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. 

 

It Happened One Day

I remembered I was running low on coffee pods at the old barn when I happened to be at a Dollar General, which was fortuitous as they can be difficult to find. I happened to discover they sold coffee pods, so I happened to buy some. As they happened to be on sale, I happened to buy several boxes.

As it happened, one flavor I chose was 'donut shop blend'. But they didn't happen to say which donut shop. Yet as their happens to be this thing called the Internet where all of human knowledge appears to be kept in storage, most of it in very deep storage unless you happen to like cat videos or morally questionable entertainment, I decided to find out which donut shop blend Dollar General's happened to be.

It happens to be from Fred and Mary's donut shop and troll doll emporium in South Witchita, Kansas. Closed Mondays. You're welcome.

Chili Fries Betrayal

The old barn had had a series of break-ins back about 55 years ago. Me Grandpa Joe decided that a way to stop them might be to leave a dog in the place every night. He found a relatively imposing mutt for that purpose.

I don't recall much about the beast. It hung around the Shop all day, and Joe and the others who worked there at the time would play with the dog and so forth. Yet it was a reasonably menacing animal who seemed to be leery of and watchful of strangers, so it fit the bill.

One morning as me Pops and me Grandpa Joe arrived at work, they noticed a window broken in. Ha, ha, Joe thought, we'll see what a number the old dog made of those miscreants. That'll teach them to break into my place of business.

Opening the door and walking in, Dad and Joe saw the Shop was a wreck and found that a bunch of hand tools were gone. Over to the side and sleeping, fat and happy, was the guard dog, a thoroughly demolished plate of chili fries next to him. The dog burped as he slept.

"Sold out by chili fries," Joe remarked to me Pops.

Good Morning

What a way to start the day.

I have an early day today on the road, so here I am up at 1:15 AM penning a quick blog before heading out. Consequently I did not watch the Detroit Tigers playoff game. I needed to get to sleep and could not afford the anxiety. So I popped a melatonin and was out by 5:30.

Of course the first thing I did was check the score when I awoke. Two two out singles and a three run homer by Kerry Carpenter in the top of the ninth inning no less, and Detroit wins 3-0 to tie the series. And against Cleveland's stellar closer no less.

I'm glad I didn't stay up. It's great news to start the day, and sheer excitement would have kept me from sleeping if I'd seen it live. 

Talk about the best of all possible worlds. I get my sleep and the Tigers win. Life is good.

The Litany of Cloyce

There's this one customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who apparently believes that I'm totally invested in his life story. He tries to tell it to me every time he calls.

"Hey Cosgriff, I gotta come by today and get me a cutter." 

"Okay, Cloyce."

"I have to take my wife to the doctor first,"

"That's fine, Cloyce."

"Then she wants to go grocery shopping,"

"Whatever, Cloyce."

"And we have to pick up our kid from school, it's an early day,"

"I don't care, Cloyce."

"After that I have to exchange that bad water heater,"

"I don't care, Cloyce. Not in the least. Exchange the heater."

"Of course I need to stop at Mom's and see that she's good,"

"I hope she is, Cloyce."

"Oh! And I need tires on my work van,"

"I don't care, Cloyce. Not in the slightest. Get tires. Check on Mom. Go shopping. Pick up the kid from school. I'll see you when you get here."

"It's running hot, the van, so I best stop by the mechanic too..."

By that point I just put the phone on speaker, set it down, and go about my work. Eventually he'll clam up, do his thing, and get to the Shop for the cutter.

And I'll hear all about his day. Again. I still won't care.

Enunciate

There's a commercial which has been running a lot lately late at night. What's it for? I don't know. I can't remember because of the voice over artist.

At one point he says that whatever it is he's talking about is 'globally relevant'. But he runs the words together so that it actually sounds as though he's saying, 'global irrelevant'.

There's quite a difference between something which is important all over the world and something not having worldwide meaning. Enunciate, darn it, so that we know which you mean. Maybe then we'll remember what you're selling. It's probably garbage anyway seeing as it's a late night infomercial. But still, speak precisely will you?

To Grandmother's House We Go

I'll never get this story quite right. But it is, in my mind, a neat little story, so I'll try.

It was either me Mother's grandmother or great grandmother, I just don't recall exactly. So we'll assume her great grandmother, and I'll refer to her as great great Grams as that's what she'd then be to me.

Great-Great-Grams lived in a small house behind one of me other great great relatives. Family legend says she lived to be 108, though I really don't know about that. One day she decided that her house, maybe three rooms in size, needed to be painted. Only she didn't have the money to pay for it. Neither did anybody else, the time being the Depression with cash particularly scarce in the South those years. Yet she really wanted the house painted.

The solution? Friends and relatives went through their homes and barns and garages and came up with a pint of paint left in a can here, a quart there, maybe most of a gallon in another can and so forth. They mixed it all in a large bucket, furnished a few paint brushes from their various collections, and painted Great-Great-Grams house a nice grey-lavender kind of color. She loved it, her newly painted little home, and everyone involved felt a certain pride of neighborliness and kinship.

So that's the story. I haven't told it well, but it was worth trying to tell anyway.

Downstate Michigan

I've written before about where Up North actually is in my home state of Michigan. It's the Upper Peninsula, by the way. Sometimes I envy Milwaukee because it's closer to da UP than Detroit. Then I remember that it's Milwaukee, and Wisconsin no less, and I don't feel so bad.

But anyway, at what point when coming from Up North do the downstate vibes start? Well, and this may offend some people where no offense is meant, when I’m coming home I begin getting those vibes at Gaylord, around 60 miles below the Mackinac Bridge connecting our state's two peninsulas. I mean, you have a WalMart, Gaylord, and enough hotels to house a weekend Elks convention. That's kind of at least a large semi-rural area thing you know.

Anywhere after Gaylord the downstate feelings simply come on stronger and stronger, until by mile marker 188 on Interstate 75, you may as well be in Detroit. And that's just the way it is.

Horses in Hessel

As I sat on the porch in Hessel in the wee hours of Monday morning, somewhere around 4 O'clock, I picked up the clip-clop of hooves. It sounded as though a horse were coming up Center Street across from the house.

Then I realized that there was more than one. Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, almost in unison but not quite. "People are riding their horses in Hessel ahead of dawn?' I wondered.

I stayed quiet and unmoving. Within a minute there appeared three deer, lazily walking up Center. They stopped at the stop sign as though they knew they should. Then they meandered across to our yard and made tiny leaps over the stone fence, to wander past and up the back driveway of the Presbyterian Church next door without a care in the world.

I half wished I had had my phone to try for a picture. But I didn't want to startle them, and it was a very pleasant experience simply watching those deer saunter on by in the nocturnal atmosphere.

Checkpoint

"One thing about my checks. They're always good."

That might be the worst sentence I hear in sales. And it was spoken to me a few days ago as I was given a significant check.

Maybe I'm just paranoid. I had no actual reason to suspect the check is not good. The man who gave it to me has been a customer for around 10 years. Yet before today he always paid cash (which is certainly nice) or with a credit card (which of course I could run immediately). Then I agree to take a check, and his reassurance was not reassuring.

It seems as though every time meself or me Pops before me heard those or similar words we'd have trouble with the check which was always good. Oh, I'm sure not every time. But admit it, when a guy has to make it a point to tell you their check is good it actually makes it suspect. I had already essentially agreed that I trusted his check. After that point, why must he assure me it's good? He even went to the point of showing me that his address was on the check. O-kay. Why would I not expect that?

I was sure the check was good. But I ran it down to the bank right away just the same.

It was good by the way.

The Used Car

Me Grandpa Joe smoked. A lot. He paid for it in more ways than one.

On a road trip years ago, he flicked a cigarette butt out of his window as he drove. Unfortunately the window behind the driver's seat was rolled down. The smoldering butt flew through the opening and set the back seat on fire. Before Joe could do anything about that except pull over and, I think, retrieve his luggage, the car was in flames. A total loss.

Yet he still needed to get home. As luck would have it he wasn't very far away from a junk yard. Joe ambled in to see if they might have anything, anything at all, which was drivable.

The proprietor offered him an old vehicle of some sort which was absolutely deplorable even by Joe standards. It barely ran, and the rusted hulk of a body was held together by willpower and the grace of God. The tires were well blanched and balding rubber. Onionskins, Joe would call such tires (he had drove on enough of them). As me Grandpa listened to it valiantly try to continue running he asked, "What do you want for it?"

"Fifty bucks," came the reply. "And it goes up every time you open your mouth."

Joe paid him fifty dollars and got home with his newfound, uh, treasure.

Odd Hessel

I know that it's the very definition of a first world problem. I'm in Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula in late September. It's unseasonably warm; temperatures are in the low 70s with bright sunshine. And especially in light of the recent issues down south in the after effects of Hurricane Helene, I've got it well. So what's the trouble, Marty?

Well, the Sun seems harsh, for lack of a better term. It's lower in the horizon and feels unusually bright. The sky, an expanse of very light blue virtually every day I've been here, is also abnormally striking. It almost looks surreal, as though not blue enough.

So I wonder: is the Sun harder on the eyes this time of year? Does its angle towards the Earth make the sky more uncomfortable? Even in the shadows on the ground I find such a higher definition of brightness and shade that it can be disconcerting, indeed almost other-worldly. Is there an astronomical explanation for this or am I psychologically superimposing ideas upon it?

There's advantages, to be sure. The earlier sunsets and later sunrises make it easier to see the starry night sky, which I love. I saw a couple of shooting stars at around 5 AM yesterday. In summer, it's already dawn by that time. I have to be up at two to see such things in June. 

I still like being here. Yet it never felt this way before, during the day anyway. 

But Still

I have this one customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who is annoying in small ways. Many small ways. He never does anything so bad as to allow me a reason to throw him out of the Shop bodily. That's an aggravation by itself; you almost want the guy to become outlandish and obnoxious enough that you can tell him to go hell. I'm sure you have such a friend too. Quiet Ron.

Cloyce likes to do things such as inspect my work every time I do it. Every. Single. Time. On the one hand, I get it. A fella wants assurance that the thing he's about to pay for is done well and proper. On the other, he's watched me do stuff for 45 years (cue old guy stating emphatically, and perhaps angrily as though offended, 'I been doin' this for well on 45 years now') and I feel he ought to trust my abilities at this point.

The other day as I finished welding a fitting onto his drain snake cable he asked upon inspection, "You sure that's enough weld on there, Marty?"

What to do, what to say? "Here's the welding lead, Cloyce. How 'bout, rather than me doing it and charging you $40, you show me how it's done and I'll pay you forty bucks?" Or, "It's just like I've done it for the 45 years you've known me Cloyce. What's yer problem?" 

But still, why get mad? He's going to act the same damn way next time, ain't he?

Day and Night

I know that seasons change. Things are different at different times of the year. Yet that seems so stark in Hessel.

Yesterday marks my fourth trip to da UP, Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, this calendar year. In May, June, July, and even August when I'm up here, it's still bright at 9:05 P.M. Yet now in late September at a similar hour, it's pitch dark. What gives?

I know the answer of course. It's Autumn, it's after Summer, it's late in the year. Intellectually, I get it. Old Sol is lower on the southern horizon. He sets earlier. Hessel gets dark earlier.

I know that. Yet it's weird. I'm not sure I like that.

Grandpaw Ain't Listenin'

Grandmaw Hutchins did have an infectious laugh. When she was delighted with something she was delighted with it and expressed that delight freely, even if the joke was on her.

I remember one summer day sitting with her and Grandpaw under the shade tree (y'all remember the shade tree don't ya?) and she was talking at him about all sorts of subjects. Every few minutes she'd pause and glance at her husband, whence he'd smile and say in his quiet, genteel manner, "Yes, Mae."

She'd continue her monologue about fixin' the chicken coop or weeding the garden. Eventually she would again stop to check if he was payin' proper attention. "Yes, Mae," Grandpaw would respond.

Onward and upward for Grandmaw Hutchins. She'd go off on another mini-harangue about what needed doin' or what was coming up and at each break in the action Grandpaw would respond with a grin, "Yes, Mae."

After one more affirmative response she looked at me and her eyes grew big and she proceeded to laugh out loud, in her uninhibited, wonderful cackle, exclaiming, "That old man ain't got his hearing aid on!" She thought it was the funniest thing in the world. She surely knew he'd done it purposefully.

Grandpaw just answered simply, again as if on cue but with a twinkle in his own eye, "Yes, Mae." I think he figured she was onto him.

Money Talks

Old TV shows can seem quaint about things like money. What they regard as significant we might actually laugh at.

An episode I stumbled upon of Our Miss Brooks, a sitcom from the middle Fifties, was centered on the 'safeguarding' of forty cents. That's right, four whole dimes. On The Andy Griffith Show, a litterer was upset over a four dollar fine and vowed to extract revenge on Barney Fife for having issued the ticket which cost him so dearly. Vengeance was sworn over four bucks. It sounded downright absurd for a man to be mad over such a paltry amount.

Of course, I remember me Pops talking about making $100 a week in 1963 and feeling it was good money. And when I had my first $50 dollar bill at age 16 it felt like I had struck gold. I was in total awe of General Grant. I kept a guard on it as though I were Fort Knox. Still, I don't think twice about four dollars let alone 40 cents these days. And when you think about it, maybe that's a shame on me.

Mocking Bird

The Babylon Bee, a satirical comedy site, uses mockery to make philosophic, political, and religious points to such a degree that even conservatives sometimes criticize it for poor judgement. Apparently we should take all ideas seriously. My question is, should we?

I don't think so. I mean, unless you're willing to argue that all ideas are equally valid, that all systems of thought are true and all ideas just, concepts I will say are false on their face (is there really a moral equivalency between Iceland and North Korea, between killing for self defense and murder?) then surely not. Truth be told, if there is complete moral equivalency amongst literally every idea out there, what's the point of debate at all? I'm as right as you are, if we can even say that either of us are right. The idea doesn't even rise, as C.S. Lewis remarked, to the dignity of error. That's because even error, honest mistakes, exist only in a world where correction is possible, where true moral gains might be made.

Simply, not all ideas are just. Right and wrong exist. So unless we're discussing ideas in order to determine the one from the other, to find out what is right and apply it (or wrong and avoid it) we're not having a serious discussion at all. We're just squabbling, and for no reason other than to get our way. It's an inherently selfish basis for action by anyone at any level.

Here's where the Bee comes in. The folks there realize that some ideas do not merit serious consideration. Indeed, some ought to be mocked, they're so ridiculous. They deserve derision and scorn. They don't have to be taken seriously. 

In fact, they can't. If for example you actually don't know what a woman is, you need instruction, not dialogue. If you really believe Iceland and North Korea equal in the family of nations, you need to sit and listen to more knowledgeable people. You're not at the point where we can have useful discussions. You're the Emperor in his new clothes. Someone needs to tell you you haven't any clothes at all.

Two Years

Mom has been gone two years, almost to the minute as I type. As a matter of fact, almost to the minute that the paramedics apologized that there was nothing they could do. You want to know an image you can't forget? Watching from the next room as EMTs are doing chest compressions and working a large bladder to force air into your Mother's lungs, trying to get her breathing and restart her heart. It's indelible.

We should always pray, and I do for her. I trust in God for her happiness, but there's no real way of knowing her place right now. So pray. It can't hurt, and can help more than we imagine. She will in turn pray for us.

I love you, Mom. Godspeed. And, you know, it kinda gives me another Sunday with you this year.

Rust Bucket

The other day I was bragging to a friend - I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name - about my new old van, the 2007 Chrysler. "I bought it five years ago, and put 100,000 miles on it myself," I bragged.

"Is that so?"

"Yep," I affirmed. "Keep on top of the fluids, and engines last forever anymore. Why, this thing'll rust out before the drivetrain goes bad." 

Looking up and down the body of my ride Cloyce responded, "Seems like it's trying to do just that for you, Marty."

I just stared at him. There wasn't anything to say.

The 10th Hole

Yesterday I went golfing for the first time in five years with my buddy Ron. It was a good day, and I think I played well enough for a duffer. And I beat Ron on the 10th hole.

My basic plan was to get the ball in the air. Well, except off the green. It's not considered good, in fact it's frowned upon, when you get air on the ball when you're putting. Did I mention that I beat Ron on the 10th hole?

The fact is I was getting the ball in the air when I should have been, mostly. I topped it a few times and hit ground balls. But there were times I hit the ball pretty true and had shots which made me feel good, and reminded me why I like the game. Oh, I beat Ron on the 10th hole.

I hit five greens in regulation. I don't know what that means, but judging by what the golf commentators say on TV it sounds like a good thing. I also hit six fairways, which means I made the fairway off the tee. Granted, once it was only by about a foot. But a fairway is a fairway, all the way to the edge. Have I told you I beat Ron on the 10th hole?

I was on the green from the tee on 3 of the 4 par 3 holes. The fourth time I should have been, but my aim was off, my 'towards' as Ron says. But you know what? I beat him on the 10th hole.

The score? What difference does the score make when you're out in the warm sunshine on a late summer weekday, golfing with an old friend? One who lost the 10th lost hole, by the way, on a triple bogey. It was ugly.

Making the Grade, Maybe?

I remember a time, I think it was third grade but after yea many years I don't really know, that I got a bad grade on a school assignment. It was the first of many I assure you. But at the time when you received a grade so very bad as whatever that one was, the paper had to be taken home to be seen by a parent, who would sign that they had seen it and you would return it to teacher.

When back at home on the afternoon where I received The Grade, I showed the paper to Mom. She read it, and then slid it back to me across the kitchen table. "Show this to your father tonight," she instructed.

Those were not words young Marty cared to hear. I am ashamed to admit that by nine or ten years old I wasn't as afraid of me Mom's wrath as I ought to have been. Oh, she could still bring it. I had a healthy respect for her anger. But Dad's anger was simply on the next level. Hell, when I was 50 and the old man was upset, I was intimidated. See, Dad didn't get mad often so that when he did, you knew it was righteous.

I dreaded showing that paper to me Pops. But evening came and he was sitting at his desk, and I decided to get it over with. "Mom says I got to show you this," I said meekly, handing the damning evidence over to him. 

Pops sat down the invoice he had been studying and read over that rancid assignment. Then he signed it and handed it back. "Do better next time,"  he instructed, with the barest glance at me before returning to his work.

The clouds parted and the Angelic choirs sang. That wasn't bad at all. I'm sure it wasn't anywhere near the response me Mom expected or desired. But she wasn't nearby and I was more than willing to leave things be. I never told her, and I doubt Pops did either. It likely was out of his mind in 30 seconds.

I don't know why he wasn't angrier. Maybe he was too caught up in his paperwork. Maybe my childhood imagination had run too rampant. Maybe he just didn't feel one botched job was all that bad in the grand scheme of things. But I was thanking my lucky stars that night. And it was awhile before my next poor grade.

Joe's Etiquette

I would never, nor do I think anyone else would, accuse Joe Cosgriff of possessing tremendous social grace. He was on the whole a good man, simply rough around the edges. Maybe too rough, perhaps, but that didn't mean you couldn't learn a thing or two from him.

One thing he taught me which I believe is a very good protocol is that if someone invites over, say yes or no and be done with it. But if you accept the invitation, you afterward accept whatever kindnesses your host offers unless it would make you physically ill. If you've staying for dinner for example, eat whatever you're given unless it's liver. The bottom line, me Grandpa Joe thought, was to be a good guest.

I have to agree with that sentiment. You should never make demands on your host: he's your host after all. I will add as a corollary that a good host should be considerate of his guests: if he knows they can't stomach liver he should not make it the entree.

Me Grandpa Joe would never be able to write a column on etiquette; Miss Manners would rip it to shreds. Yet that doesn't mean he had no ideas on how to live rightly day to day.

Democrats Shocked

The Democratic Party was shocked yesterday when some guy did something in Florida a scant two months after some other guy did something in Pennsylvania.

"I believe I speak for all my fellow Democrats when I say I can't believe some guy did something in Florida right after some guy did something in Pennsylvania," a visibly shocked Member of Congress Ilhan Omar said when told of the second guy doing something. "Our Party will not tolerate anyone who does something, even against the Master of Lies who will become Dictator of the United States and spread hatred if elected."

Asked whether theoretically her party's accusations might have inspired some guy to do something, Omar smirked, "Of course not. We are the party of peace, love, and tolerance, not exclusion and hatred like the guy who the guy tried to do something to is." Then something was done by somebody to the reporter who asked the question.

Experts think that maybe Secret Service protection for the guy who nearly had something done to him will actually be upgraded in case a third guy tries to do something. 

Take My Address

As customer came by yesterday. Yay me! Customers by and large are good.

He had a reasonably quick repair, so I elected to do it while he waited. He also wanted a colleague to meet him at my Shop for whatever purpose. "What's this address, Cosgriff?

"4850 Rosa Parks."

"4450 Rosa Parks," he said into his phone.

I corrected, "No, 4850."

"44850," he instructed his buddy.

"No, Four Eight Five Zero." I explained precisely.

"4050," he told his phone.

Forget it, I thought. Let them find each other. 

I fixed his machine, took his money, and he left. Without his friend.

Whatever. 

One Stupid Out

I was at the Detroit Tigers baseball game last night, and was one stupid out from seeing history. 

The Tigers had no hit Baltimore through 8 innings, plus two outs into the Ninth. One more out and I'd have witnessed a no-hit game, a rare event in baseball. 

And then some guy hits a triple. 

He was stranded at third base and Detroit won, 1-0, so there's that. And it was a clean hit, so no complaints there. But I almost saw a no-hitter live.

One stupid out. Ah well. Ah, rats.

Tough Toenails

Customers, they are the most important part of any sales business. They can be (they ordinarily are) the best thing about sales, and at times the worst. At other times they can be downright odd and unusual, and even slightly disgusting. Disturbing, really.

I remember one guy who sat down while I was welding an end on his drain snake cable. He asked for a pair of wire cutters. So I gave him a set, and commenced upon the repair.

He began unlacing his boots. I didn't think much about that; I really only barely noticed it and dismissed it immediately, almost without thought. He was probably just tightening or adjusting the boots, right?

Pulling enough steel cable out of his machine so as to be able to work with it, I ground the end flat and secured it in my bench vice. After screwing in a fitting and brazing  it to ensure it would stay, I shut off my torch and turned to tell him his repair was done. But my voice caught in my throat. He had his boots off and was trimming his toenails with my wire cutters. Talk about being a little too comfortable in your surroundings.

I said nothing. I turned back to my workbench and began tinkering with another repair. Eventually the man said, "Well, what do I owe you?"

'A new set of wire cutters', I should have said. Instead I just stammered something like, uh, thirty bucks.

It was surely overreaction, for they were only wire cutters and had been used to cut far dirtier things than someone's toenails. In fact, that idea by itself added to my disgust at what he had done: seeing to personal grooming with greasy, dirty tools. 

After the man left I picked the tool up with a pair of pliers and threw it away. I replaced them with a new pair that afternoon. I simply didn't want to use them after that incident, and boiling work tools (if you're not a surgeon) seems stupid.

To this day I cringe at the idea of someone arbitrarily trimming his toenails with my tools in my workshop. I mean, really? Why would it even occur to anyone to do that?

Anybody Home?

Adrian is a small town in Lenawee County Michigan, about 90 minutes southwest of Detroit. It's the kind of place I wouldn't mind making a home: small town living close enough to the big city for big city conveniences. I was just there yesterday.

The profusion of cell phones means that cities such as Adrian are very close. Close enough that customers can easily reach you, as one did me late yesterday afternoon. He wanted to drop off his machine for repair. "I'm sorry, but no one's there. Me brother Phil has the day off, and I'm in Adrian. Bring it to my shop tomorrow," I explained.

"Oh. Well, could I bring it now and you check it tomorrow?"

Oh-kay. I re-explained (in little words with a very precise cadence) that I was an hour and a half from the old barn and Phil was not available, so that there was nobody there to leave it with. What I did not ask (although I wanted to) was, what part of  'I'm in Adrian, bring it tomorrow' was not clear in the first place?

I'll give you a dime to a dollar he doesn't show after all.

Balky Marty

A few years ago I was at a Tigers game with an old friend. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. 

Cloyce and I are both fairly avid baseball fans. We know the rules and what to watch for, although if I may say I'm better at it than he is.

We were sitting along the first base side of the diamond, just about right in line with the pitcher. In this case it was a left hander, so we had a really good look at him. 

Before I go on you need to know what a balk is in baseball. Among other illegal actions, if the pitcher is ruled to have started his throwing motion he must either throw a pitch to the batter or throw to an occupied base, one with a runner on it. If he fails to do either, runners move up. It keeps the pitcher from faking his intentions.

At one point the Tigers had a runner on first; we were playing Baltimore. The Orioles pitcher barely lifted his right foot, then put it back down again without doing anything else. You had to watch very close to see it, but I caught it. "He balked!" I said out loud. The next instant the home plate umpire called time, indicated balk, and motioned the runner to second base.

"How did you see that?" Cloyce asked, awed and amazed at my baseball prowess. 

"I came here to watch a game. Didn't you?" I asked in all haughtiness. I mean, you're supposed to see things like that if you're really paying attention, right? 

To this day Cloyce will occasionally look at me and ask, "Balk?," as though he still can't believe it. But hey. I call 'em as I see 'em.

Let Mother Nature Deal with It.

Some guys, when they dream about hitting it big on the lottery, think they'll retire early and take big, bucket list trips. Others say they'll build that mansion on the hill and host fancy soirees entertaining foreign dignitaries. A few will shower family and friends with jaw dropping gifts. The better ones among us may even vow to become great philanthropists, helping the poor and ailing. For me, the first two words which spring to mind when I fantasize about coming into money are: lawn service.

I would do most of the other bucket list things, to be sure. But I hate yard work. Despise it really. I like a well manicured lawn and brightly flowered gardens and great green trees. But I hate the chores that go into creating and maintaining them. I hate mowing the lawn and planting foliage and mulching gardens. And this time of year, I hate raking leaves.

Why can't we just let them rot on the ground? Isn't that simply nature's own recycling measure? Freddie the Leaf wants to become compost. He takes a bizarre, cloying delight in the thought. Shouldn't we stay out of the way and let him and his brother and sister leaves go back to be with Mother Nature as they wish? Isn't that what she wants too, to bring them home so that she can fashion them into more and greater leaves next summer?

I say, who am I to stand in Momma's way?

Sundays Not Quite with Mom

I went and saw a West Michigan Whitecaps baseball game with an old friend yesterday. As he lived roughly halfway between Detroit and Grand Rapids, I went as far as his place and we rode together from there. Naturally, then, I rode home on my own after we had returned to his house.

Almost as soon as I started back I saw a sign which told that the next right took you to Hell. That's right, there's a Hell, Michigan in Livingston County. There's also a Paradise, in Chippewa County in the glorious Upper Peninsula. Yes, you can go from Hell to Paradise without leaving my home state, which pretty well sums up Michigan.

I took the side trip. Although I've been there before, I had not driven through Hell since I took Mom there on a Sunday ride a few years ago. My Mother's been through Hell with me. 

With that, I'm opening up the floor. Give it your best shot, readers.

Silly Yet Rather Cool

Do you see me son Charlie in this picture:

That's him standing outside his car. The view is from the traffic cam in Cedarville, Michigan. I keep that particular camera open on my desktop all year simply so that I always have a view of the Hessel/Cedarville area at hand. While he was up there, I texted, asking him to drive over and see if we could capture his image. We managed it. Silliness, yes. But neat silliness.

He's waving back at you, you know.

Room to Breathe

In the summer after they graduated from high school, me Pops and his cousin Jim took a celebratory trip out west. They borrowed a station wagon from me Grandpa Joe and off they went.

The trip took about three weeks and they simply explored. I believe they had a basic plan of where to go and what to see but didn't mind it too closely.

Pops said that one day they found themselves out in west Texas, far away from everything. At a lonely intersection there was a gas station with a small general store at one corner. From the store, you might have been able to spot one or two buildings far in the distance, ranch houses perhaps, out near the horizon. Seeing as the gas station appeared to be the only place for provisions for miles, the cousins figured it a good idea to gas up and grab a few snacks and supplies. 

The guys running the store, Dad said they appeared to be an elderly father and a middle aged son, were quite friendly and likable. They readily engaged me Pops and Jim in conversation. At one point the older gentleman remarked, "It used to be a man had room to move around out here. Now it's getting so crowded you can't hardly breathe."

Dad thought about how they were at a desolate intersection deep in western Texas, and that all he could  see other than the gas station were the two buildings miles off in the distance. The elderly man actually pointed towards them and continued sadly, "They're building right on top of us these days."

Pops let it go. They were after all just passing through, and why interrupt the reverie? If the locals felt put upon, well, what could you say anyway?

High and Low

I can't find a blog that I'm sure I wrote. I've used my search words: Joe Cosgriff, me Grandpa Joe, the Shop, the old barn, indeed every tag I can think of which might lead me to the article in question. Nothing comes up. But now you have a vague idea of the basic topic.

It's frustrating, though. I won't lie to you, campers, I was going to copy and paste it this morning as if it were new. It's the sort of thing a writer does when nothing comes to mind. And now nothing else will do. 

There's no doubt in my mind that it was the greatest, most perfect blog I've ever, ah, penned. A good story which would make you laugh. Or go eek and cringe as it were.

I suppose I could try rewriting it. Yet that doesn't satisfy either. I want it from the first time through. I will keep searching until I stumble upon those wonderful words which describe the tale. In the meantime, I hope this make you want to know what it is too. I promise I will just break down and rewrite the story tomorrow if I can't find the original later today.

Old Oil

The things me Grandpa Joe used to have us do at the old barn make me shake my head these days. At the time I didn't think much about it, but looking back, I often wonder why.

The gasoline powered welding machines he had had long side panels which folded upwards to allow access to the engine and welding unit. These panels (which were as I recall where about four foot in length) had what amounted to long hinges. That they required occasional greasing I get. Joe did that with old oil.

We changed the oil in our own cars back then, and the engines on the welders needed changing too of course. Joe would save all the old oil and have teens like me at the time paint the gray, sticky goo across and into the hinges.

Suffice it to say, it left you smelling like oil. It got oil all over everything: your clothes, the entirety of the machine, and a lot on the cement. For days afterwards you would get a light spray of oil when opening a panel on the machine. It was simply one big, slick, greasy mess.

I understand his reasoning. He felt the oil penetrated well, that it worked itself more into the joints. But thinking back on it, I have to believe there were actual penetrating oils which might have been less hassle: WD-40 or something. But back then I was only a 14 year old doing as he was told. Thinking wasn't in my job description. Joe did that for me...for whatever that's worth.

I Don't Get It Either

Ah, September. I do love you, and October afterward. Fall is my favorite season. Only I'm not really sure why.

The energized colors on the trees as they change are exhilarating. Crisp fall air is a delight. Hot coffee is tastier, hot cider and hot chocolate wonderful warmers. Pumpkins and harvest feelings, things coming of age, are hints of maturity and grace. Yes, I like all that.

Yet Autumn also means winter is peeking over the shoulder, and I do not like winter at all anymore. Well, fresh snow is pretty, and cleansing of all it covers. Then it becomes dirty and brown and murky and uglier than what it hid. And cold, cold, cold. It all comes after fall, so I should look upon autumn with a fair dread.

I don't. I love it. It helps that I'm not really a fan of summer. Take away baseball and golf and summer would mean nothing to me at all. That means, rather oddly I'll admit, that I find in Spring (other than the beauty of things growing) greater dread. Spring heralds hot and sticky discomfort, and I profoundly dislike heat more than cold. I prefer neither, but that's not an option.

So here it is, my favorite time of the year. Even though I'm not entirely sure why.

Labor Day 2024

I would like to take a moment to offer a shout out to all Mothers on this Labor Day 2021. Without their sacrifices none of us would be here today. Without their willingness to deal with the pains of childbirth, we could not be around to celebrate the holiday.

So, Happy Labor Day Moms!

Oh, wait, that's not what's meant by Labor Day?  It seems that I've misconstrued the situation.

The Quiet

People say that big cities are noisy. They say that because they are. As I sit typing this out on my Kindle I hear all sorts of constant, background noise. Aircraft; cars driving by the house; the low hum of machinery somewhere. Even the freeway which is about a half mile north of me is obvious. And this is only Detroit. New York City, Boston, Chicago, Toronto; they're all worse. The D is rather tame by comparison.

It's what you get used to I suppose, but it really makes me like the quiet of the Upper Peninsula all the more. When it's quiet in Hessel, it's quiet, so much so that a car simply passing can startle. 

Even where there's noise, the noise is different. On our way back from the UP State Fair in Escanaba, close to three hours from Hessel, me son Charlie and I stopped at a rest area around 1:30 AM. It was silent but for the waters of Lake Michigan lapping at the sand and rocks beyond the parking lot. Yet those waves, while a little rough, made a soothing sound, almost a rhythm, which enchanted rather than distracted. The sound of the occasional car headed down Forest Avenue next to my house does not compare.

Perhaps it's merely psychological, but I believe that it's only in the quiet that we can touch the ethereal, the numinous, the that which is not us. The quiet isolates; it causes focus, so that we appreciate what connection we have to the unseen which we nevertheless feel. Quiet refines the senses, so that we may find God alongside.

Eerie Hessel

Earlier this month they repaved Cedar Street in front of our house in Hessel, Michigan in the glorious Upper Peninsula. I took a picture a couple hours before dawn the day after the work. This is it:

It's kind of eerie, don't you think? The interesting thing for me is that it reminds me of a recurring dream I had as child. Really. I remember a lone street lamp in the near distance against a black backdrop, with a vehicle parked underneath, not at all unlike the picture. In the dream, there were voices beyond the darkness, and maybe barking dogs, which I could never quite make out. I can almost hear them again looking at this image.

I like the picture, though what inspired me to go outside at around 4 AM to take it I don't know. And I must admit it's weirding me out a little.