Nah, Nobody'll Notice

Several years ago me brother Phil had the opportunity to repair a drain snake cable. I don't recall where me or me Pops were that day, but so it goes.

The man brings in a large cage type snake to have an end installed on a cable he had broken. It's important to know that the unit was cage style, because that means you could see approximately how much cable was in it. The particular machine Phil dealt with had a capacity of 100 feet of 3/4 inch cable. This too is important to understand.

There was around 20 feet of cable in the machine, me brother guessed. "I can put an end on that, but it's really not enough to work with on main sewer lines," Phil advised the guy.

"But you can do it?" he said. Being told it can certainly be done, he instructed Phil to do it. So Phil did, and the man paid him.

Me brother went outside to help him load the machine onto his pickup truck. Then the man let the truth come out. "I rented this from a place and lost over 80 feet of cable in a sewer, so that's why I wanted you to put an end on it. Do you think they'll notice?"

Phil had to stifle a laugh. "I imagine they will," he opined, in as kindly a manner as he possible

What do you think? I bet you'd notice it was missing. Things like that are pretty obvious.

Checklist

If starting the week off right means waking up on Monday, well, that's one big check.

Before opening the Shop today I have to go get diesel fuel for the torpedo heater. The week's supposed to be cold, but I can't not work, so I need some warmth. That's two checks.

Work. That's three checks.

Stop working around 5. That's four.

Watch Andy Griffith with dinner. I'm up to five. Maybe six, if eating and watching TV count as two.

What's on the retirees Monday checklist, Ron?

Sunday Star Trek

The world wears you down simply to get what it wants out of you. That's why it's important to be obstinate in accepting, believing, and promulgating what is true. When you know what is true you must cling to it as though nothing else matters, because the world meanwhile will continually insist to you that what is false is in fact true. The world is a master at gaslighting.

How obstinate should you be? I would go so far as to say that even when you begin to doubt, review in your mind what the facts are and hold your ground tenaciously.

I am reminded of the famous scene from Chain of Command, an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Here it is: Picard's Lights Captain Picard is held captive and tortured, and his will is tested when his captor asks him how many lights he sees in the ceiling. Picard yells, "There are...FOUR...lights!" which was correct, even though he really believed by then there were five, as his captor pressured him to say. 

Picard stubbornly stuck with what he knew was true, even as the world, so to speak, almost made him bend.

I pray for such courage if I'm ever tested.

Saturday Silliness

Well, I find myself in need of getting some abbreviations done. Can anyone recommend a good contractor?

Show of hands now, who gets it? 

Friday Funk

I keep a bottle of vitamin D tablets on my nightstand, because I'm supposed to take one every day and having it right there helps me to not forget. This morning I popped the last pill in my mouth, from a container which began as a bottle of 400. Then, holding the damned empty green plastic bottle in my hand, it jumped into my mind out of nowhere that I had Mom with me in a WalMart when I bought it. "Those'll last you a long time, I bet," she had remarked then.

Not nearly long enough.

Thursday Themes

Me brother Phil would regularly chauffer me Grandma Cosgriff or me Grandpa Joe around, for whatever reason. One day for whatever reason he was taking Joe out, but they had to borrow Grandma's car.

The roads were a little dirty that day, causing specks of dirt to form on the windshield. Phil wasn't paying much attention to them as they weren't really obstructing his vision.

Apparently, however, they were obstructing Joe's. Yet in his own quaint manner, rather than asking me brother to use the washer he instead barked, yea demanded, "Did your grandmother tell you you couldn't use the windshield washer?"

Phil cleared the window.

Wednesday Warblings

Detroit, Michigan, where I habitate (it must be a word because I just said it) is expecting 4 to 8 inches of snow today. Well, it was as of yesterday when I typed this up, that is. But can cities as cities expect anything, or does that only actually apply to the people within them? Either way, who knows what tomorrow might bring? Er, will bring.

The worst thing about a heavy snow is the mere anticipation. We know, so far as weathercasters can know (a thing of doubt in itself) that it's coming. You also know you can do nothing about it. You just gotta wait.

For me, interestingly, once the snow in fact begins there's a feeling of relief. My mind says okay, it's started, it really is here, now it's simply a matter of dealing with it. So I deal with it, making passes of shoveling the sidewalks at regular intervals, the intervals dependent on precisely how fast the snow is falling. It's easier to clear the white stuff a bit at a time than all at once. Then you get a coffee or hot chocolate break while sitting at the computer, trying to be an amateur weather wonk on your own, attempting to guess when it will end by studying the same radar on four different web pages. Or at least determining when you need to trudge out again for another swipe at the accumulation. And figuring when to put the kettle on.

So I dread the snow coming but then relax at its arrival. It's what I do. Why, I dunno.

Tuesday Tidings

I've never understood the people who assert that there is no absolute and final right and wrong, good or evil, yet argue with me (essentially calling me wrong or evil) when I say there is. 

What exactly are you arguing for? You can't by your own admission be right, nor I wrong. You simply have no standing in a court which doesn't exist. At the very least I have philosophic consistency on my side (although it is much more than that of course).

One friend who believes in that nothingness told me he debates in order to refine his thoughts. But refine them why, how, and towards what? Talk itself is worse than merely cheap, it's nonsense, without hard definition. You can't have definition where there's nothing to define.

And those are my thoughts this early morning, dispensed by the light of my Kindle. Now go and have a good, good having a real and useful meaning, day.

Monday Moaning

I know what I'm going to do today. I have a plan.

Is the plan viable? Why yes, yes it is. 

Can it work? Why certainly. Most certainly, it can work.

Do I have confidence in it? Extreme confidence.

But will it work? Yes. It will work. It will work. 

Until the first phone call, or the first knock at the door. Then, all bets are off. 

Yet that's the nature of Mondays, right?

Hitching a Ride

I'm not sure I ever told this on Mom. But if I did, humor me.

She hated being behind trucks, and so did I. She especially hated car haulers, I think because it can appear as the cars upon them looked like they could break off and come towards you. It can seem daunting in the regard, truth be told.

We were behind a single level car hauler one day which had an open space at the very back. "You gonna pass that thing?" Mom asked.

"Well," I replied, "I'm thinking I might race up towards it, then pull up hard on the steering wheel while you and me both lean back into our seats, and lift the front of the van up so we can jump onto the truck and get a free ride." Then I kind of chuckled.

Mom didn't respond. In fact, she appeared to be seriously thinking it over, considering the idea in her mind. Surely, I thought, she doesn't believe we could actually do it. 

Finally she said, "You know, as much as I would like to see that, I think we should just pass the truck today."

So we did. But I still can't make up my mind: was she serious, or did she play me really well?

Steak and Entertainment

Years ago, I'm going back into the Nineties, my friend Bones was bugging me that I had to try this wonderful steak dinner at a dive bar he had found. It was on Eureka Road, in Wyandotte south of Detroit.

One Saturday he called and asked if I was busy. As I was not, he said, "Let's go get steaks at that bar." So we did.

We arrived a little after six. The bartender was behind the bar (who'da thought?) chatting with three apparent girlfriends sitting on stools the other side of her. Bones and I selected a table and sat. There were no other patrons in the place.

It took a while for the barkeep to attend to us, but so what? We weren't in any hurry. She did eventually come by the table. I ordered a Blue, Bones a Bud.

And we waited.

Waiting.

Still waiting.

Finally I remarked to Bones, I didn't think too loudly, "When are we gonna get our beers?" About that time a slim female arm came over my shoulder, hand tightly clenched around a long neck, and slammed a bottle onto the table in from of me. I actually flinched, startled. I swear the windows rattled. Bones's Bud was similarly delivered.

We began to sip at our beers. Eventually the bartender came back, I suppose out of a sense of duty more than anything else, and asked if we'd like something eat. Well, she more demanded to know, but as our whole purpose in being there were the steaks, I ordered. Steak and baked potato. A salad came with it. "Type of dressing?" she asked me, almost as though it were an interrogation.

"French," I answered simply, trying to pretend that the lamp wasn't blinding me.

Turning to Bones she took his order, duplicating mine so far as the main course went. She next asked him, "Salad Dressing?"

I don't where his mind had wandered to, but it was off somewhere. Bones responds, "Sorry, what?"

This bartender gets right down in his face, I swear I am not making this up, and barks, "Sal-ad Dress-ing!" just like that. With the hyphens.

I watched as Bones's shoulders tightened up and I thought, 'Man, he's gonna punch her! He's gonna coldcock this insolent woman and we'll end up cooling our heels in the Wyandotte jail for the weekend!' Thank goodness he didn't. He exhaled deeply and said through clenched teeth, "Italian... please."

As we're eating (the meal came faster than I had any right to expect) I decided I wanted another Blue. Holding the empty in my hand and looking towards the bar where the ladies continued to sit and chat, I began gently shaking it, to indicate I'd like another. The barkeep ignored me. "She's not gonna bring you another. She's not gonna bring one," Bones kept chanting in a quiet voice behind me. Yet I was insistent, and she did eventually roll her eyes (her head along with them, it was that pronounced) and brought me a second beer.

Later she comes with the bills. I don't remember anymore what I tipped, but it made Bones say, "You're giving her that much?"

"It was worth the entertainment," I replied. The whole ordeal was kind of funny.

So we bade farewell to that fine eatery. I was out the door first, to hear Bones erupt in laughter behind me.

Out on Eureka Road he asks me incredulously, "Do you know what she said to me? DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHE SAID TO ME?"

"No, what?" I answered honestly.

"She gets this big, pretty smile on her face and says, 'Have a nice day fellas!' Like everything was normal."

The steaks were outstanding, I must admit. But we never went back. I'm not sure why.

If It Suited Joe

I do wonder sometimes whether we are fashion conscious enough. Yeah, I know. Sounds real weird coming from me. But still, I wonder.

When me Pops took me to my first baseball game at old Tiger Stadium in Detroit, he wore a suit and tie. One of the few times I saw me Grandpa Joe wear a suit coat was when he did his weekly banking. That's right, he cleaned up and put on a coat and tie to go to the bank. Meanwhile, although I wore a suit and tie to the funerals of both my parents, I didn't to the viewings the night before. I had my reasons; with Mom, there was one particular pullover shirt of mine which she without fail would compliment when I had it on. So I wore that to the funeral home.

What do we wear suits for these days? You don't see them at Church, or, at least, I don't. In offices, yes, although that doesn't appear as universal as it once was. News shows, yes. But by and large, men don't wear suitcoats. 

I'm no longer sure that such relaxation is an improvement in style. After all, when Joe Cosgriff would dress up just to put money in his bank account, I do wonder if he had a better idea of proper dress than we seem to have these days.

Pistachios

Pistachios have become quite a favorite snack of mine. I first tried them several years ago while staying with my son and daughter in law for a few days. I liked them so much that I was a bad guest, eating so many of theirs that one day during the visit I slipped out to the store and replaced theirs with a fresh bag. Then in remarking how much I liked them, my daughter in law insisted I take the replacement bag home with me. So I did. Ain't I a stinker?

Lately my doctor has recommended them as a source of dietary fiber, which he suggested in that way only doctors can, the heavy undercurrent being well if you don't want to die a horrible, avoidable death then do as I say. In this case he did not have to sell the idea quite so hard.

You can buy pistachios shelled or unshelled, just like peanuts. Lazy Marty likes them shelled, because he can take a handful and pop then in his mouth all at once. Frugal, vaguely (only vaguely) health conscious Marty likes them shelled. They're cheaper, and they make me eat one at a time. Indeed I enjoy the taste more that way. And I eat fewer because one does tire of dealing with the shells.

I've had pistachio custard (very good) and keep a keen eye out for spumoni ice cream. Spumoni is a variation on Neapolitan but with chocolate, cherry and pistachio rather than chocolate, vanilla, and the strawberry which no one eats. 

Pistachios. Recommended by the Marty Council on good eats.

Cloyce Logic

I have this buddy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who admitted something to me which I found shocking. He blithely told me that he'd been stealing from work.

Rebuking him, I said, "I don't think you should be doing that, Cloyce."

Cloyce protested, "I only steal trash bags."

"Yeah, but don't you feel guilty about that?" I asked.

He retorted, "Why? They were just going to throw them away."

I'm sorry. I'll let myself out.

Healthy Habits Can Poison You

Speaking of dental health - we were just speaking of it, weren't we? - one habit I have taken on in recent years is using mouthwash after brushing my teeth. The elixir of my choice has several advantages. It's alcohol free, freshens breath, and strengthens enamel, among other wonders. And it tastes good too. Hmmm...minty.

Yet in reading the label delinquently (I've been using the stuff for awhile now) I was slightly taken aback. The key warning on the bottle cautions that, should I accidentally swallow more mouthwash than the amount recommended for twice daily use, I should go immediately to a poison control center for treatment.

It seems to me we're walking a pretty fine line on dental health these days.

I Don't Have To If I Don't Want To

In the news today, I have a dentist appointment on March 8. Earth shattering, I know. It will be my first such check up in 15 or 17 years.

I've been avoiding it. I have lost two permanent teeth, both molars. The doctor, I fear, will be all talk about crowns and bridges, implants and dentures. I like to think I'm sensible enough to do what's best. Yet I hate to think about any of it. Add in my inherent male laziness about health in general, and you see why I kept putting off a visit to the dentist.

Then it occurred to me: so long as I pay for the initial examination, I don't have to do a doggone thing he says. There ain't nothing I gotta do without my own approval. So why not do my due diligence and find out what he thinks?

Still, that's a Hell of a way to convince yourself to do something for your own good, isn't it?

Freshness Guaranteed

Sometimes I'm a nice guy. Really, I am. I'm so nice I bought a 'party size' package of Oreo cookies and took them to my brothers, Phil, Patrick, and Ed.

Setting the treats on the kitchen table, I showed Phil how considerate I could be. "The package is resealable, to keep everything fresh."

"Cool. They'll stay fresh for the whole four hours it will take us to eat them," he replied.

I suppose I didn't need to splurge on resealability.

Just Say No?

There are people who seem to sense it, aren't there? They know when they've pushed you exactly far enough, and back off.

A customer picked up a repair yesterday. He had given me a terrible amount of grief over it, changing the order, asking for this, demanding that, begging for alterations which were a damned chore (to say the least) and so on. I told me brother Phil, "That guy better appreciate this job, because the next time he calls I'm telling him I don't want his business."

Of course when he picks it up, he can't help but gush over it. "Man, Cosgriff, it looks brand new! It sounds great! You really did a bang up job on it. I can't wait to try it out. Man, I appreciate this. You guys are like brothers to me!" Then he actually hugs me, and insists I take a tip.

Maybe I'm fooling myself, but he seemed sincere. I'm going to have a hard time telling him no on his next repair. If I even can.

The Drunken Engineer

One of me Pops favorite stories involved a Scotsman from the old neighborhood, I'll call him MacCloyce just to give him a name, who worked in a production facility. And he liked to drink too.

As Dad tells it, the factory where MacCloyce earned his daily bread had trouble with a new conveyor system. It shut down completely one day, and no amount of ingenuity could get it running. Workers were lounging around, and a cadre of management suits and pocket protected engineers assembled to determine what was wrong.

They studied and questioned and ciphered and looked over sections of the conveyor and could not figure out the problem. Meanwhile, MacCloyce arrived on the scene. Drunk.

MacCloyce began to pester the suits and engineers, mostly in garbled dialogue which was just the same quite insistent: he knew how to fix what ailed them. Everyone tried their best to ignore him, yet that only made MacCloyce all the more certain of himself. Finally someone said, "Let Mac talk and then maybe we can get on with things!"

MacCloyce barked, "Gimme a chalk!" When one was produced, MacCloyce formed the group into a large circle, leaving a wide area on the concrete floor of the plant as his canvas for all to see. He began to draw a likeness of the conveyor system, pointing out key areas with arrows as he went along. Soon he was altering parts of his artwork to show how to adjust the system so that it'd work. In ten minutes he stood up and triumphantly tossed the piece of chalk aside.

The engineers began pouring over the diagram, and were soon nodding their heads in agreement. They told the suits, "This will work." MacCloyce just smiled.

"How do you like that?" one of the higher ups remarked, "Our best engineers are stumped, and a drunk Scotsman gets us out of trouble." 

Both me Pops and me Grandpa Joe always laughed at that tale.

More Wire Nuttiness

And another thing about guys effecting their own repairs, a thing I've seen literally dozens of times over the ages. A fella might need a new three prong plug at the end of his power cord. You can buy them cheap for around five bucks at any hardware. There are even some really nice ones that might be double that. Still, cheap, right?

Yet you would be astounded at the number of people, presumably professional contractors, who will use any old piece of three wire cord with a plug on the end and tape it onto the power cord of their machine. It's more than silly, it's dangerous, to them, their equipment, and your home or business. You're best off with ground fault interrupter as it is, but at least put a decent three prong plug on the snake, for crying out loud.

Ah well. It takes al kinds I suppose.

Wire Nutty

I don't mind fellas trying to repair their own stuff. Hell, I often try to repair my own stuff myself. But do you have to make it so hard for me to repair the stuff you've tried to repair?

Some guys must think that they're banking millions by the amount of wire they save. I'll need to get into the reverse switch box of some drain snake and there won't be more than an inch of electric wire to work with. You can't move anything around because there's not enough wire to allow free movement. I end up cutting wires and starting over, peeling back the outer sheath of power cord to give myself four or five inches of wire to work with.

But because during 'repair' they used so little cord, I have to remove any and all switches in order to reattach the wire. Then I can actually begin to diagnose whatever the original problem might have been.

First, do no harm. It works for doctors. It ought to work for do it yourselfers too.

Zeke's Eats

I've told you about how me Uncle John whom I call Zeke made his meals with as little effort as he could? I haven't? Well, let's right that wrong.

His goal was to get away with using as few utensils, pots and pans and whatnot, as possible when fixing dinner. Often he would get away with only using a fork. "I don't wash dishes. I wash dish," he was fond of bragging.

He managed that by eating whatever he could with no further preparation than straight from the can. Employ the opener, dispose of the lid, and eat the contents with a fork or spoon: hence, you only have to wash dish. 

Zeke learned what did and did not work that way through good old trial and error. Corned or roast beef hash were a-okay right out the can. Chili (no beans) wasn't too bad either. Beef stew was all right but better heated. Vegetable beef soup? Straight out of Campbell's. Chicken noodle, though, needed to be put through the microwave.

So far I've only tried hash right out of the can. The corned beef variety. And, you know what? I rather liked it.

Size and Value in the Cosmos

A old and graying trope, typically used to disparage organized religion but also to degrade the inherent value of humanity in general, is that we can't have much value as a race or individual seeing as we're an almost infinitesimal speck in a huge and expanding universe. And so we are, in terms of the geography of space. But what, really, has that to do with anything?

When we are thinking about the spiritual value of something, or of how good, bad, or indifferent it is in terms of morality or underlying value, size isn't a concern. Is a six foot tall man a better man than one who is 5 foot 11? Perhaps, but not because he's taller. What a man is worth, what humanity is worth, is something we must determine based on dozens of things far more critical than how far away he might be from Andromeda. That fact is ultimately unimportant. It's only incidental, with no significant bearing at all upon what types of creatures we are, and has relatively little to say about our place or role in existence.

Have a good Monday, friends.

Acquiring Foot Warmth Tubes

Black crew length socks. That's all I wanted. Do you think I could find them easily recently? Up until Friday, no.

From around the middle of November until the other day I couldn't find any. Not in Wal-Mart, not in Meijer, not in any department store I tried. All I wanted was to do the guy thing, to walk into a store, make straight for the socks, grab a pack, pay and leave. Exactly as I have for forty years.

Yes. Yes. Yes. I know.  I could have ordered them online and had them in a week, or quicker if I'd pay more. Yet that misses the point. A common commodity such as black crew length socks should be, well, common.

You know what I think? I think all the grandmothers looking for Christmas presents were out early this year. They beat me to the punch.

Say Cheese

Me Pops had a good friend who hailed from Alabama, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who asked Dad for help driving his family down for a visit one summer. As this was in the days before the Interstate Highway system, it helped on long trips to have two drivers alternate in order to keep moving.

They left on a Friday a bit before Noon. I should add that this also was in the days where Catholics couldn't eat meat on any Friday of the year. Dad was a serious Catholic, even at 20 years old.

Anyway, they made great time, and found themselves approaching an all night diner well after dark. Cloyce gave Mrs. Cloyce some money and told her to buy him, her, and their kids some hamburgers. "But don't get Bill nothing with meat, he can't eat it today," were his final instructions.

Mrs. Cloyce returned a few minutes later with hamburgers. And a cheeseburger for me Pops.

When she realized the brain cramp Mrs. Cloyce apologized profusely. "Don't worry," Dad assured her, "It's about 11:30. Leave it on the dash and I can eat it in a half hour."

No harm, no foul, right?

Just Say No

I know that most readers prefer that I don't talk about politics, and I get it. Politics are something of a disease, quite frankly, and we make the game far more important than it ought to be. Still, I'll talk politics today, but I'll be brief.

As I hammer this out, Kevin McCarthy has lost a seventh straight vote in trying to become Speaker of the House. This means that House of Representatives can't organize itself. Many folks bemoan the disarray. Me? I welcome it.

Government ought to be inefficient. It ought to be difficult for the government to get things done. The entire reason we have the great Constitution we do is to diffuse power, precisely to keep things from happening too quickly. When things happen too quickly, well, COVID.

It might be better if this never gets resolved. If the new House can't be formed, Washington can't do anything. That might just be a dramatic improvement over how Congress typically acts: so very adept at forcing bad ideas and disastrous spending upon us. Not only our grandchildren but our great grandchildren (and their children) will yet be quite literally paying the price of 2023 government because of that.

So don't elect a Speaker. Don't organize government. I could live with that.

Me Pops Attitude Shines Through

Just to establish it clearly, the customer I am about to lament had an appointment with me at the Shop on Friday, December 16 at 10 AM. He was coming in (supposedly) for 15 cables, which I had at the time in reserve for him. He didn't show, nor call and tell me he wouldn't make it, nor respond to my calls over whether he still wanted the cables. That's the necessary background.

As luck would have it, we had a great run of business between Christmas and New Year's. I sold all of my cables. My cables.

The man in question called around two yesterday afternoon. "I'm on my way to get those cables, Cosgriff."

"I sold out. I won't have more until next week," I explained without the least hint of regret.

"You sold my cables?" he demanded incredulously.

"No!" I responded emphatically. "I sold my cables."

"All right, all right," he vaguely conceded. "Could you call me please when you have more?" I told him I would. 

The thing is, I heard me Pops tell several folks that over the years: I sold MY cables. They're mine until they're paid for. Then, and only then, are they yours.

With Good Reason

Yes sir, I can get cranky. You might have noticed that.

I've gotten so comfortable using drive up ATMs that I almost never visit the lobby of a bank anymore. But sometimes I must.

Yesterday I must. Musted. Mustered. Ah, jeez, I had to actually go into the bank. It reminded me why I love my drive up ATM.

There was a line in the lobby.

And there were only two tellers available.

And they were both serving customers.

And both customers were on their cell phones when they ought to have had their attention on their business with the bank, thereby delaying everyone in line all the more as well as being rude to the tellers and the rest of us.

And I became cranky. With good reason, I think you'll agree.

Fancy New Vehicles

There are a lot of cool new things about cars and vans these days. I think me Pops would get a kick out of the backup cameras which are commonplace now. Hell, me Grandpa Joe might even like that too. But I'll tell you one thing that he would not like at all, and that's the vibration in the steering wheel when you're drifting out of your lane.

Joe was a drifter. I found that out first hand when, as a teenager before I got my license, Joe would drive us to job sites. He swerved from side to side on a road like he was an errant wave in the ocean. It could be, um, ah, disconcerting.

The vans I've rented lately have that feature: the little rumble in the steering wheel to let you know you're not right smack in your lane. Maybe that's good: I did drift once or twice in my last rental. The first time I didn't actually realize what was up. I just felt the vibration and thought, what the hell? Then I saw on the dashboard the little symbol of a van rabidly out of lane, as hyperbolically sideways as the Ever Given when it blocked the Suez Canal, and remembered what it meant.

Joe would have to figure some way to tear that vibration mechanism out of the car. I'm with him. 

Keeping Pledges

I can honestly say that I am successfully keeping my New Year's pledge. That because my pedge was to not make a pledge.

It worked liked a dream in 2022, I'll tell you what.

See the Light

One of the greatest comforts which technology allows is that we can pull up inspiration in a second. I discovered that yet again yesterday in an uncountable moment of my personal history, when I longed to hear I Saw the Light, an inspirational ballad courtesy of Hank Williams, Sr. 

We all, and I mean we all, every one of us, have those moments where everything is quite clear, quite profound, quite incredibly true. Real reality hits us upside the head. We cannot in those moments deny it. We see, with a clarity beyond human explanation, the spectacular joy of existence, the indescribable truth on which all truth lay.

Other than in his laughter (which I hear often, as it was infectious) the only time I hear my father's voice is when I hear him chant, during O Salutaris Hostia: Da robur, fer auxilium! He blasted it straight out of 1950 acolyte Latin. This was 1994, attending a novena with my family, him kneeling beside us. I felt as though the immensity of creation rang in his singing that evening.

I challenge you right now, this minute, to tell me you have not had such a moment. Or moments, because by the grace of God they are many, varied, and frequent. I have experienced it often, from my then two year old son waving bye to me from a living room window as I returned to the Shop after lunch one day, to my second son holding a candle as a priest led the Stations of the Cross during Lent, to my daughter hitting a solo in a school play, to my wife walking in a light snowfall in 1979. To my mother filling her diet Coke (no ice) at the fountain of the McDonalds in Almont, Michigan, in September 2022. The last time as it were I was to participate in that Sunday ritual.

That's my advice to you as the New Year begins. See the Light. It is drawing you forward. Go to it.