To Begin With

One wonders what people sometimes think even though one doesn't actually want to wonder about it, because there are times where all you can do is scratch your head. 

A customer brought a large drain machine into the old barn for repair. "I think I burned it out, Cosgriff. Do have an idea what it will cost me?"

This particular machine had all the cords cut off at the reverse switch box attached to the motor. "Not really, without going over it. But where are the cords?" I asked.

"I was trying to fix it myself," he replied sheepishly, "and threw them away."

You threw them away? I thought in silence. "Well, a complete rewire is $175, so you'll need at least that if I can get it running. So whatever getting the problem fixed costs, $175 will be added on if you approve the repair."

"So we're starting at $175?" he demanded in shock. Yes, but you tossed the cords, I again thought quietly.

I sighed. "No charge at all if you don't approve the fix. I'm simply explaining that whatever the trouble is it'll be an additional $175."

The guy's shoulders dropped. "I guess I shouldn't have thrown them out."

I guess not. Why did you even think that was a good idea?

Halloween Hypocrite

Remember yesterday? Ah, yesterday. Gone, yet the memory remains.

I spoke about Halloween candy being on display already at a Dollar General. I bought some, for the sake of creating a weak Facebook meme, which I did. And then I ate it.

What? It was Halloween candy. Am I supposed to set it aside for three months? Or am I a hypocrite?

Well, if I am, hypocrisy never tasted so good, and I at least got something out of it.

Why am I Not Surprised?

Yesterday I stepped into the local Dollar General (we all have one; they're everywhere) to buy some of the flavored, carbonated water I like. And what else did I find?

Halloween candy.

Let's see: it was July 28. Halloween is October 31, the last time I checked. So, it's just over three months off. 94 days away. And yet there's Halloween candy on the shelves.

Do I go on the rant about how it's still summer for about two months? Or the one about rampant consumerism? Or do I just sigh and let it go?

I'm going with the sigh. It just doesn't surprise me, although I wish it did.

Gambling Cloyce

One of our old drain snake repair customers, a particularly tight character who I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, had cheap ways which went beyond drain snake repair.

He himself admitted to me Pops that he couldn't let his own wife go shopping on her own. "Oh, Bill, she'd spend a nickel too much on soap powder (non-liquid laundry detergent to those too young to know what soap powder is) if I wasn't right there to watch her," he explained one day to the old man. Granted, a nickel meant more in 1968; you could still get nickel Hershey bars then for example, even though those paled next to the nickel chocolate bars of thirty years before that. 

Pops just shook his head at the admission.

Yet despite how hard he held the dollar legend had it that old Cloyce could be known to go nuts with his money in one place: a carnival. We never heard it from Cloyce of course but from other plumbers who knew him. Several such common acquaintances told me Pops that Cloyce would actually spend wildly at fairs on games of chance. He could not get enough of the wheel of fortune, apparently.

"Big Six wheels would have Cloyce all starry-eyed," said one drain cleaner. "He'd keep betting quarters until his old lady fetched him home," another told Dad. Bet that cost him a lot of soap powders, thought me Pops to himself. 

I guess we all have our devils. Cloyce apparently had two. 

Transported

As  I was driving back from Mississippi last Wednesday I noticed the planes taking off from the Louisville, Kentucky airport as I approached it from northbound Interstate 65. It was overcast, thick clouds hanging in the sky.

What was neat was that as the planes rose into the air and went into the clouds, they appeared to almost shimmer out of existence. A plane would rise, and within about two seconds was simply enveloped into the cover. They did a kind of fade out, not unlike you might see in a Star Trek episode when a person was transported from the ship.

It was eerie at first, and then rather cool to watch. Of course, I couldn't watch too closely, as travelling at 70 MPH on a freeway required a significant amount of attention. But there wasn't too much honking, so I think I was all right.

Lost Youth

One of the stories which me Pops liked to tell on himself involved me Grandpa Joe's, his dad's, flatbed trucks which were used for delivery in his welder rental business. These flatbeds were typically about four foot high. When he was a teenager and even into his twenties Dad used to take a run at the back of the trucks and leap onto the bed, ending up in a crouch and rising to full height upon sticking the landing. He did it for kicks, as young'uns do.

One day when he was around 30 the old man found himself eying the back of a truck. Wondering whether he could still make that leap, Pops began a trot towards the open end of the vehicle and jumped as hard and as high as he could. Yet rather than landing as he once could he cracked his shins across the steel beams which surrounded the truck bed and fell into a painful heap upon it.

"I never did that again," he would end the tale ruefully. 

Sensor-ship

I am against censorship, the one which we are usually thinking about when it comes to free speech. But I am also against sensor-ship. Our cars especially have too many whistles and bows which tell us all sorts of things which are generally unnecessary.

Check engine light? That's a frequent 'warning' which in the high ninety-ninth percentile means absolutely nothing. But folks panic when they see it come on. Tire low warning light? I have dealt with several vehicles where the problem wasn't the tires but the sensors themselves. Yet it comes on and everything's a catastastroke. 

If your engine is running fine and you're not low of fluids or something is obviously wrong (an unusual noise or some such), ignore check engine signals. If your tires look fine then the sensor is likely too, uh, sensitive. 

You know who benefits from this over refinement? Your car dealers and mechanics, who make money on your fear. I say, don't give them the satisfaction.

Mr. Moss Runs the Table

Well, they've gone and done it. The current owners of the property have torn the Clubhouse down. Undoubtedly that's because they did not know its revered place in local history.

Me Grandpa Joe had dubbed it 'The Clubhouse' because that's where the neighborhood drunks (and I call them that affectionately I assure you; I thought well of each one of them) hung out in it. It was an old brick garage behind a house Joe then owned, and he didn't care if they used it as a hangout. Pop Turner, Tall Glass (he drank from a long tall glass, Joe would say), L.B., Chuck the mechanic (he was a crackin' good  mechanic when sober), Grandpa (not Joe, but another guy everyone called Grandpa, Heaven knows why anymore), a guy named Watson and a few others. They just sat within its confines on old makeshift benches and passed out whiskey to each other in plastic cups, talking in low mumbles only they could understand once the juice had been flowing a while.

But then a craps game might break out. We all knew when; the whole neighborhood could hear the ruckus. Yells and screams and ooos and aaahhs; sure, they shouldn't have been wasting their money like that, but they weren't hurtin' nobody and only vaguely disturbing the peace. They never fought over a result either. They just shot craps and drank liquor.

I did see them pretty down one day though. They had invited Mr. Moss to play with them. Mr. Moss was a dignified old gent who lived on the block. He had a small electric company and generally kept to himself. But for whatever reason, maybe he was bored or had no work, he joined the boys in the Clubhouse that one afternoon. They wanted him to play because he had money. Simple as that.

He proceeded to clean them out. What they hoped would be an easy road to a large payout for one of them became a payout for Mr. Moss. He dominated the game so completely that everyone else was out of money in about 45 minutes. I never seen such a dejected group in my life. Easy Street had become Hard Luck Highway.

I think Mr. Moss felt a bit sorry for them, because he left quickly to return with a couple bottles for the boys. He didn't drink himself but I imagine he felt obliged. And the guys themselves were thankful for a small victory.

I don't believe Mr. Moss was ever again invited to shoot craps with them, though.

Ruminating on a Sunday Morning

We often hear, in various forms, about people looking for their authentic selves. In all honesty I can't imagine what they seek.

The first problem is that such a trek implies they are somehow complete as they are and simply must find that completeness within themselves.  While I believe there is some truth there - I will employ an old religious trope and assert that the Ten Commandments are indeed written on our hearts - the answer can't be so easy. I find they are written on my own heart yet I routinely violate them. So it seems to me that having some ideal self within you fails to help you in your search precisely because the self, the honest self anyway, realizes that it isn't perfect right from the start despite having an innate idea of where inspiration can be found. Looking for you entirely within you then becomes little more than self indulgent. I don't see why that can be trusted. We cannot be our own judges as we will be too harsh, or more typically too lenient, with ourselves.

Then there is the very question of authenticity. Are we born a blank canvas or are we born complete? I don't see a blank canvas possible if we have some idea of right and wrong, good and bad from the start. Yet I don't see us complete either. We aren't born this way in the sense that we can't alter or adapt. Indeed we must change ourselves to really grow as persons. We don't leave infants and toddlers, teens and young adults, alone. We guide; we direct; we instruct; we train, even if only by inference. We begin to do all that to ourselves eventually after what are called the formative years. 

I suppose my point here is that there isn't really an authentic self within any of us. We must be, we will be, influenced by outside forces no matter what. It's so clear that we aren't born whole and authentic but rather develop over time that I can't see the point of questioning it. It's not a matter of being authentic but of what we do with our lives. Do we discipline and direct ourselves towards something or are we all right exactly as we are? 

If the latter, you can stop looking for the authentic as it's already there. If the former, it might be a good idea to start judging the well from the ill and acting accordingly.

It'll Wait

I wrote this review on Amazon about a book on how to avoid procrastination:

This is an excellent book to help you get moving at your job, your home, or your hobbies. It's well thought out with easy to follow step by step guides in the process. These are real world solutions which will help you understand and overcome your procrastination. It really worked for me. Read it first thing tomorrow!

Ain't I a stinker?

And Don't Know It

As many of you know, I've been working on book promotion this year. You can find my books here A Subtle Armageddon here David Gideon here Michael's Story and here The Interim Generation. 

One thing about book promotion is that you begin to get reviewed. Reviews are nice; they help Amazon's Magical Algorithms drive folks to sample your wonderful prose. But some reviews are questionable. One such review which gave me pause praised my book A Subtle Armageddon for its great poems. Yet there isn't a poem in it.

Poetry is something which has never really peaked my interest. Perhaps comic poetry holds a certain appeal for me as it did for me Pops. You can read about his favorite poem here Me Pops the Poet. Yet on the whole, I find that poets are simply trying to tell us things without actually getting to the point. At least, that's my take on the vast bulk of poetry the teachers forced upon me in high school English. 

I expect now that the poetry crowd will be breaking down my door, hurling vile epithets upon me in sonnets, free verse, and odes. I should be quite interested in the haiku which might condemn me though.

Low Tech

I ran into something completely unexpected during my travels this week. A hotel I spent a night in didn't have USB ports for recharging my electronics, the cell phone I always carry, my Kindle, and laptop.

Such amenities have become so common that I had not bothered to pack a three prong plug in adapter. Everyone has those recharging ports, don't they?

I'm not knocking the hotel, honest. Everything else was more than satisfactory. Then, too, they certainly aren't obliged to cater to my every whim, despite the capitalist dragon which stirs our hearts to entitlement. I simply never expected a lack of what seems to me a standard these days.

I got around such trivial issues because my techy things hold power for significant periods of time as well as with the use of car charging adapters. But I confess my initial reaction was, What? They don't have those?

But it isn't all about me, is it? That's twice this week I've had that lesson hurled at yours truly. I'm beginning to think it's a message.

Undeserved Favor

Well, I've heard of it happening for years but never thought it would happen to me. Yet life happens to us all, doesn't it? I had the car ahead of me pay for my food at an Arby's drive through.

I'm on a road trip and a bit anxious. I just wanted to get to my hotel. I was admittedly a tad cranky. I even, to my now embarrassment, was antsy about why the car in front of me was taking so long. I saw a hand come out of that vehicle's window with a debit card after having been given food. "Now what?" I moodily thought.

They were paying for my order.

Talk about feeling small if thankful when the young woman at the Arby's window told me what went on as I pulled forward.  I've said a prayer for my patron, several in fact, and have vowed, almost certainly in vain, to be more patient. Still, I'm grateful and properly cowed. There are indeed kind folks in the world.

Consumer Inquisition

There is a certain Big Appliance Store which I will never deal with again. I find I am not alone in that.

While talking to a neighbor the subject of buying various products came up. I mentioned there was one place that I would not deal with. He immediately responded, "You must mean Big Appliance Store. They pounce on you right as you enter the door. I'll never go there again either."

I told him he hit the nail on the head. It's one thing to be asked if I might be helped. It's another to be jumped at like it was an inquisition. "Good morning! What would you like? What can I show you? This is on sale! That is on sale! I'll start drawing up the paperwork."

No you won't. I know what I'm here for. I'll look around and get you if I need you, thank you very much. Now push off.

Third In Line

We had our family reunion yesterday, and I do believe that a good time was had by all. It sure seemed to me that everyone enjoyed everyone's company. There was a great deal of laughter, which is the best medicine.

Upon driving home something occurred to me. I realized that I was the third oldest there. Holy. Cow.

I chuckle at that factoid as I type, yet also shake my head. The third oldest person at our family reunion.

Again: Holy cow. It's just a bit astounding. But it was a good day, and that's what matters.

The Trouble with the Crowd

I have a difficult time listening to political debates or watching what purport to be serious talk shows. Too many of them, left right and center, are simply too shrill to be worth my time. They are that way because they're too interested in playing to the crowd, their core audience, and keeping them fired up for the sake of attention. And paydays. 

I don't have time for that nonsense. If you're conservative I likely agree with you anyway, and your screeching will not sway my beliefs. But I do find myself thinking a little less of you, because truth doesn't require your screed, or your (I will say it) self righteousness. Tucker Carlson? I don't miss him one bit.

If you're liberal I may well like to have a good heart to heart with you, provided we can keep it civil. Yet there's the rub: if you're going to insist a la COVID that I must want Grandma dead, you can blow it out your nose for all I care. I will turn you off without a second thought and you'll make no progress altering my outlook if painting me an ogre is your idea of enlightening me.

The center? If there is a real center in politics (I'm skeptical one exists but that's for another time) I find their positions either untenable as too many issues really are simply either-or (either we have abortion or not; the rest are just details) or mock compromises. Why do so many municipalities have recycling? Because it can be sold as an across the aisle bargain: See? We can work together for your benefit. And oh, by the way, we on the left and right actually just got together to raise y'alls taxes when we shook hands on that agreement. Nothing to see here.

There are many serious issues which need to be addressed, yes. We ought to be able to discuss them without the shrill, though. We are adults, aren't we? At least, in theory?

Technicalities

One of the things I like best about this time of the year is that I can take my morning constitutionals early. Why, as early as 5:30 AM in fact, about the time I'm typing this out. But this morning I can't walk.

Well, I can walk. I walked from the bedroom to the library to the computer to hammer out this thing. But there's a thunderstorm, and the radar indicates that rain will last for several more hours here in the D. So I'm taking a weather break. I've walked eight days in a row before now, so a day off isn't tragic.

And why would you have thought I couldn't walk? Just don't try it while chewing gum. It's a challenge.

Grandpaw's Chore

Me Grandpaw Hutchins was a quiet man. But like most quiet men, he could make himself very well heard when he felt the need.

As an older man he couldn't do as much as he once could, a trial we all must face. Yet as with most all seniors he was not, of course, useless. He still did whatever he could for himself and by himself. And one thing he could do and took pride in was mowing his grass.

One day one of my uncles was out mowing hay on his own property. He lived near me Grandpa, and figured he might do his father-in-law a solid and mow his lawn after he finished his own chore. So when the hay was all done, he drove his tractor the short piece down the road to Grandpa's house, lowered the large mower behind the tractor to yard height, and commenced to cutting the grass.

Grandpaw Hutchins heard him soon enough, and went onto his front porch to see what was up. When he spied me Uncle mowing his lawn, he did nothing. Nothing, that is, except stare at my uncle the whole time he was working. Me uncle quickly caught sight of Grandpa himself. He explained to me that Grandpa simply stared at him the whole time, at every pass of the lawn he made. Uncle soon realized he had made a mistake in taking on Grandpa's chore.

"His stare told me all I needed to know," Uncle said later. "I'll never do that again."

Me Grandpaw Hutchins had gotten his point across emphatically, without saying a word. 

Power of Suggestion

Remember yesterday when I told you of going to Perry Bolt, ah, American Integrated Supply for some self locking nuts? It turns out I had to go a second time for a length of key stock. At least, that's what I call it. I needed a short piece of 3/16 x 3/16 square steel 3/4 of an inch long for a keyway in a metal shaft. I knew that I'd have to buy a length of it and cut it to size, but that was okay. I'd need more later. 

Walking to the counterman at AIS (maybe it is easier to say that than even Perry Bolt) I told him what I wanted. "We have that in 12 foot lengths," the man explained.

I asked in shock and surprise, "Twelve foot lengths?" I wouldn't use that much in decades. My kids would one day far in the future be wondering what the heck it was and why I needed a twelve foot piece. Well, an Eleven Foot 11 and a 1/4 inch long  piece. And where would I put it?

The man shook his head to clear it. "Twelve inch lengths," he corrected himself.

"Okay," I responded. "Give me a twelve foot length."

He grinned and replied, "I just told you they come in twelve inch lengths, Marty."

Once an idea gets into your head, right?

Pleasantly Surprised

When I need nuts and bolts I go to American Integrated Supply on Grand River in Detroit near me. They were originally called Perry Bolt, which I liked much better because it was easier to say. C'est la vie.

This morning I went in looking for some self locking nuts. Such things have a layer of plastic above the threads which is forced out when tightened in order to offer a more secure fit. At least, I think that's how they work. All I really knew was that I needed about 20 and figured that Perry, er, American Integrated Supply, would have them.

I didn't think they'd be a king's ransom. But as nuts and bolts go I expected anywhere from 50 cents to a buck apiece, seeing as similar sizes to what I wanted yet non-locking were maybe five to eight cents each. Imagine my surprise when the 20 cost a mere two dollars. Ten cents each.

"I expected them to be more," I remarked to the counterman.

"No, they aren't really that expensive," he replied.

When a fella goes from a ten to twenty dollar purchase down to two bucks, he fells good. The little things in life, right?

Zeke and Amos

I've talked about me Uncle John who we called Zeke. I talked about me Grandpa Joe's old friend Amos too, just yesterday in fact. I'm not going to embed a link, lazybones. Look for it yourself.  It's only a page back.

Anyway, Zeke had once told me was that Amos made the best fried chicken in the world. Uncle John loved it, and Amos apparently knew that. He would regularly offer some to me Uncle when he fixed it for dinner.

One day at the old barn Zeke reminisced about a time when he was a boy, maybe 9 or 10, where he really had a taste for that fried chicken. He tramped over Amos' apartment and quite literally begged the old man to fry it up. Amos dutifully did, not wanting to disappoint the boy. Uncle John sat there and ate ravenously, realizing about half way through that his personal chef wasn't having anything for himself.

"I was too young to realize it at the time, but it was a Sunday about Noon. Amos was hung over after Saturday night," Uncle John explained. He laughed at that. "How'd you like to have a kid bug you for food when you're sick? But he still fried it all up for me."

I think it's a cool story.

The Non-loan

Amos was a good friend of me Grandpa Joe. He was a good man at heart too, but like so many of us he had his foibles, his issues. Two were that he was tight and that he liked his drink. Yet he was also honest, doing his very best to be right by folk.

One day he ran into a buddy on the street, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who remarked, "Remember you owe me $20, Amos."

"Since when do I owe you twenty bucks?" Amos demanded.

"I loaned it to you in the bar the other night," Cloyce said.

That bugged Amos. He couldn't remember borrowing the money. But he had been drinking, so maybe his memory was faulty.  And if he owed the money he had to pay it back, as right was right. Yet he couldn't imagine he actually bummed the cash.

Amos was beside himself what to do. Eventually he returned to the watering hole which was supposedly the scene of things. It happened that the guy behind the bar was the same as the night in question. "Did I get $20 off Cloyce when we were here?"

"Well, I can't say as I never saw any money change hands. But I seen Cloyce in here for years and he ain't never had no more than five bucks on him at a time," the barkeep explained.

At that revelation, Amos figured he was off the hook. Cloyce was trying to fleece him, take advantage of his drunken state and sense of honor. They never spoke again.

Where It's At

This column probably doesn't apply if you aren't from Michigan. But the great debate in our state (that word series is uncomfortably close to alliteration) is, where does Up North begin? 

The Thumb isn't up north. Don't get me wrong: the Thumb is wonderful. It's the number two spot in the state. It has a lot going for it. But it ain't up north. It's too far south, too close to Detroit.

Some say up north begins at Bay City. Well, you start to taste it there, after mile 162 on Interstate 75. Yet you merely taste it, just get a whiff of up north air. 

West Branch? Just a lunch stop along the way.

Grayling? Gaylord? Too touristy. But you can feel the change from downstate as the positive vibes of the north country begin to reach you.

Mackinaw City, right at the top of the Mitt? Oh, oh, oh, so close it's tantalizing. Yet it too, along with Mackinac Island, while great places to visit, simply have too many vacationers, at least during the peak summer months.

But next, finally crossing the Mackinac Bridge into Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, you are Up North. The rest of the state is just an extension of Detroit. It's that simple.

Ch-Ch-Changes

During my morning walk yesterday I was chilly. It was also 64 degrees when I left my house.

Since when is 64 chilly? Not that long ago - last summer in fact - I seem to remember that that temperature was comfortable. I typically wore shorts - it's wrong to hide legs like mine anyway - and a tee shirt, just like yesterday. But yesterday I was cold enough even after 45 minutes of steady and fast paced hiking that I wished I had a jacket.

Is this another of those old folks things I must adjust to?

Mastodon Man

I had a spot of engine trouble heading up to Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula last Saturday. The cooling fan quit working and the Mackinac Bridge was congested. I had to exit the freeway and sit in a park until the traffic began to move. My newer older van would be okay without an operating cooling fan, if I could drive posted speeds. I parked by a park where I could observe the bridge and waited.

Another old gentleman (yes, I count as an old gentleman) sat next to me for a while, looking out over the crowded bridge. We chit chatted about this and that as he waited for his wife to come back from wherever she had been. 

It turns out that he was on a team which excavated the remains of a wooly mammoth, or mastodon, from a field near Chelsea, Michigan several years ago. Here's a You Tube clip: Mastodon skeleton

The fellow I met operated the scoop shovel in the video. He showed me pictures of him with the skull of the beast. Stupidly, I didn't catch his name. And I won't call him Cloyce because that wouldn't be right. Still, meeting a guy who dug up a mammoth, well, that was really cool. Car troubles aside, there were worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Peppered Python

Those who know me know I'm a Monty Python fan. This has nothing to do with them.

Me son Charlie came across a place called The Jerky Outlet, where you can buy jerky of various sorts. He bought peppered python jerky.

It really wasn't too bad. Very peppery: I suppose the packaging should have served as a clue to that. I'm not too sure how much of the taste was python and how much was seasoning. But what was not pepper tasted, well, not like chicken (we hear that often about exotic dishes, eh?) but like something I can't describe. Not beef, not pork. Oddly, sort of like fish, if I had to put a common flavor to it.

So there you have it. Not exactly a ringing endorsement. But neither a condemnation of python meat either.

Silent Outtakes

We, me son Charlie and I, watched the German silent film Die Nibelungen yesterday. It was very good; I'm starting to really like silents. You have to invest more in them than those talkies so many people obsess about. Silent movies make you pay attention.

Still, it can be difficult for me not to think about jokes even while viewing an engrossing film. In a scene where the lead character brandished a sword I thought, what if he had dropped it? Would we have a silent film outtake for history? Would a dialogue card have appeared which said, "Crap!"

Perhaps a couple of actors fell into laughter during a shoot. We've seen that with more recent movies, where concentration is busted and there's moments of uncontrollable laughing. Would a card pop up saying, "Aha-hahahahaha!"

I'm just wondering.

July 4, 2023

We're still a great nation which has done great things. While we have our flaws, and who isn't flawed, we exist as a beacon of hope for many. And we are certainly not nearly as bad as even too many Americans seem to think. But hubris, like all error, is endemic to the human condition.

So I'll grill today and then go see fireworks tonight, and be thankful for the blessings of being an American.

God Bless the USA. Happy Independence Day everyone.

Already Independent

Ah, July 4th. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we celebrate our independence. But did you know we're actually off by two days?

The Second Continental Congress passed the resolution on independence July 2, 1776. Our actual Independence Day was yesterday. So what's the big deal about the 4th? 

It was on the that day in 1776 that Congress approved the Declaration of Independence. 

Six of one, half dozen of the other? Perhaps. Or maybe we should go all out American and recognize both days. 

It's just a thought. The stores would love it though.

Where Oh Where

Where's Phil isn't quite like Where's Waldo. Very like our famous picture book friend, me brother Phil can get lost in a crowd. It's his strength. Even at that, I found myself wondering just where the hell he was last Thursday.

We run the Shop fairly loosey-goosey, so I wasn't all that concerned when he was a few minutes late. I assumed he had some little chore to deal with. I'd take it out of his pay.

When he wasn't around by the time I decided to go for lunch I thought, well, maybe he's got a doctor's appointment which I forgot about. I just locked up and went home for a sandwich.

But after lunch, still no Phil. I began to go from a little miffed to a point of some worry. You know, with all the usual suspects: there was an accident, he had our brother Patrick at the doctor's and some mildly emergency tests needed to be run, that sort of thing. Yet it wasn't like him not to call or text, so part of me was upset about that.

Right around 2:30 I decided that I might lock up and stop by his house. Patrick lives there too and if they weren't out together, maybe he knew what was up. 

It was then that Phil pulled up by the Shop door. He walked around to the side and opened the sliding door of his van to remove the drains snakes he had picked up. That's when I remembered that I had sent him to Toledo to do some running around for the business. I had instructed him the night before not to bother coming up to the old barn but to head to Ohio when he was ready. 

He might have told me he was actually going to do that, though.

Never Again

Bulk stores tempt us to buy bulk; I suppose that's their purpose in life. But as I related before here: Oatmeal that's not necessarily a good idea.

Last August I bought a 52 serving box of flavored oatmeal, individually packed. I ate the last three this morning. On purpose: I was down to three and I was sick of eating oatmeal even once a week and I poured them all into a bowl and finished it off. Yes, mixed with boiling water. Who would eat oatmeal dry, except maybe Mr. Ed?

I am now officially sick of oatmeal. Sure, I'll have more some day. But it will out of the 12 serving boxes from the local grocery store. I'll never again buy it in such huge packages. I mean it. 

Or at least, right this minute I mean it.