More Can I Do

I was quite happy this morning to find this review of my first collection of blogs, The Sublime to the Ridiculous: Family Lore:

The Sublime to the Ridiculous is a delightful collection of short stories that captures the ups and downs of family life. The tales are fun, relatable, and often quite touching, making it a great pick for light reading. While I enjoyed the mix of humor and heartfelt moments, some stories felt a little too brief, leaving me wanting more detail or depth. That said, the writing style is inviting, and it’s easy to pick up and enjoy a few pages at a time. A lovely book for anyone who appreciates family anecdotes with a mix of laughter and nostalgia.

Well, a little too brief, eh? That can be easily remedied. I can become more elaborate, more verbose; I can inject a great deal more detail into my stories. I can talk a lot. Quiet, Ron.

Seriously, isn't it good to leave them wanting more? And if you want more Sublime to the Ridiculous, here's the link Thank you!

Not Hot

Me Grandpa Joe had a good work ethic and a good moral code. He also liked deals on tools, but they had to be on the level.

One day a guy came by the Shop, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was known to be shady. He was trying to sell Joe an acetylene torch. Grandpa was skeptical.

Sensing the dilemma, Cloyce sought to reassure me Grandpa. "It ain't hot, Joe, I stole it in Baltimore!"

Joe didn't buy it. I suspect he invited Cloyce off the property in his own genteel manner.

Misreading Dials and Other Nonsense

Yesterday at work I was finishing a repair. Specifically, I was reinstalling a pulley on a motor. But darn it all, I couldn't find the set screw which was necessary to secure the pulley to the motor shaft. I finally gave up and got another screw, which promptly would not start at the threaded place designed especially for it. 

It wouldn't start because the original set screw was in the way. It had already been started. By me. How am I supposed to find things when they're already where they should be?

As if that wasn't enough, as I drove out to Ferndale to make a delivery I noticed the tiny sliver of a red arm on a gauge on the dashboard had approached the high mark. Just what I need, methinks, the motor is running hot or some such debacle. Yet closer inspection showed it was the gas gauge, doing its job by letting me know I had 7/8 of a tank of gas. No overheating, no low oil pressure, no engine issue at all. You've got gas, Marty, exactly as you should. 

Some days...

 

Negatively Positive?

I've said before that a part of me almost likes negative reviews of my books more than positive. Yet the truly fascinating reviews are the ones which show that something I've written engages a reader even if it doesn't enthrall them.

One such reviewer of my first novel A Subtle Armageddon explained: 

The book follows a man who's in an almost dreamlike state, navigating the world, and finding enlightenment. It has thoughtful themes and unexpected twists. Despite its slow pacing, it is pretty interesting in some parts. It can be a challenging read, but it does leave an impression.

A challenging read which leaves an impression. I like that. Though the fellow only gave me three out of five stars in the Amazon rating system, I'm encouraged. It's an honest assessment, and not really negative. I like that he thought enough of it to remark on the book. 

Part of my goal is to get people thinking about the big questions: Why are we here? How are we supposed to live? What is right, really right for its own sake, and what is really wrong and why we should avoid it. I simply cannot accept the argument that we're just here, to no purpose. And that purpose must be true and valuable in itself, knowable through the natural world, existing regardless of our own thoughts and, ugh, feelings.

A Subtle Armageddon is available here if I've piqued your interest.

No Real Help

I don't mind assisting people. I really don't. If you need help, I will aid you if I can. But holding your hand is a whole 'nuther story.

Awhile back, a customer called for advice. That's cool; perfectly fine. Indeed it's part of the job, and I readily accept it on that level. Shoot. Tell me how I can help.

He described the problem exactly; indeed his diagnosis was spot on. I told him what he needed and that I could sent it right out. He offered thanks, but explained that he had the part I described, knew its application and that it could be used to solve the issue he had (which, I remind you, he understood thoroughly). He simply wanted to make sure how to employ the tool before he tried it.

Oh-kay. You understood the issue. You had the part which you knew would address it, and fully comprehended how to employ it. But you called me to be even more certain. 

Why not? I have nothing else to do. Take five minutes of my time. Ask my advice when you are already 100% sure of the answer. Don't think twice about it.

Of course I did not express such sentiments to the man. That doesn't mean I can't think them.

Loose Wires

A good theft protection system on your car can cost a couple hundred bucks easily. Well, back in the day we had a cheap and easy theft protection system. We took off the wire which went from the coil to the distributor on our old cars. Forty years ago no engine was going to start, no way no how, without the coil connected to the distributor. It was foolproof.

I don't know if it's that simple anymore, as ol' Marty is way behind on car technology. I'm not sure who came up with the idea but I think it was either me Pops or me Grandpa Joe. Smart guys, them Cosgriffs.

Sure, it was a bit of nuisance to pop the hood and remove the coil wire, especially late at night or in the winter or even just after a long day. But that last person who drove a given car on a given day (we traded cars back and forth a lot in 1979) had to remember to get the coil wire.

It wasn't so bad. Things were helped by the fact that most coil wires attached the same way, meaning you didn't have to keep them sorted. You just grabbed one in the morning and put it on whatever vehicle you meant to drive. It was weird to sometimes see a small pile of seemingly random short black wires on the old man's desk though. 

Sure, you'd have the occasional aggravation of absent mindedly getting out to a car and have the engine turn over for several seconds without even trying to start before it dawned on you there was no coil wire. You'd have to march back into the house to get one. It was not unlike the I forgot my mask feeling I'm sure most of us have felt a couple years ago.

But, hey, you still had the car rather than some miscreant.

World Changing

I was in Walmart yesterday, buying a pair of shoes if you must know, when after satisfying that need I wandered around the store a bit just to see what might catch my eye. Yes, I'm becoming a shopper. I'll stop. Don't want you lose my man card.

While checking out coffee I went on to look at tea. As I held a box of English Breakfast tea in my hands (which I like; I could be slowly losing my Irish card too) I saw a cup of tea displayed on the wrapper. Under the cup were the words 'Serving suggestion'.

Well, this changes everything. I can't tell you how many times in my life I was standing in the kitchen with a tea bag in hand and a whistling kettle on the stove, frantically thinking, "How can I make this work?" All I want is a cup of tea. But if I pour the hot water over the bag it will create a mess on the floor. If I hold the bag in my hand and add water I'll scald myself badly. What can I do?

I can put it all in a porcelain cup! I bet even a ceramic mug would do. No more burned hands for this old boy, I tell you what.

Seriously, though: does Twinings Tea actually believe that a picture of hot tea in a cup enhances the chance of a sale? Have people really been thinking, That's it! I can make my tea in a cup. Now I'll buy more.

Somebody isn't getting their money's worth out of their promotional budget if you ask me.

Amos and Joe feud over locks

Me Grandpa Joe and Amos Sheffield were great friends. I've wrote about that here:

https://thesublimetotheridiculous.blogspot.com/2018/10/amos-and-alice.html

I've wrote about in other spots too but that should illustrate my point. But as good friends share many episodes in life, there are other examples with which to regale you. Here is one such other.

Joe and Amos once bought a car together. Now, Joe never was one to lock his car. I don't know why. I will not even conjecture as to why. Joe did what he did because that was what he done. That's just how it was.

Amos always locked his car doors. This included the car he owned with his good friend Joe. It would infuriate Joe whenever he went to drive the thing to find the doors locked. Granted, it was even back in the day a simple thing to unlock a car door. No matter to Joe; locking cars, again, was not what he did.

He finally confronted Amos about it, insisting his buddy not lock the car. "It's my car too, Joe, and I prefer to lock the doors," Amos insisted.

As a gentleman always seeking compromise above all (how many of my friends and relatives who knew Joe Cosgriff are snickering right now, I wonder?) Joe retorted, "Well it's half my car, so my two doors stay unlocked!"

You can't meet anyone halfway better than that now, can you?

Service without a smile

Years ago an old buddy of mine from high school called me late one Saturday afternoon and said that he knew a bar in Wyandotte (a suburb south of Detroit) which had great steak dinners at a low price and asked if I wanted to go. Sure, I told him. He picked me up and off we went.

It wasn't exactly a dive bar to be fair. Yet it rivaled dive bars for, uh, ambiance. We arrived at around 7 PM and, to my surprise anyway, no one was there except the bartender and a couple of her girlfriends. They sat chatting at the bar as Tony and I took seats at a table. The bartender took her time about coming to take our drink orders. "The service isn't great but the steaks are," Tony advised me. At some point afterwards our drink orders were taken.

We waited for our beers. And waited. And then, really waited. It reached the point where I asked my friend, "Where is she with our drinks?" Exactly as I finished uttering the question, a beer bottle came down over my shoulder, the bartender actually slamming it on the table top right in front of me. I could almost here her bark, "Here's your stupid beer!' She didn't, but her actions implied the angry quip very strongly.

We waited. And waited some more. Finally she came round with an order pad. I told her I wanted the steak and salad. "Salad dressing?" she asked impatiently.

"French."

She turned to Tony, who likewise said steak and salad. I have no idea what distracted him, but he didn't hear or misunderstood her question when the 'keeper asked him what kind of dressing. "What?" he asked.

This young woman got right down in his face. From inches away from Tony (I tell you they were virtually nose to nose) she demanded loudly, emphasizing every syllable, "Sal-ad dress-ing!"

His hands on the table balled into fists. I honestly thought he was going to belt her in the mouth and briefly prayed he would not, gasping as I did so. Tony quickly shook it off and replied testily, "Italian."

Our steaks came - after a long interval - and they were very good. As I finished I decided I wanted another beer. I held my empty bottle up for the bartender to see, shaking it gently. Then I did it again. And. Again. "She's not gonna bring you one. She's not gonna bring you one," Tony said over and over. Yet she did, even if on her own schedule. I said thank you in a kind voice, because I won that little contest.

Tony got a second beer himself. When we were done with those drinks we paid, even leaving tips. Not great tips but decent, the 15% which was typical at the time. I stood up to leave.

I was out the door and onto the street ahead of my friend. Yet I heard him absolutely explode in laughter as he left the bar. "Do you know what she just said to me? Do you know what she just said to me?" Tony demanded.

Confused, I shook my head no. "She looked at me and with a big, wide smile said, 'Have a nice day fellas!' Like nothing was wrong!"

Well, they were good steaks. And service notwithstanding, or perhaps with standing, I do remember the place. Couldn't beat the entertainment.

Figuratively Hanging Iron

As the great majority of you know, me Grandpa Joe rented welding equipment for many a year. For a lot of them years me Pops was one of his main delivery drivers. Dad used to love sitting in the office shanty on job sites before the day's work began, listening to the war stories and likely offering a few himself.

One day as he was early with a delivery most all of the weldors on hand were in the shanty drinking coffee and talking, having not yet set out to earn their daily bread. The guys were bragging about how much iron they were going to hang once they got started. It was going to be a big, productive day.

The job foreman, whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, sat by silently taking in the revelry. Finally he had heard enough. Turning to Pops he said, overly loud but wanting everyone to hear, "You know, Red (they called me Pops Red when he was younger because his hair was red back then), if these fellas hung as much iron on the job as they did in the shed, we'd be a high-ballin' outfit."

Cloyce was ribbing them but to a point. They were put on notice to live up to their bragging when the work started. Pride can drive a man to a lot of things. One of them is to put up or shut up.

Marty Moneychanger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or Can You?

As you might know, I have words and sayings which I use regularly. So did me Pops, such as, 'That'd stink a dog off a gut wagon'. So did me Grandpa Joe with, 'I ain't hell on pretty'. Well, me Uncle John had a routine phrase which he actually disliked: "You can't miss it."

When giving directions, he believed, you never told someone they can't miss it. They will. If he was being given directions, he knew that, once enlightened with the fateful phrase, he would miss it. To him, the words never failed to give the opposite outcome.

He didn't believe in the fates or jinxes of course. It was more that anything can go wrong, anything can be 'missed'. The right thing to do was simply give the directions and don't mix opinion into it. Answer the question about how to go where and find what, and leave it at that.

I hope you get his point. Because, of course, you can't miss it.

By the Number

Math, a dear friend of mine who interestingly happens to be a math teacher, says, is life. I don't doubt it. When the numbers in the checkbook (does anyone use one of those anymore?) don't add up, it's a problem. But this is more about numbers than full on mathematics (does anyone use the complete word anymore?). 

A twice recurrent number in my life is 1104. When you pronounce it eleven-oh-four it rolls nicely off the tongue. It was the address of the house me Pops grew up in (on Putnam Street in Detroit) and the number of me son's scout troop. That is at least kind of serendipitous, isn't it?

Me Uncle John whom I call Zeke loved the old house. So did me Pops, as I'm quite sure did the rest of their siblings. Zeke used to say if he had the money he'd rebuilt it precisely to spec. 

Me Grandparents moved out of it in 1965. I remember being there as a small boy. As the second oldest grandchild there likely aren't many of us on my tier of the family that were in it. The place was huge. I recall being in the back yard playing with the dog they had at the time (Moochie? Does that sound like the dog's name?), and toddling around the basement with me Pops and his brothers as they shot pool. 

Then me son Frank ends up making Eagle Scout through Boy Scout Troop 1104. I don't know if Pops realized that, but I have to imagine he did. Some numbers just stick with us and I have the distinct impression 1104 did with him. 

There's other numbers which mean a lot to me but that's the only one which appears prominently in my life two times. I may play the lottery with it today. Third time's a charm?

 

The Christmas Movie Debate

The past weekend at the Old Redford Theater was Christmas movie weekend. They offered Scrooged, A Muppet Christmas Carol, and Home Alone along the way. The Sunday matinee was billed as a mystery Christmas film. 

"Is it a mystery surrounding Christmas?" me brother Phil and definitely not Cloyce asked.

"No, It's a mystery what the film is. They won't reveal which movie until opening curtain." Yes, they still have a curtain at the Old Redford.

Well, it turns out that Phil was kinda right (he never is more than kinda of right, and at that rarely). Imagine my delight when the movie turned out to be The Thin Man, a delightful comedy drama murder mystery with Christmas as a backdrop. It has William Powell and Myrna Loy as Nick and Nora Charles, the wonderfully bantering married sleuths. Great, crisp writing, fine acting, smart and funny quips between Nick and Nora; it's one of my all time favorite films. It was a satisfying surprise for me.

But is The Thin Man a Christmas movie? Along the lines of Die Hard I suppose it is, as the action occurred over the Holiday. That said, you figure it out. I have my opinion (I typically do) but today I'm just going to be the guy throwing the bomb into the room and running away.

Do you mind?

This past Friday we made a pretty good sale: a large machine with extra cables. It came to $3100, which for our small business is a very nice sale indeed. Truly, it made our day. And although we take credit cards and I will take checks from a trusted source, he paid cash. Cash is still king, baby.

As the customer left he asked if we had another unit in stock. I answered yes, but that it was spoken for as another man had left half down. He then asked, "If that guy backs out, would you give the same package I just got for $2100?" I stammered that I'd think about it.

Rudimentary math will tell you that what he was asking for was nearly one-third off the original sale. That's kind of bold for a guy to ask if you ask me, even having just made a major purchase.

My brother Phil, who has a quick wit, remarked after the guy had left, "Can you believe that? Asking for a grand off?" He paused, and then continued as though speaking in mockery to the fella, "Do you mind if we make some money off our sales?" 

True words, well spoken.

Donut anxiety

For a few years I taught college test prep classes. In an attempt to make students feel more comfortable and, hopefully, more open to learning, we allowed food and snacks in our classrooms. So I thought little initially when a young woman brought coffee and a donut into class one day. She set down her coffee, put the donut on a napkin, and, with the rest of the students, dutifully opened a textbook to the page I had indicated.

I began to expound about English grammar. She listened quietly and wrote a couple of notes as I went along. After a minute of two she took a pinch, literally a pinch, hardly enough to call a crumb, off of her donut and ate it. I thought quietly to myself, and very calmly, 'Take a bite of the donut'.

I continued with my lecture. Before long the young lady had another infinitesimal bit of her donut, then a tiny, bare, meager sip at her coffee. 'Eat the donut,' I said to myself, a little more encouragingly.

Rules of the comma were the rule of the day, so I pressed on. She took another vague nip of her pastry. 'Take a bite of the donut,' said Marty to himself, becoming perturbed at her manner of consumption.

After an explanation of comma rule three and a note about such, another pinch of donut. 'Take. A bite. Of your donut,' I thought emphatically. By then it looked as though a mouse had been nibbling at it rather than a human being eating it.

Comma rule five followed comma rule four. Pick, pick, pick at the donut. She wasn't eating the doughy ring so much as slow torturing it. That pastry was undergoing a horrible, painful death. My pulse raced; a drip of sweat formed on my forehead. My blood pressure rose volcanically. In my mind I was yelling, 'For the love of all that's good and holy in this world, take a bite out of that stupid donut!

The math instructor appeared in the doorway. We tagged teamed our classes and she had arrived to do a math review. I finished up, gave a homework assignment, and rose to go to the other room to talk about the comma there. As I made my exit I took a furtive glance over my shoulder. The young woman had just eaten another atom of her snack.

'Take an actual bite out of that donut,' the math teacher thought, with a touch of anxiety. I could see it in her eyes.

St. Nicholas Day

Today is St. Nicholas Day. Way back when, during the late 1960s at old St. Dominic School, we used to line up our shoes outside the classroom door on December 6, at least those of us in the lowest grades. The teacher would then distract the class with an assignment of some kind. A few minutes later there would magically be a small trinket or two, and perhaps a couple pieces of candy, in our footwear. We would have a quick celebration before getting back to our school work. That is a fond memory of this old man.

Happy St. Nicholas Day.

Ceramic Coffee Cup Philosophy

One of my kids, I honestly don't remember who (that'll get them to thinking and pointing fingers) accidentally dropped a coffee cup while we were on a visit to me Grandpa Joe's. It shattered, porcelain shards scattering all across the kitchen floor. As a parent typically does, I began to chastise the guilty party for not bring careful. Joe cut me off. "Hell, I never knew one to wear out."

I thought it was funny even at the time, and it says something about what our reactions might ought to be. While I don't want to excuse carelessness (children certainty must be taught to be considerate of things, especially other people's things) there's that old bugbear about perspective. It was just a common old coffee mug and it was an accident. And they don't wear out. It would likely get broken one day anyway.

Gruff as he was, I always thought Joe had a soft spot for kids just the same. I've told a few stories here that illustrates that. Add this to it.

Bird Evolution

Funny all the things you find on the internet. Funny too all the funny things which run through my head while I'm scrolling.

This morning I stumbled upon a sale for a 'smart' bird feeder. I suppose that means it attracts birds somehow, or doles out food on some particular schedule, or perhaps even has a camera where you might watch birds at dinner close up. Or are they actually watching you?

Yet those were not the first thoughts which popped into my mind. The very first thought I thought was, this feeder must be designed to help the evolution of bird species, because only smart birds will figure out how to use it. Dumb birds will die out. Survival of the fittest!

Bird evolution. It's entertaining to control natural selection. 

Self Analysis

I've long held to the standard that you aren't the best judge of your self, your motives, or your actions.  You're either too harsh - especially if you're Catholic, ha, ha - or too lenient. Indeed I will editorialize for a moment and say that unfettered leniency is the hallmark of the secular world, and look where that's gotten us. Still, know thyself, the unexamined life is not worth living, and all that. You should examine the things you've said and done, and probably more the things you've said as they might be the best window into your soul. And when you're trying to establish yourself as a writer, you discover very quickly that you've put a lot on the public record.

On the whole I like what I've written. Yet that doesn't mean I don't appreciate reasonable criticism. With five books available on various platforms and with each having garnered anywhere from 40 to 180 reviews, some brief, some extensive, I almost - almost - find the critical ones the most fair.

A more routine negative comment is that my writing is at times a slog. I could get angry, except that it's true. Sometimes I'm just bridging a gap because I couldn't figure out how else to jump from A to B and it shows. 

I've been advised that it can be hard to stay interested in my stories, and I know that to be true. My personal favorite book of mine is A Subtle Armageddon. Yet even I must concede that it drags at points. I think that story has to drag a bit, given the parameters inherent within the tale, but so it goes. 

Ah well. Before I go on too long (quiet, Ron) here's what I'm about today: links to my books. Buy them. If you are into examining your motives, you'll find that you've occasionally spent your time less wisely than in helping an aspiring author rise among the greats. Yes, that's cheeky. We writers can do that.

A Subtle Armageddon

Michael's Story (Kindle)

Michael's Story (paperback)

The Interim Generation (Kindle only)

David Gideon (all formats)

The Sublime to the Ridiculous - Family Lore (Kindle only)

Whatever You Feel is Right for Cloyce

Me brother Phil and I routinely joke about how absurd it is when people say to do whatever you feel is right in a given situation. No; you should try your best to do what is right, feelings be damned. Now, I'm not trying to get all philosophical on you today, but you have to understand that principle as part of a years long running joke between he and I about feelings if you're to understand the following bit of humor.

Phil was working on an admittedly difficult repair yesterday for Cloyce's Plumbing. He began thinking out loud how to approach it, as though I might actually offer a useful hint. I finally said, "Do whatever you feel is right, bro," obviously referencing our running gag about the value of following your feelings.

"Well, I feel that there's no problem at all. So I'm going to take it back to Cloyce and charge him $100 for the inspection and analysis!" Phil said right back at me.

We laughed out loud. Cloyce didn't, ahem, feel it was all that funny though.

Amos's turkey day

The story may sound contrived, trite, or obvious. Yet it's a true story. I haven't even changed the names to protect the innocent.

Amos, you'll recall, was an old friend of me Grandpa Joe. You may remember also that he was considered tight. However true that might be, and I suspect that it's been a bit embellished by the myth-makers of family history, he didn't mind spending a few dimes on good causes. One such cause was St. Dominic's annual Fall Festival.

As should be expected at a large party celebrating autumn, among the games and spinning wheels was a turkey booth. You pick a number, you put your money or ticket on that number, the wheel is spun, and should that number come up, you have your entree for your Thanksgiving feast. Amos approached the booth, selected some number not 13 (he was also superstitious, remember?), and waited for the spin of the wheel. He anticipated nothing, but lo and behold, won a turkey on that first try.

Now, two things were at work that day. Amos was genuinely there to support the Church. But then, he also knew his reputation. He figured he couldn't just walk away with the bird. So he played a second time with a second number (still not 13). He won another turkey.

Then a third one.

And finally, a fourth one.

You may rest assured that Amos spread his largesse. He gave away three of the four turkeys. I've no doubt also that he made his way around the school gymnasium and spent his share of hard earned dollars to help old St. Dominic. But to hear me Pops tell it, the look on his face, the sheer mortification at winning four turkeys in a row at a charitable event, was priceless.

February in November

While out clearing the cars and the walks of snow this morning I thought, "This is a fine February day." Then I remembered it's November 30.

This has the markings of a long winter folks. 

How could dat be?

"How could dat be?"

It was a query voiced by one certain friend of the family, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, whenever he didn't understand something. We've probably all expressed such or similar remarks when we have been confused.

Me Pops liked to relate the tale of when he, Pops, had a car which spewed out all of its coolant. When he added some and started the engine, the new fluid poured out within a few seconds. It turned out he had blown a freeze plug.

Freeze plugs, I assume large gas engines still have them, are small metal discs machine pressed into ports on the side of a motor. They're called freeze plugs because if the engine got so cold that the fluid inside began to freeze and expand, they'd pop out, saving it from greater damage. A freeze plug you can replace. You crack an engine, you're replacing an engine.

A freeze plug could pop out at any time; it didn't require cold to go bad. As with so many other things in our fallen world, sometimes things just go bad for whatever reason.

So Pops was replacing the popped plug (which had chosen a hot summer day to blow out) when Cloyce happened around. "Whatcha doing Bill?" he asked.

"Replacing a freeze plug," the old man answered.

"How could dat be?" Cloyce exclaimed incredulously.

Dad replied with his own confused query, "What do you mean?"

"How the hell did a freeze plug pop out on a hot day like this?" demanded Cloyce.

After he stopped laughing me Pops explained how it could happen anytime. It didn't depend on the cold.

Thanksgiving 2024

It doesn't have to be perfect. Indeed, it can be quite flawed and still be a good holiday. The food doesn't have to be fit for, well, the Food Network. The house doesn't need to be set for, well again, House Beautiful. I would go so far as to say that if any holiday can past muster if all is simply okay, Thanksgiving is it.

Of course, I mean that in the sense of the trappings (the trappings being the least important part of any holiday). But the point of the day, to remember all the good things which we have and, Lord willing, shall continue to have, that's the idea. Be thankful. Thankful for friends and family. Thankful for the roof over your head. Thankful, yes, for the food and festivity. All those things are little perfects which, left to themselves and seen by themselves, will allow you to have a very good day. 

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

For those who might like a more serious or somber look at what makes Thanksgiving important, and why we should guard its origins zealously, click here: 400 Years of Thanksgiving

Sympathy Pangs

A gentleman came into the Shop yesterday, saying a phrase which I have come to hate. When I expressed my doubt that I could help him immediately he replied, "I know you can do something for me Cosgriff."

The trouble with such statements is that what I can do and what he wanted done were totally incompatible. He wanted a miracle while I have to work in the practical. He needed a cage and a belt, neither of which I have. "You're looking at $425 and about two to four weeks," I explained. 

This news disappointed him; his expression sank like the Bismarck. He then spent the next 20 minutes shooting ideas at me in a pleading way. Yet there was nothing to be done. Cage, belt, a wait time. End of story.

I was truly sympathetic. The elevator didn't go all the way to the top floor but the guy was sincere. He wanted to work. He had work to do. I have more respect for him than the folks who sit at the top of freeway exits with cardboard signs. Yet there were no options. Without those parts I could do nothing. There was no way of fabricating something, no jury rigging which might be done to help him along. No alternative existed for me to help him.

I suggested renting a unit when he had a job, and even mentioned that renting something long term might be cheaper. Too, as I also said, check rental stores for used equipment. They often sell older units as they are replaced with new. But I don't doubt that money was an issue for him, and that was part of the problem.

I hope he figures something out because I want guys willing to work to be able to work. I do feel bad for his predicament. But when there's nothing you can do there's nothing you can do. 

It's just in many ways kinda sad.

They'll do it every time, or, Cloyce and the sweet rolls

When me Pops were a young lad fresh out of high school, he became, well, sorta the dispatcher for Joe Cosgriff Welding Machine Rentals. While that sounds like an impressive job title, what it meant was that Pops had to be up ahead of any of the drivers to make sure they got on their way promptly.

Bear in mind that in the middle of the 1950s there weren't the kind of superhighways we all complain about today. When a delivery had to be made the driver had to bull through Detroit and then through every wide spot in the road once past the city limits. Have I ever mentioned that me Grandpa Joe's welders went all over Michigan and Ohio? That meant some very early starts when a unit had to be in Muskegon or Bay City Michigan, let alone Ashtabula, Ohio. And me Pops job was to be up early to hitch up welders (if they be gas drives, that is, driven by attached gasoline engines) or load electric drives (electricity powered welders) onto stake trucks in readiness for the drivers. Then he had to make sure the drivers got out on time. It meant a lot of 4 AM wake ups for Pops. But he did it, and he became a good man for it.

So there was this one driver, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who worked for Joe back then. As was his custom, me Pops always had hot coffee ready for the drivers, to help wake them in the wee hours. Several times in a row, when Cloyce would sleepily arrive for an early morning run, he would gratefully enough take a cup from Pops. And every time he would ask me Pops, every single time, mind you, "You don't have a roll to go with this do ya?" Pops would apologize as he said no.

After this happening frequently, Pops got ahead of the game. One evening before an early morning delivery he knew Cloyce had, he went to the corner store and bought a package of sweet rolls.

Along about 4:30 the following morning Pops got up and hitched a gas drive to a vehicle in anticipation of a delivery to Midland, Michigan, a good three and half hours from Detroit at the time. Cloyce soon appeared at the Old Barn and availed himself of the coffee Dad had at the ready. He and Pops chit chatted for a few minutes as they each sipped at their hot drinks, the previously opened package of rolls between them on a desk.

You know where this is going, right?

After a few minutes of Cloyce not taking one Dad pointed out, "There's some rolls there, Cloyce."

"Nah, I don't believe I feel like any this morning, Bill," he replied.

I doubt the old man ever bought him anything else after that, let alone a sweet roll.

Stretching A Buck

Me Grandpa Joe had his welder rental business, but he also owned a couple of rooming houses with single rooms as well as apartments for rent. With eight kids plus he and me Grandma Cosgriff, 10 mouths to feed and house and clothe required a decent income stream.

Joe's money rule was simple. He used the earnings from the welders to pay for the business. Me Grandma Cosgriff got all the income from the rooms and apartments to pay for the food and clothes and such for her and me Pops and his seven siblings. You know, the various household expenses. 

Now, me Grams was good with a buck. I'll likely go into more detail on that in another blog, but suffice it to say her reputation for handling money was well established. Me Grandpa Joe garnered no such accolades.

One day Joe was lamenting to his older brother, me Great Uncle Bill who me Pops was named for, "Boy, a dollar from the room rents sure goes farther than a dollar from the welders."

Uncle Bill replied simply, "Look who's spending the welding money and look who spends the rent income."

Joe couldn't challenge that judgement. He knew it was true.

Keesh

Actually, it's quiche. It's been said real men don't eat it. If they don't, they also don't know what they're missing. 

I spent some time at the Solanus Casey Center in Detroit yesterday. Father Solanus was an area priest who has been declared Blessed (a step before Sainthood) by the Catholic Church. The namesake Center offers a soup kitchen, conference center, museum, and a nice little Cafe. I generally grab a coffee there. Feeling a bit hungry yesterday I thought I might buy something to go with the jitter juice. The ham quiche looked good, so I tried it. 

Wow. It was cheesy with light, fluffy eggs and chunks of ham. Outstanding. It was, well, heavenly. It was so good I almost bought another. But gluttony is a sin and I had just gone to confession. 

Quiche, pronounced Keesh. Try it. You won't lose your man card, guys.

My Inner Joe Cosgriff

Me Grandpa Joe, I loved that man. Hoo boy, though, did his temper have a short fuse. I'm sure I've spoken of that. But you know, the older I grow the more I get his temper. And I'll you something further: the older I get, the harder it is to hold that genetic disposition in check. There are times where it's all I can do to keep my temper down. Even then, I still lose it, but that's for another blog.

I can't begin to tell you exactly how much I wanted to throw down on a customer just yesterday. I didn't, but I sure wanted to.

He had an issue with a drain snake, and I of course work on such animals. He told me what it was doing and I told him what it likely needed. He asked me to ship the part. "Well, why don't you try this test first," I started to explain, because there's a simple way to test this particular part and it could save everyone time and effort if the guy would take ten minutes to try it.

I was cut off, quite rudely I will add, which will not help his case. "We've done all the testing. Send me the part." FYI by his own admission they had not looked inside the motor, and the test I had in mind requires opening the motor.

That's where I nearly lost it, because I know absolutely beyond any doubt he has not tried the test I intended to suggest. I know that because it's not something anyone without my knowledge of the problem would know. Not that I'm all that, but merely that it's a very specialized type of knowledge which only someone with experience could have. And you must open the motor to do it. 

I could actually hear myself yelling at the man (but in Joe's voice) "No! You have not done all the testing; you don't know what the test is! You called me because you don't know what's wrong but now you don't wanna listen to my advice!" I wanted to hang up on him, I was so mad.

Instead I'm going to send him the part, and it had best work, for his sake. Because I will go off on him if he calls later with a complaint. I guarantee that.

Saved by a snag

Regular patrons of this here blog know well that me Grandpa Joe rented arc welding machines, and that he trained as a welder. I've too lamented how he hated tangled welding cable, hated it with a passion. So it was quite a surprise one day when he told me that if he ever took a ride on an airplane, he'd take a length of welding cable wrapped around him.

Completely perplexed, I stammered, "Why would you do that?"

"Cause if I fell out of that plane it would save me. Welding cable always snags on something."

Who says Joe didn't have a sense of humor?

Hit It

One of me Pops favorite jokes involved hammers. 

When something had to be hammered into or out of place but required two people, he would employ it. He'd take the part in question and proceed to line it up with where it had to be driven. His exact instructions were, "Let me line this up, and then when I nod my head, hit it."

Dad meant hit the object, not his head. Just so you understand the joke.

Sorry About That, Chief

Maxwell Smart, the famous Agent 86, used to say that with regularity to his boss, called simply the Chief. Indeed it became one of the Max's catch phrases. Yet it seems appropriate to me and my family.

We had a beagle named Chief. We had that dog for about 12 years. He was a good, family dog.

Trying to encourage our kids to eat healthy as they grew, we tried to keep a lot of fruit around the house. Apples had kind of defaulted to the fruit of choice; they were plentiful and cheap. 

Over time, who knows how such things start, old Chief began to follow an apple eater around the house. We all took to tossing him the apple core when we were done. Chief would typically catch it in the air and chomp it down in a few bites.

It turns out (we discovered this relatively recently) that the seeds in apple cores contain trace amounts of cyanide. I don't think it had any serious long term health effects on the old family pet. Further, how could we have ever imagined such stuff as that? Still, I think about it from time to time now and feel bad about it.

Sorry about that, Chief. But we all thought at the time, including you, that it simply a nice treat. 

Toddlers Being Heard

One fine summer day a few years ago a neighbor woman stopped by me Mom's house as she, me self, and me brother Phil sat on the porch. It was a nice, friendly visit. I'll call her Mrs. Cloyce just to give her a name; she had her toddler son in tow.

"We're just coming back from his first protest!" She was explaining in great excitement. "I was so happy to have this experience with him. I hope he'll remember it the rest of his life." She went on to coo and ahh and gush over the event as if the child had just said Mama or Dada the first time or had taken his first steps. In her opinion apparently this was a great thing for the boy. She sure was making that big a deal out of it.

Okay, fine, I guess. We all expose our children to what we think important, even early on. Yet the best observation of the whole thing came after Mrs. Cloyce and her son had left to go home. "So that's the trouble with our world," me brother Phil remarked when they were out of earshot, "The lack of a social consciousness on the part of our nation's two-year-olds."

I personally believe it a rather apt interpretation.

Mom Playing Cards

I know this is a retread (the original post is dated 2017) but I like it and I'm running it again.

When we watch others playing games, it's kind of hard not to at least want to tell them what to do. Even when they're playing solitaire.

Klondike solitaire is the choice among my family. Grandpa Joe played it often; I remember fondly watching him run through a game as we sat in silence at his kitchen table. Pops played it a lot too, sitting at our kitchen table contentedly reshuffling actual decks of cards for each new game, unlike lazy players such as myself who play on the computer and reshuffle at the touch of a key. My 82 year old mother never played it that I know until Dad passed. Now she plays it all the time, I think because it connects her to him. But it's also good intellectual exercise, which is itself a good thing too.

I was visiting her the other day. We were at that same kitchen table where Pops played, and Mom was occupied playing Klondike even as we talked. And she had this four of diamonds which she could play on a five of clubs. Only she wasn't playing it. 'You could play that 4 onto that 5', I thought, but didn't say it out loud.

We went on talking about whatever. She kept on going through her draw cards yet doing nothing with that four of diamonds. Still I thought to myself, ever more insistently, you can play that red four onto that black five. Still also I remained silent.

The conversation went on. The four continued to sit untouched. The thought, 'Come on Ma, play the stupid four' repeated itself over and over in my head. Yet I still said nothing aloud, despite how increasingly anxious I was becoming.

Minutes passed by as we went on conversing. Finally she stopped, looked up at me over the top of her glasses and asked, "Do you want to me play that red four on that black five?"

"Yes, dear Lord, please. Play that four!" I responded emphatically.

"I knew it was there. We were just talking and I kept forgetting it."

I don't believe that for a minute. She sensed I was getting antsy and was driving that feeling along. Moms.

All in a Day's Work

Granted, I came in in the middle of the movie, so perhaps I missed important background information. Still, what happened in the old melodrama which I woke up to a few minutes ago perplexes me. 

I tend to leave the TV on when I go to bed at night. I probably shouldn't exactly for these moments, but that's another question. As it is, I woke up to see two men in a heated discussion, one a young man, another quite obviously elderly. The older guy was the accountant for the firm the younger man apparently owned.

The accountant was agitated, angry, and adamant about what needed to be done. The young man came towards him threateningly. "What are you going to do?" Elderly Accountant demanded.

"I'm going to kill you!" Young Business Owner asserted. He grabbed the accountant's neck and began to choke him.

There was a knock on the door. Releasing his grip, the young man simply went and opened it. In walked a man who immediately showed a badge and identified himself as a police lieutenant. "I'd like to ask you fellows a few questions," he began. Pretty soon the business owner was clearly hedging in his answers to the cop's inquiries, while the old accountant in response to a demand began digging files out of a cabinet as though nothing had happened a few minutes earlier. And all I could think was, "Why don't you tell the nice police officer who arrived so fortunately as to prevent the attack that the other guy just tried to kill you?"

It never came up. Everyone just went on as though nothing dangerous had ever happened. The closest they came was when the old guy told the cop, while staring daggers at young guy, that he was now the former accountant of the company.

I suppose I would tender my resignation too if my boss tried to strangle me. I fact, I think I'd take it a few steps further, what with a police lieutenant present and all. But as I say, maybe I missed something.

James and Cloyce

I'm going to try to get this story right. I'll just ask all of you out there to remember that stories and memories can get garbled over time.

Me Great Grandpa James wasn't a drinker. Yet one day he found himself with a jug of whiskey; I just don't recall how. But as he tooled along in his horse drawn wagon headed for Church one Sunday (this would have been in early 1900s Illinois) he noticed the town drunk ambling towards him. I'll call the guy Cloyce just to give him a name.

Anyway, me great grandfather could tell that Cloyce was ailing. So he pulled up and asked what was wrong. He was recovering from a drunk, Cloyce explained, and that maybe a little hair of the dog would help. Yet he didn't know where he might find any that morning, a fine Sunday morning as it were. James simply gave him the whiskey he had and went about his business.

He ran into Cloyce a few days later and asked how the whiskey was. "Just fine, sir, just fine," Cloyce answered. "Any worse and I couldn't have drunk it, and any better and you wouldn't have given it to me." 

As an aside, me Great Grandpa later found out that Cloyce had been going all over town bragging that he had gotten a drink from old Jim Cosgriff, and on a Sunday morning no less. But great Grandpa James didn't mind such tales making the rounds.

Umpire Steak

Me Uncle John sometimes called Zeke, 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 traffic 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. He could make you laugh until you hurt. Really. But I can't recreate it, 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 place. It would specialize in beef entrees. He would name his restaurant...

...wait for it...

...the Umpire Steak Building.

I have always liked that quip. Thanks Zeke.

Cloyce at 10

A fine way to get on my bad side is to try to dictate my schedule. One customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, tried to do that a few minutes ago.

Cloyce called yesterday and asked when he could bring his machine in for a chuck. I told him to be at the Shop this morning at 10 and I'd take care of it.

So why was he calling at 7:45 AM asking if I was available yet?

Times like that I completely sympathize with me Grandpa Joe's temper. I wanted to lose mine at Cloyce. "Cloyce, I told you be here at 10," I reminded him, calming myself enough to not yell it in his ear, even though Joe would've. 

That irritated me, no, angered me, no, infuriated me no end. He had an appointment. I would honor it. But I also had to honor commitments made to other customers, such as the ones I promised could get their orders or repairs by ten. If their stuff isn't ready at 10 they would be rightfully upset at the excuse, "But guys, Cloyce needed his machine." They would likely think, if not say out loud, if not half scream in consternation, "Cosgriff, you told me I could have mine by 10. I need mine too." I most certainly would not hear, "Oh? You had to get Cloyce's machine ready? I understand, Cosgriff. Go on and do it. Hey, I'll wait until next week if you need me to. Anything for Cloyce."

If I give you a time, I will honor it if humanly possible and anticipate that you will too. But as I write, if Cloyce gets at the old barn even at Nine Fifty Nine and Forty Five seconds, he'll get nothing but a stare for that last quarter minute.

Bill Cosgriff, Tax Expert

Me Grandpa Joe, he had that welding rental business. He also had rooming houses. You might imagine that required a lot of accounting. Joe, then, had contracted with an accounting firm.

Me Pops was always good with numbers, and he worked with Joe, his dad. One year as tax season approached, Joe asked Pops (my dad) about what he thought his taxes might be.

Dad proceeded to look over Joe's books, scribbling numbers on a paper as he went along. He eventually gave his dad a number of what he might expect to pay the IRS.

It turns out dad was within about ten bucks of the actual total. "Why am I paying Jack Donahue (his accountant) when you can do my taxes for me? Why don't you do them from here on out?" Joe asked his son.

Me Pops flatly refused. "No way. Maybe my numbers are good, but Donahue knows where to put those numbers on the right lines on all those tax forms." 

So Pops got out of being Joe's accountant. It was surely best for both of them. All three, counting Mr. Donahue.

The Changing Seasons

My day was made yesterday by a very simple thing. I happened into University Foods, the local supermarket, just to buy a paper. Still, I kicked around the store a bit to see what might catch my eye. Lo and behold, they had fruitcake.

I bought two. I love fruitcake. It's all right by me now if Christmas encroaches on Thanksgiving.

Hey, everybody's got a price.

The Quiet Voice

Saturdays, when I'm in town, I take me Mom to Mass at 4 O'Clock. One of my uncles used to tease us that we weren't Catholics, we were Seventh Day Adventists as we went to Church on Saturday. I still get a good chuckle out of that. He was a good man; it was all in good fun. And imagine that: people who can joke and take a joke even about something as important as their religion. What a concept.

In the Catholic Mass, at one point the congregation says the Our Father. I first noticed several weeks ago Mom's voice when she recites it. It's a small, quiet voice, yet to me it's become the loudest voice in Church. You see, she forgets; she forgets easily. And she's slowing down, gradually becoming weaker so that she more often sits when we're normally standing during Mass. I just let her. God understands.

But at the Our Father she never fails to stand and say the prayer with the rest of us. Her little voice stands out, though. And God hears.

Pure Copper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Just for Roofing Anymore

Me Grandpa Joe once had this big black Cadillac, I think it was an Eldorado, and it was a monster. A veritable battleship. I mean, that thing was huge. It's passing by would cause a solar eclipse. And like most of Joe's cars, it was, well, unique.

We never did get the brakes working quite right. You learned while driving it to anticipate traffic lights, slowing down blocks away when it looked like the light would go red soon. Me Uncle John known in some quarters as Zeke once suggested we install those big parachutes like they have on drag racers to help the car stop on time because, being big and heavy, it took a lot to stop that vehicle. The engine required so much work that Zeke also quipped that once he saw the car on the street and almost didn't recognize it with the hood down.

But what got me the most about the car was the first time Joe had me changing the oil. Crawling under the belly of the beast to drain the motor, I couldn't help but see that the oil pan had apparently once sprung a leak. The clue? The pan was covered in heavy roofing cement.

I called to me Grandpa, "There's roof cement slathered on the oil pan. Maybe it used to have a leak."

"Does it look like it's leaking now?" he yelled back.

I studied it closely and replied, "No."

"Then we won't worry about it," Joe answered.

A typical Grandpa Joe view of a typical Grandpa Joe car. Damn, I miss that old man.

Why He Won

Why did Donald Trump win a second term as President? I believe that the answer is fairly straightforward: rank and file Americans are tired of being lectured to by people who claim to be for diversity, tolerance, and inclusion yet will not include them. It's an attitude, an arrogance, which speaks volumes.

The argument against biological men playing biological women in sports is a rational opinion to hold. Being against DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) does not make me a racist or misogynist. Asserting that a unique human being is formed at the moment of conception is an argument which at least deserves vetting by the body politic. Asking immigrants to come in through the front door is eminently reasonable. Getting scolded rather than engaged when I disagree becomes tiresome if not downright infuriating. Convince me on reasonable grounds that you're right and we may be on the road to understanding. Wave a finger at me? That approach is just all wrong. Even some liberal wags are beginning to get it.

Sure, Trump is a basket of contradictions himself. He's a walking PR nightmare, quite frankly. I can't fully understand his appeal and will not begin to defend everything he's said or done. His personal life is, well, problematic. He's pompous. He's a braggart, he's self absorbed. Yet one thing he does not do is wag a finger at basic conservative beliefs. He has vowed to defend them against a relentless culture who's basic argument against us is that we're just wrong, and too stupid to realize it.

As we have no option but to deal with imperfect human beings in elections, we have to look at candidates as sum totals. In a center-right nation such as these United States, the totality of Donald Trump beats the totality of Kamala Harris. Most people saw that. And that is why he won, writ simple.

Presidential History

Simply to be more lighthearted today - I think we could stand a dose of levity - I have now seen two things repeat themselves in history. Thirty years ago I would not have expected either.

As a student of history I was always somewhat amazed that any father-son combination would end up in the White House. Yet Presidents 2 and 6, John and John Quincy Adams, accomplished it. That'll never happen again, I once thought. Then, George and George W. Bush become Presidents a mere eight years apart.

As a side note, John, John Quincy, and grandson Charles Francis Adams were all at one time in their respective careers US Ambassadors to Great Britain.

Now Donald Trump becomes the second split term President, after Grover Cleveland, who was the 22nd and 24th Chief Executive. What are the chances that would happen once, and now we have it twice. 

History is interesting, even in its trivia.

No, Really

Today is Election Day in these United States. One particular voter in my precinct will remember it for a long time.

This voter, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, intended to vote absentee. In Michigan, this means that your ballot must be returned in the envelope issued with the absentee ballot. Cloyce received his ballot and filled it out. Yet before he could mail the thing in - I am not making this up, it actually happened - his dog ate it.

Cloyce still wanted to vote, of course, so he duly went to the precinct this morning. The officials didn't want to allow him to vote, on the grounds that he registered to vote absentee. "Where's your absentee ballot?" he was asked.

"Uh, the dog ate it," Cloyce answered in complete honesty.

The poll worker stared at him, raised eyebrow and all, exactly like your teacher would. When I left, they were still trying to sort it all out.

Oooh, Shiny

Does it happen to you? Do you have trouble finding things you just had?

I was up at the old barn this morning to make sure I had a repair completed for 10 o'clock. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Everything was done except for the chuck. I had attached the chuck to the drive shaft of that particular unit and was promptly distracted. Minutes later, I can't find the shaft with the new part. 

Not on the work bench. Not back in the office. Not on a shelf near the bathroom. I couldn't find it. It wasn't near anyplace I'd been, it seemed. You would think that a drive shaft with an obviously new silver chuck would stand out. Nope.

It had reached the point where I had determined to go into my parts bin and simply get new everything to install when I saw what I sought. The drive shaft and chuck were sitting right next to the repair. And I mean right smack dab next to the machine. How could I have not seen it?

It's gonna be a long week...

Plastic Saw

Young kids, especially around 4 or 5 years old, can be very literal. It makes sense. They aren't old enough to appreciate nuances such as jokes.

As I sat on the bottom step of my porch handing out candy this past Halloween, a small boy in a serial killer costume approached. He was holding a clearly plastic chainsaw. "I'll give you candy if you please don't hurt me with your saw," I teased.

He stopped and pulled his mask onto the top of his head. "I won't hurt you," he told me with complete sincerity. Holding the chainsaw up for me to examine he continued, "See? It’s just a toy."

"Ahhh," I responded, trying to sound like I was comfortably reassured. It might have been the cutest thing I heard all night.

Hard Luck Highway

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 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 the 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 once the juice had been flowing a while.

Sometimes a craps game might break out. Then the whole neighborhood heard 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.

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 had no work and was bored, he joined the boys in the Clubhouse that one afternoon. They invited 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 somebody 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 only 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.

Halloween in Review

So I donned the old Gerry Cheevers style hockey mask last night and did the Jason thing as I passed out candy to trick or treaters. I was happy with the reactions.

"It's Jason!" screamed several kids as they approached my house. They were screams of delight, quite honestly. I must admit though, that I am a bit concerned about the number of seven and eight year olds who know who Jason is. But if I can know the character despite having never seen a single Friday the 13th movie, maybe they can too.

One child, who seemed truly afraid, said, "Please don't hurt me," as she carefully held out her Halloween bag for a piece of candy. Another young boy, obviously more a man of the world, asked plainly, "Please don't cut my head off."

"Well, since you said please," I growled in return.

A few wondered aloud if perhaps I were in fact Michael Myers. Those were the ones I thought should have their heads lopped off.

I'm thinking we had about 400 kids over two or two and a half hours. Almost all I must say were very well behaved too. It was indeed a Happy Halloween.

The Most Sincere Pumpkin Patch

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

This is me brother Patrick's pumpkin patch, lovingly set out every October for Halloween. I think I would like to spend the night in it, as I'm certain it's the one within which the Great Pumpkin will alight. Yet as a 64 year-old man with sinus issues and an aversion to being committed, I think I'll pass. 

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

For Starters

You the nicest thing about towing a van to a mechanic? Driving it home when it's fixed.

The new old van which me brother Phil helped me tow to the garage yesterday needed a starter. I expected that, based on how it had acted. It hit me for $348 and some change, which honestly wasn't as bad as I expected. I thought it would be five hundred or so.

So, a good deal. Still, there's that part of me who thinks I should have tried to do it myself. I have before taken on some fairly major repairs. I had an old Pinto station wagon which need a rear main oil seal. I had never replaced anything like that before, yet I didn't think twice about it. I took it into the old barn and yanked that engine, which had to come all the way out, and replaced that seal. No biggie.

I've replaced engine heads and head gaskets on cars, even transmissions. Exhaust systems? Oh yeah. Even brakes, and I'm talking shoe brakes, not disc. One false move putting a spring on a shoe brake and it will fly across the Shop, as feared a projectile as if fired from a cannon. And I'm here to tell about it. Don't ask about Cloyce.

Brake pads and rotors I will still do. They're one of the few things on cars that honestly have become easier to fix. 

So anyway, what does that replaced starter mean on my new old van? Only that it's going on a 600 mile round trip tomorrow to deliver machines. I didn't have that old Chrysler fixed not to drive it. It could still make an appearance in Hessel sometime in 2025.

Lost Art

This morning, with the help of me brother Phil, we towed me new old van with me newer older van to the mechanic about a mile and a half away. We used a simple tow rope. We've done it before, and much more spectacularly. 

The trick is coordination. The lead car decides when to stop, when to proceed, and controls the timing. The towed car keeps the rope taut. For example, I drove the newer older van while Phil guided the new old van. While on 14th Street I purposely slowed us down to stay in between traffic lights so that we'd make the greens and avoid the reds; we wouldn't have to stop entirely any more than we had too. At the same time Phil would apply brakes to affect a drag on my 'pull' vehicle. We managed it with a minimum of jerking either van. Consequently, the tow was smooth.

We kept to the side so as not to impede traffic. Indeed, we use sparely travelled streets when we tow for that same reason. You should be considerate of others.

Granted, it doesn't always work well. Ask Zeke. But if you pay attention, cars can be safely towed with ropes. It's just a dying art. But we Cosgriffs do what we can to keep it in vogue.

And So It Begins

Today is the day. Today after work I don me curling wardrobe and begin throwin' them stones. Curling starts for the 2024-2025 season. 

We have a new arena with new icemakers. It will be interesting early on because of that. And yes, there is such a thing as curling ice, which is different than hockey ice, which is different than figure skating ice. All ice ain't the same, folks.

Am I ready? Mentally, yes. It's always great to see friends you haven't seen in seven months because the only real contact you have with them is curling. Opening Night means all the joy of that fraternity coming back to the fore.

Physically? Oh, boy. That question will answer itself. I've actually been doing what I'll call light calisthenics for a bit more upper body strength, and I still walk 45 minutes most mornings, 5 or 6 days a week generally. I might actually lose a few pounds if I were to watch what I eat, but who wants to do that? Be all that as it may, I am expecting at least mild soreness in the morning.

But it will be because of curling. I think I can deal with that.

Lonely roads

I see it from a couple miles away, every time I'm heading down US 68 towards Electric Eel in the wee hours before the dawn. It stands out as it is illuminated by a bright light; you cannot miss it sitting starkly to the side of the road. The four windows facing me on the square, white frame house seem to stare at my approach. The image is positively eerie and now etched in my mind. It makes Route 68 feel like one very lonely road.

68 is not the only lonely road I've come to know. Interstate 71 between Cincinnati, Ohio and Louisville, Kentucky is one long, isolated highway even in the daytime. At night there are stretches where you feel like the only soul on Earth as the freeway winds around mountains and through valleys. 

The 402 in Ontario, Canada is especially bad at night. It's long and straight and goes on forever with hardly any light between Sarnia and London. The Big Mac between Michigan's Upper and Lower peninsulas is absolutely desolate at two in the morning. At its crest you feel more alone than on I-71.

US 24 between Fort Wayne, Indiana and Toledo, Ohio is the loneliest daytime road I know. Even in bright sunlight there's nothing there as you cruise through northwest Ohio. There aren't even the gas stations and truck stops which are generally found near the exits of American superhighways. At least, not once you clear the Love's right inside the Indiana line. The stretch of road is about 80 miles but it always seems to take me forever to cut across it. I only use it because it's the most direct route home for me from Indianapolis, so I know the feeling is psychological. Still, it's quiet. Too quiet.

I haven't been in Wyoming or Nevada, where signs warning of no gas for 100 miles exist, but I can imagine there's many a lonely lane there. But we have ours here in our part of the world. My driving experience attests to that.

Slap-happy Amos

Amos was one of me Grandpa Joe's good friends. I know I've spoken about him before: he's the gent who would always stop by and shake my ten year old hand as he shuffled along to visit me grandparents. One of me Pops favorite tales about him is as follows.

Amos had once owned and maintained an apartment building. He was in his fifties, maybe sixties, at the time. Anyway, at one point he had a tenant who was notorious for getting loud and obnoxious, arguing with his wife, and generally causing trouble. Amos threatened several times to throw him out if he didn't behave himself.

One afternoon Amos was dealing with a plumbing repair on the old building, carrying a ten inch pipe wrench. He was on a landing of a stairwell between floors when he heard the loudmouthed renter yelling at his wife. The next instant the man burst out of his apartment on the floor above Amos, screaming vitriol at his old lady. Amos ordered him to calm down. "What are you gonna do about it, old man?" he demanded loudly. Then he leaped at Amos.

Amos swung the wrench and cracked the guy on the side of his head. Stepping to his left, Amos smacked the other side of the guy's skull as he flew past onto the bottom landing. The fella crashed into a heap.

A woman in a lower floor apartment looked out and, seeing the trouble, grabbed some towels and bandages to attend to the profusely bleeding attacker. "What happened?" she asked incredulously.

"He called me an old man, so I slapped him," Amos explained. He then went about his business.

And whether he moved out or became a better man, Amos had no more trouble with the bad renter.

The Story Stays the Same

I heard something from Ron the other day which I never expected to hear. After four holes of golf he remarked, "Huh. You and I are tied."

Wow. I was still in the game after four holes played.

Of course, a full round of golf is 18 holes. Things soon returned to normal. The Earth resumed spinning on its axis, and the angelic choir went for lunch. The New York Yankees took control of the Chicago White Sox and that was that. 

Ah well. It was still a day out of the office. Beautiful golf course too.

Cloyce should not have rushed the old man

Me Pops, he liked to tell stories. Most of them were funny or clever. But some, when he would relate them, he still got upset about.

There was this one aggravating sewer guy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who came into the Shop one morning with snake trouble. And he had to have his machine ASAP, right away, just as quickly as possible. Pops told him he'd do what he could as fast as he could.

It turned out to be something electrical, beyond Dad's ability. So he took it to our electrician a few blocks away, impressing upon him that it was an emergency. Ben, the electric motor guy, promised he'd get right on it.

He called Dad about two hours later that it was ready, and Pops immediately picked it up. He returned to the old barn to call Cloyce, and got Mrs. Cloyce. "Tell Cloyce his machine is all ready," he explained to her.

She responded. "Well, okay, but he left an hour ago to visit relatives in Georgia. He'll be gone three weeks."

When Cloyce returned and picked up his snake me Pops demanded, "Why did you rush me when you knew you were going to be gone for three weeks?"

"I just wanted to be sure it would be ready when I got back."

Pops let him know in no uncertain terms (he was quite forceful when he needed to be) that he did not appreciate such an attitude and would not tolerate it in the future. I'm editing that part of the story, but I'm sure you have an idea of how it went. And Pops never rushed on Cloyce's account again.

Strident Fatherly Advice

Me Grandpa Joe rented arc welding machines. The ones powered by electricity (we called them electric drives as opposed to gas drives, which had gasoline engines attached to the actual welding generator) needed 440 three phase current to run. 

That's one powerful current. It could kill you dead. Needless to say, even us Cosgriffs took a disproportionate interest in safety around those babies.

As circumstances might demand we could be working on such a welder at the Shop or out in the field. Me Pops most emphatic piece of advice to me and my brothers as we worked in the business was simple and to the point. "Don't ever take anyone else's word that the power is shut off on an electric drive you're set to work on. Make sure for yourself that it is. And I mean don't take no one's word. Not even mine! If I tell you that a welder's disconnected, go see for yourself."

When a man tells you not to trust even him under such conditions, he means what he says.

Amos Prevents Murder

I've spoke of Amos Sheffield before. He was a good friend of me Grandpa Joe. 

Old Amos was a bit of a kidder. Yet that could sometimes defuse a situation, employed rightly.

One day he was traipsing down the street in the old neighborhood and came across Ilene, who was married to a guy named Ben. Amos knew them both, so he and Ilene stopped to chat.

Turns out Ilene and Ben were on the outs. They'd had a spat, and she stormed out of the house. That's why she was trolling around herself. "He gets me so mad sometimes, I could just kill him," she said to Amos with a shaking head.

"Oh, now, that's serious stuff, killing a fella," Amos remarked. "You gotta careful about that."

"Of course, if you're serious we can get a couple of guns and see to it," he added dryly.

Ilene burst into laughter. "All right, Amos, I'll just go back home and talk to him."

"That's good thinking," concurred Amos.

A passive aggressive Cosgriff?

Grandpa Joe once had an old Packard that he really liked. He also had an older brother whom he was close to, and one day the car and the brother came together in what even Joe admitted was a funny story.

His older brother was Uncle Bill. Joe thought enough of him that he named his first son, me Pops, after him. Uncle Bill was as quiet and reflective as Joe was loud and abrasive. But if you told Uncle Bill something you'd better mean it, because he would do it.

One day someone's car had slid off into a ditch, and Joe and Bill went with Grandpa's Packard to try to pull it out. They hooked up to the car, and Bill got in the driver's seat of the Packard because Joe thought he was better at things like pulling vehicles out of ditches. Uncle Bill revved the Packard up slowly, and gently tried to get into gear several times, with no luck moving the stuck car. Joe become more impatient by the second, until he finally yelled, "Hell, rip the bumper off her!"

"I knew right after I said it I'd said it to the wrong guy," Grandpa admitted years later, retelling the tale with a laugh.

Uncle Bill's face drew into a huge grin. He raced that engine and dropped it into gear. The car leapt forward powerfully, as a 12 cylinder Packard should. And he ripped the bumper clean off.

As Joe said years later, "What could I say? I told him to do it."

He never did say exactly how they got the car out of the ditch though. But that really isn't the point of the story anyway, is it?

Just Like I Said

Do you remember this past Thursday when I told you no more repair quotes over the phone? You don't? Well, pretend you did.

The man in question came in, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, Jay, and sure enough, the two set screws I described (remember or pretend to remember how I described them) were indeed frozen in place. I had to remove the round part they sat in, secure it in my bench vise, and apply heat. Fortunately that worked, yet I still charged Cloyce $80. I for one think that fair.

What nearly set me off was when Cloyce asked as he paid "I don't see how you couldn't have told me eighty bucks over the phone Cosgriff."

It's a good thing I had already turned off the acetylene torch, because I would have torched him with it. "I didn't know I'd have to do this, Cloyce." Though why I bothered to say that, I don't know either. 

How to Vote

I'm going to cut right to the chase here: with few exceptions there should only be voting, and also with few exceptions only in person voting, on the actual election day. Period. Why?

Well, first and foremost, that's the whole point of elections: what does the country think at this moment. Too many things can happen two and three weeks ahead which might affect your vote, things which indeed might require you to vote differently. That process is short circuited by early voting. Unless you have no intention of altering your ballot no matter what, that is. I will suggest that such an attitude is far too partisan.

There's less time for shenanigans if nearly all the votes must come in on one day. While I do not believe the 2020 Election stolen (nor the 2016, Hillary, I for one have not forgotten what you said) it's a lot harder to rig anything on the spur of the moment. So yes, I am arguing elections are more likely to be fair under single day voting.

What I'm going to say next will likely offend some, but I don't care. Certain things need to be said if for no other reason so that we might fully understand the entire issue. 

By and large, early and absentee voting is for the lazy voter. Okay, I'll vote if you mail me a ballot. I'll vote if I don't have to stand in line too long. Well, if that's all the vote means to you, I'm not sure you merit it. The attitude 'I'll do it if it's easy' smacks of an actual lack of respect for the ballot box, not a wider appreciation of it. If it isn't important enough that it should be done even with a bit of inconvenience, well, I think that speaks for itself.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I realize that many people who vote early or absentee do it simply because it's offered to them, and that those folks would have voted just the same.  I understand that those who would ordinarily vote anyway are not in the category of lazy voters, and I am not disparaging them. Yet when we averaged 120-130 million votes every four years from 2000 to 2016 then jump to 156 million in 2020, an election with widespread absentee and early voting, well, surely the majority of those extra 25 million or so ballots came from truly lazy voters. On both sides of the aisle, I will add, because even Trump's vote total jumped dramatically.

Be that as it may, if you can vote on Election Day, you should. That's how it's supposed to be.

Rant over.

No Quotes

I have reached the point where I refuse to give out repair quotes over the phone. I'll give you pricing on machinery, cutters, and parts of course. But repairs? Until I know what I'm dealing with I have no idea what a repair is worth.

Some guys can't seem to grasp that. To a point, I understand. If a part is secured using two set screws and they supply the part, why can't I tell them what it would cost?

Ignoring the obvious insinuation that it's easy (if it's that easy, as I've lamented before, then why isn't it done? Why are you calling me?) the fact is I don't know if it'll be simple. Sure, those two screws are right out in the open. But they're also in a larger round part which I have to stabilize before even trying to turn the screws. Then they might be frozen in place, at which time I may have to disassemble the round part in order to secure it in a bench vise that I can apply heat to try to loosen the screws. If that doesn't work I may have to replace the round part. And so on and so forth, until the easy repair runs $150. But I can't tell you twenty bucks over the phone if all goes well because you'll only hear the $20 part, not the 'if all goes well' caution.

Why this rant this day? Because late yesterday I had a customer damn near demand a price on an 'easy' fix. So I told him $200-$500. "That's a big range, Cosgriff."

Yes, but I don't know what I'm dealing with until I get into it. Even then, if I hit $250 they'll insist, "You said two hundred on the phone, Cosgriff!" And then arguing about it. Do you see my point?

Of course you don't. So no more repair quotes over the phone. End of discussion.

Don't Mess With the Pharmacist

Bush's Pharmacy was across the street from the home where Pops grew up. It was where his family bought all their medicinal wares in the Forties and Fifties, a typical neighborhood drug store. As such, it sold products other than prescription drugs and over the counter remedies for your ills. Among those products were cigarettes. There of course was not the public disdain for smoking as there is now, so it meant nothing that your pharmacist sold smokes.

Late one Sunday a customer walked into the store and asked for a pack of cigarettes. Mr. Bush reached into the display and handed the man the brand he wanted, which happened to cost twenty five cents. The guy opened it, took a cigarette out, and lit it; again, it was no faux pas to smoke in a store back then. Next he drew his wallet out of his pocket and offered Mr. Bush a twenty. A Canadian twenty. "It's all I've got," he explained smugly. What he was trying to do was get American money in place of the Canadian without the trouble of going to a bank or currency exchange.

Mr. Bush didn't say anything. He merely reached under the counter, took out an old cigar box, and gave the man $19.75 change.

Canadian change.

It seemed Mr. Bush had accumulated a bit of Canadian cash over the years and had kept it for no particular reason.

But things happen for a reason. In this case, to teach a smart aleck a lesson.

Old Turkey

Yesterday was Canadian Thanksgiving, which is the second Monday in October. Curling generally begins shortly after that. I curl in Canada. You need to know these things. You just, need to.

Several years ago I went over the border for an organizational meeting for the upcoming curling season. As I tend to be notoriously early for things when left to myself (I got that from me Pops) I was way ahead of everybody else. And since the curling club had a restaurant, I thought I'd go ahead and have dinner. "We have this great turkey chowder I think you'd like, Marty," the waitress suggested. Well, all right. I ordered a bowl.

It was very good. When asked about the chowder I told the waitress it was outstanding. "Glad you like it! We make it from our leftover Thanksgiving turkey," she explained.

My jaw hit the floor. "You make this from leftover Thanksgiving turkey?"

Staring at me for one confused moment, the woman finally understood my surprise. "OUR Thanksgiving, Marty. Not your Thanksgiving," she said, with a pat on my shoulder.

Yep. I forgot where I was. I thought they were feeding me 11 month old turkey.

What We Need in 2025

I think that the 2024 Tigers give us hope for the future of baseball in Detroit. Detroit is a baseball town after all; the attendance records for the two home playoff games last week demonstrate that. But what needs to be done to see that 2025 is a worthy follow up?

We need to be brutally honest in any analysis. I begin this by saying that, as great as 2024 was, we were lucky. Sure, the Tigers had a great run in August and September, going 31-13 over their last 44 games. But if the Minnesota Twins and Kansas City Royals had played even .500 baseball during that time, had they each won half their last 36 contests, Detroit is outside looking in to the MLB playoffs by about six games. The Tigers were 55-63 when their run started, and were at one point ten games under .500. We can't do that in 2025.

In broad terms, they need to find some bats. Of the regulars, Kerry Carpenter, Riley Greene, and Colt Keith led the team with batting averages of .284, .262, and .260 respectively. That won't do. I especially think we need to find catchers who can hit. I'm tired of hearing how great a backstop can handle a pitching staff while he hits .197, a la Jake Rogers. We seem to have had more than our share of such catchers. I can't help believe we'd be better off with someone less capable with the hurlers who hits 50 points higher. I think it would be worth the tradeoff.

Spencer Torkelson may not be the answer at first base. He needs to show that 2023 and his 31 homers weren't a fluke. Likewise, Parker Meadows must keep his admittedly good numbers from August and September '24 steady. 

Good pitching may win a lot of ball games. But if all you have is good pitching, well, you leave 8 men on base in six innings, 5 in the first 4 when driving in a couple of them might have been huge, and lose a must win playoff game. So get some bats, Tigers, or figure out how to get better production out of what you've got. We hit .224 in the playoffs yet went 4-3. Imagine what could be done with another thirty points on team batting.

The pitching on the whole feels solid looking forward. If, and this is big, if you get more starters after Tarik Skubal. Folks can say all they want about bullpen games and pitching chaos, but going through six and seven pitchers a game won't work over a 162 game regular season. I think it only works in the playoffs because teams naturally press, naturally put more pressure on themselves, at such times. Unless you carry a staff of 17, pitching chaos won't get you back to the show next year. Either develop or find at least three more starters, Tigers. Then a bullpen game once every five days isn't unthinkable.

In short, I believe we played over our heads and caught the breaks late in 2024. While it was fun, we need more than that to contend in 2025. I don't think the team of the future is in the Motor City yet. But despite the negative tone here, this is a team which has tasted winning. There is a solid core. It's time time build on that.

A Good Run

Well, it was fun while it lasted. My Detroit Tigers have been eliminated from the Major League Baseball playoffs. Yet I do not heavy sigh at the fact. It was a good year.

Jim Leyland, the team's former manager, once said something along the lines of the championship team isn't the only team which had a successful season. I disagree. The World Series winner in baseball, the Super Bowl champion in the NFL, and the team which hoists the Stanley Cup in hockey are the only truly successful teams each year in their sport. But I will say that doesn't mean lesser teams can't have memorable or special seasons. Or that those seasons can't perhaps be better than championships.

For me, the best Tigers year may have been 1976, and they weren't anywhere near the World Series. They couldn't even sniff at it. But they had Mark 'The Bird' Fidrych on the hill every fifth day, and man, old Tiger Stadium was raucous when he pitched. That young man was so completely sincere, so legitimate, so honestly without pretense that you had to like him. Check this short clip for a feel of things. That's what sports ought to be about. Not chest pounding. Not looking for a camera to tell the world how great you are after a play. Just a love of the game and modesty about your accomplishments. I was at Tiger Stadium five times that year when the Bird pitched. Each visit absolutely rocked.

The 2006 Tigers were a team which came out of nowhere to make it to the World Series. It was a good ride that year, not unlike the 2024 squad. They are memorable because they gave hope for the future. Even 1999 was fun in its own way, despite being the last season at a venerable old ballpark, Tiger Stadium. To watch Robert Fick's grand slam seal the win from my family's seats in left field at the finale still sends chills. The Tigers had to, they simply had to, win that last game. They did.

So 2024 was a fun year in Detroit baseball annals. It does leave me excited for 2025.

Calling A Bluff

I've been in sales for a while now, and I like to think I have an idea how the game is played. One piece involves discounts. I'm not opposed to them...if the volume is there. So, as it's said, show me the money.

One time a fellow did just that. And I still have his money.

Someone I'd never seen before came to me at the old barn about buying an Electric Eel, the snakes I sell. After going through all the early process, showing him a unit and what goes with it, we came to the real nitty gritty. We began talking cost.

"I'm going to be big, Cosgriff, real big," he was preaching to me. "I'll bring you all my business. Can you help me out?"

"Whaddaya want?"

"Ten percent. I'm gonna buy a lot of stuff off you, man."

I hedged. You can usually tell when you're dealing with someone who's putting you on, painting a grand vista; playing with cow cookies. Yet this time, instead of turning him down flat I thought I'd call his bluff. "What's your initial order?" I asked.

"Five," he answered without hesitation.

"Deal," I answered in kind. At the time the units sold for around two grand, so his total was in the area of $10,000. I'd go ten off for that.

"Write me up Cosgriff, and I'll give you a down payment," he says, with an unwarranted degree of self assurance. "I'll pay the balance when you get the stuff." So I wrote him up. 

He gave me twenty dollars.

As Mr. Going Big left, me Pops was staring at me with uncertainty. "You're taking quite a chance on someone you don't know."

"He ain't coming back, Dad. He's trying to play big shot." Pops shook his head gently and grinned.

I never even bothered to process the order. And here better than a decade later, I still have his twenty bucks.

Worst Ever? Nowhere Near

I'm not saying it wasn't bad. I know it was bad; lives were lost and tremendous damage done. But it was not apocalyptic, as we were being told beforehand. Hurricane Milton offers a prime example of why we should see the media and heed the climate prognosticators with watchful eyes and skeptical minds.

Milton was supposed to be off the charts, a generational storm of epic proportions, a spawn of human caused climate change, misery beyond conception, one up at the very limit of meteorological possibility. And then it wasn't, 48 hours later. Bad? Again, yes. An unmitigated disaster of unimaginable proportions? Um, no. Not anywhere near.

This is why I don't believe the media, the weather forecasters, the government, or any of the gloom and doomers. This is the attitude which brought us the draconian COVID lockdowns. These people thrive on our fear. We need to grow a spine and tell them where to get off.