Zeke's Flat Tires

You read that right: flat tires. It's not about any particular flats which me Uncle John who we call Zeke had in his lifetime, although he had his share. More than his share, he might argue. But this is about potential flats.

Any sharp object can cause a flat: a screw, a nail, even a small bolt under the right speed and angle can imbed itself into a tread. Ask a math nerd. However it happens, a few miles down the road and you're on the shoulder fighting to break lugs nuts loose, lamenting your poor luck. You didn't, you couldn't even see when it happened. But you would find the dread nail and curse it.

Again, this isn't about real life flats but possible ones. I can't tell you how many times we'd be walking to and from the old barn to one of our satellite garages and Zeke's eyes would zero in on an object laying in the alley as though he were Iron Man seeing with the ultra sensitive sight of his metal suit. He pick up that vile nail and hold it out for you to see, right in front of your eyeballs. "That's a flat!" he would proclaim with scorn.

He was, of course, right. For all the actual flats we dealt with, it was best to get all the potential ones out of the way. 

Pittsburgh Plus Nine

When I'm out and about outside, I wear baseball hats. They keep my hair loss yarmulke from being sunburned. 

I've acquired quite a collection of baseball caps, more than three dozen if I were to guess. The bulk of them are for actual baseball teams. The most recent addition is a dark blue cap with a large white C from the Columbus Clippers Triple-A team, who I saw last month with the Ohio Cosgriffs. They have a very impressive cap with a clipper ship on it which I'm getting next time I'm at Huntington Park, where the team plays.

Obviously, then, I get the majority of my caps from the ballparks I visit. They make great, useful souvenirs. As I walked out of the house for my morning constitutional around 5:30 this past AM, I elected to don my Pittsburgh Pirates cap. I wistfully thought, it's been nine years since I bought this, when me son Frank and I visited PNC Park back in August 2014. 

Wow. Nine years ago. Even my baseball caps are aging!

The Good With the Bad

They're tearing down St. Alphonsus High School in Dearborn. That's important to me because my kids went there, and also having been active in the Parish. I happened to be in the area yesterday and stopped by to take pictures, out of something of a morbid curiosity. We feel sad, yet we have to check certain things out anyway.

But then, as luck would have it, I ran into three old friends whom I hadn't seen in years who just happened to be looking over the half torn down buildings themselves. One in particular, a fellow curler, I had not seen in probably two decades.

I stopped and we all had a nice talk. So perhaps what brought us together was bittersweet, but the catching up was quite good too.

 

Golf Cart Shower

Joe Cosgriff rented welding equipment and me Pops worked for him. That meant the old man got to know a lot of folks in the construction trades. One such fella, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, had a streak of Big Kid in him.

Cloyce was job foreman who ran many large jobs for the company he worked for way back when. He was known for being a bit of prankster too. It never interfered with his work though, and was always in good fun.

On the bigger construction sites it wasn't unusual for the company to have a golf cart available so that Cloyce could get around more quickly. One day him and me Pops were out looking for a particular guy for some reason; I don't recall what. When informed that he was on the other side of the plant where they were working Cloyce told Dad, "C'mon, Red (Dad was called Red back then because he had red hair when he was younger), let's hop in the golf cart and go find him."

Cloyce drove them outside the building to tool around to the opposite side; it would be easier than weaving in and out of machinery and what not inside. Pops said that as they passed beyond a corner there was a huge puddle, really a small lake, left in the parking lot from a thunderstorm the night before. He guessed it as better than a hundred feet wide. And he noticed a small grin on Cloyce's face, and a glint in his eye.

"I knew what was coming," Dad would explain in telling the tale, "So I figured I might as well enjoy the ride." Cloyce turned cart right towards the center of that lake and tore through it, completely inundating the old man and himself in the tremendous shower of water which their little vehicle created, both of them shouting like banshees all the while.

It happened that the man they were looking for was standing right in a doorway as the two approached him. "What happened to you guys?" he asked, mouth agape.

"Just ran into a heavy rain," Cloyce answered, as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

The man looked up at the blinding sun, then back at the two soaked golf cart passengers, merely shaking his head.

ASA Good Critical Review

A Reviewer whose Amazon moniker is gliderpilot1 has this to say about my novel A Subtle Armageddon:

A Subtle Armageddon, the first book in the Infinity Series, presents readers with a dystopian future where true human sentiment is absent. Despite minimal or no dialogues, the main character embarks on a journey of self-discovery and learns profound lessons from the natural world, offering a thought-provoking exploration of good intentions gone awry.

One of the unique aspects of the book is its portrayal of a world where human learning should be impossible, yet the characters defy these limitations. The author's imaginative depiction of how nature can instruct even the most hardened individuals is enlightening. Throughout the narrative, the sublime descriptions create a vivid and captivating atmosphere, immersing readers in this highly imaginative world.

Although dialogue is scarce, the well-developed characters engage readers through their actions and experiences. Witnessing the main character's transformation from emotional neutrality to one capable of growth and learning adds depth to the narrative. The author's favorite excerpts vividly convey tension and emotion, demonstrating their ability to create an immersive and emotional reading experience.

A Subtle Armageddon contains spiritual undertones that are intertwined with the storyline. While not necessary, a general knowledge of C.S. Lewis might enhance readers' understanding of certain elements within the book. The underlying rationale and thought-provoking themes encourage contemplation of dependence, independence, and the interconnectedness of all things.

While the book has its strengths, it also has a few limitations. The absence of significant dialogues may detract from readers seeking more character interactions. Additionally, the pacing occasionally falters, affecting the overall momentum of the narrative.

Readers will appreciate the inherent optimism, unexpected twists, and profound learning moments. A Subtle Armageddon is a well-written and thought-provoking page-turner that blends spirituality, imagination, and intriguing characters. It offers a unique perspective on the significance of human sentiment and our relationship with the natural world.

I wish that all reviewers would give feedback such as this. He touches on both the strengths and weaknesses of the book. I can tell that he actually read it; too many reviews are simply without enough body to be helpful for me as a writer, or potential readers. Their reviews are perfunctory. Although gliderpilot1 only gave me 3 stars out of 5, I appreciate his comments on a much deeper level than what others have said who gave me more stars.

I don't agree with everything gliderpilot1 says (the intentions of the controllers in ASA were most emphatically not good). Still, reviews such as his are far more valuable than any one or two sentence throw off. Thank you, friend.

News Feed

I'm getting more and more comfortable with algorithms. Perhaps that's a good thing; perhaps not. I don't see where it's all that bad quite honestly. They're annoying at times, yes. I bought one stupid torpedo heater for the old barn a few years back, one which I expect to last for ages, and still deal with pop up ads for heaters when I log online. Shaddup already, will ya?

Okay, deep breath. One interesting thing which algorithms send me, and I look forward to, are regular lists of hit songs from a given week in the past. It's fun to see, and offer those 'I remember that' moments which are wonderfully and happily nostalgic. Then yesterday I get a list from sometime in 1994 and don't recognize a song or an artist on it. 

What the hell is a Toad The Wet Sprocket? Or do I really want to know? But I only use that as an example. It seems that somewhere between 1985 and 1995 I lost track of current popular entertainers. When I receive a list from before that time frame I generally recall the song and the artist. Then it becomes a mix. Then, well, I ask things like I asked to begin this paragraph.

I'm not, or at least I don't think I am, one of those who condemn new stuff merely because it's new. Yet I also can't recall much about performers in the last 25 or 30 years which stand out for me. The most recent I can think of is (are?) The Offspring, but even they're from the late 1990s. And I cringe at some of their songs.

I know who Taylor Swift is and have likely heard some of her songs, but I can't think of any off the top of my head. Indeed when I want to hear music I pull up the songs of my youth. I never, and I mean never, consciously seek out new tunes. Unless, that is, and I mean this at least half seriously, when I want to hear what Weird Al is mocking.

I might have to get old. But that doesn't mean I have to care about the new.

Cloyce's Catch-22

There was once this guy in the neighborhood, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was never satisfied. If he appeared to be struggling and you offered a hand he'd snap, "I'll ask for help when I need it!" Yet if you didn't try to help he'd remark with a sneer, "Can't you see I need help?"

Me Pops finally barked at Cloyce, "Now look, buddy, you can't have it both ways. Either accept or decline help gracefully if offered, or ask for it when you need it. Otherwise shut up!"

I don't know what affect it had on Cloyce overall, but he never bothered the old man again.

Anniversary

Unless I miss my guess, today would be the 101st Anniversary of me Grandpaw and Grandmaw Hutchins, me Mom's parents, wedding. Even if I'm wrong, it's this year sometime I'm sure.

A hundred and one years. How different is the world? In 1923 there were no TVs, no computers, and still an awful lot of the nation without electricity. Calvin Coolidge recited the oath of office for President by lamp light in his father's house in Vermont because his dad didn't have electric service. Radio, cars, and air flight were still also in infancy. Many folks died from conditions we don't think twice about anymore, as the medicines and medical techniques we have now weren't even thought of then. Photographs were still rare, and movies had no sound.

Today? Wow. We couldn't live without most of that stuff. Well, I can live without airplanes, but that's an aside. It's been said that the changes during the Twentieth Century were more wide ranging and profound than during any 100 years before. I believe that's true. A lot of it is impressive though, yet we take so much of it for granted. 

We humans. Always on the trail of the next best thing, aren't we?

An Explosion of Hits

My blog, which all of you have been kind enough to read, had for the last year an average of 50-70 hits per day, and 1500-2000 per month. My all time high was 3,377 hits in a month. 

But readership has spiked, and dramatically. Last week alone I had over 12,000 views. That's better than six percent of my total hits hits since I started in 2008. I'm both surprised and grateful, but I'd love to know how it happened simply so that I could pursue and maintain similar results.

The mildly paranoid part of me wonders if I am somehow being scrutinized. In looking over where the hits are coming from, it seems a great many are from blogs 14-16 years ago, when I was oh so much more serious. At the time I was frequently talking politics and political philosophy. But in looking those old missives I'm not seeing anything horrid. It is what it is I suppose.

Hopefully it means that my name is getting out there as my books sell. My fingers are firmly crossed. Or it could just mean that when folks read that The Sublime to the Ridiculous is the first thing Ron reads every morning people thought, 'Well, if it's right for Ron, it's right for me'.

Thanks old buddy!

DG Again

The story follows a small-town Michigan man to the heart of D.C. and the Presidency - and all the vicissitudes along the way. It features a likeable character with some good plot twists, and is perfect for fans of House of Cards (although it's friendlier and much less depressing) or West Wing.

- Andre, an Amazon reviewer

David Gideon is the story of a man who believes in tradition and is conservative by nature yet is not without feeling for those who disagree with him.

- Amazon Reviewer Evan

Although not usually a genre I find myself immersed in, I was intrigued by this book. I found myself turning page after page wanting to know more about this fictional individual that felt quite real. The author did a remarkable job.

- Morales, also from Amazon

I simply can't say enough about the reviews my novel David Gideon is picking up. When you read words such as likeable and are told it's a remarkable job, well, it makes a fella happy. What's more, it seems, I hope, that  a basic point is getting through to readers: we can feel for others no matter our own dispositions. 

"This fictional individual that felt quite real" might be the best compliment I've had. 

For those interested, here's a link to hardcover, paperback, and Kindle editions:

https://www.amazon.com/DAVID-GIDEON-Charles-Martin-Cosgriff-ebook/dp/B09R65KYGZ/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_product_top?ie=UTF8

I'm at 45 reviews with an average review of 4.7 out of 5. All reviews have been four or five star except one. That was a three star, but they left no explanation. That's too bad, because I would truly like to know why. Not to to put them on the spot, but just to hear their reasons. But so it goes.

June Heat

Did I tell you the furnace kicked on the other day? I was laying in bed trying to rouse myself for my morning walk last Thursday, June 15 it was, and I feel the slight breeze from the heating duct. This at about 5:30 in the morning.

The furnace on. In June. I tell ya, this world is turned upside down.

Because It's True

I have occasionally been asked why I'm Catholic. The short answer, stripped of all the very real and obvious background noise, is because Catholicism is true.

Yet how can we know that? Isn't all that 'belief in God' stuff based on faith? Indeed; but not faith alone. Even faith must be rational. We can test through reason whether our faith is logical.

With the Church, one test lies in the idea that God loves us. Since He loves us, he wants what's best for us, for actual love is wanting what's good for the other person. So Perfect Love would want the good for us.

But it would also understand that we can't attain that good ourselves. So He sends His Son, a part of Him, to offer us the help we need to attain Heaven. A good and loving God would never simply leave us to our own druthers.

It may be faith which tells that Jesus is Lord. Still, that faith is in no way irrational, because it simply makes sense that God is Love, and Love helps us. Any moral way it can. 

Paying For School

Me Grandpa Joe was cantankerous enough. But he gave of himself too. He paid the Catholic school tuitions for families who couldn't afford it back in the day, for example. It gave those families options they would not otherwise have. 

Just something to think about when people, even me, seem exasperated over him. There was more than met the eye to the man.

Learning From Me Pops

I just received my new business cards. I had the Shop address put on them. That should not surprise; the locals who actually come to see me need to know where its at while it doesn't really matter to the out of towners. And I learned from me Pops not to use me home address on such ephemera.

Me Pops was a smart man. But like so many of us he made his share of tactical errors, as he would himself confess. One was putting his home address, since it was also his business mailing address (mail never has come to the old barn, for whatever reason), on his first business cards. He found out quickly that that was a mistake.

Customers, and not the good and worthwhile ones, would hunt him down at horribly odd hours, 8:30 at night on a Saturday for example, to fix their cable or machine which had been broken for five days because they had an emergency job to handle. Dad, having a wife and bunch of rug rats to feed, clothe, and house, and also being concerned with someone else's emergency (who wants a backed up sewer at any time let alone late on a Saturday evening?) would generally open up and take care of business.

Yet that got old very fast. And, again, it was the less than stellar drain cleaners who demanded his time. Add this to the fact that a homeowner in dire straits would find another way out of their dilemma somehow, and he stopped such late night weekend nonsense. It would teach those special plumbers a valuable lesson too: get your drain snake fixed when it breaks, and not only when you would need it, potlikker.

Wild Cloyce

I've established that me Pops liked to play poker and that he held regular Saturday night games way back when. I asked him once whether he ever held a royal flush, the AKQJ10 all of the same suit. It's the highest poker hand possible. He held royal flushes twice. Yet he lost one time with one anyway.

The games were almost always at his house, and his house rule was that the dealer called the game they were to play while he dealt. Typically it was a standard round of poker and only varied by whether it was draw or stud (don't worry about what those are as it's not important to the story). But he had this one friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who liked to do things differently. Cloyce invariably introduced wild cards into the game.

He might call the well known deuces wild, where twos could be any card you needed them to be. Or it might be one-eyed jacks and suicide kings were wild. He would sometimes call baseball, where threes and nines were wilds. Dad hated such variations. But he felt that in fairness he had to allow them.

Once when Cloyce called for wild cards, me Pops ended up with a true royal flush: 10 through ace, all hearts. No wild cards. Yet he lost to someone holding five sevens: three actual sevens with two wild cards.

That grated him, and I understand why. I think you ought to play the cards true myself. But fair is fair, and at least it wasn't Cloyce who held the five of a kind.

Uncle Jokes

Me Uncle John, me old golf buddy from back in the day, had his own special form of humor. When he got on a roll I would laugh until I cried.

He had this story where he and another driver for Grandpa Joe, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, were racing south on Interstate 75, each with a truckload of welding machines, weaving in and out of lanes trying to best each other, to get to their destination first, recklessly tearin' up jack, all the while being trailed by an undertaker in anticipation of business. That was one hilarious tale. I wish I could recreate me Uncle's style when he was on his game. But I can't, so I won't even attempt that. I will, however, tell you one of his favorite, more droll jokes.

There was at one time, there probably still is I would assume, a school in Florida ran by MLB which trained its on field baseball officials. Uncle John used to say that if he had the money he would open up a restaurant directly across the street from the school. It would specialize in beef entrees. He would name the restaurant...

...wait for it...

...the Umpire Steak Building.

I have always liked that quip. Thanks Zeke. 

Just Give Up

I was up late last night - after Nine P.M. in fact - and was nearly up later. But my Detroit Tigers were on TV and were losing. As they had lost nine straight and were playing the Braves - a very good team - have you noticed I've become entranced with the dash - I rolled over and finally went to sleep.

And of course - to continue a theme here - the Detroits scored three in the ninth inning to tie, and won in ten. 

Doesn't it figure? You give up on them and something good happens. I need to give up more often.

Just As You Are

'God loves me(us) just the way I am (we are) is a common refrain. It is also a shallow and rather silly phrase.

Ok, so He loves Hitler, Stalin, Mao and Pol Pot, Ivan the Terrible and the Salem witch hunters, just as they are?

Well, no, Marty. But you know what I mean.

By the weight of your words, I can't say that I do. Either it is as you say and He indeed loves us exactly as we are, at which point there is no difference between the philanthropist and the miser, the humble and the arrogant, the fellow who kicks dogs and the one who rescues them, or you don't really mean what you say. The trouble at that point becomes that I might actually have a clue as to what you indeed mean.

What you mean I think is that you believe you're all right just as you are. You needn't bother about introspection, about questioning your motives and beliefs, about considering that you might be wrong about who you are or what you do, because God loves you just the way you are. At least, that's what your words actually imply.

That's a rather convenient interpretation of things, don't you think?

Emphatic Priest

I went to Mass yesterday at St. Hedwig in Detroit. It was funny.

Oh, everything went all right until the very end. But I think the priest had an appointment and was running late. Yet the choir was singing a hymn and apparently intended to see it through.

From the altar, Father waved at the choir loft, clearly an indication he was ready to wrap things up. The singing continued. He waved more emphatically, as if trying to catch the attention of a far off friend or a New York City cab. The song went on, and very well, I'll concede.

Father next made the cut sign. He ran his pointer finger across his neck. He really did. And the song finally stopped. I think it just ended, but I'm sure Father took it as a victory.

I've seen more unusual endings to a Church service.

Nah, I haven't.

Polly Want A #!@&!!!

Today is June 10. President Andrew Jackson's funeral was held on this day in 1845. 

The occasion was unceremoniously disrupted, not by a crowd of well wishers or political enemies, but by Jackson's parrot. The bird continually interrupted the service with loud and raucous swearing, which it had learned from his, um, ah, expressive master during the President's life.

The parrot had to be escorted from the premises. No cracker that day I'm sure.

Early to Rise

Me Grandpa Joe, he liked to travel. He liked to get out on the open road to see where it would take him. Me Grandma Cosgriff, not so much. A lot of that I'm sure had to do with Joe's driving. And the cheap hotels he'd stay in. And the quality of cars he'd drive. Ok, I suppose there were myriad and varied reasons why she would let him go off on his own. She was quite content to stay home when the wanderlust bug bit Joe.

Joe would of course call home regularly to let her know where he was and that things were okay, even if it was only Joe okay. Early one morning, one very early morning, right around two AM in fact, the telephone rang at the Cosgriff household. Grandma struggled out of bed to answer it.

"Hey, just calling to tell you I'm in California and I'm fine," Joe's gruff voice told her from the other end of the line.

"Well, I'm glad you're okay, Joe, but you didn't need to call me at two o'clock in the morning to tell me that," me Grandma said in response, in the quiet way she tended to address Joe.

He had gotten the times mixed up. Calling from California at 11PM, he knew there was a three hour difference from home. But he had it backwards that day and thought it was eight in the evening in the east.

Just another day in the life of Alice Cosgriff I'm sure.

First Choice?

You know, if you're trying to pull the wool over someone's eyes, you really need to watch what you say.

A common refrain which we've heard for years is that "You're always the first guys I come to see." Whatever. I know it isn't necessarily true (though I trust that we are the first choice for many) and I'm okay with that. I understand business and common sense. If a fella's working two blocks from a plumbing supply and eight miles from me I don't hold it against him to buy from the closer store. I would too.

But as my friend Jen Psaki says, let's walk this back to my first point. It is incredible how many times someone has came into the old barn and asked for a part we didn't happen to have. "That's okay, Cosgriff, you're my man. You're the first guy I come to."

I can still hear me Pops, being the decent man he was, not wanting to hold a customer off from doing a job and offering, "You could call Cloyce's Plumbing Supply if you're stuck."

"Nah, we already tried them, Cosgriff." This response not more than a half a minute after assuring the old man he was always their first option.

In the first place, you don't need to zoom us at all. We'll be cool. In the second, if you're going to zoom us, at least consider that you're doing exactly that and not immediately contradict your wool pulling.

DEI Football

He who sets to work on a different strand destroys the whole fabric.

- From the Analects of Confucius.

There was a football game awhile back where the players demonstrated a full commitment to DEI, the idea that Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion was for everyone, including individual players in a critical situation.

It was fourth down with twelve yards to go. There were twenty seven seconds left on the clock, and the home team, in possession of the ball, needed a first down to have any chance of winning. The coach called a play which required the left guard to block right so that the running back might scamper around him into the flat, to get open for a pass which could give his team a fresh set of downs. In the huddle, the quarterback relayed the instructions to his teammates, and with a clap of his hands the huddle broke.

The left guard however didn't feel that the call was right for him personally. He really, truly, from the bottom of his heart believed that he should block left. It was the correct thing to do in order for him to be true to himself. He simply couldn't go with the crowd and do what he was told. It would have been immoral, he thought to himself solemnly, to be forced into a mold which was not part of his self defined nature. He'd block left on the play because he must or sacrifice his individuality, and therefore himself, to the world.

The football was snapped, and the left guard blocked as his conscience instructed him. His leftward motion caused the running back to run into him and trip, falling to the ground confused. He was unable to get clear for a pass. Further, a hole was opened which allowed the opposing middle linebacker to race through and tackle the quarterback for a loss. The game was over.

The left guard expected that his teammates would be mad at him, even though he was only being true to himself. But a funny thing happened. When he explained his motivation the team nodded acceptance, understanding what was at stake. They began to hug and congratulate their friend, commenting on his bravery in standing up for who he was rather than bowing to some preconceived notion of what he ought to be. They accepted him for him, a guard who could only block left precisely because that was the type of man he was. From that day forward, he would be allowed to play the game any way he wanted.

The road team from that day when hearing the story expressed their admiration as well, saying they loved him and respected his decision and courage. Even though that game, because of that play, got them into the playoffs and they won the Super Bowl, they knew it was a series of hollow victories. They had not been true to their innermost persons; they had bowed to the will of the crowd. The home team meanwhile didn't win another game because, if the left guard could do and be whatever he wanted, so could everyone else on the field. In such a situation their opponents ran all over them, but that was all right. In the hearts of the home team, they were winners.

Several weeks after the season concluded, the left guard announced that he actually could block right after all. That is, if he wanted, because he had determined that he was fluid in his position. Yet his team accepted that too, other than for a few Neanderthals who actually thought playing the game with clear rules and guidelines was itself a good thing, a goal to achieve for its own merits outside of what any particular individual might believe.

Little White Pills

"I think we should try a blood pressure medication. Are you all right with that, Mr. Cosgriff?" my doctor asked me yesterday.

"Yes, I am," I replied. My blood pressure has been high for about two years now. I do walk 6 out of 7 mornings, yet could stand to lose weight. Not that I haven't actually lost any. Between February's checkup and yesterday's I lost a pound. True, that isn't impressive. But it is, uh, shall we say, trending in the right direction.

My mind had already been made up that I was going to ask for medication no matter what he told me. I don't want to be paranoid but as I told the good doc, I don't want to have a debilitating stroke at 68 because we didn't start taking precautionary measures now. He agreed, along with the admonition to continue walking and to try to eat better and lose a few pounds. In my defense I think I am eating better. I'm just eating too much of it. Three pounds of salad, even dry salad (no dressing) is still three pounds of food.

I'll take my blood pressure every day along with the name which I can't pronounce of the prescription drug. I heard all the warnings: watch that your pressure doesn't drop too low, notice if you have dizzy spells (quiet Ron) and blah, blah. I didn't listen to nor read them all. The precautions are too much like War and Peace these days.

 With all that in mind, I held the little pill in my hand this morning before popping it down my throat, thinking, well, me and you now, little buddy. It's simply another aspect of the aging process. Life goes on. Hopefully for quite a while yet.

Raindrops on Rooftops

Six hours ago I was in Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. I was there nine days, the longest I've stayed in at least ten years. That was too much of a drought. I'm going to stay one nine or ten day block again next year if it is at all possible.

The weather was gorgeous the entire time. It was sunny every day with only occasional clouds, and those never enough to even barely threaten old Sol. So I shouldn't complain. But I will. Mildly.

I always liked to have one rainy day up north for no other reason than the garage roof is tin, and I like to sit and hear the rain on it. Yet it did not rain a drop, until right around two o'clock this morning when I had finished packing the new old van for my return trip. Then it began raining lightly. What a tease.

Tease, hell. I was leaving so early because I have an 11 AM doctor's appointment, while it's about a four hour and forty five minute trip home; time was no real issue. I unlocked the garage, turned on the lights, and sat in a chair for a few minutes to hear the rain on the roof. I was gone by 2:15 and home just ahead of 8, and that only due to construction.

I'm glad I took the extra few minutes. It's the little things, right? Stop and smell the roses, figuratively speaking, at least sometimes.

Time to Move

I love Hessel. The quiet, the isolation; it offers a chance to charge your batteries outside the pressure of the real world. You're simply away from it all and can catch your breath.

But maybe the world is creeping up upon Hessel. Maybe it's time to move on, deeper into the interior of Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. Civilization it seems is catching up to the Les Cheneaux Islands. I had to wait for two cars to pass on Cedar Street before I could pull out of my driveway yesterday. Two cars.

The hustle and bustle were suffocating.

Nickels and Quarters

Me Grandpa Joe was always proud of his willingness to work. Sometimes this led to impressive results; sometimes to the unusual; sometimes to the funny.

He never went more than two weeks without a job even during the Great Depression. That's considering he would quit a job when jobs were scarce. Why work for someone or something you didn't like, he reasoned. There's truth to that.

Once he and a buddy found themselves working long hours. They decided, in friendly rivalry, to see how long they actually could work (this was before rules and laws forbade such things). The two of them concurrently pulled 61 hour shifts, which only ended when the foreman ordered, "You're both crazy. Get the hell outta here!"

Joe took a new job once while he was already employed; it paid twenty five cents an hour (significant at that time) more than the one he held. While getting his gear together his suddenly former employer begged him to stay, ending his plea with an incredulous, "So you'd leave me for a quarter an hour?"

"Hell, I'd leave ya for a nickel an hour," Joe said simply as he left.

I don't know about you, but I admire the man.

The Voice in the Casino

Discipline. That's what it's all about. Discipline.

I get the urge to go to the casino a couple of times a year. Typically I indulge it once. Yesterday was that day, I hope, anyway, for 2023.

There's a small casino in Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, just up the road a piece from our second home there. It isn't a very big gambling den. I've seen Seven Elevens that are larger in fact. But it's close by when we're in da U.P. and the small size has its charm. 

Typically I play video poker. I know the odds are in the house's favor with any type of gambling (me Pops always said that the winners didn't build the casinos), and perhaps I'm playing a stupid psychological trick on myself, but with poker I feel I have at least a modest amount more control over the game. I can choose what to hold and play hunches, for whatever tiny advantages those strategies may offer. With straight out slot machines, you just pull a level (push a button these days) and hope.

My budget is twenty bucks. Once that's gone, I'm gone. You can play for as long as an hour on that if you're judicious, and have a bit of luck. Usually I quit when I'm 10-15 dollars behind. That's when I tell myself that this is stupid and cash out what's left.

Yesterday my $20 was gone in about five minutes. Sighing heavily, I thought, heck, I'm on vacation. I'll play another twenty. That's pretty much how the casinos want you to think I'm sure, and for whatever reason gullibility took over. I fed the machine another Jackson.

It was gone relatively soon, although I managed about 20 minutes of play that time around. Mildly upset at myself for losing forty bucks, I started to leave. "Put in another $20," the voice in my head told me.

"Why? I'm already down $40."

"Just put in another twenty," I was assured.

Half disgusted that I was allowing me to talk myself into something stupid, I gave the poker machine another greenback. I hit the draw button and was dealt four kings, a thirty dollar win at the level I was playing. That gave me a $49 credit. "Now cash out," that same voice told me.

I did. That left me 11 dollars down, within my usual loss range. 

You can play games at a casino, and you can listen to the voice in your head. But they each require discipline. That's the key.

The Michigan Air Force

The Michigan Air Force has arrived. I can't recall its attacks ever being as relentless as they've been the last few days here in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. They just keep on coming. It's putting something of a mild damper (mild because being in da U.P. overcomes all other of life's troubles) on me Hessel visit.

For the uninitiated, I'm talking about mosquitos. Their assaults against ol' Marty have been quite successful this year. They've driven me from the front porch and the garage, forcing me to read on the living room couch or at the kitchen table rather than in my usual spots. Normally the tiny miscreants don't appear until the late evening but they're flitting about at all hours lately. 

It's become more than a nuisance. My arms and legs are now completely water repellant, me having slapped at the pesky air raiders with a wet brush brush loaded with Thompson's Water Seal countless times while sealing the front porch this week. The clothes I wore while seeing to that chore can't be washed because the slapping of water repellant on them has rendered the shorts and t-shirt impervious to wetness. I removed them from the washer last night completely dry. 

Bug spray isn't stopping them, leading me to wonder if they've mutated into a strain unaffected by the products currently on the market. Yard guard and citronella candles? The skeeters laugh at them. I can hear it. It's a miserable little high pitched, cartoonish guffaw. Kind of snide and dismissive too.

I cannot remember the last time I was so eaten up with mosquito bites. But then, I am in Hessel. They can't drive me out. Work demands will do that quickly enough, and only then because I do have a conscience. Of sorts.