The Most Sincere Pumpkin Patch

Charlie Brown's friend Linus famously sought the most sincere pumpkin patch in the world to wait for the Great Pumpkin. Guess what, Linus? I've found it.

This is me brother Patrick's pumpkin patch, lovingly set out every October for Halloween. I think I would like to spend the night in it, as I'm certain it's the one within which the Great Pumpkin would alight. Yet as a 62-year-old man with sinus issues and an aversion to being committed (quiet Ron) I think I'll pass. 

I hope the Great Pumpkin forgives me. And that he forgivingly brings my gifts down the block.

Maserati Pizza Guy

The other day while on the road in the late afternoon near Utica, Michigan, I saw a pizza delivery guy. He was tooling along with the removeable sign of a pizza place adorned on the roof of his car. His Maserati, in fact.

Maseratis are high end luxury cars which have a bottom end price of about $80,000, according to my low tech yet reliably scientific Internet search. But here's a fella delivering pizzas in one.

Either pizza delivery is much more lucrative than I imagined (perhaps it has a James Bond element which has somehow been overlooked) or Junior borrowed Dad's car. Not, I would think, that any Dad who could afford a Maserati and a family would allow his progeny to use his glamor car for a mundane teenage after school job. 

"But Daaad, I need the money for my date with white bread WASP girl this weekend," Junior had pleaded.

"Oh, let him use the car, Ward, dear," Mother would gently insist, staring above her knitting as Junior looked on hopefully.

I don't know about you, but neither angle seems plausible to me. Yet there it was: the Maserati Pizza Guy.

Classic Movies

Me son Charlie and I exchanged a series of text messages last night talking, basically, about the classic holiday specials and movies. It reminded me that, like the many books I haven't read, there are many great movies I'd like to see.

I love what I've seen by Frank Capra of It's a Wonderful Life fame. Among my standards of what makes a film classic is that it needs to leave a lump in your throat at least once, and Wonderful Life does that several times. When George Bailey is begging for his life back and it begins to snow, signaling that he's alive again, wow. That's how you make movies. Still, Capra's made many highly regarded, even legendary, films which I have yet to see. It Happened One Night, Lost Horizon, and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town head that list.

Stanley Kubrick is one who's made some solid movies, although he tends to excess. But unless and until I see something better 2001: A Space Odyssey will be my favorite movie. Of his movies which I haven't seen, I want to see Spartacus.

After seeing Metropolis (I wrote about that here) I'm open to silent films, yet nothing comes to mind as I write. Any suggestions?

Charlie and I agreed we need to make lists of what movies we need to see. Perhaps this will serve to start.

The Fetterman Question

There may well be a reasonable explanation for it, but Pennsylvania Lieutenant Governor John Fetterman did not appear to be able to handle things well at all during the debate with Mehmet Oz the other day. Coming off a stroke in May, questions are certainly left unanswered, the first and foremost being whether his campaign has been properly up front about his health.

Fetterman's health, of course, is paramount, and we should all be praying for his complete and quick recovery. Having a stroke is not his fault and we must acknowledge that. Still, someone in his campaign and/or personal life has some explaining to do. I don't think we were ever told the whole truth.

What galls me the most is that such apparent lack of transparency isn't unusual in political circles. The need for power trumps honesty all too often where politics and the desire to mold the world into a certain image rules all.

What's happening in Pennsylvania isn't new. President Woodrow Wilson's wife Edith and the White House staff hid Wilson's incapacitated condition from the public after he suffered a traumatic stroke in 1919; he should have stepped down or at least stepped back. But that would have meant a loss of political leverage at an important time in our history (World War I having just ended) and, well, those who crave power can't do that.

Similarly, Franklin Roosevelt by many accounts shouldn't have run for a fourth term in 1944. No less than Harry Truman remarked in August of that year than the President looked physically terrible. FDR certainly had his share of health problems. Yet that couldn't be made public. It would affect the power he held, and his ability to play God with history. 

When health becomes an issue for someone holding a public obligation, it is part of that obligation to step away from the pulpit precisely because staying might hurt themselves or the people they serve or propose to serve. Why, all too often, won't they? Simply because power, and ego, corrupts. It doesn't surprise me, but I am at least naive enough to be scandalized by it.

In Defense of the Dad Principle

The other day I wrote about how hung up on time I thought me Pops could be. But in defense of the Dad Principle of Worthy Timekeeping, there's a lot to be said for it.

You can mark time but it's difficult (and generally impossible) to make it up. If you're fifteen minutes early, what? You twiddle your thumbs for a little bit, that's all. But if you're fifteen minutes late, you're just late.

What can that mean? You could have to reschedule a critical appointment. You might lose a job, or perhaps miss out on a good sale or other opportunity. If you miss a plane, train, or automobile you could miss a family holiday or function, or an important business meeting. 

Then there's always - I will say it - you won't get the best seat at an event, or the best parking space, the one where it's easiest to bug out when the show's over. Real Dads understand the importance of egress.

Sure, you don't want to go overboard. Yet early beats late. It's simply a dad maxim.

By Jiminy

Yesterday while on the road I stopped by a restaurant which was an old haunt of me Pops. It was early, and I was making good time. He liked the breakfasts there; so do I. The planets aligned.

The waitress remarked that I had a distinct voice. This was actually something I had heard before. Indeed, one wag said I had a voice for the Cartoon Network. I'm still not entirely sure whether I should be angry or complimented.

But to continue. Beth, the waitress, told me she actually recognized the voice yet couldn't quite place it. She would figure it out, she assured me.

Within a few minutes she was refilling my coffee cup and a light lit above her. It was really cool because it was an actual electric light which had flipped on at such an angle from my point of view that it appeared directly above her head as she began to speak. "You sound just like the little helper from Pinocchio, who was it? Yeah, Jiminy Cricket!"

Again, should I be insulted or complimented? Am I an iconic cartoon character or a nagging little bug? I supposed it is nice to be recognized for something though.

The Apple Falls

They say they apple doesn't fall far from the tree. They say that because it's true.

Me Pops would routinely get, I thought, very hung up on time. He would always want the first appointment of the day with his doctor, typically 8 AM, and would be in the waiting room at 7:15. Dad was the prototypical dad: it doesn't hurt at all to get there a bit early. 

I generally felt he thought too much about how much time something would take. Back in the day, he might be sending me on a pickup that was four miles from the old barn and hasten me along with the admonition, "You better go, it's going to take most of the morning." Not really, I would think to myself. It could take maybe as long as 45 minutes if things worked modestly against me, but no big deal.

Yesterday morning I was sending me brother Phil out for two stops, one in Oak Park, one in Ferndale. They are near northern suburbs of Detroit, neighbors, in fact, as they share city limits on one side. At most they're six miles from the Shop. We're looking at no more than a 15 mile round trip. Even factoring in the inevitable down time at both stops it would take Phil an hour or so, tops, outside of a catastastroke, as me Grandpa Joe used to say, to get the job done.

Still, as Phil pottered around the old barn for a few minutes before leaving I found myself thinking, "You oughta get going, boy, it's going to take you most of the day." I didn't say it, but I thought it.

Either way, the apple has fallen.

 

Thoughts on Monday

The Astros and the Phillies in the World Series? Didn't see that coming.

The Detroit Lions lost a winnable game? Saw that coming.

Halloween is next Monday. Is that your Halloween too or have they moved it?

It's supposed to be warm today and tomorrow, then that's probably it for 2022 around here. Ah well. Had to happen sometime, at least here in Michigan.

Maybe I did actually see the Astros in the Series, come to think of it. Surprised the Yankees sent so quietly though.

And...bye for now.

Sex

There. That got your attention, I bet. But worry not. I'll quickly enough make the subject dull for you.

I read a lot, a fact I believe I've made well known in recent years. A goodly amount of my reading includes biographies. And if one theme can be detected which runs through many of the life stories I've read, one which appears to be important only with more contemporary writers, is that at some point the author must, simply must, it appears, address the sex life of his subject.

Babe Ruth might have a been a hero to the kids but had his way with the ladies too. Harry and Bess Truman, so I read, had to have the slats in their bed at Blair House (where they lived while the White House underwent extensive renovations) replaced after a marital tryst. George Washington, a biographer assures me, made it a point to secure an extraordinary amount of Spanish Fly immediately before his wedding to Martha. Why do we need to know these things?

Any rational adult must realize that Harry and Bess, George and Martha, as duly wedded couples, did it. Where's it our right to know anything more than that? With the Bambino, I have to believe that tales of his seductions nothing less than attempts to knock him off his pedestal. None of it, from any of them, merit our knowledge or consideration. 

For the sake of truth, perhaps? But on what grounds are we entitled to know the whole truth about these or other historical figures? Other than where public wrongdoing is at issue, such personal things are nobody's business. The bulk of us aren't either prudes nor stupid. We don't need the details. They certainly don't really enlighten us in any useful manner.

When I read about the exploits of General Washington I do not have to know about the personal ones. Neither do you. If that's what it takes to get people interested in history, I think we need to change their attitudes towards the subject rather than cater to their sophomoric whims.

Anniversary of a Century

Unless I miss my mark, one hundred years ago today, October 22, 1922, me Grandmaw and Grandpaw Hutchins were married. The marriage lasted until June 1979 when Grandmaw passed suddenly. Grandpaw lived until May 1987.

One Hundred Years later only me Aunt Bobbie remains of their eight kids, although many grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great great grandchildren abound as their legacy. There may even be some great great greats; I don't pretend to know all aspects of our extended family anymore.

I remember their Fiftieth Anniversary from 1972 very well. Now that's been doubled. I'll make it a point to say a prayer or two for them today.

Fiftieth Lottery Memory

Ah, memories. The Michigan lottery began fifty years ago.

They only offered scratch off tickets then, the kind that you instantly win (or generally lose) with, and few retailers initially had the state lottery. One Saturday night early on, Mom and Dad and us kids started playing the lottery, oh, at about 6 in the evening. We'd pony up our bucks, as the tickets were a dollar each at the time, and me Pops and me drove down to a store on Dix Road in Lincoln Park. It was eight or nine miles from home but the nearest place we knew that had lottery. He'd bring the tickets back to the house and we'd each scratch ours off. There were always enough small winners to merit going back out.

Which we did, several times. If I had to guess I'd say we made ten trips from downtown Detroit to Lincoln Park, me Pops and I, never having won more than a few dollars at a time yet enough to fuel our lottery fever. It reached the point where Dad and I had the only winners. And of course, we each won another few bucks with that. It got to where we never left the parking lot of that party store until our winnings and a little bit more were spent. I think we sat in that lot a half an hour, scratching tickets, winning a bit, going back in, then scratching those in the car. And all the while cackling like idiots at the absurdity of it. I rarely heard the old man laugh so heartily, so insanely, as that night.

Who started it I don't know. But you know how it is: laughter, especially uproarious laughter, often feeds itself. It stokes its own coals. I mean, we were both laughing harder than hell. We'd say we were done after these tickets, and then win three dollars and start again. We laughed until we hurt; laughed until we cried. It was just bizarre. Anyone walking by and noticing the two morons in the old Polara wagon had to have thought we were nuts. But for me and me Pops, it was a fun time.

So I haven't won the lottery. But it kinda felt like I did that night.

Drain Snake Methodology

Yesterday I found myself talking to myself while I installed a new reverse switch on an Electric Eel Model C (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs). Only thing was, the customer was standing right by me as I worked. Only other thing was, I didn't care.

At one time I would have been embarrassed by that. Yet this time around I even remarked to the guy, "A fella's getting pretty comfortable with who he is and what he's doing when he can carry on a conversation with himself and another man standing there."

He just smiled and replied, "I ain't sayin' nuthin, Cosgriff. I don't want to interfere with your method."

Thank you sir. That's what we'll call it: my method. It sounds a far sight better than going crazy.

The World Turned Upside Down

I had nothing this morning. Then, and this is serendipity for me as a history maven, I had something.

Having placed myself in front of the computer with nary an idea of what to expound upon this great day, I decided to resort to one of me old tricks. I opened a new web page and searched for this day in history. And Bob's yer Uncle, there it was.

On this date in 1781, a day we remember as an anniversary 241 years later, Lord Cornwallis surrendered Yorktown to the combined American and French armies, his being surrounded on land, and cut off from a sea escape by a French fleet under Admiral de Grasse. There would be no further significant fighting in the American Revolution.

So there you have it. The world was turned upside down, as the British were defeated by a ragtag Colonial Army. Independence was secured. Maybe I'm glad I began the day with writer's cramp.

Too Tight Pops

Me Great Uncle Bill, a brother to me Grandpa Joe, owned a garage down in Jacksonville, Illinois where our particular branch of Clan Cosgriff originated, at least in these United States. He was a crackin' good mechanic too by all accounts, with a thriving business. Me Pops would sometimes help out when the Detroit Cosgriffs were in town for visits.

One of Dad's first assignments was an oil change. Not being sure exactly how tight oil plugs were supposed to be reinstalled on vehicles, he took what his teenaged mind thought the obvious route. Pops elected to tighten the hell out of it.

Great Uncle Bill, having by chance seeing his nephew's super strength being applied to the bolt, blandly suggested, "Red (Dad had red hair up into adulthood when it turned black), they might want to change the oil again someday." 

Me Pops got the message. As it was much more subtly put than what he would have given by his own Pops, me Grandpa Joe, he likely quite appreciated the style in which such sage wisdom was delivered.

Curlers Were First, Marathoners

A tradition I discovered yesterday during the Detroit Free Press Marathon was that spectators often cheered the runners by ringing cow bells. That's all right, but as we all know, curlers used the cow bell cheer first.

The Swiss have for years inspired their national curling teams with cow bell ringing. As a curler, I have a sweater which attests to it.

So go ahead and wave your cow bells at the 2023 Detroit Marathon. Wave them vigorously. But just to set the record straight: you're copiers, not innovators. We did it first.

A Love Hate Relationship

The annual Detroit Free Press Marathon runs (ha, ha, runs) down Avery Street for the second straight year today. I have to admit that I'm looking forward to it. Last year was neat; Mom really enjoyed it. We weren't sure we should wake her for it (it began fairly early) but she really got a kick out of watching the street parade of runners and joggers from her own front porch. 

It will pass by a little later this morning. In 2021 we were at mile 3; we're just before mile 13 this time around, or about half way through the 26 mile plus route. Any way you slice it, I am truly in great anticipation of the event. The irony is, left up to me I probably would not have it go through my Woodbridge neighborhood.

Yes, yes, yes, I know. It's a blinding contradiction. I like the marathon, I look forward to it, I would change it if I could. Maybe still allow it through Woodbridge but one street over, on Commonwealth rather than Avery, just so I wouldn't be stuck at home. It's only six hours that the street will be closed to vehicular traffic. But doggone it, that includes my vehicle, my ability to come and go as I please, for that six hours. Sure, I'm not going anywhere. Yet I want to be able to go somewhere just the same.

I'm not trying to justify it. I'm only saying that's how I feel.

Cravings

I rarely crave anything very deeply. At times, yes, but not often. Where do cravings come from anyway? Why are they so powerful? Who knows. But what I do know is that Thursday afternoon along about one o'clock I found myself wanting Arizona Ice Tea with Lemon something awful.

The thing is, although I used to drink it on occasion and did like it well enough, it's been every bit of 20 years since my last sip. Even then it was never a taste I simply had to have. It just seemed like a good option at whatever time it was, in whatever store I was in. But Thursday; I wanted Arizona Tea with Lemon, period. Nothing else, nothing, I stress, would suffice.

I threw the locks on the door of the old barn and drove the four blocks to a party store where I noticed it before and prayed absurdly hard that they had that particular Arizona variety. They did. I bought one 24 ounce can and, on return to the Shop, downed it in 15 minutes. Man, did it taste good. I almost went for another, yet my craving was basically satisfied.

I still have no idea where the desire came from. I don't think I'm pregnant, although I understand from certain corners of that Internet thing that men can be with child. Then too, with the gender fluidity that's getting bandied about, perhaps I am in fact a nubile 24 year old woman. 

That's a joke, such as it is. Yet the craving was very real.

Marty Moneychanger

Back when I was curling in Canada, it wasn't unusual for me to have Canadian money on me, at least during curling season. That would be April until October, just to satisfy all of you who are intensely interested in such trivial information. As such, I didn't mind a few extra Cabucks every now and then.

It so happened that one fine day I was in my bank here in Detroit when I noticed a bit of quiet consternation at the teller's window next to me. The teller was explaining apologetically to a young couple,  "I'm sorry, but I just can't exchange currency if you don't have an account here." They were Canadian and wanted US money.

"We only need a few American dollars," the guy was replying. The teller shook her head, holding out her arms to indicate her hands were tied. Policy, you know.

I interjected myself into the conversation. "How much do you need?"

The couple, startled a bit, turned to me. They considered their options and answered, "Just 40."

"To the best of my knowledge it's about par right now," I replied, meaning that Canadian and US dollars were about equal at the time. "I'll give you forty US for forty Canadian."

Hesitantly but gratefully, the man produced two Canadian twenties from his wallet. I gave him two of our Jacksons for it. "You can trust Mr. Cosgriff," the teller assured them.

Smiling broadly, the young man and the young woman blurted out together, "Thank you."

Just being a humble servant to Canadians in distress, that's all.

Pure Copper

Whenever me Grandpa Joe would scrap out a fried arc welder he would toss the stripped copper into a 55 gallon drum. When the drum was filled, it was me Pops' job from early on to take it to the scrap yard.

The scrap yard they frequented was owned by an old gentleman. When Dad would go to put the drum on the scale the old man would ask him, "Young man, is that copper from the top all the way to the bottom?" He would motion with an upward pointer at the beginning, turning it down until he was pointing at the floor when he finished his question.

"Yes, sir," me Pops would always answer. He would add, "I can dump it onto the floor to show you."

Holding the palm of his right hand up as though to stop Dad in his tracks the man would reply, "Your word is enough."

This happened every time, me Pops often related, that he took copper out to scrap. "Young man, is that copper from the top all the way to the bottom?" "Your word is enough."

Dad wondered if perhaps it was some form of ritual, simple habit, or the owner's way of letting you know that he trusted you while being sure of what he was getting. Or maybe he simply believed in believing in people.

Well, a man's word should be his bond, right?

Mile Marker 288

For years in driving to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan I've been impressed with the view on Interstate 75 at mile marker 288 as you head north. The vast sea of green, set into a low valley which stretches seemingly forever as the highway veers softly left has always been impressive. I long thought it would be gorgeous during the fall colors.

Last Thursday I had the chance. As I made my way past Gaylord I found myself watching the mileage closely simply to not miss the view. It was not disappointing.

The bad thing is there's no real way to accurately describe it. The reds and oranges and golds were spectacular as they retreated quietly into the horizon. I wish I had more time to study it, but driving 75 miles an hour on I-75 in moderate traffic would not allow it.

But I am glad I finally had the chance to see it.

False Dialogue

As I recently watched a film, a fictional story about a revolution in Columbia, I was amused by an exchange between a reporter and the President of the United States. At a press conference the reporter demanded, "The President of Columbia said that the United States has begun an invasion of Columbia. Is this true?"

Before the character of the US President could answer I thought immediately that his response should be, "It's true. The President of Columbia said that."

I really wasn't into the movie. Can you tell?

Doorknobs and DayQuil

While lazing in Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, I found need to replace a keyed door handle. One would never imagine procuring such a presumably common impliment might be at all a difficulty. Yet neither hardware in nearby Cedarville offered such a commodity; even the Ace in Pickford all of 11 miles distant offered not what I had thought would have been a hardware staple. C'est la vie; such is life. As I was considering a trek to Sault Sainte Marie, the Soo, 35 miles distant from Hessel, I elected to consider whether I might discover such product in a place of business there. But tomorrow would suffice for that journey.

On the trail back through Cedarville I decided to stop at the Family Dollar for DayQuil (as I seem to be fighting a cold) and flavored carbonated water. I simply adore Family Dollar's Strawberry Kiwi and Wild Cherry water. Perusing the shelves of yon establishment I stumbled upon canned vegetables, among which was Margaret Holmes' Tomatoes, Okra, and Corn medley. As I likewise adore tomatoes, okra, and corn yet rarely enjoyed okra (a veg I particularly love yet rarely enjoy; Mom used to fry it rolled in corn meal and, to employ the vernacular, boy, that was good eatin') I presumed Margaret would be flattered should I purchase  a can for myself, to eat with the fish patties awaiting my dinner in the Hessel freezer.

Margaret's mix was good, but was galaxies removed from me Mom's recipe.

Be that as it may, before reaching the checkout it occurred to me that Family Dollars typically have small hardware sections. I didn't expect to find it there, yet lo and behold there was exactly one brand new keyed doorknob. I took it in my hands with a cackle. It saved a 70 mile round trip which may have been for naught anyway, there currently being a dearth of such commodities in the eastern Upper Peninsula for some reason.

Setting my items down at the checkout, the clerk began to scan them. Water, veggies, and DayQuil were scanned promptly and efficiently. Then she scanned the doorknob once, yea twice, each attempt performed unsuccessfully. "What's your birthday?" she demanded. Indeed, it was a command.

I drew back in confusion, asking incredulously, "You require my birthday lest I cannot purchase a doorknob?"

"No, I'm sorry, sir. I need it for the DayQuil. It won't let me scan the doorknob until I get it," she explained.

Okay, I then understood. I don't get why Big Brother feels need to protect me from daytime cold medicines, but perhaps that's another issue.

A Man's House

Dark blue houses. They would trigger Mom. 

I can't tell you how often, driving through neighborhoods on Sundays, Mom would sneer at them. "You can tell a man lives there!" she'd scornfully lament. Well, uh, men, in theory anyway, have to live somewhere, Ma. And I never was sure what was wrong with dark blue.

Still, we would cruise around a few blocks, whatever town we were in, and invariably there'd be a dark blue house. "Ugh. That's a man's house. You can tell," Mom would assert with disdainfully.

Well, all right then. As you like it, Mom. As you like it.

Can't Forget

Virtually every day this past summer, whenever we were cruising through a wooded area, me Mom would say, "I bet this is pretty in the fall."

"We'll have to come back here then to see," I would reply, trying to remember exactly where we were so that I could retrace our steps come October.

We lost Mom September 22. 

I drove up to our place in Hessel a few days ago, in early October. The fall colors were in great display, it seemed, on every inch alongside the road. Can you imagine how difficult it was to not think of those short talks? Do you know how hard it was to not forget those exchanges?

Damned hard. That's how much.

Hessel in October

Perhaps it's only because I don't live here, and consequently the seasons don't change gradually but appear to be spontaneous, existing almost on a whim. But Hessel in October is a world turned upside down.

I was sitting in total darkness on the front porch with a cup of coffee yesterday morning at 6 AM. In June, the Sun is already out by that point, and I'm typically reading a book or newspaper in natural light. My walk might begin by 5:15 as I could see clearly in the early break of day. Today it will be 8 or so before I start such exercise. I don't want to be mistaken for a prowler or other such miscreant.

The sky was cloudless and full of stars, again at 6 O'clock. During summer months the only decent stargazing isn't until at least 11 PM and begins to fizzle by 4:30. The evening creeps up too. I had to give up my outdoor reading before 7:30 last night. Horrors. And it's quite cold enough that it isn't comfortable sitting outside or in the garage for too long.

Yet even with the shorter and colder days, it's still Hessel. That's a good thing. 

Show Me the Money

Old TV shows can seem quaint about things like money. What they regard as significant we might actually laugh at.

An episode I stumbled upon of Our Miss Brooks, a sitcom from the middle Fifties, was centered on the 'safeguarding' of forty cents. That's right, four whole dimes. On The Andy Griffith Show, a litterer was upset over a four dollar fine and vowed to extract revenge on Barney Fife for having issued the ticket which cost him so dearly. Vengeance was sworn over four bucks. It sounded downright absurd for a man to be mad over such a paltry amount.

Of course, I remember me Pops talking about making $100 a week in 1963 and feeling it was good money. And when I had my first $50 dollar bill at age 16 it felt like I had struck gold. I was in total awe of General Grant. I kept a guard on it as though I were Fort Knox. Still, I don't think twice about four dollars let alone 40 cents these days. And when you think about it, maybe that's a shame on me.

The More They Stay the Same

To hear some people talk, particularly average news shows and the fringe groups, the world is going to hell. We're the last generation on Earth. Or, at least, the last generation on Earth as we know it.

The world is going to hell; that I will not argue. It's going there in the same way that we're all bound for death from the day we're born. If you care to be Christian, as I do, it's because humanity is fallen. What ought we expect from a world which turns a deaf ear to God? But if you prefer to be secular about it, humanity isn't perfect and, I must add, never will be. All your efforts will, someday, be for naught. No matter how great and sincere your ideas about making a better, kinder, more just world, take no heart. Someone will torpedo the best laid plans.

I actually say this with a grin on my face though. The world and our fate in it are perhaps better seen with a wry eye, a sense of the absurd. It is absurd; anything less than perfect must be, precisely because it is lacking in some necessary quality for goodness.

But to my point. I see no real benefit to fretting about current conditions in our nation or the world around us. Pray, hope, and don't worry, Padre Pio taught. The same problems exist which have always, which will always, exist. There will be poverty. There will be war. There will be laziness and sloth. People will be shocked at it all, angry at it all, despondent about it. And there will be people who thrive on that. That's why we have news shows and fringe groups. Every act of inhumanity feeds them.

Don't let them feed you. They see the same issues you see and insist they have the answers. Bosh. Look upon every item you read, see, or hear with a wary eye. Don't allow them to force you, the MSM or the fringes, into the corners where they want to keep you. The world has never been perfect, the troubles in it will never go away, there is nothing new under the Sun. Take a grain of salt with your morning flow of information and do what positive things you can in your own little part of the world. If there is a scintilla of a chance the world can be kept from going to hell soon, it will be in that.

Clear Your Cache

I think I spelled cache right. A cache is a collection of items of the same type stored in a hidden or inaccessible place. So am I told, anyway, by some random online dictionary. Voice mailboxes on your cell phone count as that, don't they?

Well, whatever. I can't tell you how often - it happens much more than you would think - I call or return a call to a customer and cannot leave a message because their voice mailbox is full. You would think that someone ostensibly running a business might want to be able to receive messages, might think about clearing his cache to do so, but what do I know? 

Similarly, I will call plumbers and drain cleaners - supposedly well established plumbers and such - only to be told by a robotic voice, that 'the person you are trying reach has a voice mailbox which has not been set up'. Hadn't you better do that? I mean, if you in fact want customers to be able to communicate with you?

But again, what do I know? I run a business trying to make money. I like to get my messages and be able to return calls. Perhaps I missed that voicemail. But if so, not because it wasn't set up, or there wasn't room for it. 

Doctors are Sadists

My left foot has been troubling me for a couple of years now. Last Friday I was finally able to see a foot specialist. I'm trying to make up my mind if he's some kind of sick, twisted fiend.

The visit began with a simple visual examination of the foot. Then he began pressing it, once here, once there, at different points on and around the ankle. "Does this hurt? How about here? Here?" he would ask as he prodded. Each time it hurt, but not terribly.

"Does this hurt?" he eventually asked, bending my foot sharply towards my shin bone. 

That hurt. Man, did it hurt. But did that stop him? Nope. He pulled the foot back away from my leg, a hundred eighty degrees from the first way he bent it. "How about this?" he asked clinically.

Can't you tell? I'm tapping out like a professional wrestler. "Yes," I replied instead through clenched teeth.

"This?" he truncated his question as he wrenched the foot sideways. "Yes," I affirmed in a whimper.

I'm not sure he had to do all that. I think that because he seemed to be enjoying himself far too much. Did you have a fight before you left the house this morning, doc?

Sundays Without Mom

I really don't intend to be at all melancholy here. Intellectually, I knew this day would come. Then too, I've already not had the previous two Sundays with Mom anyway. That's just how things happened to play out. So today is the first real Sunday where I will not be driving her around looking at neighborhoods, going to Ollie's or Rural King, and eating the inevitable cheeseburgers for lunch with a large Diet Coke with no, mind you, no ice. You better have gotten that right.

At first I really wasn't sure what to do with my Sundays without feeling in the dumps. Now I think I'm simply going to take the next few and consciously do things I would not have done with her anyway, all to gain distance from the idea that Sunday was my day with Mom. Today the Tigers play at Noon, their last home game of the year, so that's my choice this week. I'm going to the ballpark.

Interesting story. She liked to watch baseball on TV with me Pops but never cared for actually going to a game. She went to old Tiger Stadium once, with Dad and me brother Ed as I recall, and never would go back. Yet when we would pass Michigan and Trumbull, the storied 'corner' where the Stadium once sat, she would without fail decry the fact that apartments now stood where it had for almost a century. "I can't believe they tore down a place like Tiger Stadium for those ugly things!" she observed every time. I emphatically agreed.

One weekend soon I'll go up to Hessel a final time for the season. Another, I might get out the clubs and golf. I haven't swung a club since 2019. Some say I never usefully swung one before then; you don't need to be quiet about that Ron. The Ohio Cosgriffs will be up in a couple of weeks for a weekend of picking apples and buying Halloween pumpkins for Jack O'lanterns, so there's that. Henry Ford Museum is another target; I haven't been there in several years. By that point six, maybe seven weeks will have passed without a Sunday road trip. The spell, perhaps, shall be broken.

Still, every few weekends I may just trek out to Romeo or Plymouth, Ann Arbor or Adrian, and look at the old houses. Just to do it.

What I Believe

One of the little annoyances (did I talk about annoying things yesterday? Oh well) are the bulk emails which I get nearly every day that begin, "I believe you're the right person to speak to about attending our conference...getting us on your mailing list...placing an ad in our trade magazine...and so on, ad infinitum. I like to toss in a bit of Latin occasionally because it gives my blog intelligence and class.

I actually answer each and every one of those mass emails. I simply respond, "I believe you're wrong. Good day."

I mean, I hate for their guesswork to be completely unacknowledged.