come up for a few days and so went with us. While there I thought it would be cool to hike the trail. It was immediately after the words expressing that wish came out of my mouth that I felt a pang of regret and concern. You see, Pops was between cancer treatments at the time and about six weeks ahead of scheduled surgery to remove a tumor enveloping his kidney. After I had opened my yap, he decided that walking the trail would be cool too. I surely would not have said anything had I thought he'd like the idea.

It was probably the first time I came close to confronting him seriously on anything. I was really worried about his health. I told myself that maybe I ought to discourage him, with his cancer and all. The tumor was by that point diagnosed as inactive and the MDs were certain that all other cancerous spots (he had them on his liver and lungs when the disease was initially found) had been eradicated. Still, I wasn't sure a 58 year old man dealing with such ought to be hiking a rough trail through the woods. And what would we do if something happened while we were out there? Yet as a son taught to respect his father's wishes, well, I said nothing and figured I'd just watch him closely. He likely wouldn't be denied anyway.

Damn but if that old man didn't hammer that trail. He more than kept up; he led the way more often than not. He always walked fast anyway, but I wonder if he took the hike to prove he could do it and was further determined to show us he could despite his (then) recent health issues. I had feared after his tribulations that his stamina would not allow the full journey. His stamina then proceeded to embarrass mine.

So I'm glad I suggested the hike and I'm glad he walked it with us. It's become a happy and proud memory. One of these days I'll walk the trail again in his honor.

Own It

I recently read an article which claimed that the two sports with the oldest average fan base are baseball and golf. The average baseball fan is 58; for golf, it's 62.

What are two sports I watch far and away more than any others? Baseball and golf.

Old age. I am owning it.

Ding Dong Ding

I went down to Electric Eel in Springfield, Ohio yesterday (Electric Eel: for all your drain and sewer cleaning needs!) to pick up a load of snake cables and parts. There was one barrel more than the back of my new old van would hold. But it was relatively light, 100 pounds or so, about what a smaller person would weight. I was able to muscle it up into the passenger seat and go about my business. Who says Marty can't adapt to circumstance, huh?

Once I was out on the street, the bell which signals that your seat belt isn't fastened began ringing. I checked my belt and it seemed secure. The bell kept dinging. I tried unbuckling and rebuckling. The bell continued to chime.

Pulling over, I shut off the car and restarted it. It works for computers, right? Making certain to belt myself in, I started off again. So did the warning bell. Oh well, I thought, I guess I just have to deal with it.

A few miles of constant dinging later, and it was glaringly obvious that that wouldn't do. There was no way I could listen to that stupid dinging all 195 miles back to Detroit. The sound didn't even fit a decent song beat which might have made a hummable distraction. I had to do something. But what? If the alarm bell was somehow broken, what could I do?

Then it occurred to me. I was indeed buckled properly. But the barrel of cable next to me wasn't, and its weight was telling the van's sensors that someone was sitting in the passenger seat. I pulled into the nearest parking lot, buckled the cables in, and Bob's yer uncle, the dinging stopped.

So I drove on home with no dinging, the cables secure at my side. At Cosgriff Sales, we care about the products we sell!

Oh, and we care about the customers too.

My Soap Box

Irish Spring is my choice of bar soap. I've probably allowed me self to be played by advertising on that point, being of Irish heritage and all. What's it to ya?

So anyway, I purchased a three pack of Irish Spring the other day and, seeing as the soap dish by the bathroom sink was empty, went to put a fresh bar upon it. I didn't buy the stuff to have it sit on a shelf in a cabinet, right?

Yesterday as I prepared to shave I went to wash my face. Turning on the water and wetting my hands, I reached for the soap dish. It surprised me a little to grab a small pasteboard box instead of my newly purchased Irish Spring. Staring at the box stupidly, I slowly turned around to see a perfectly good bar of brand new soap at the top of the wastebasket. 

Ah, I get it now. You wash with the soap and toss the box. That sure explains all those previously unexplained paper cuts I've suffered over the years.

That You, Joe?

I have posted for years about me Grandpa Joe's mulberry tree. You can read about it here:

Mulberry Season 2017

Alas, last year I found that the owner of the tree had trimmed it so high that I couldn't get mulberries off it. Whatcha gonna do? His yard, his tree. If he doesn't want it hanging over the fence, that's his right.

But a couple of nights ago in a heavy thunderstorm with high winds, the tree blew over. It's now held up by that fence. And there are already ripe mulberries on it from this season. So this morning I was able to pick some of the little fruits off for the first time in a couple of years. Happy happy, joy joy. It only leaves me with one question.

Was that you, Joe?

Not A Winner

At a spot where a traffic light caught us this past Sunday, I could see that Mom was somehow entranced by the Jeep in front of us. Finally she said excitedly, "Look at that license plate!"

It read EMC 0491. "Ella Mae Cosgriff, oh-four-nine-one!" she said proudly. 

"That's cool," I agreed.

After a thoughtful moment she opined, "We oughta play those numbers." Michigan has a daily lottery which has a four digit playing option. I dutifully found a gas station and played 0491.

4404 came in. But even if she would never have remembered, I'd have felt awful if her numbers had come in and I hadn't played. It was only a buck, and it gave her a minute's thrill regardless.

You Can Still Joke

Sunday, as many of you know, is my day with Mom. She loves to take rides, so we ride around, typically doing a bit of shopping as we go and always, always getting lunch. It's fun.

Mom insists that I take gas money and lunch money out of her funds. I never do, of course; none of us kids of Mrs. Cosgriff's would do such a thing when we entertain her. Yet she wants to do her part and be helpful too. She doesn't want to feel like she's draining our resources or being any kind of a burden. Moms, right? So a mantra of hers is to tell me to get money from me brother Phil, who oversees her finances. I assure her I do just that, because I don't want to offend her generosity or hurt her feelings.

Yet that doesn't mean I can't joke about it with Phil. Yesterday after I brought her home I told him, "Mom said to get our lunch money from you."

"Hmm," he grunted.

"You know, it cost $86.12 at Burger King today."

After taking a long sip on his cup of coffee Phil replied calmly, "You know, I don't believe you."

I should tell Mom on him.

True Story, Sort Of

We all, or at least I think we all, have bizarre dreams sometimes. Generally, they go unremembered. Yet sometimes they stick with you.

Last night I dreamed that I was in my front hall with a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Only it was a miniature one, about four and a half feet tall. I was still scared. But then a voice yelled to me, I don't whose voice or wherefrom it came, "Put a chokehold around its snout before it breathes fire!" I didn't know T-Rexes could breathe fire but, dreams, right?

I got the mini-monster in a chokehold. "Now throw it out the door!" I looked over and the door was open, so I tossed it out the door bodily. The animal landed nose down in the hostas next to our sidewalk.

The T-Rex didn't like that. It fought its snout free and leaped back towards the house. I slammed the door shut, but the dinosaur busted through the stained glass window which made up the top half of it. By then it was mad but couldn't move, stuck among the shards of colored glass.

"I have an air cannon!" shouted another voice. And right at my feet was an air cannon. Whatever that is, anyway, for I don't know that such a thing exists. "It only fires air, but that will blow the thing back out into the yard," I was assured.

As we aimed the device, I realized the T-Rex was then stuck in the bottom of the door, which was impressive because that part of the door is oak. Hardwood like that I don't think even a miniature T-Rex could burst through. The stained glass was fine. How, I don't know. Dreams, right? 

It took four shots, but the fourth one blew the T-Rex back into the yard. Then it jumped up and began running down the street, yelping like a dog. It sounded pretty much like a beagle. The guy with the air cannon started after it with a crossbow. Every time he fired an arrow it would hit the T-Tex, which would leap up and yelp exactly like Yogi Bear would when he'd get hit in the butt with an arrow in the old cartoons. The animal would try to reach around to the wounds with its arm, but T-Rexes arms are short, right, so he couldn't get to the arrows.

They were quickly out of sight. Then I thought, I'd better fix the door. But it was fixed. How? I don't know. Dreams, right?

There you have it. A genuine dream. Let's see Sigmund figure that one out.

Lutheran Christmas

My friend Dave was at the Shop yesterday. He's as serious of a Lutheran as I am a Catholic, and we've had a few interesting discussions on religion over the years. But we've always been cool about it, which you should be. Oh, maybe the talks became pointed once or twice, but we were always all right with each other in the end. Which you should be.

Anyway, his visit reminded me of a little fun I had at his expense years ago. His son Curt was in the old barn, and it was December. I told him, "Hey, when you see your Dad, ask him if Lutherans celebrate Christmas."

About an hour later the Shop phone rang. As this was before cell phones, I didn't know who was calling. I simply answered, "Cosgriff, this is Marty."

There was initially dead silence. Then Dave's voice asked, "Do Lutherans celebrate Christmas?" in exactly the put-on incredulous voice I would have expected.

AND NOW, THE PUNCH LINE. Let's see how many readers get it.

I asked Dave yesterday if I could use the Lutheran Christmas joke in my blog. He said, "Only if you don't call me Cloyce."

You got it old pal.

People is People

I don't always know what to think of people. Okay, I typically know what to think of people. But as I'm trying to keep this blog G rated, or no worse than PG, I'll let that thought hang.

A man came into the old barn yesterday to buy a machine. I got it out, plugged it up, hit the on/off switch, and it ran. I let off the switch, put the unit into reverse, and hit the button again to show that it worked in both directions. You know, standard salesman procedure.

"Let me have that," he says, as he literally muscles me out of the way and tries the machine in forward and then reverse. All the while I stood and stared at him thinking, 'I just did that. Right in front of you. Why are you double checking me?'

Of course, maybe he knows people too.

Doggone It

As I was in the garage putting away the few tools I used for a table repair up in Hessel this past Saturday, I was abducted. You don't believe things like that can happen in little towns in da eastern U.P., but threats are everywhere these days. 

I was at Uncle Frank's old workbench getting the clamp and the screwdriver back in their proper spots, as I try to do with his stuff. I couldn't figure out where to put the Gorilla Glue which I had to purchase for the job. Gorilla Glue: it works on everything, even fingers, although I did not, I positively did not, glue my fingers together. Or my nostrils. That time. 

Anyway, I wanted to put the glue somewhere upright and safe. And then it happened. There was a flash of motion, I couldn't tell from where exactly, which caused me to turn about suddenly. Then it was upon me before I could react further. There was no time for grabbing a weapon, no opportunity for any kind of self defense. I was leapt on and almost knocked over.

The neighbor's dog, a friendly black white and brown shepherd of some sort, had its forepaws on my waist and was eyeing me, mouth agape and tongue hanging out, begging for attention. Of course I could not resist, even though he had just managed to scare the bejeezus out of me. He didn't mean nothing, and was only curious what I was doing and wanted a pet.

"Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?" I found myself asking the good boy who was clearly trespassing and did not care. I suppose I didn't mind either.

Christmas in June?

Today finds me back at the grindstone in Detroit after five days up north. Reality demands what it demands, and being slightly more disciplined than may be generally believed, back to work came I.

Immediately next to our place in Hessel in da U.P. is a pretty little Presbyterian church. I don't know for certain how long it's been there. But I've seen it in a picture dated 1905 at the local historical museum, so it's been around a minute.

For as long as I can remember - which is the forty plus years that I've been going to Hessel - they've played canned music from speakers in the stout tower of the Church. It's never failed to bring fond and poignant memories back to me whenever the music sounds. While I can't always make out the tunes, I generally can, most of them being common hymns and instrumental sounds of praise. Still, I had to listen closely to a song this past Sunday in figuring it out.

Initially I thought that I must be wrong. That cannot be the tune they're playing. Yet listening more closely, paying strict attention to the notes as they came, I grew certain of the hymn. On a warm and pleasant June Sunday as I hungrily waited for Italian Sausages to be finished on the grill, there was no doubt that I was hearing O Come All Ye Faithful.

It was all well and good, and interesting enough in its incongruity. I realize too that Christmas in July has become quite a thing. Still, Christmas in June was new to me. And I suppose I could easily become adjusted to Christmas in Hessel in June if I so desired.

Risky Business

The Ohio Cosgriffs placed upon me a great trust. I was to take the brand new Keurig they purchased for use in our vacation home in Hessel, Michigan, and see that it worked.

It has worked quite well. But I did throw caution to the wind. Despite the warning in the handy guide which came with the unit, I did not READ ALL INSTRUCTIONS before I began making coffee. Going with my gut instincts and common sense, I set the Keurig up and put it into use all by myself.

I pray I have not violated their confidence in me. 

Right Timing

I gassed up my new old van last night, and I'm glad I did. The local gas jumped 25 cents overnight. A quarter a gallon overnight.

That comes to what would have been another $3.75 to fill my tank if I had waited until this morning. 

This is absurd, friends. It's downright insane. And it's all courtesy of the man and the party who are for the unions, for the minorities, for the poor. So they claim, anyhow.

I have a hard time believing that any of them, in their hearts, are happy over this very predictable inflation, especially concerning gas prices. I know I will certainly remember President Biden and the Democrats in November. And in 2024.

Oh The Humanity

Those of you who know me well know I don't like change. Yes, yes, yes, change is inevitable, I should accept it, indeed (yuck) embrace it, blah, blah, blah. I get that. That all makes a bit of sense. Circumstantially, philosophic Marty must add. I still don't like it, and you can't make me. But even I will admit to sometimes considering absurd ideas merely to avoid a mild, unimportant change in my expectations.

When I arrived here in Hessel last Thursday I discovered that the local Church had changed its Sunday Mass time from 8:30 to 9 AM. This is a nothing change, I readily admit. But my first impulse was, 8:30 to nine? What's up with that? That, that's a whole half hour. It was thirty minutes later than I was expecting. Two percent of the day had been altered. My Sheldon clock would be off. Why would you do that to me, Our Lady of the Snows?

I thought about driving to the Soo (The Soo is Michigan shorthand for Sault Sainte Marie, the French 'Sault' being pronounced as 'Soo' or, if it helps, 'sue') to attend a 4PM Mass on Saturday at the large Catholic Church there. But dude, that's 35 miles away. You're actually going to make a 70 mile round trip which will add every bit of 90 minutes to your Saturday, with gas costing five bucks a gallon, to avoid what amounts to no huge change to your Sunday but merely an alteration of a half an hour?

Well, yeah. I thought about it.

In the end, cooler heads prevailed. I went to the 8:30, uh, 9 o'clock Mass. It was okay, too, pretty much like the old, earlier service. I ended up just fine with it.

But if they change it again before my next visit, oh, the letter they're gonna get. I will take it all the way to the Pope if I have to.

Or Can You?

As you might know, I have words and sayings which I use regularly. So did me Pops, such as, 'That'd stink a dog off a gut wagon'. So did me Grandpa Joe with, 'I ain't hell on pretty'. Well, me Uncle John had a routine phrase which he actually disliked: "You can't miss it."

When giving directions, he believed, you never told someone they can't miss it. They will. If he was being given directions, he knew that, once enlightened with the fateful phrase, he would miss it. To him, the words never failed to give the opposite outcome.

He didn't believe in the fates or jinxes of course. It was more that anything can go wrong, anything can be 'missed'. The right thing to do was simply give the directions and don't mix opinion into it. Answer the question about how to go where and find what, and leave it at that.

I hope you get his point. Because, of course, you can't miss it.

Testing Testing

The Ohio Cosgriffs were kind enough to buy a new Keurig for when we're up north in da U.P. in Hessel, Michigan. I was fortunate enough to be able to bring it this weekend.

It's a dual action coffee maker, you might say. On one side you can brew an entire pot. Meanwhile, there's  a port (I think you could call it a port) where you can make single cups. Technology. It's cool. Or hot, where coffee brewing is concerned.

I have so far made one entire pot of twelve cups and one single cup, just to test it out. It has passed the initial trial swimmingly. Of course I'll need to test it out several more times over the next couple of days. The scientific method and all that, because I need to be sure.

Old Man Coffee

One of my little pleasures in life has been getting a large coffee at the first convenient gas station or 24 hour donut shop or whatever when I begin a road trip. Then I was dinged for $2.32 at a truck stop for a 24 ounce coffee which had been $1.69 for who knows how long. I must admit the sudden leap in cost gave me a minor shock.

Consequently, on my most recent journey I grabbed a large insulated cup from my pantry and made two cups of hot java in my Keurig, as it took two to fill the mug. All the while I was quite approvingly proud of myself. Indeed, rather arrogantly proud and self satisfied.

I was using coffee which was already paid for.

I wouldn't have to stop within the first half hour of the trip. Think of the time I gained!

I was saving seventy three cents on the deal. Seventy Three cents, mind you. I'd have killed for 73 cents when I was a boy.

Who needs that fancy coffee from fancy coffeemakers anyway? Sumatran bold and Columbian supreme and Arabica dark roast, hah. I was enjoying Marty's made at home brew.

Yep. I was doing all the right things for all the right reasons. Yessiree.

Then I thought, you are becoming an old man, aren't you?

Hell, the coffee still tasted good.

Hazardous Driving

There's a road down in Ohio which sure seems to me runs along a cliff facing. At points it almost appears that the ground drops straight down from the roadside. I swear you can see Wile E. Coyote giving that sad little 'bye bye' wave right before he falls to his doom.

I think it's Malden Line by Leamington in Ontario, Canada which has the same threat. You better stay on the road because if you slide one way or the other you'll be joining Mr. Coyote before you know what's hit you. You won't even have the chance to wave. You might, however, get that far off puff of smoke like he does when you hit bottom.

Housing Rights

My mailman was kind enough to deliver to me Friday the latest bit of drivel from my local Congressional representative (notice how I avoided all those pesky pronouns in not identifying a member of Congress?) which proclaimed that safe and affordable housing is a right. I am not enlightened.

The trouble with rights is that they imply obligations. If you have a right to something, who is obliged to fill that right? After all, if a certain nondescript fellow (whom we'll call Cloyce just to give him a name) has a right to a safe and affordable house, well, mine is safe and affordable. Do I have to give it to Cloyce?

Oh, don't be silly, Marty. Of course not.

Well, okay, then, how about the heavy machinists and the carpenters and the electricians and the heating and plumbing contractors who actually build homes? Do they have to build Cloyce a home for free? And do the folks who make the materials which go into home building have to supply the lumber and wire and ductwork and lighting gratis as well?

Come on, Marty, of course not.

Well, then, who does come up with the house? Who owes Cloyce a safe, affordable home, since it's a right he has? Who must deliver on that right? Don't say the government, because that's just a longhand way of saying me, and we've already established I don't owe Cloyce a home.

And that's the trouble when you begin bandying about rights. If you aren't ready and willing to talk rationally about obligations as well, Congressional representative, you're just blowing smoke.