Of Relative Unimportance

There are a couple of questions over which the discussion can become rather heated, and as such I generally avoid them. No, they are not religion and politics, although one should tread carefully in those areas. I am learning to address those either strictly on my own as in this blog (which you may avoid or ignore as you wish) or only when invited and confident in a serious, charitable talk. What I'm thinking about are more scientific queries: life elsewhere in the Universe, and evolution here on Earth. The fact is that I don't consider either to be particularly important questions. Oh, they may well be important from a scientific point of view. Yet philosophically and certainly theologically I can't see any reason to fret over them too much.

To the one, evolution, God creates any way He wants to create. He is God after all. If that means over a long drawn out period, that's His pleasure. It wouldn't make humanity any less special nor any less touched by the Divine. At some point consciousness was breathed into the human animal and that's that. What we do now that we're here becomes the important point.

As to sentient life, or indeed any other life at all elsewhere in the cosmos, I believe the same basic argument applies. Either there is other life or there is not; either it is self aware or it is not. In either instance that question too is up to the will of the Almighty and that also is that. If there are other such beings it doesn't make humanity any less special. It simply means that God shared Himself with someone besides us. And I don't think they would be all that different from we denizens of Earth. Seeing as the Universe is imperfect, they would be afflicted with the same needs which challenge us: their daily bread and the like. Other than as an opportunity to learn proper tolerance and charity should we each (or all) meet, (just as we ought to be kind and considerate of who we meet here at home) it isn't all that important who might be out there, and where.

That's my take on the questions anyway. I would tell you my personal beliefs, but I think it would take away from the overall point I'm trying to make. 

Just as Well

One of life's little pleasures for me is going old school and listening to baseball games on the radio in the garage of our place when in Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. There's something about the anticipation of waiting to be told what's happening which adds excitement to hearing my Detroit Tigers in action. In certain ways, it's better than actually seeing the game. It sparks the imagination. Radio is a book for the ear.

Imagine, then, my consternation when the power went out in the third inning of yesterday's game. Zach McKinstry had just aggressively took third on a Riley Greene single. Dan Dickerson, the play by play man describing the actions, had just called McKinstry safe when the radio clicked off. 

Hitting the on button did not turn the thing back on. I checked the power box in the garage and the breakers were on. Trying the house itself, I found the breakers all on in the electric panel in the back bedroom closet. Flipping lights throughout the house with no response told me what I had by then presumed: there was a power outage. I looked up the local power company on my phone (for of course I had no other Internet access with no power), Cloverland Electric for what that's worth, and reported the issue. Their site told me that around 1300 people in my area had no electricity but they were working on it. So, as the afternoon had bright sunshine in a cloudless sky, I settled into a lawn chair under a cedar tree and read a book.

A couple of hours later as I was in the kitchen, the light came on. Racing out to the garage, I turned the radio on just in time to hear Dickerson proclaim, "...and Texas beats Detroit in the the first game of this series, five to nothing."

I guess it wasn't the worst time for the power to go out. It saved me a bit of anguish.

Memorial Day Reflection

Today is the day where we remember those who gave their lives for our country defending our nation in war. I think this year I want to especially remember those who died because of the wars and battles they fought while not having actually been killed facing the enemy.

I'm thinking specifically about me Pops youngest brother, me Uncle John. While he didn't die until 2005, I don't think he ever completely left Vietnam. I believe there were others in similar trials who even after they came home were still fighting. They deserve our thoughts and prayers too. Give them a minute this Memorial Day.

Reality Bites

Is it just me, or is it true? Do most, or at least an awful lot of folks, take reality to be something far different from what reality actually is?

I'm not talking about the particular behaviors which seem to be in vogue these days. Similar things have likely happened all through history and we ought to be careful about giving them too much power. Perhaps what I'm thinking belongs in that category as well I suppose.

What worries me the most is that too many people seem to think of reality as gritty, gross, and crass. They see reality through a cynical lens, a view which quite naturally makes all things suspect. That's not exactly appealing.

I prefer the reality of Frank Capra. When at the penultimate moment of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington the Vice President recognizes Jimmy Stewart over Claude Rains during debate in the US Senate I want to jump up and scream 'Yes! That's what I'm talking about!' precisely because it's about the good guy, a really good guy, winning. When George Bailey is back at the bridge where he first met Clarence (in It's a Wonderful Life) begging for his life back and the snow starts falling again, I get chills. The good guy overcomes his cynicism and is rewarded. 

Yes, yes, yes. That may not be reality either. The good guys lose an awful lot, too often, really, in this world. I get that. But they do win sometimes. And if my choice is cynicism or inspiration, well, I'll take Capra's reality all day long.

Clear Skies at Night

I need to go out west and spend a night under the stars. I've been told that without the light pollution in our neck of the woods you can see hundreds more stars than you can here in the eastern US. Still, the middle of the night in Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, offers a quietly vibrant view of the heavens.

After arriving in the late afternoon yesterday and grilling tuna steaks for dinner (I will definitely do that again: tuna steaks hot off a grill are spectacular) I found I was quite tired. I stretched out on the sofa and was asleep before 7. I woke up refreshed a little after 3 this morning. With a cup of coffee in hand I dressed, found my coat, slipped on my shoes, and walked down to the beach in the still of the morning.

The stars overhead in the darkness of the lakeside were a wonderful sight. There was even the occasional steady progression of a satellite, as though itself a slow moving star. Hessel at such times is serene and calming.

I never understood the attitude that we humans ought to feel insignificant and small in the huge and expanding Universe. The night sky I think is simply the dome of an artist, a view given us so that we might know we aren't really alone in creation. 

What has our size or spatial geography have to do with it anyway? Be glad you're here. You're supposed to be. Such starry nights prove our importance rather than negate our existence.

Forgetting Hurts

Yesterday I skinned the knuckle on my thumb while installing a part on a drain snake. I skinned it pretty good, too. It hurt like heck and bled like crazy; I'm thorough like that. No reason to injure yourself unless you can do it spectacularly.

I cleaned and bandaged it and went on about my day.

When back at home after work, I removed the bandages prior to cleaning up, then was promptly distracted by something, likely something very shiny. I forgot about my thumb, which hadn't really scabbed over and was seeping a little blood.

Soon returning to my clean up, I turned on the hot water, grabbed a bar of soap, and stuck my hands under the stream coming from tap. Then I nearly jumped through the ceiling when that scalding water and soap hit the skinned thumb. I yelled so loud I can't believe the neighbors didn't call the cops, assuming someone had been attacked. I shook the water and soap off my hand like I was trying to dislodge a tarantula. I swear my thumb was throbbing like a cartoon character's after slamming himself with a hammer.

It's funny now, but it wasn't then.

Seeing the Silver Lining

I don't know how it came up, but yesterday me brother Phil and I were talking about the often horrible diseases which afflict the human race. "Did you know that if you contract the Ebola virus or the bubonic plague but survive, you're immune to them afterwards?" he was telling me.

"Really?" I responded. "They'd be terrible to suffer through. But good, though, that if you get them you can't get them again."

Phil replied, wit just rolling off his tongue, "Well, you don't get them again if you die either."

He's always looking for the bright side.

Angelic David

Shawn on Amazon says this about my novel David Gideon:

The book is a fun romp where the politics are much more civil than reality. This would be a fun world to live in and if there could be an angelic being like David with a great wife like Diane life would be good for everyone.
Enjoy the story and forget about the reality of our politics and you’ll get a double win.

I must admit that I'm not completely sure how to take this assessment. It almost sounds tongue in cheek. But as he did also give the book four stars out of five, I think it was well meant. 

The fact is that I purposely downplayed the politics in David Gideon. I did this for several reasons. One is that politics as politics is either boring or maddening, and typically both. Another is that, while I do not back away from David's core beliefs, if you get too political you automatically turn off half of your potential audience. As such, I feared that if I became too in depth on the politics it would distract from the real story, which is ultimately about a man and a woman's life together. Diane Gideon is the real hero, you know, and political nonsense, except where it would enhance the story, would take away from that.

When our friend Shawn advises to forget political reality and enjoy the story you get a double win, it's precisely what I wanted as an author. If you've been kind enough to read it, I hope you agree.

SpongeBob Umpire

I'm not a fan of the Nickelodeon cartoon character SpongeBob Squarepants. But I could get to like his theme song, if adapted as a Columbus Clippers fan suggested this past Saturday. 

Baseball batters often have 'walk up' music, which is played when they approach home plate for an at bat. One player chose the SpongeBob opening. The first verse begins "Whoooo lives in a pineapple under the sea?" The response is an enthusiatic "SpongeBob Squarepants!" To give you an idea of how the song bounces about, here it is: SpongeBob Theme

As it turned out, the home plate umpire in the game was having a bad time of it Saturday. At one point a spectator behind me began his own version of SpongeBob: "Whooooo wants to put umpires under the sea?" 

It's really fun if you sing the refrain afterwards.

MiLB

The Ohio Cosgriffs and I went to the Columbus Clippers game last night. The Clippers play in the highest baseball minor league, the Triple-A level. It's pretty good ball.

Huntington Park is their home field. It's cozy; seats around 10,000 I'll hazard to guess. It's a nice stadium, pretty much downtown in Ohio's capital.

Baseball brings out the kid in you. Just setting foot in a new arena brings back all those memories of going to games with me Pops and me family. Looking over the old baseball uniforms and equipment on display; the smell of the food; the deep, lush green grass, the bright white bases against the well raked brown soil on the diamond; there's not much better places on Earth than a ballpark. 

I think I'll go again sometime.

Driving old school

I drove my new old van on her first sales trip yesterday, delivering repaired cables to a little town called Chester, West Virginia. She did fine. Everything went well and according to plan. There was only one problem: I had to apply the gas pedal to accelerate.

It's true, I tell ya. If I wanted to move at all I had to give it gas myself. A couple of times I took my foot off the pedal and was shocked to find I was slowing down. Something must be wrong!

But, of course, no. There was simply no cruise control. First world problem, yes. Still, I was disappointed. I had no right to be, but you get used to things, you know?

Bounce Cars

You all know what bounce houses are I'm sure. They're the large, inflated play pens often seen at children's parties. Kids jump up and down in them, caroming off the floor and walls and each other. They're meant to burn all that excess energy out of the young 'guns so they'll fall asleep as soon as they get home.

I happened to catch an episode of the old police procedural Highway Patrol the other morning. If you think Sgt. Joe Friday has a machine gun delivery, Broderick Crawford, the lead in Highway Patrol, puts him to shame. Crawford's delivery is so rapid fire you almost need captions. No one talks that rat-a-tat in real life. 

Anyway, Highway Patrol aired in the late 1950s, when vehicles were monstrous land battleships. Not only were they huge, the bounced around as though shock absorbers and springs were and afterthought. It appeared as if the front and rear fenders were bouncing up off the ground whenever a car would stop or turn or even wink at a pothole. Those cars rocked back and forth like a teeter-totter. 

"Should we put something on our vehicles to make the ride smoother?" I could imagine an automotive engineer back then ask during R&D.

"Nah," his supervisor might reply. "They're land battleships. Let 'em bounce along the road as thought they're really on the high seas."

Watch an episode of that old show. You'll se what I mean.

Staring Contest

Old Amos was tight. He was a good man yet he was very careful with his money. Consequently, me Grandpa Joe would often send Amos out to buy this or that for the welding business. He knew Amos would get him the best deal. One story me Pops liked to tell involved such an event.

I can't remember now what it was Joe wanted, but he sent Dad and Amos after it because it would take two people to handle whatever contraption he wanted to buy. Dad drove, and then simply stood back to watch Amos at work.

Amos tried every way in the world to get the seller to back down on price. He begged, he pleaded, he pointed out flaws in the machine. The guy wouldn't budge. It reached the point where Amos stopped talking and began pacing. He would pace a few steps beyond the man and then return. On his return, Dad said, Amos would stop abruptly right in front of the guy and spend a few seconds just glaring at him. Then he'd walk on, return, and do the same thing. He must have been trying to intimidate him, was all Pops could think.

After as few minutes of this, during which the seller did exchange a quizzical look at the old man, the guy finally said, "Look, just give me my price. But I'll put a lower one on the bill of sale to help you out on the sales tax."

Amos would have none of that. "Now, listen here. I want to get the best price I can out of you," he explained to the seller. "But what goes on paper is going to be right no matter what we agree to." Amos then resumed his pacing tactic.

As I recall (I wish I'd have listened more closely to Pops' stories) they eventually agreed on a price and Dad and Amos took the thing to the Shop because Joe had to have it. But I sure would have liked to have seen that battle of wills, that staring contest.

To Everything

I am not a believer in climate change in the sense where it's an impending catastastroke, to use one of me Grandpa Joe's coined terms. But I do believe the climate changes over time. Greenland had a growing season a thousand years ago; that's part of how and why the Norse were able to settle there, at least for a while. The glaciers covered Texas a few thousand years before that. The climate changes. I'm not sure we can do much about that or how much we even actually affect it. Nature, too, is resilient. She'll fight back and win her share of battles.

So in that light, I do wonder if the seasons are slowly shifting. My furnace kicked on this morning and I had to layer in order to be warm for my morning walk today. It's May 17th, if you hadn't noticed. We're nearly two months into Spring here in Michigan. It seems rather late for such necessities.

I don't recall May being so cold so late when I was in my teens, yet the last several have been chilly. The leaves have been slow to show up on the trees and the flowers aren't blooming. I only just mowed the lawn for the first time last Saturday; the grass just wasn't growing. Conversely, October and November seem to me to stay warmer later than way back then too. As such, I can't help wonder if the seasonal calendar is becoming off a bit. It's something I'm merely curious about, because even if it's true I see no need to worry. It's just how the climate has gone about its business for all of history.

Particle Board Piano

I once insulted my neighbor completely without intention. I hate that, because insults really ought to be funny, cruel, and intentional. But to be fair, I believe he was pressing me too hard on a subject I simply didn't know anything about.

This neighbor, whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, is a musician, and he is a very fine one too to give him his due. One day as I passed by he called me into his house to show me his new piano. Well, not new, but an excellent used grand piano.

I have to admit it looked stunning, a deep, shining, well polished ebony. He was proud of it and rightly so. He sat to play a few bars and the sound to even my untrained ears was magnificent. By all appearances it was clearly a superior instrument.

After Cloyce had played a bit he began telling me all about the piano, stuff I didn't understand but hey, when someone's really happy about something it's a courtesy to let them talk, right? So I listened, trying to sound properly impressed at points where it seemed I was expected to be.

When the descriptions were all over Cloyce asked, "So what do you think it cost, Marty?"

I tried to sidestep the question. "Oh, I have no idea what a grand piano would cost."

"Come on, just take a guess," he persisted.

"I don't know, Cloyce." I was really hoping he would just tell me so that I might again show how impressed I was supposed to be.

"Just take a guess, Marty!"

So I took a stab. "Oh, uh, I dunno, a thousand dollars?"

Cloyce's face fell faster than Wile E. Coyote off a cliff after a harried chase of the Roadrunner. "A thousand dollars?" he asked, obviously insulted and indeed crestfallen. "What do you think it's made of, particle board?"

"I'm sorry, I just don't have any idea what grand pianos are worth," I protested. It turns out they are worth quite a few dollars more than my ridiculous guess. I want to say he he paid $11,000 for it but it's been long enough I don't recall with certainty.

I truly didn't mean to hurt his feelings though. Particle board by the way is a very low grade of plywood. I don't think they use it on grand pianos.

A Blank Slate

I still buy the Sunday paper. Well, most Sundays at least. Yesterday was not an exception.

After taking my morning walk I grabbed a paper, made a cup of coffee, and sat down to enjoy the ritual. I finished the comics (always read the comics first; it establishes a good mood) and looked over page one. With a sip of coffee I opened section A to continue the story I was reading.

Page two was completely blank. So was page three. Something obviously went wrong in the printing process.

Well, I thought, with a philosophic air, 'No news is good news'.

Just trying to start your week with a bit of levity, dear readers. But the pages were blank as I said.

Mother's Day 2023

The other day I took the last coffee pod from a box of 80 and, for whatever reason, it popped into my head that Mom was with me when I bought those pods last August. I sighed heavily. Strange how something as mundane as wanting a cup of coffee can trigger such a reaction.

Now, don't feel too bad for me, as I don't really mean to create melancholy. Yes, there was a sadness when it happened just as there is now as I type. Yet it was and is followed by a kind of contentment. 

I was fortunate to have had the last several years of Sundays to ride her around, seeing the countryside, cruising through old neighborhoods, eating cheeseburgers, and even buying coffee. We owe our parents that respect. I was glad to have the chance, and there were many great rides and reminiscent talks along the way. Whatever else I do today, I think I'm having a cheeseburger for lunch, and maybe buy more coffee pods.

Happy Mother's Day Mom.

Joke About Congress

The Mexican War was declared on this date in 1846, even though fighting had already started. Typical of Congress, you know, to see things after the fact. "What, there's a war on? Ought we to declare it or something?"

Or better: "You started a war without us? How could you?"

Or perhaps even better than that: 

Congress: "Let's declare war on Mexico."

Someone shouting from the gallery: "It's already on."

Congress: "We'll call for troops, authorize extra spending for the military, draw up battle plans...wait, what?"

Cash is King

For awhile there, I was debit-carding nearly everything. It was simply too easy. But I'm consciously using cash more and more again, at least on smaller or routine purchases. Why? As I become increasingly libertarian and realize that everything electronic is tracked and stored, I find myself thinking, admittedly with a bit of a chip on my shoulder, that it's nobody's business what type of coffee I chose this morning or what sales entice me. Also, I can figure things out for myself without being inundated by ads for something I bought once, thank you very much.

Still, I debit one thing nearly always: gas. That's partly because you never know exactly how much it'll take to fill the tank, but mostly because I don't want to deal with people. In particular, the people buying lottery tickets at the cash register. Or, worse, the folks who can't figure out which candy they want, or what flavor tiny cigar.

Yes, yes, yes, they have the right to be there and all that. If they happened in line in front me, that's their good luck. But, really now. You won't care what candy you had in twenty minutes, nor what smoke you had matter. And if you want to give away money, just give it to me. Why bother Lansing with extra lottery money which ain't helping the schools anyway, despite their claims?

All right, I'm becoming a curmudgeon and a libertarian. They kind of go together anyway.

Not Really Saving Anything

Back, oh, fifty or sixty years ago, me Grandpa Joe had several delivery drivers who worked for his welder rental business. One in particular, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, seemed to have a mental block about putting gas in his truck. And it drove me Pops crazy.

At the time you could fill up one of the trucks for around five bucks. Dad would give the drivers five dollar bills as necessary to put gas in their vehicles. Yet invariably Cloyce would return to the old barn on fumes, to triumphantly hand the five spot back to the old man proclaiming "I saved you five bucks, Bill!"

The trouble was that he wasn't really saving anybody anything. From a practical standpoint all it really meant was that on his next delivery Cloyce's first stop would be the gas station and not the job site. It would make more sense to gas up on the return from one trip, that job being done, than to take ten minutes before the next job simply to fill up the tank.

Cloyce did it constantly, and it irked me Pops every time. No amount of explanation could convince Cloyce that it was better to gas up today than add a complication to tomorrow, a complication which might easily snowball: you have to load the truck a few minutes earlier, then get to the gas station and it may be crowded, or the roads might be jammed, and so on. But all Cloyce could see what the he 'saved' five dollars today, not that he would just have to spend it tomorrow anyway.

Still, he saved me Pops a lot of Lincolns, one day at a time. If only Dad could have kept all those fivers, I suppose maybe he would have been rich.

A Not So Subtle Message

So, you think that Marty drives old cars? Well, he does, yes. But something happened to me brother Phil which has never happened to me. It's entirely true. He'll back me up.

Several years ago Phil was driving an old Pontiac Sunfire. I don't recall exactly how old, but it had some years (and rough driving) on it. I mean, people had begun to notice.

One day he stepped out onto his front porch and noticed that there was a flyer under the windshield wiper of the Sunfire. That wasn't unusual; we routinely have flyers placed on cars around the neighborhood for this or that reason. Yet me brother saw that no other car had a flyer. He stepped out to the street to see what the it might advertise.

The flyer proclaimed - I am not making this up (and it happened to him, not me) - that 'We buy junk cars!' and had a prominent phone number across the bottom. 

Apparently my new old cars aren't as new/old as his. Did I mention, BTW, that he had a second flyer put on that same vehicle a few months later?

Slight Comfort

I was able to start this week as so many people wish they could: a Monday 9 AM dentist appointment. Don't harbor any ill will towards me. Jealousy is so ugly.

It was simply to have my teeth cleaned, though. No needles or extractions or anything uncomfortable. Indeed the dental hygienist complimented me when the procedure was about halfway finished. "Are you doing okay, Mr. Cosgriff?"

"Mphh uhhh hmm uh huh," I answered. I mean, she had a small mirror, a pick of some sort, a water jet and a water vacuum in my mouth.

"Good, good," she responded. And then, as if to reassure me, "And you're not bleeding at all."

That was good news, considering that I had no expectations of blood from a mere cleaning. But I made it a point to be a particularly cooperative patient after that.

Still On Our Own

Charles III has been formally installed as King Of England. We're still independent of the Crown.

Some things never change. I'm perfectly okay with that.

Canine Hold 'Em

The Ohio Cosgriffs were up yesterday. The family, other than yours truly (who isn't a huge garage sale guy) went on a shopping spree. There's an annual garage sale which runs the length of Michigan State Route 15 and they're participating. Happy trails.

I stayed home. I had some writing I wanted to do, and also felt it wouldn't hurt to keep their dogs company as they get a bit antsy when home alone. "What are you going to do with them while we're shopping?" me granddaughter asked.

"I think we'll recreate that famous velvet painting of dogs playing poker," I quipped.

That isn't as easy as it sounds. While searching for a template to determine how to pose the dogs I found that there are not one, nor two, nor three, velvet paintings of dogs playing poker. There are dozens.

I didn't expect that. It's as though it's it's own genre, it's own school of art. Future classes of art historians will speak of the impressionists, the cubists, the expressionists, the modernists, the minimalists, the realists, Art Nouveau...and the dogs playing pokerists. 

I have a flair for art after all.

Willup or Philliam

Phil is Phil. Really. Yet me brother Phil seems to be a man without a name.

There's a guy Phil and I have known for years who always, without fail, in individual conversation with me brother, addresses Phil as Marty. Phil has quit trying to correct him as it simply has not worked and there appears no hope that it ever will. I realize that, as the most exalted older brother, my light shines before him. It surely obliterates his presence. Phil simply must learn to live in the glare of my notoriety; we all have our crosses. Yet he nevertheless deserves his own name.

He laments that when in high school having a class with our brother Ed, Sister Teacher when reading the roll always said, "Cosgriff, Edward and William," at their names.

"Phillip, Sister," he would correct.

"Yes, William," Sister would respond.

Phil thinks that, for the good Nun, it was only a cutesy running joke. At least, he's trying to believe that.

Grandpa Joe and Great Grandpa James

I've spoken often about Grandpa Joe, and occasionally about his father, Great Grandpa James. Readers should well understand by now that Joe seemed to always make his presence felt, quite emphatically and quite often. Only his own dad was able to influence that.

A tale me Pops told me may illustrate the fact. Great Grandpa James lived on the same farm in west central Illinois his whole 92 years. Grandpa Joe was born there. Naturally enough, every summer Joe would load the family into some old wreck of a car and they would head out to see the extended family. The trip made further sense because Grandma Cosgriff, me grams, was from the same area too, so they could visit both sets of relatives.

One year when Pops was still in high school, him and a brood of his cousins were out in a large field shagging flies. Grandpa James, 85 at the time, noticed them, and went out in the field to watch. Eventually he asked if he might try hitting the baseball a bit. Now, he had a hernia at the time, and the grandkids knew it. But they also didn't know how they could tell their grandfather no, so they dutifully let him hit.

He was hitting well by Pops' account, just another guy tossing a ball in the air and thwacking it with a bat as it came down towards earth. Indeed all them grandsons were impressed by the old man. But Pops noticed Joe watching from a ways off, by the house he was born in, as if deciding something but not sure how to proceed. Joe Cosgriff being uncertain about anything was very unusual.

Grandpa Joe finally muscled up his courage and strode out into the field where his father had yet to relinquish the bat. He walked up to Grandpa James and said timidly (Joe Cosgriff speaking timidly?), "Dad, do you think you should be doing that, with your hernia and all?"

His father paused a moment to reply plainly, "Joe, I believe I'm about old enough to do as I please." He then proceeded to hit another 15 minutes. Joe put up no argument. He simply drew on a cigarette and walked back to the house.

It was surprising, yes. But every man has his parameters. Joe's was what Great Grandpa James declared..

Cloyce Wars

A friend of me Pops, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, related once that he had married well. "We never, never came close to divorce but once, Bill, and that was over a dime."

"A dime?" Dad asked, his curiosity peaked.

"Yes, sir," Cloyce responded. "We was grocery shopping, and after all the stuff was rung up and bagged, Mrs. Cloyce says that we'd been overcharged ten cents and she wanted it all re-rung."

Cloyce paused for a breath. "Don't worry about a dime - this was years ago, Bill, and it was a cart full of groceries - the store's busy and people's waiting in line and let's just go," I told her.

Mrs. Cloyce tells me, "Maybe you don't care about money but I do!"

"I care about money! Just not ten cents over $108.62!" I responded.

"I want her (the cashier) to re-ring everything!" my wife demands. 

"Well I don't, I told her, and I started putting the bags in the cart to go to the car," finished Cloyce.

"She didn't talk to me for a month. That was okay with me cause I didn't wanna talk anyway."

"But we got over it. Ain't that the important thing, Bill?" Cloyce asked. 

Pops agreed.

Mannix Alarm

Early yesterday morning something happened to me which, honestly, never did before. I was woken up by Joe Mannix, the old TV private detective played by Mike Connors.

I needed to leave on a sales trip at 2:30 in the wee hours of Tuesday. Also - you'll need to know this - I leave the television on overnight. My channel of choice lately has been METV, which offers a variety of older shows, most of which date to the early 1970s. I've become pretty aware of what's on when.

So I crawl into bed early Monday evening with the boob tube on and set an alarm for 1:30. Soon enough I've drifted off. Within in what felt like a few minutes I found myself in that half awake twilight I believe most of us experience from time to time. But I could hear the TV, and vaguely thought, 'That sounds like Mike Connors; Mannix must be on.' I fell back into a deeper sleep.

Then I woke with a shock. Mannix doesn't start until 2. I'd missed my alarm! Looking at my phone screen, it was 2:38. When I set the 1:30 alarm I neglected to save it. Consequently, of course, it didn't ring.

Fortunately I had no set appointments, so precise timing on my trip wasn't paramount. Still, uh, it pays to know your TV schedule?

Interim David Gideon

Here were go again! Some kind observations about my book The Interim Generation:

Writersive on Amazon says: I mistakenly got the third book first but to my surprise it reads well as a standalone. I really love the engaging concept and captivating storyline. I'm hooked! Definitely getting the earlier 2 books for sure!

Why thank you! I'm certainly okay with that approach, especially as I try to style my books as stand alones!

See more about The Interim Generation: Interim

Josh offers this about David Gideon: This book truly is a very entertaining literary book. The story really is quite creative and illustrates the life of a fictional character named David, who apparently had a wide arrange of professions over his lifetime. Overall the story highlights different elements of suspense, drama, intrigue, and even inspires leadership. Leadership is actually one of the big qualities that the main character begins to recognize in himself. Overall a very satisfying read!

Check out what others are saying: DG

I'm really, really happy with the progress of my writings. Thank you all!

Coming Or Going

This past Saturday the Detroit Tigers and Baltimore Orioles played a split doubleheader at Comerica Park, the Tigers' home stadium. Game One was at 12:15 in the afternoon. Afterwards the stadium was cleared for the next crowd, who were expected for Game Two around 5:15.

I watched the first contest from home. It ended just before three, which allowed me to make it to Four O'clock Mass and be home for the second game. Serendipity.

Among those at Church was a man wearing a Brooks Robinson baseball jersey. Robinson is the great Baltimore third baseman from the 1960s and 1970s. When I noticed the fella standing a few pews in front of me I immediately thought, well, I either know where you're going or I know where you've been.