Roger That

Rogers Centre, and from where I'm at centre is spelled correctly I assure you, is the home baseball stadium of the Toronto Blue Jays in Ontario, Canada. Me son Frank and I picked it up last night as part of our years long stadium tour. We try to attend a ball game at one new site each season.

Rogers Centre is the first retractable roof stadium, opening in 1989. The roof can be opened for good weather while closed when conditions are poor. They weren't poor yesterday but it was chilly, so it was closed.

The stadium is nice, thought it's a bit weird to see baseball indoors. As Frank remarked, baseball seems intended for the open air. Still, the sight lines were good all over, and we felt reasonably close to the action. The top level where we sat looks steeper than it is but not so much when you're actually seated.

The Jays hosted the Los Angeles Dodgers, who won 12-2. Not a pretty game for the hometown nine.

Stadium amenities were good, and prices weren't bad. Our hot dogs (you gotta have a dog at a ball game) were $6.75 each, but as Canadian money is at a discount against US funds they came out to $5.10 I think through the use of our American debit cards. My souvenir Toronto baseball cap cost $49 from a Canadian start of $67, so prices were comparable to what you would pay in the States. I choked at the $490 tag on an authentic Toronto Blue Jays jersey (Frank said I audibly gasped) but I wasn't going to buy one anyway.

The park was very clean, and felt older than it is. As I said, it opened in 1989, making it I believe the fifth oldest baseball venue in use in the major leagues. It's not the best ball yard, but I do like it. I kind of expected not to. I thought it would be a concrete and steel monster, yet it was rather homey in its own way.

Would I go back? Sure. After all, it is baseball. And I am curious to see the place with the roof open.

VW

I won't say that I drive old cars. I don't have to: everyone who knows me knows that. But some are quirky in a way which is actually kind of cool.

For a while back in 2007 or so I had an old Volkwagen, not a beetle, but a boxy brown car which was sort of a compact type. A Golf, in fact. That's what it was. A Volkswagen Golf. A 1987 Volkswagen Golf.

It ran very well and the gas mileage was outstanding. But coolest of all was that it had stamped into the wheel well under the hood, "Made in West Germany". I was driving a car in 2007 made in a country that no longer existed.

I take pride in things like that.

 

The Housing Market

My mailman was kind enough to deliver to me the latest bit of drivel from my local Congressional representative, who proclaimed within it that safe and affordable housing is a right. I am not enlightened.

The trouble with rights is that they imply obligations. If you have a right to something, who is obliged to fill that right? After all, if a certain nondescript fellow (whom we'll call Cloyce just to give him a name) has a right to a safe and affordable house, well, mine is safe and affordable. Do I have to give it to Cloyce?

Oh, don't be silly, Marty. Of course not.

Well, okay, then, how about the heavy machinists and the carpenters and the electricians and the heating and plumbing contractors who actually build homes? Do they have to build Cloyce a home for free? And do the folks who make the materials which go into home building have to supply the lumber and wire and ductwork and lighting gratis as well?

Come on, Marty, of course not.

Well, then, who does have come up with the house? Who owes Cloyce a safe, affordable home, since it's a right he has? Who must deliver on that right? Don't say the government, because that's just a longhand way of saying me, and we've already established I don't owe Cloyce a home.

And that's the trouble when you begin bandying about rights. If you aren't ready and willing to talk rationally about obligations as well, Congressional representative, you're just blowing smoke. 

I Don't Get It

I'm going to be him: I'm going to be that guy. I don't care. I think it has to be said.

Have we become such party animals that so mundane a trifle as a sports draft is literally tying our streets in knots? The NFL, the National Football League to you who don't know (and I have been surprised by the number of folks who don't know and, thankfully, don't care; there is hope for the world), is holding its player draft in Detroit this week. And the city is teeming with visitors and all sorts of temporary construction is happening and streets are being closed...so teams can choose who can play for them?

To begin with, and I mean this quite seriously, why a draft of players? Why can't they select who they want to have a catch with? Isn't it some form of involuntary servitude to say that if you want to play with us you have to play with who we (those in power) say you have to play for? I'm willing to argue that there's a real moral wrong at work here.

Then there's all the stuff and nonsense surrounding the thing. I get it, to a point, anyway, when sportsball is happening, a Super Bowl or what not. But we're not even talking about an actual game or event here. We're talking about, at best, an eenie, meenie, minee, moe: who picks who first and so on. It's inane, and I mean that quite seriously too, to force all this hullaballoo on a community for such ultimately meaningless drivel. 

When bread and circuses have devolved to this point, friends, I have to honestly wonder whether our national priorities are anywhere near right. Yet judging by the recent history of these United States, perhaps this is a symptom of a greater disease.

Truly Sublime

Here I am, touting my own writing. How gauche, but my blog, my rules.

Still, here's a cool review of my 'memoir' The Sublime to the Ridiculous

Kidding aside, it's pretty much what I intended about the collection. It's available here: STTR

Kindle only just yet, but I hope to have a print edition ready soon!

The Day Dawns

When I bought a copy of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, the noted Beatles album from 1967, I found a gem. I especially liked the song When I'm 64, a Paul McCartney tune which is the second track on side two. 64; that was a long time off for a twelve year old.

Not so much now. Today I hit that milestone, fifty some years after first hearing the song. When I get older? I am older. Losing my hair? Oh, yeah. Many years from now? Not anymore.

But I'm living the life. All my years humming that tune, and here we are. Thank you, Lord.

Looney Sunday

I discovered last night that a cable station is having a Looney Toons - Merrie Melodies marathon this weekend. Man, I had almost forgotten how laugh out loud hilarious all those old Warner Brothers shorts could be.

First there was The Old Grey Hare, where Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd were transported all the way to the year 2000 - 2000, showing how old the old toons were - for them to see how their relationship ended. No spoiler here, but dynamite was involved.

Ever see Duck Amuck? If you haven't you need to. The animator puts Daffy Duck through all kinds of bizarre situations which you have to see to believe. And who, it turns out, was that artist? 

There was stone age Elmer who sounded like Jack Benny. I saw the Three Little Bops, narrated in jazz style by Stan Freberg. Hilarious. Foghorn Leghorn painted a dog's tongue green. Uh, you had to see it. But it was the sort of thing which leaves the viewer asking, 'People got paid to write that?'.

Of course, there was What's Opera, Doc?, one of the few where Elmer got the best of Bugs. It's classic.

The marathon lasts until 6 tomorrow, Monday, morning. Don't bother me the rest of the day.

Pleading the Fourth

This one might make a better Sunday entry, but as I have to get a few things done at the old barn this Saturday and feel a bit inspired by it this minute, I'll put it out there today.

We all know the Ten Commandments. An old priest once explained to me that they're a hierarchy: though they are each tremendously important in their own right, the lower the number, the more significant it is.

The first three deal with our relationship with God. The other seven concern our relationship with each other. And what's the first of those?

Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother.

Why is this Fourth Commandment so important? Of course, because as a rule our parents merit veneration and respect. But beyond that? The priest told me that when you violate any of the other Commandments you at the same time violate this one. Why? Because when you lie, cheat, and steal you're telling the world that your folks taught you that was okay. You impugn their integrity by making it appear they taught you that lying and so forth are all right. You insult your mother and father when you do wrong things.

About time y'all started listening to Momma again, eh?

April 19, 1775

On this day in 1775 the American Revolution began in earnest. The militiamen, the ordinary citizen soldiers of Lexington and Concord, turned back the more organized and more highly trained British, harassing them all the way back to Charlestown outside of Boston. The Shot Heard Round the World had been fired. April 19, 1775 had secured its place in American and World history.

The significance of this event cannot be underscored enough. To date, it lit the lamp of almost surely the only large scale revolution which has had any modicum of positive success. Most new nations sink into anarchy, more terrible tyranny, or simply the same old same old with a new face after a known form of government falls.

To be sure, even our Revolution was subject to severe trials early on. It was no certainty that a civil government based on popular will would result from the breaking of age old ties. Yet somehow it did; I believe that it was American Exceptionalism through Divine Providence that our nation rose from those battles as it did.

I do not mean this as an insult towards other people and nations who have or are now seeking similar freedom and respect. I know that we aren't and never have been perfect, and that there are and have been other rightly proud and blessed peoples and countries. But the fact is that popular uprisings need more than simple change. They need enlightened leadership. They need more than mob mentality. Any dictator with charisma and organizational skills can turn crowds to their will quite readily.

The colonists had rational leadership. The colonist themselves were on the whole reasonable people. They were able to overcome the occasional rabble to form a stable, reasonably free nation. And that's exactly what makes April 19, 1775 so memorable. Our revolution is truly unique in history. It was essentially founded 249 years ago today.

The Master Quips

Look, I know the old saw about going to the well too often. Yesterday's blog was filler, something I put together in the wee hours of Wednesday because I had to leave on a business trip at 2:30 AM and needed to get a few new words out into the ether. A blogger is supposed to blog every day, even just a sentence or two.

Here's today's bit of filler.

Many of us are familiar with Alfred Hitchcock Presents; I mentioned watching it just yesterday in fact. Hitch lead in and offered exit messages on each show's episode. Once he mentioned having sympathy with a character having wardrobe troubles. "I myself was once arrested for indecent exposure. It was when I removed my mask at a Halloween gala."

Some days I just shine in another's light.

With a Hitch

April 17. Another day, another dollar. So they say.

The Tigers are doing all right. 10-7, with good pitching. Could stand to score a few more runs though.

Alfred Hitchcock is on the telly. I call it that because Hitch was English and that's their slang for television.

The Twilight Zone just had an episode where two people, a man and a woman, both astronauts, were stranded on a distant planet. He was named Adam, she Eve. I suppose it was clever at the time.

In a couple of days it'll be April 19. If my math is right.

You know, stream of consciousness isn't so easy as it seems.

Because I Want To

I rarely have trouble with Canada customs. Whenever I head over, it's almost universally a rubber stamp. Show my identification, answer a couple perfunctory questions, and they let me on my way. 

But yesterday heading to Windsor for an end of season curling dinner, wow. I had to draw a deep breath to keep my cool. 

After derisively commenting on the size of my newer older van, the 1996 Chevy conversion van which I bought off my brother-in-law, the little snot in the booth asked with no small amount of disdain, "Why aren't you driving a regular car?"

I tell you, and I mean this quite seriously, I was instantly enraged. It was a burning, deep anger right to the core of my being. What? Did I miss the memo that Marty can't drive his van to Canada? Has Parliament passed a law that henceforth and in perpetuity Charles Martin Cosgriff shalt ne'er again pilot the motor car of his choice into these Canadian Dominions? 

What's it to you what I drive, ya little punk? Different country or not, I don't have to justify this to you. I wanted to smack that sneer right off his face. I wanted to yell, "Because I %$@!!&! want to drive my van!" That's why I don't drive a regular car, whatever the hell you mean by that.

Instead I took a deep, deep breath and answered, trying not to grit my teeth, "I just like driving my van."

That's crap, folks. Just crap.

Technology Spoiler

I watch my share of golf, and as with many other things I've noticed how innovation has crept into the coverage of the sport. What I like most are the arcing trails which typically appear on the TV screen indicating where a shot is headed. 

Imagine my confusion then when the technical wizards don't do it. Here's guy a teeing off: immediately after striking the ball there's a glorious arc showing just where it's going, with the highest point and the ball speed all right on the screen. Then on the very next shot, they don't do it.

Don't tease, folks. Every time or no time, please. I wouldn't mind it even on the putts.

Zeke and the Masters

I don't watch golf very often. But I always watch the Masters. Although I do find that I like the game more and more as I grow older, there's a part of me which still doesn't really see the allure. Hitting a small ball hundreds of yards into a cup maybe twice the size of that ball just doesn't seem a very entertaining way to spend an afternoon. Still, I find that golf and I have a history. Lately that's been played out through 'swing and sweeps', combined golf and curling tournaments. They're great fun, especially if, as a curler (as I am) it gets you two more curling games per season. I do look forward to them.

But more than that. My father's youngest brother, my Uncle John, who we sometimes called Zeke, liked to golf. He always bet something or other with a coworker on the outcome of the Masters. He and his boss would pick five guys alternately, and who had the winner won a sleeve of balls. I'm not sure who won most often. But I know my uncle was always proud of his picks.

I golfed with him many times years ago, when he was young and I was younger. We'd go out for nine holes after work many a summer's day. Those evenings were always good fun. If I could relive just one...we would joke and laugh, and simply enjoy the quiet and the game.

He was a lefty. That was fairly rare in golf at the time. His swing seemed unusual even to me, but for a duffer he was okay. I scored my only birdie to this date while golfing with him. The Eighth hole at Dearborn Hills, a 170 yard par 3, a Thursday night in an August which escapes my memory. I made the green off the tee with a four iron, and hit a 25 foot putt which ran hard left to right right into the cup. I made him sign the scorecard to attest that I had birdied. He remarked, "No one will believe us, because I'm family." It was lightly drizzling as he signed the card under the glare of my car's headlight after that round. I still see him doing it. Why do such things stay in our memories? But when he died, the first thing I did was dig up the scorecard and the ball that I birdied with.

When he had decided he was through with golf he gave me his left handed clubs. Several times I played rounds with them. If you have any idea how poorly I golf, you would realize that it hardly mattered from which side of the tee I would address the ball. Might as well play lefty.

I kept those clubs for years. Then I bought a better-than-mine set of used right handed clubs (used better than I ever will), and decided to sell Uncle John's clubs at a yard sale. Who needs two sets of clubs, especially opposite sided ones, right? A young left handed guy came by, practice swung a few of them, decided that he wanted to golf enough so that he ought to have his own clubs, and made his purchase.

I watched him walk away, dragging Uncle John's clubs behind on the cart which went with the deal. I felt a pang of remorse as the man disappeared with his new found treasure.

I sincerely hope that he has golfed well with them. And I wish I still had those clubs.

Rico

Way back when, when neighborhood children played actual games on actual outdoor fields, there was this preteen who was an absolute vacuum cleaner on the baseball diamond. We called him Rico, after Rico Petrocelli, a known Boston Red Sox third baseman at the time. Our Rico could snap up any ground ball and track down any pop fly hit anywhere near his station. He impressed us almost every pickup game.

It turns out his name is Ray, and he works as a counter man at an industrial supply store where I occasionally make needed purchases. I'd dealt with him there for the last few years, until he realized who Cosgriff was and made the connection. Now I call him Rico when I see him.

He hasn't played ball in years. Of course, neither have I. Yet I remember thinking back in the day that he surely had a future in the game. "Nah, that was just kids having fun," he modestly explains it away. 

However that may be, it is cool to have a childhood connection in your life again. We had a lot of fun on the sandlots. Small world.

Neighborhood Savior

There is a fellow in the neighborhood, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who really seems to want to be the inspiration for all Woodbridge. Cloyce seems particularly concerned with criminal activity, although he chimes in on the Woodbridge Facebook page on any and all problems (real or imagined) in the area. What can be done? Can we write a letter to someone? What are the details? Have you called the police? How about updates? You should write out a short report of your own so as not to forget details, and share it on the community page. And, perhaps most tellingly, why haven't I heard?

He reminds me of the naive but eager teenager is the old movies: "We can make things work if we all pull together!" Yet Cloyce comes across more as the guy at the edge of the crowd, leaping and pleading with everyone to let him in. You know, the water boy quarterback wannabe generally ignored by the rest of the football team.

I suppose his heart's in the right place. And, yes, we should be vigilant in watching out for the folks in our community. Yet he comes off as more annoying than helpful. It's made worse by the fact that he seems to have all the answers. As a neighborhood friend of mine remarked, "Cloyce ain't gonna be happy until he earns his Junior G-Man badge."

He'll never get it the way he's going. 

Comet (Not the Cleanser)

I have to imagine that almost everyone knows about Halley's Comet. Its orbit brings it close to Earth about every 75 years. The last time it was nearby was 1986. A group of friends and I actually went out to see it then, and I found myself thinking about that on a drive recently as I happened to pass the park where we watched it.

To say I was geeked to see it would have been understatement. As a child I recall me Grandpaw Hutchins talking about when it passed in 1910, when he was a 11. He described it as very bright, and a spectacular sight. Some folk, he explained, thought it was the end of the world, the sight was so unusual. It turns out that Earth actually did pass through the tail of the Comet, so it surely was an awe (and perhaps fear) inspiring event.

Needless to say that after years of self induced build up I really wanted to see that thing return. I mean, I really wanted to see it. And so I did: as a tiny line on the lower western horizon from where that group of us spied it. Halley's Comet wasn't inspiring at all, let alone menacing.

I wish it had been better, especially as I don't expect to have the chance to see it again. It will be 2061 when Halley's comet returns; making it to 101 years old seems unlikely. Still, I have me Grandpaw's description of it. And I have the memory of his memory too, which ain't a bad thing.

The Keys to the Kingdom of the Shop

How many of you have old keys hanging around? Maybe they're on your key ring, or perhaps in your junk drawer. At the Shop, we have keys hanging on nails right inside the office door, most of which haven't been used in ages. 

Some are the keys to cars which have long met the compactor.  I know that one key is for the last flatbed truck we had for delivering welders. That truck's been gone 35 or 40 years. We also still have the key from a 1961 Ford delivery truck. Interesting thing about that one: me Grandpa Joe bought it off of Seven-Up, the soda pop company. He didn't bother removing the logo, simply painting over it. You could see the Seven-Up image underneath the red of the driver's door.

Smaller keys are old shop locks for padlocks which are who knows where. Most of them have not been touched since well before Pops died, and he's been gone coming up on eleven years.

Why don't we get rid of them? I dunno. It's habit to have them there I suppose. One key is attached to a key ring which has the baby from the first Incredibles cartoon. That's, what, 2004? The baby is no longer bald but has a nice head of dust hair. It's to be expected I suppose, after hanging inside the doorway for close to 20 years now.

Some of those keys might even fit locks we still have if we were to try and find them. I'm not fired up to find out though. I suspect me kids when clearing out the old barn hopefully way, way into the future, will wonder why the hell we kept them, and just toss them out. So it goes.

Last Shot

No, it isn't what you think. But headlines are supposed to generate interest, right?

My final curling shot in the Windsor Granite Curling league last night was - I am not bragging because I truly am rather humbled by it - a perfect center guard. I had not thrown a guard all evening. Not because I couldn't (Quiet, Ron) but because one had not been called for me. Then on my very last shot of the game we needed a dead perfect guard. And I made it, with good sweeping and a good line call. Thanks, boys!

I remarked to Dave and Steve, my sweepers, that I didn't know if I could throw the stone light enough to be a guard (don't make me say quiet Ron again) after throwing nothing but draws and hits all night. But there you go. You save the best for last.

I don't know what's going to happen with Granite curling next year. We move to a new arena owned by the City of Windsor and, quite frankly, I think the future of the game in southwest Ontario is, well, uncertain. Still, I'll give it a chance, and maybe make a few decent throws as I go. Either way, last night's last shot was satisfying.

Eclipsed

Yeah, I'm just staying home and watching today's eclipse from the D. The more I thought about it the more I thought, I do have work to do (well, that was my boss's, and conscience's, thought anyway) and what real difference can half a percent off totality (Detroit is predicted to have 99.4 sun coverage)  make? So I'll slip on a welding helmet and step outside the old barn and catch the thing as it grows and ebbs.

But the corona! That sliver of sunlight at totality! Ah, I've seen it before, in pictures. And again, it simply can't be that much better. I doubt I'll be on my deathbed wishing I'd have seen the whole eclipse. I'll be on my deathbed wishing I'd spent more time at work.

Ha, ha, no. But in this world sometimes work must be a priority. I would have probably been more inclined to drive further for totality if, say, Detroit were only at 80 or 90 percent. As it is, I'll take what I get.

Going to the Dogs

Wow. Just, wow. We live in a world which believes that there's nothing worth living for.

An otherwise healthy Dutch woman will die by assisted suicide because of the depression she suffers. Here's a New York Post article on the issue.

One in five Dutch now die by assisted suicide. Giving up seems to be the new honor in Holland. Their medical community is more than willing to help. In fact, they want euthanasia readily available for everyone over 75. It saves money on government health care.

I am in no way, shape, or form saying that we shouldn't empathize with anyone suffering from any mental or physical illness. Of course we should. Yet part of that also surely means trying to help people see the inherent value in their lives no matter what their exact condition may be. 

Instead, we hold their hand and gently affirm, well, sure, if that's what you want. It began as saying that to the seriously, physically ill. Now we say it to otherwise healthy young women. It's easier on the doctors and the bill payers that way. We can't help her (a questionable decision on its own) so let's kill her. It gets a case off the books.

And, slowly but certainly, the right to die becomes an obligation to die. It's best for you. It's best for all of us. 

Wow. Just, wow.

Actively Listening

Bill Newman was a fella who used to come into the Shop a lot. He was a plumber and a gregarious sort. Mr. Newman liked to talk. Perhaps the best word to describe him was raconteur, a teller of fanciful stories. 

Now, me Grandpa Joe liked to talk too. I remember many days where Mr. Newman would come in and Joe would stop his work to visit. And, no doubt, swap tales with his cohort.

One day they were off to the side talking and things became animated. Not because they were mad or upset with one another, no. It was due to the fact they were each wanting to tell their stories so much so that they were constantly interrupting one another, making it hard for either to finish what they was sayin.

Finally Bill Newman, who was about a head taller than Joe and quite strong, grabbed me Grandpa by his lapels and lifted him off the floor just enough that Grandpa's toes were all that was left touching the ground. He pulled Joe's face in close to his own. "Joe! Joe! Joe! We got a problem here!"

"What's that?" me Grandpa asked, actually, believe it or not, laughing at his predicament.

"We're both talkers! We gotta find us a couple'a listeners!"

Maybe you had to be there, but it was funny watching Joe being held by the lapels like that, and him just laughing along with it. Yet it was all between friends, right? 

Detroit's Holiday

Well, the Detroit Tigers lost the second game of a twin bill to the Mets yesterday, 2-1. They were the last undefeated team in MLB to fall this year and are now five wins against that one loss. So it goes. The Tigers weren't going to go 162-0 anyway. 

After six road games Detroit is now home for Opening Day against the A's. I'm not sure we can call them Oakland, now that they're heading to Sacramento for three, or four, or who really knows how many seasons. But that's another question for another day.

Baseball owns Opening Day. For lo, the winter is past. Spring is here and all is new. Baseball opens us up to summer. Sure, football is trying to horn in with the UFL. Let the 12 people who watch that have their fun. We know the real national pastime, and it begins again this afternoon a little after 1 in the D. I intend to catch it.

Cloyce Certainty

I have a good friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who had fretted to the point of insanity over a recent jury summons. His instructions were to call jury service after 5 PM the afternoon before the scheduled service date to find out if he actually had to report.

Now, Cloyce is just a bit paranoid. He never feels certain about certainty even when it's perfectly obvious what a given situation means. Duly calling the phone number on the summons the night before, he was told he didn't have to report. Yet he nonetheless checked online, where it showed his service was cancelled. Cloyce even scanned the QR Code on the summons, and was informed he could stay home. Still, Cloyce expressed fear over the matter. "I hope I don't actually have jury duty after all," he remarked to me.

"Well," I replied, "Maybe send them a telegram. What about a carrier pigeon? Have you tried smoke signals? Semaphore? An aldis lamp? Drum messaging like the ancients used? It doesn't seem that you've employed all your options."

Cloyce just stared at me. Yet I think he was simply processing the information, as I did see a Western Union van outside of his home later than night.

Mint Condition

Me Pops was on a trip one time with an old friend; I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. While in Philadelphia, they decided to take a tour of the US Mint there.

Miraculously, they were able to park within a block. But as they were climbing the steps to the Mint Cloyce remarked, "Bill, should I tell them at the door that I've got my pistol with me?"

Pops stopped in his tracks. After a second or two of thought he explained quickly and quietly, "Okay, Cloyce, here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna stand here a minute and talk, pretend we're discussing an issue, act like we forgot something, and then we'll go back to the car. Then we're gonna leave your gun there."

"I don't go nowhere without my gun!" Cloyce responded indignantly.

"Then you ain't going to the US Mint!" Dad said firmly. They got back to the car and drove off.

What a waste of an ideal parking space too. 

Like, Totally

The big solar eclipse is coming up next Monday, April 8. I had been planning for months to take the day off work and head down into northwest Ohio to see it. A total eclipse? A once in a lifetime event? I wasn't going to miss it.

Then in yesterday's paper I read that Detroit, where I live, will be at about 99.4% totality. Almost ninety nine and a half percent of the Sun will be blocked right at home. Do I want to drive a minimum of an hour each way, and fight the expected crowds, for around three minutes of complete coverage? How much of a difference can point-six of a percent make?

So now I don't know. I reserve the right to make the trek. But is it worth it?

Having a Good Day

I was kind of dreading today, yet it's actually going rather well.

As I waited in line at the coffee shop this morning, the young man in front of me as he payed his own tab, indicated me and told the cashier to cover my cup of joe on his debit card. I thanked him profusely; it's always nice when someone does you a kindness.

Heading into the old barn this morning, I found a fifty dollar bill laying on the ground a few feet outside the door. Then the first repair I had planned, a typically difficult chore and one I had dreaded all weekend, fell right into place. What was usually an hour or two project I had completed in twenty minutes.

I closed the Shop briefly and ran home for breakfast. I didn't think there was milk in the house yet there was, and I could have a bowl of the cereal which I had developed a taste for. 

While eating, I logged on to check my email. The top stories of the day were an in depth and spot on analysis of the Middle East crisis from President Joe Biden. I never imagined agreeing with him, but there it was. Even Donald Trump tweeted that it was a masterpiece of statecraft.

Let me tell you, this has been the most memorable First Day of April in my life.

Easter 2024

Alleluia! Alleluia! Blessed Jesus make us rise,

From the life of this corruption 

to the life that never dies.

May we share with Thee Thy Glory

When the days of life are past.

And the dead shall be awakened

By the trumpet's mighty blast!

Happy Easter!

Early Baseball

This afternoon the Detroit Tigers will play their second baseball game of the 2024 season. While I love the game and look forward to it every year, March 30 does feel early for the sport.

It used to start later. When they had regular doubleheaders the extra dates weren't needed. Skimming through an old 1971 Tigers yearbook I noticed 18 scheduled twin bills, two games on one ticket. Now they only play them when rain outs force it. 

Doubleheaders were what I lived for as a younger fan. The instant the new schedule appeared I filled out my social calendar with whenever two games would be played at old Tiger Stadium. It was my summer guide; all else was plotted around those twin bills.

Hopefully rain will help me see one sometime this year. It did in 2022; I took a half day off when Detroit played two against Oakland. They actually played three last year, but I was just too busy with work to take advantage of the situation. I almost filed a grievance against my boss though.

Oh well. Play ball! It's the whole point of summer.

Signs of Good Friday

When me Pops was growing up, the neighborhood was more of a neighborhood. There were more stores, more houses, and religion still had a more direct effect on lives. So much more of an impact in fact that many stores and small businesses would close from 12-3 on Good Friday in commemoration of Christ's death on the Cross.

One day the Catholic school Pops attended had signs made up for the stores. They said simply, We will be closed on Good Friday from 12-3. Sister Principal called on two eighth grade young men to carry them around to neighborhood establishments and ask if they would like a sign for their window. Pops was one kid and a friend of his, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, the other. They didn't mind. Doing God's work got them out of school for a couple hours.

Sister instructed them not to try to talk anyone into taking a sign. Give them one if they wanted, go about your business if they didn't. In most places, Dad said, that's exactly what happened. They either took a sign or did not. Yet one small store owner decided he wanted to grill the two Catholic youngsters, and Pops himself felt the guy was being a little too pointed.

"You kids really believe all that stuff?" the man asked. He went on, and on, Dad explained later, knocking religion and what they were doing to the point where him and Cloyce felt truly put upon. Yet being kids, they weren't quite sure how to deal with it.

Cloyce soon determined a solution. After one too many snide barbs Cloyce said to the guy, "Look, mister, you can go to Hell for all I care. Do you want a sign or not?"'

He declined. Yet he obviously called the school to complain, because Sister Principal caught them at the door on their return. "Anything happen out there?" she asked suspiciously.

"No, nothing," Pops and Cloyce both answered. Dad said he didn't think she believed them; indeed, he was quite sure she had gotten a call. But she let things go at their assurance. Dad always wondered whether she knew the whole story and if in fact they had her tacit approval.

Opening Day 2024

This is it: the real, one and only, true Opening Day in all of sports. Major League Baseball begins today. Well, other than the two games played in Korea last week. But let's not quibble.

Anaheim at Baltimore start it off at 3:05. My own Detroit Tigers face the Chicago White Sox in Chi town at 4:10. It's on.

Predictions? I won't make any even though it's expected. Everyone's a World Series contender on Opening Day and I won't spoil it. Let's simply enjoy the beginning of 162 games of the best sport there is, bar none. Baseball. The national pastime. 

Let Summer roll.

Old Folks Superpower

I'm finding that I rarely sleep until my alarm anymore. I tend to wake well before I actually have to get up.

Me Grandpaw Hutchins used to rise at 5 each morning with no alarm. From what I've heard, many seniors require no help rising to greet the dawn. 

For me, it's no longer as it was for years: the sudden, shocking, "I'm up! I'm up!" It's more like, "All right, I have now awoken. Proceed, day."

It's a Senior Superpower. I don't need no stinking alarm.

Stickler For Detail

I did have to chastise Mom once. Mildly.

A few years back someone gave her a bunch of small, magnetic voice balloons. They looked exactly like what you see in a comic strip when the characters spoke: a cloud of sorts floating above their heads containing what they were saying. These held short sayings along the lines of "I Love You" "That's cool" and such on each one. Mom used the stickers to hold things like birthday cards and what not up on her metal kitchen cabinet doors.

Absently mindedly checking them out as I visited one day, I saw that the one she used on a holy card with Joseph and Mary, Jesus' mother and earthly father, said, "Go away!"

"Mom!" I teased her when I saw it. "Look what you have Mary saying!"

She got up from her chair and walked over to the cabinet. Putting her hand over her mouth to cover an embarrassed smile (or was it a teenage smirk?) she said, "Oh my. I'll have to change that!" 

Wholly inadvertent, but funny just the same.

Pilate's World

This past weekend Catholics had the Long Gospel, a standard practice on Palm Sunday where the Passion of Christ is gone over in detail. One part of that Gospel has always stood out to me. When Pontius Pilate asked Jesus what his purpose was Christ answered, "I came to testify to the truth." Pilate responded with disdain, "What is truth?" This is exactly what the world says when confronted with Jesus, or with any idea of Truth.

Pilate represents the World, which wants no truth. Christ more than represents truth but is rather Truth Itself. And that is why the world rejects him.

The World wants to do what it wants to do and does not want to have to justify itself.  Christ challenges that: certain things are what they are no matter what you think (or want to think). So the World mocks Him: What is Truth?

Save your tongue if your first reaction is to ask, who's truth? That's only childish gainsaying. The question is not and never can be that. The real question, to turn it around on you, World, is, What is Truth? 

If you aren't seeking real, honest truth, you're playing to vanity, quite frankly. If you ask, like Pilate, what is truth, you mock and deny truth. Do so if you wish. But the price will be dear if you choose to, as the beginning of all the vice in human history can be seen in that small exchange between God and the World. "I came to testify; What is Truth?" Will you seek Truth, or will you deny it? There is nothing else.

Do They Really?

Detroit Tiger Riley Greene hit an opposite field home run in a Grapefruit League game Thursday afternoon. Red Wing Andrew Copp scored an impressive goal later that evening in a hockey game. Each time, the respective analysts spoke of the mechanics and training that go into such home runs and hockey goals. Greene went with the pitch, as he was presumably taught, and sent it over the left field fence rather than try to pull it to right as a left handed batter might typically do. Copp managed to control a rolling puck for several strides and eventually slammed it past the goalie. It was taken as given that they were coached into their accomplishments.

Or were they? That's the question I almost always have in the back of my mind when the sports experts explain something. Did Riley Green really think all that through in the .15 of a second he had to decide whether to swing at the pitch, or does he simply have very good hand to eye coordination and more or less instinctively drove the ball the other way?

I'm not saying that as a bad thing. Talent after all is talent, and fantastic coordination the mark of a good athlete. I'm not even saying coaching or training does nothing. Still, can reactions like that truly be taught and learned, or are they just a reflection of pure talent?

The answer is likely somewhere in between, depending on the player. Yet I'm sure some athletes are simply good at what they do and that's all there is to it. I don't think Babe Ruth needed much coaching on the long ball.

Another Weather Rant

You are all probably sick of my complaining about climate change and the weather. Well, click off this page or buckle your seat belt, because I'm about to do it again.

Being an old guy I'm also a weather wonk. That means that all this past week I kept tabs on the forecast, which assured me Detroit would have a little to no snow accumulation yesterday, Friday March 22. This prediction was still on about 12 hours before Friday dawned.

So imagine my surprise (not) when I found our cars covered in white in the early morning, and around a half inch of snow on the grass and sidewalks. This snow continued until just before Noon, and was heavy at times. I'm guessing we had a couple inches total, maybe three. This, again, after being told to expect no accumulation a half day earlier.

For the umpteenth time, this is why I do not and will not believe the climate change fanatics. You can't give me an accurate snowfall total the day before Friday but we're all doomed in 80 years. 

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Tell me one more time (because I didn't hear it the first two dozen times) that weather is only part of climate. Well, it's clearly the biggest part of it. If you can't get a forecast right in the near term I'm within reason to not trust your prognostications on the distant future. It's convenient too that your predictions are so far beyond your own expiration date that you ain't gonna be around to pay the piper.

But your kids and grandkids will. Rant over. For today.

That Patrick

Not that it's been much, but I remember blogging not that long ago about how me brother Patrick explained that we didn't shovel snow all winter in 1982-1983 but did the first day of Spring that season. Well, here it is the fourth day of Spring 2024, and I was out clearing snow and brushing off cars a little after seven. It's the first time I've done that since early January.

Sometimes it's nice to relive the past. Not this past, though. At least now we should really be through with snow until December.

We are aren't we?

Ketchup With Phil

On the road yesterday with me brother Phil in tow and having greatly overestimated the time we would need make an appointment in Fort Wayne, Indiana, we decided to get breakfast at a little diner in Napoleon, Ohio.

We sat down at a booth, and the server brought us menus and coffee. The waitress took our orders soon after that, then soon after that she brought our breakfasts. "Would you guys like ketchup?" she asked.

I laughed out loud. "You don't know the in joke, but yes, we would like it. Me brother here uses a lot." 

She gave us ketchup in a large bottle. The young woman turned away as Phil took it and absolutely slathered his plate of food with it. Think an absurd amount of ketchup, and just a but more after that.

The waitress came by a few minutes later. "Is everything okay, oh my, that's a lot of ketchup!"

"And now you're in on the joke," I quipped.

Getting Another Opinion

Being up early in the morning means watching a bit of TV. Watching TV means watching commercials. Surprise, surprise.

I saw one ad this morning about a guy who had trouble with his hands cramping. As the script played out, he went to one specialist who couldn't help. Seeking relief, he decided to go to a second hand doctor. I thought, I'm not sure if that's a good idea.

I know, I know. I'll show myself out.

Reinventing the Wheel

There was this drain snake customer of ours, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who might have been the penultimate re-inventor of the wheel. There wasn't a drain snake which was safe from his passion to do things different under the guise of making them better, which to my knowledge he never actually managed. His improvements tended to make things harder rather than easier.

Ol' Cloyce had a large plate installed atop a snake to turn the motor a hundred and eighty degrees around because it would then magically give the machine more power. It didn't, but it sure made working on the motor a greater chore. 

He welded the power feed onto a machine, backwards too by the way, because that made it easier (he argued) to access the actuator handle. Not in the least, I tell you, but replacing bearings was then a true challenge because you had to take the entire feed apart to do it. Normally you take the unit off and set it on a work bench where, trust me, putting in new bearings was much more readily done. 

Perhaps his greatest accomplishment was retrofitting a thirteen horsepower gasoline engine to his electric drain machine because he was absolutely going to destroy any root bed in any sewer which came his way. Those roots would never know what hit them. 

There wasn't simply one thing wrong with that approach. There were many.

A typical electric snake has a 3/4 horsepower motor. Cloyce increased the power nearly twenty times the necessary strength. Overkill much, Cloyce?

Then the unit was too heavy and bulky to get into a standard basement in a private home. But that was probably just as well because, you know, toxic fumes from the exhaust just might be a problem in a small enclosed area. Maybe.

Professor Cloyce took care of that with an intricate series of detachable piping which could be run from an open basement window to the drain access. Of course, that put you as much as forty or fifty feet away from the job and left you blind to the work. I guess progress doesn't absolutely require that you see what you're doing, but still.

I'm sure he did rip those roots to shreds. I'm sure he destroyed a good many lengths of sewer pipe too. Ah well. Here's to Cloyce, the Thomas Edison of the snake world.

Or more honestly, the Rube Goldberg. But I'm sure the old boy had fun tinkering in his laboratory. Uh, garage.

Where is this Going?

A few years ago I met an old curling friend for golf. After a short discussion we decided to play in Canada. I crossed over the border one Sunday, we played 18 holes, went to a pub and grub for a couple pints and some, well, grub, decided to hit the links again soon, and parted ways.
It was next, in my return to these United States, that the story became in my mind kinda weird.
I stopped at the guard booth and dutifully handed the attendant my enhanced license. "Citizenship?" he asked brusquely.
You just swiped my license, so you know the answer to that, I thought brusquely myself. But I obediently answered, "U.S."
"Purpose of your trip?"
"I was golfing with a Canadian curling friend."
The man turned to look at me and asked, I thought rather harshly, "What have you got against golf in the United States?"
"N, nothing," I heard myself stammer. "We just decided to golf in Canada."
He began staring me down, and I have to admit I was starting to feel intimidated, "Why would you decide that?"
"Well, no big reason. It seemed cheaper for me cross the border and pay in Canadian dollars, that's all."
"So what's your problem with US dollars?" continued the interrogation.
I wasn't sure how to answer that, as I truly love US dollars as much as any red blooded American. I responded meekly, "It just seemed cheaper."
The guard harrumphed, and turned to look at his monitor. "And how did you meet this 'curling friend'?" I swear you could see the quote marks hanging in the air.
I really wasn't sure how to answer that; from his tone it didn't appear as though there was a right answer. "Uh, well, curling?" It sounded even to me like I responded with the lilt of a question. That's not gonna help here, I thought with no small fear.
He asked, "Do you have your clubs with you?"
"Yes. In the back of my van." I stupidly indicated where the back of my van was with a twist of my head.
"What kind are they?" he demanded.
I answered incredulously, "Clevelands." Where's he going with this?
The guard turned again to me, handed me back my license, smiled broadly and said in the happiest tone, "Good choice. Have a nice day!"
I don't know about you, but it struck me a rather bizarre return interview.

St. Patrick's Day

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Get your Irish on. Listen to a few reels, dance a few jigs, and easy on the Guinness and the Jameson's.

Irish music really is good you know. Not just the sing alongs, but the reels too. And other than Danny Boy, they tend to be happy. But I suppose there has to be one cry in your beer song. 

Date Mongering

Yes, it's fun. But like with so many other fun things, it gets into overkill all too quickly.

This week alone we had Pi Day, March 14, or 3.14. An obvious math pun, following an entire day after 313 Day, March 13, celebrated (if you can call it that) in Detroit because our area code is 313. And everybody knows May 4, or May Fourth, as Star Wars Day. Our own dear Upper Peninsula likes September 6, or 906, since that's da UP's area code. 

I'm sure more will be coming out of the woodwork, because that's exactly how these things work. Anyone busy 824? I hear it'll be a blast.

Death Comes Knocking

There was an old woman who used to live down the street, I'll call her Mrs. Cloyce just to give her a name, who regularly bugged me brother Phil for help. Now, I'm all for helping someone in need, especially the elderly. Phil is too. Yet Mrs. Cloyce had become extreme in asking for favors. It had become constant.

I don't recall details, only that the bulk of it was nonsense yet difficult stuff which me brother dreaded. He came to loathe seeing Mrs. Cloyce come up the walk.

She began to catch onto that, though. One day after asking Phil for yet another pesky favor Mrs. Cloyce opined, "I bet you'd rather see Death come along than me, ha ha!"

'You aren't far off', thought Phil to himself. Then he went on and helped the old woman.

Feelings

I think one of the biggest mistakes we make today is the emphasis on feelings over reason. We ignore that feelings cannot be measured, but reason can.

I cannot know the intensity or trustworthiness of what you feel, nor you, me. We simply feel what we feel; in that sense mere feelings are amoral. We can't judge them. They just are what they are.

Yet we can judge reason through logic. We can look at how others act and make judgments for or against it. You might feel justified in lifting that hundred from your brother's wallet, but I can still assert quite rightly that you're stealing. Perhaps you, ahem, feel he owes it to you. Well then, make your case, that I might be able to see that you have one. Yet if all you've got is the feeling you deserved that Franklin, you need to give it back and seek forgiveness. 

I believe our modern progressive friends trumpet feelings over reason exactly because feelings left to themselves avoid larceny and any other violations of right, wrong, or general propriety. They want to feel however they want to feel (and act on that) without recrimination.

Just don't tell them how you feel about it. Yes, I'm being snarky.

It Isn't About Science After All

I am totally ripping off my son's response to a blog I wrote awhile back, lamenting that progressives 'worship' science, because I find his response more apt. Science, or more appropriately scientism, is another tool to alter society and nothing more. The original post is here if you care to reference it.

I agree with your post, but I'm also starting to come to a new conclusion: "science" was only a front, and there are no true science worshipers. Certain people found that "science" would allow them to try to discredit religion (at least in their minds). Evolution? No God! Heliocentrism shows the Sun at the center of the Solar System; therefore the Catholic Church is flawed, and nothing else it says is right!

But now we have moved beyond that, and the idea of science as the worshiping altar is pushed aside because it no longer benefits the current theology (the theology of "Me" or "I Want" or something along those lines). Science teaches us that a biological man is a biological man, and nothing, even the most serious of drug regimens and barbarous body alterations, actually changes that at its core. *Science* tells us that, but we conveniently ignore it. Science teaches us that babies in the womb can think, hear, feel, react, and have emotions (the same emotions we trump as the end-all in today's world), but again we ignore our centuries-old, stalwart champion.

And so I'm increasing convinced that finding an ultimate truth in science was never really the goal, and it was a mere tool to attain unscientific-but-desired ends. They don't believe in science as the end-all, and now science is merely becoming another battered, broken body in their wake. It's just another flimsy attempt to justify the whims of current modern desires.

On The Bayou

Jambalaya. I hadn't had it in ages. Truth is, I only had it once, probably twenty years ago. It was at an event at the Detroit Historical Museum. Why they were hosting an event featuring Cajun foods (or why I was even there) is lost within the misty halls of my memory.

Anyway, they had jambalaya and it was good. A tad on the spicy side, but that's fine. But the bottom line truth is that I hadn't thought a lot about it until yesterday.

It was close to Noon, and all I wanted was something different for lunch. For no better reason that to seek that something, I found myself trolling the aisles of the local supermarket. In the freezer section I stumbled onto single serve microwavable bowls of jambalaya. So I bought one. Why not? If I didn't care for it I was only out $3.79, much less than a fast food lunch these days.

Wow. I'm happy I did. It was rice and okra with pork and smoked sausage and a couple of other vegetables all mixed into a light sauce and boy, was that good. I do believe jambalaya is back on my radar. Of course that old Hank Williams song is now my earworm, but I can live with that. It's a good song. 

Hand Hold

 Sherman used to clean drains. That means that we saw him a lot back in the day; he worked until about 1990. Sherman also used to preface every sentence with the word, see. 'See, I'm doing fine,' he would answer when you asked how he was.

One morning Pops was welding an end on Sherman's cable. When Dad finished he noticed Sherman reaching for the cable as he turned off the welder. "Don't touch that, it's hot!" he warned.

"See, I know it's hot," Sherman answered.

A minute later Dad heard him yelp. He turned to see Sherman rubbing his hand; he had grabbed the hot cable full palm. "Sherman, I just told you that was hot!" Dad admonished him.

"See, I didn't know it was that hot."

Pops went and got the burn ointment from our first aid kit. Squeezing some out of the tube onto the wound, Dad said as Sherman worked the goo into his palm, "Are you going to be okay?"

"See, I'll be fine, Bill. See, I didn't burn it that bad. See, I didn't hold it very long."

I imagine not. 

In Knots

I mentioned yesterday that in the curling bonspiel Friday we won one game and tied the other. Let me tell you, that second game was as tied as tied could be.

The final curling score was 4 - 4. Each team won four ends (ends are the rough equivalent of baseball innings). A single point was scored in each end. Both teams stole an end (a steal in curling is when you score at a least one point without 'hammer' or the last shot of an end) and each scored only one point in the three other ends that they had the hammer. Each team scored the same amount of points in the system used for determining the overall winner of a short bonspiel: 10 points per team for the tie, and one point for each end won for four points apiece, a total of 14 points (1/4 points are allowed for score differential, but we didn't have that). So we also tied the tiebreaker score 14 - 14. And incidentally, although we won our first game our opponents tied their other match.

I can't see how it could have been more tied.

That Laugh

All right now, I'm beginning to grow paranoid. Well, more paranoid, or paranoid in another direction, but that's beside the point.

Remember this and this blog post from not that long ago? I explained how I have been told that I have a distinct voice and laugh which makes me memorable. Well, it's happened again.

I played in a curling tournament in Chatham, Ontario yesterday. I haven't been in the Chatham Granite Club in 6 or 7 years. We placed second with a win and a tie. Beyond that, I had a local come up to me and say, "Good to see you again, Marty! I heard that laugh and knew you were back."

As I've said before, it's great to be recognized and remembered. I suppose I am happy that I can make that much of a (hopefully positive) impression on folks. Still, it can cause a guy to be self conscious. 

Will it stop me? Nah. Might as well be known for something.

Frydays

I might have one of them fish sandwiches from that roast beef place today. Arby's makes a great fish sandwich during Lent, which shows that Catholics still have some pull in our consumerist economy.

It really is good fish, deep fried and crispy. And big: those things are huge. Yep, I think I'll have one today.

I only wish I hadn't thought of it at 4:30 in the morning.

Numbers Up

After all these years of having Internet at home (around 30 I would guess) I still haven't gotten into the habit of the Internet as a go to. This after many successful forays onto it for truly useful things and ideas (and a lot of time wasting). It may be information overload in a lot of ways, but there's good things out there.

I've struggled for months - months - trying to figure out the simple task of adding page numbers to my books, so that I might set them up on Amazon by my lonesome (those writings of mine available were not configured by me). I think it's a talent I need to acquire if I'm to write and look professional. But for a half year or better I simply could not get page numbers added to my new books.

This past Monday a thought hit me: are there numbered book templates I might find online? A quick web search for free book templates brought me such a thing in seconds - seconds - and a simple copy and paste along with a few formatting corrections gave me a fully set up book in about an hour. I was happy, yet I felt stupid that I hadn't thought of that before.

The Internet is your friend. If you focus on how it actually helps you.

Being an Adult

Being an adult means having a conscience, right? Well thanks to that, I didn't curl this past Monday.

I had been fighting a cold of some sort all weekend. I felt bad on Saturday and really bad on Sunday. Yet by Monday I was coming out of it. I had graduated to feeling 'all right', though weak, still coughing, and with plugged sinuses. But I was going to curl. Yep, I was gonna.

Then along about Noon that voice in my head began taunting. Basically, it was saying if ya don't work ya can't play. I had left the old barn early to rest up for the curling match. But, Marty, if you're too sick to work you're too sick to play. I called me Skip and apologized I wouldn't make it.

Darn conscience. I suppose I shouldn't want to spread illness anyway.

Yeah, let's go with that. It sounds better.

I Get It

I caught a few minutes of yesterday's Spring Training game between the Detroit Tigers and the Boston Red Sox from Lakeland, Florida. The Detroits have spring training in Lakeland. The Lakeland Flying Tigers are a minor league affiliate of their parent club. Their mascot is a tiger named Southpaws.

That tickles me on a couple levels. One, the actual Detroit Tigers mascot is a tiger called Paws. So it makes sense for a team affiliate from Florida, well south of Detroit, to be called Southpaws. Plus, it's a reference to baseball lore. Southpaws are left handed pitchers, because the original tendencies were to have ballparks set up so that batters faced east. Pitchers thus faced west when on the mound, placing their left arms on the south side of their bodies. Southpaws.

So we have Paws and Southpaws. I like it.

Night Watch

It is 2:50 AM as I write. I've been scrolling the Internet looking for nothing in particular, and I found it. An article I just finished claims that we are most likely to die overnight between 3 and 4 in the morning because that's when our bodies are weakest.

It's going to be a long hour, having read that.

Levanrd

About 20 miles out of Detroit on I-96 is Levan Road. The sign for the exit says Levan Rd. There's nothing unusual about that, is there?

Years ago me Grandpa Joe had a delivery driver, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was a little slow on the uptake. Me Pops one day sent him out with a load of welding equipment intended for a place off Levan in western Wayne County.

About three hours after the scheduled delivery time, the company called asking where it was. This was the time before cell phones, so there was no easy way to track Cloyce. Dad had to wait to hear from him for an explanation.

Cloyce happened to walk into the old barn about ten minutes later anyway. "I couldn't make that delivery, Bill," he said.

"Why not? Pops demanded. "I wrote out exact directions." Surely the old man did, knowing Cloyce.

"Well, Bill, I drove all the way out past Ann Arbor (easily 40 miles beyond target) and I could not find Levanrd." Apparently Dad wrote the abbreviation for road too close to Levan.

With a heavy sigh Dad more precisely explained himself and sent Cloyce back out.

Saturday Silliness

The big trouble with seasickness? It comes in waves.

I once suffered from hypochondria. Placebos cured me.

My wife insists she isn't putting glue on my firearms. But I'm sticking to my guns.

From Groucho Marx: I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.

I failed math class more times than I can count.

Russian dolls are just full of themselves.

Have you noticed that despite the high cost of living, it remains popular? 

I'll show myself out now...

Feeding Time

As a salesman, I keep an eye out for trends. For whatever reason, certain things sell at certain times, others at other times, and sometimes things simply come into demand out of the blue.

There is an accessory for the Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs!) called a feeding tool. It helps 'feed' the steel cable into a pipeline. You get one with every Model C machine purchase. Yet I've never actually sold many of them piecemeal. Indeed I had sold so few that I quit stocking them. Then one random day a random guy asked for one, and I ordered two. One for him, one for stock because, well, why not?

The gentleman picked his up and the other sold soon thereafter. I ordered two more.

Those sold in a New York minute. I ordered two more, which likewise moved out of the old barn in haste. So, methinks, there appears a trend hath developed. Yon feeding tool be in demand. I ordered six. Last May.

If you need a second guess how many I still have in stock today, March 1, 2024, you are denser than granite. I guess trends work in both directions.

Back in the Saddle

Yesterday my team curled in the Senior Bonspiel at the Bowling Green Curling Club in Ohio. It's a good club and a fun place to be. We went 1-1, finishing fifth. I skipped the second game and we got some breaks and the boys played good in front of me. We won it, 10-5.

It's the first game I've played skip in around 7 years. I don't mind saying I was intimidated by the prospect. I threw last rocks almost all the time for around twenty years, but you need a different mentality for being skip. You have to want it, you have to want to throw the rocks which generally mean the most to the outcome of a curling match. 

But as I said, we caught a couple breaks and the boys played well in front of me. I did manage to shoot a tight port to punch out a stone to score four. We still had time to play, but I knew with that four spot we would win.

It felt good. Yes, the shot, but being skip again really made my day. I appreciate the guys letting me. I've said many times that curling is a great game, but it's the people who are the best.

It's All Right to be Sentimental

I don't mean this to be at all melancholy, although it certainly is sentimental and perhaps a bit wistful.

When they were toddlers I can remember my kids rushing to the living room window to wave bye to me whenever I went somewhere. In my mind's eye I can actually see each of them in that front window, waving frantically as little tykes do.

Yesterday coming home from Newark Ohio as my oldest son was on his way to work, he slowed down on his exit from the local freeway to allow me to quickly catch up so that we might wave at each other as our trails separated. Last September as I turned out of the parking lot of the diner where my second son and I had had breakfast in Stamford, Connecticut, as I began my journey back to Detroit, I saw him watching my car as I left. We shared a wave.

Not quite the little blond and redheaded boys of 40 years ago. But still a treat for a Dad.

Time Zones

As I spoke of yesterday, me son Charlie and I watched live wrestling. It turns out that the show was in Perth, in Western Australia. It was late afternoon there as it was early morning here.

We don't often think about how big this world can be. He we were, my son and I, in the early morning hours of a Saturday in the eastern United States, and there they were in the dying embers of Sunday. As the Sun was literally rising here it was setting there. They were closer to Monday while we had only left Friday six hours behind us.

Maybe it isn't that big a deal. But it seems so to me. It's an interesting feeling, almost like awe. We ought to feel more of that in life.

Ringside Seats

What do you do at 5 O'clock in the morning in central Ohio on a late February Saturday morning? Why, watch pay per view wresting live...from Australia.

Yep, that's just what me and me son Charlie are doing. It's tomorrow afternoon in the land down under, because of the International Date Line or something like that. I believe Australia is 19 hours ahead of us, so while it's today here it's tomorrow there. Mind blowing.

Charlie bought a pizza, which is cooking in the oven right now. As we eat that means I'll get to ask, for the first time in my life, "Is this delivery?"

Get it?

Anyway, there are worse ways to spend Saturday mornings. I know. I've experienced them.

He'll Help Anybody

We Catholics know that when you can't find something you pray to St. Anthony for help. I did that just yesterday in fact and promptly found what I had misplaced. It truly works.

Several years ago one my aunts, a sister of me Mom's (that's typical of how someone becomes your aunt) lost something important. Mom's side of the family is overwhelmingly Protestant whereas Mom converted to Catholicism after she married me Pops. That's important to know only because you won't appreciate the story otherwise.

Mom suggested her sister pray to St. Anthony. In fact my aunt's exact prayer was, "St. Anthony, I don't know you but my sister does. Please help me find what I'm looking for." Lo and behold, she found it in the next few minutes.

Few things are more powerful than sincere prayer, eh? It knows no denomination.

Serendipity, Maybe

I try to stay on top of the oil changes in my vans. It's only common sense, of course, and why burn out a motor even in an old yet otherwise good vehicle for the want of staying on top of the fluids?

Yet how many of us are ever actually smack dab right on time when seeing to the chore? We'll be within a few miles typically, right? While I knew that my newer old van needed service somewhere in 214,000 mile bracket I wasn't sure of the precise mileage when that would be. As I pulled into the oil change place I frequent I was at 214,444 miles. And I was exactly at the recommended change spot.

That'll never happen again. It surely never happened before either.

High School Reunions

One day back in 2003, me Pops, me self, and me son Charlie sat at the office in the Shop, drinking coffee. Hey, it was a well deserved break. We'd been working hard that day.

Anyway, for whatever reason me Pops was staring up at the calendar on the wall. He observed, "Man, time flies. I have my fiftieth high school reunion coming up."

Curious myself about mine after that I did some quick math and said, "Yeah, really. Looks like my twenty-fifth is next year." 

As a little smarmy smile grew on his face, me son Charlie remarked, "I'm coming up on my second."

Touche, boy. Touche.

4-0-1

Remember last Tuesday? I don't remember a lot about it either, but I do recall writing this blog where I wondered out loud whether a tie constituted a continuing winning streak. The general consensus, and that being the two people who actually responded directly to my question, was that it counted as an unbroken streak without a loss. I could legitimately go on wearing what I had worn for the streak. So I donned my 'lucky' Sheamus hoodie again last night.

We won 11-7 in a game which was not as close as the score.

Four wins, no losses, one tie in our last five games. I guess Sheamus returns again next Monday. The question is, do I wash the hoodie? You can wash out the luck, you know...

Post dated Cloyce

We have had a lot of interesting individuals come through our Shop door over the years. Some, you had trouble getting money out of them. Not all of those guys were out to con you, though.

One fella in particular, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, has been on open account for better than forty years now. He's slow to pay but he always, eventually, pays. He's a genuinely good guy too. I think he's just undisciplined, kinda the way a kid is undisciplined. The kid means well yet doesn't quite understand how things should work.

A habit of Cloyce's has been to bring a check to pay his bill but then post date it. "Can you hold this for a week, Bill?" he would ask me Pops on presentation of a scrap of at that point worthless paper. And Dad would hold it, knowing that it would be good sometime within the next three weeks.

He's done that to me too. I deal with it because I know Cloyce means well, and also because I genuinely like him. As I say, it's not unfair to say he's almost confusedly childlike in his approach to life. There's a part of me which finds that quaint, or even endearing.

Still, getting paid is why we work. Back in September Cloyce came in and gave me a post dated check, asking me to hold it for a few days. I said yes but added, "You know, Cloyce, paying me today with a check I can't cash today really isn't paying me today." Cloyce nodded, and I could almost see that light bulb above his head trying to brighten beyond dim.

Cloyce stopped by the old barn last week to pay his current bill. He wrote out a check. "Look, Marty, I dated it today," he showed me.

"Great, Cloyce, thanks," I replied.

He then asked, "Can you hold it until Friday?"

Cue the sad trombone. Yes, I can hold it until Friday. I actually wonder whether that's his way of making himself pay me, to know in his own mind that a check is out there that he has to, some day, honor. Whatever the reason, I'll surely have my money later this week.

Music Critic

I occasionally sing, generally softly, when I'm driving. A song will pop into my head and I'll sing along with it.

With me brother Patrick in tow as I went to Mass yesterday I half sang, half hummed King of the Road.

A minute later and it was Flowers on the Wall.

After that, as I was just starting Hank Williams Jr.'s Family Tradition Patrick blurted out, "Keep your day job."

All right, maybe my voice gets old. And at least I know where I stand with him.

Mom at 90

Mom would have been 90 today. I'm still not sure whether I've actually come to grips with it or not. It's been almost a year and a half, September 22, 2022, since she passed.

I'm heading out to the cemetery before work to say a few prayers. It reminds me of a cold winter Sunday a few years back where she wanted to stop and see Dad. After a few minutes of quiet contemplation she said out loud, "I love you, Bill, but I have to go. It's cold!"

I'm sure he understood. I'll come back by when its warmer myself Mom.

Generation Gap

One of these days I want to visit Philadelphia. It's common knowledge that there's all kinds of important historical stuff there, the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall and such. Me son Charlie wants to go with me when I go. He's a big fan of Sylvester Stallone's Rocky and would love to show me the sites in Philly where many of the iconic scenes in the movies were filmed. 

I would like to see them too. My only problem is that every time, and I mean every single time, someone mentions Rocky all I hear is, "Again? But that trick NEVER works!"

Thank you, thank you, I'm here until Tuesday.

Ash Wednesday

Today is Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent. It's easy for me to say, but the other two issues of note this February 14 - Valentine's Day and the opening of baseball spring training - pale next to that. It's time to ready ourselves to become better people.

No matter how good we already are, there's always room for improvement. I don't think we should beat ourselves up, but we must never forget the value of self review nor the lessons of regret. This is the time to think all that out. 

Read good books and articles. Reflect on what you should and should not have done, honestly and perhaps a little brutally, despite what I just said. See God in everyone you meet. Just maybe that will help them to see God in you.

Curling Dilemma

I did not wear my usual curling sweatshirt four weeks ago, but, rather, one based on the wrestler Sheamus from World Wrestling Entertainment. It features a Gaelic cross on the front (Sheamus is Irish) and the word 'laoch' which means 'warrior' in Irish, on the back. I curled great as did the team and we won. So I wore it the next week.

And we won. So I wore it a third time.

And we won. So I wore it last night.

We tied.

I don't know what to do now. Does a non-loss count as keeping a streak alive? 

The Game

I watched the game yesterday. What? No, not football, golf. The Phoenix Open. It's the golf tournament which, after the Masters, I most look forward to.

It's famous for its stadium hole. The organizers surround the sixteenth hole with a triple deck grandstand that seats 20,000. It has private suites too.

The tournament simply feels electric, even over television. There's less raw energy at the Masters. Of course, I think the Masters folks prefer that, being genteel and all.

Yes, I fully realize there was another game yesterday. But I didn't watch it. I believe that anticipating new commercials against a background of manufactured violence is little more than a neurosis.

The Speck

There are those who wish to belittle the importance of humanity as 'a speck on a speck on a speck (on a speck)'. In short, in a vast, expanding universe, we're tiny, unimportant nothings.

I never found this a convincing argument. For starters, it actually encourages us to not take the entirety of the universe seriously. Alien worlds, alien lives? Speck on specks on specks (on specks) too. Each as tiny and unimportant as us. Take that, SETI.

Even in earthly terms, size isn't the keystone. A Giant Redwood is a magnificent tree. But it isn't human. It isn't self aware. It isn't able to consider its place in creation. It also far overshadows we mere humans. Yet it's asinine to argue that a tree is superior to a person, or a person unimportant merely because the tree is larger. 

In short, size, mass and relative geography aren't the end all be all. Moral value and moral virtue are not in them. They're just there. But individual human beings? We're aware that we're here. And we can do something about that.

Can't Win For Losing

Yesterday I spoke about a long day up North. As I passed a Shell station in Mackinaw City right at the tip of the mitt I saw gas for $3.07 a gallon. Too much, I know, but a good price for that area and these times. Yet as it was in the wee hours the station was closed. I vowed to stop by as I returned. 

Of course, by the time I made my stops in da U.P. it was I clear I wouldn't get back that far without more petrol. Thinking about that relatively inexpensive fuel, I bought a meager $10 at $3.24 when around 40 miles from Mackinaw. You know, enough to get across the bridge for the cheaper cost. 

You know where this is going, don't you?

Crossing the Mighty Mac in great anticipation, I soon made my exit by that same gas station from earlier, where its gas was then $3.28. I could have filled up completely and saved four cents a gallon.

It figures. 

Green February

This has been an abnormally warm Michigan winter so far, something which doesn't bother me at all. It's supposed to be 62 in Detroit today. Still, I understand the affect that might have on things like, oh, nature. How good or bad that is is surely a subject of debate.

I had a long day on the road yesterday, leaving at 1 AM and getting home a touch before 6 PM. In fact, I was in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, stopping by me Hessel haunt for a few minutes as I was too close not to. There's next to no snow; my driveway was as clear as in June. Even the inside of the house wasn't particularly cold. 

There were signs for a 'Snowfest' today through Sunday, but I can't see where there'll be must festing.

I'm certain the snowmobilers haven't had much to do. I could see ice fishermen out on the lake despite there being standing water along the shore. I assume they know what they're doing but it didn't seem safe to me. They were way out there: a half mile or better if I were to hazard a guess.

Driving home during the day, I saw many farmer's fields in the northern and central Lower Peninsula going green already. The sight was odd, especially as there were occasional snowbanks in the shade. I do wonder what effect that has on their planning. But I'm not enough of a farmer to know.

Ah well. It is what it is.

Urban Sightseeing

I have lived in the Woodbridge district of Detroit for well nigh on 63 years now.  It's a nice place to live. I enjoy my morning walks here.

I can't tell you how many nearby houses I would love to get a look inside. The styles of architecture (don't ask what the specific styles are called; I only know that different houses look different) are fascinating. There are squarish brick structures and clapboard homes, and thin ones and wide ones and ones with turrets. One wonders what imagination developed some of the sizes and variations on homes found in the old neighborhood. 

That thought this morning jogged my memory into the times, three I believe, where me Grandpa Joe and I went exploring old houses. He'd see an older and clearly abandoned home and half bark, "C'mon, boy" to me and we'd go check it out. I doubt me Mom would have approved.

It was keen though to see the insides and how they were laid out. Then, too, you could tell what rooms and shelves and whatnot had been cobbled in, that were not part of how the original interior had been set up. But I think the keenest thing was being in there with me Grandpa Joe, him just being a bit of a kid himself with a kid in tow.

I think he was a bit of a kid, honestly. And I mean that in a kind way. Yeah, he was ornery and demanding and gruff and arbitrary. But he was fascinated with the world around him. What was where, what was what, that sort of thing. Creation, if I may risk going way out on a limb, interested the man. That made for a few quiet and calm adventures between me and him as the days went on.

 

Joe's Tell

I told you about me Grandmaw Hutchins, about Grandmaw's Tell? Well, if you done forgot you might remind yourself here: Grandmaw's Tell

Me Grandpa Joe, he had a tell too, just of a different kind for a different purpose.

We'd be sitting in the old barn, the Shop, drinking coffee during a break. I miss those times. But anyway, Joe would reach a point where he'd go quiet, contemplating. As the gears in his head moved faster and he began sidling up to the idea percolating in his mind, he'd draw his cup to his lips and take a sip. Then he'd right off take a second, deeper sip. His eyes began to light, that upcoming project dancing in their background. A third draw would be a deep drink, while the with the fourth he'd turn that cup nearly upside down and drain what was left of the contents. Coffee break was over. We'd be off on whatever project or adventure he had determined we would tackle next. Quite often, it was adventures none of the rest of us cared to participate in. But we did, cause he paid us. And sometimes they were pretty cool.

Joe's Tell. Sip, sip more heartily, drink deep, then drain the coffee cup. Now, I loved that old and miss him all the time, but that tell I don't miss. Well, mostly. Because as I say some of those tasks were quite the romp.

The Voice

It happened again last night at curling. I had an old friend come up to say, "I heard that laugh, and I immediately thought, Marty's here!" Yes, with the exclamation point.

Remember last week? I had virtually the same thing happen, as I wrote here . While it's good to be known for something, I have to admit stuff like this makes a guy just a bit self conscious and vaguely paranoid. 'Someone told a joke, and I laughed. Was it that laugh?' 

"And you do have a distinct voice," my buddy Nick tells me. Yeah, distinct. I've been told I have a future with the Cartoon Network. Seriously. Right on TV, on a baseball pregame show: Tiger Pregame

Oh, I'm not going to stop. If it's that much a part of my personality, that ingrained after all these years, I probably couldn't if I wanted to. And it is good to be remembered. It leaves me interested for what may happen next Monday.

The Insurrection Thing

I should not do this, I should not write about the upcoming Supreme Court case dealing with whether former President Donald Trump can be withheld from the ballot for being an insurrectionist. It's a morass of little more than deep anger and resentment on the part of virtually every player in the game, right, left, and center, bringing out the very worst in politics all the way around. Indeed, the whole thing makes the argument for smaller government all the more obvious. But it is what it is, and it ain't gonna go away.

The crux of the issue is whether state officials have the right to keep candidates off the ballot on their own authority. I don't know all the details as each state runs its own election show, but that's the general idea. In the case of Colorado and Maine, they are using the anti-insurrection clause of one of the Civil War amendments to the Constitution to keep Trump out of their respective state primaries. You can read the exact wording here The 14th Amendment if you like. Section 3 is the critical part, and it is pretty clear: if you violate your oath to the the United States by inciting or aiding insurrection or insurrectionists, you are ineligible to hold further office within it. The question then becomes one of interpretation. What exactly is an insurrection, and who makes that call?

Did Trump call for an insurrection against the United States? He definitely called for protest. He certainly should have accepted things as they were and stepped aside graciously, even with a MacArthurish 'I shall return'. He didn't. Yet even Snopes refused to label anything he said or did as a call for insurrection, opining that the President's words that day were open to subjective interpretation while not actual calls to revolt. I'm not getting into all the ifs ands and wherefores of that. To be blunt, I don't trust the mainstream media (who clearly despise the former President) his staunchest supporters (who love him far too deeply) nor the humble opposition (who themselves have an obvious agenda). I don't trust what any faction says, and I wonder how many of my fellow Americans think similarly. I think we can all agree, though, that what happened January 6, 2021 should not have happened. 

All that said, I'm hesitant to call it an insurrection. Mass stupidity, to be sure, a protest gone seriously awry, yet it wasn't by any stretch of the imagination as violent as what was seen in Minneapolis, Portland, and Seattle (where some folks actually declared themselves independent, you might recall) among other hot spots in the summer of 2020. What happened 1/6/21 petered out quickly and, in context, rather peacefully. The transfer of power in the United States government was never in real peril, thanks to Mike Pence and cooler, saner heads. The Capitol wasn't burned down like the police precinct in Minnesota or the businesses in Kenosha. The attempts at insurrection in those and other places (which can clearly be called insurrection) were far more dangerous to our body politic.

Are Colorado and Maine playing politics? I believe so, yes. I think their best response would be to allow Trump on the ballot, to rise above the fray. They need to ask, are they helping, or hurting? Are they actually standing for good law or themselves fanning the flames? I really don't doubt that it's the latter. But however you slice it, with an unclear idea of whether a revolt (or attempt at revolt) actually took place, and with supercharged backers supporting a popular candidate who seems unable to choose his words wisely, well, it's better to stay above that. If you make Trump a martyr you're doing him more good than your own cause, such as it might be. And any interfering by a sitting government with a political party choosing its representatives is questionable in itself, and dangerous to the democracy you claim to defend. It's speaking with a forked tongue.

I hope the Supreme Court orders them to allow the former President on their ballots. I think it's the safest and sanest direction to follow. Besides, Taylor Swift is going to decide the upcoming election anyway.

Bumper Cars

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 to do 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?

Role Models

Everyone one of us is a role model, whether we want to be or not. What we say and do necessarily affects both those around us and in the world in general. There's simply no way past that.

You can argue that your life choices are yours to make, and in the strictest sense they most certainly are. Yet when you do something which is wrong, you're teaching by inference that it is in fact right. When the next person tries to do it their first defense is going to be, well, so-and-so did it, and he seems like an ok guy. The day will come when a given evil act is seen as good merely because other folks have seen you (and a great many others) do it.

It can work the other way too, of course. That's part of the reason we encourage morally good actions. What gets me is that people don't want to see it that other way. I think they're sides of a coin, so to speak. If good act promotes good things then bad acts will cause more bad. It's a pretty basic idea.

That's why we as a society cannot back away from calling what seem to be purely individual preferences good or bad. There's no such as living your life your own way without the price of causing others to emulate you. And you're responsible for that, whether it's leading astray or towards goodwill. It just ain't all about you. You are a role model. You must consider that in whatever you do.

The Wee Hours

Let's see what thoughts arise at 4:28 in the morning. What stream of consciousness may spring from the brain?

I just ate a Hershey bar. Milk chocolate: breakfast of champions? 

Barnaby Jones is on TV. You think Buddy Ebsen got so tired of playing Jed Clampett and country bumpkins that he figured to break the mold and become a private detective? He actually started out as a song and dance man, you know. It doesn't seem so.

We'll know soon if that oversized rat sees his shadow I suppose.

Ah, I quit. Yes, it's a slow news day Ron.

The Lions

I've had this internal debate since Monday morning over whether I want to talk about the Detroit Lions or not. I'm still not sure that I want the bother, even as I'm clearly bothering right now.

Was it a good season? Yes. Their best ever, as some assert? Absolutely not. Best seasons are championship seasons. The baseball Detroit Tigers had good seasons in 1950, 1961, 1987, 2006, and 2012. They had a solid shot at winning everything those years. But their best ever years were 1935, 1945, 1968, and 1984, when they won it all. The others are mere footnotes, or worse: shoulda woulda coulda years.

Detroit should be happy about their recently ended football season, and understandably. But at day's end, they fell short. That can never be a best ever.

Cloyce Adrift

There was once this good ol' boy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who considered himself the neighborhood innovator. Some of his ideas, to be fair, were kind of clever. But most of the time all he did was jury rig. That's okay too so far as I'm concerned, if it's a decent enough adaptation.

Cloyce had an old Chevy Bel Air, I believe it was a '65, and it needed a wheel alignment. The old rattletrap drifted sharply to the left (this is not leading to a political joke I assure you) and really needed front end work. But ol' Cloyce didn't want to put that kind of money into the car. So he looked around in his garage for what was handy and found an old snow tire. He put it on the car on the left front.

That stopped the drift. His theory was that the snow tire, having deeper tread, made up for the amount of space which had been created by vehicular wear which led to the drift. Based on the results, I'm inclined to say he was right, as he drove with that winter tire for about six months before he got rid of the car.

It was a jury rig. But hey, it worked for him, and considering the types of cars I drive, who am I to argue?

Life Lessons

I got a head start at work this morning, leaving the house just before 6:30. My first stop was to buy some nuts, bolts, and washers from a nearby nut and bolt place, American Integrated Supply LLC. They used to be called Perry Bolt. I liked them better then. Perry Bolt is easier to say.

Anyway, I told the counter guy what I wanted and he turned to get the parts. I ended my request with, "Please. Because you should always say please." Counter Man gave the right light snicker which any old man should merit.

As he returned I told him, "You know, teaching my kids to say please was the hardest thing to teach them. The second was that please didn't mean they'd get it."

"Pleeeeease?" they would beg.

"No."

"But I said please!" they would protest.

Show of hands: how many parents heard that in their lives?

FYI American Integrated Supply are good people. 

The Best Medicine

At curling last night I was told that I have a very distinct laugh. "We can tell you're in the room just by hearing it," Curling Friend explained.

"And that's a good thing, right?" Marty responded.

He answered, "Well, it's a thing."

Guess what? I laughed at that.

Weapons of Mass Destruction

You can have fun with tools. You can have a lot of fun with heavy tools, such as a sledgehammer and an ax. Me and me Grandpa Joe proved that one day in dismantling a stove.

Joe had bought this house to fix up and either sell or use as a rental property. It had this monstrous iron stove in the kitchen; I believe the place used to be a social club of some sort which offered meals. Whatever the reason it was there, it was the biggest stove I'd ever seen outside of a restaurant. 

What was pretty clear was that it wasn't carried into that kitchen but assembled there. We had no idea how to dismantle it, so we approached the problem the Cosgriff way. We got a twenty pound sledge and a large ax and began hammering and hacking away at the behemoth.

It wasn't long before chunks and slivers of iron were flying all over the place. I was a teenager, a kid who didn't even consider basic safety equipment such as goggles, and God knows the thought never entered Joe's mind. We just had at it, striking at the dragon's maw until there were small enough bits and pieces to carry out of the house and to the scrap yard. Within about a half hour of attacking the thing it was vanquished. It was no more.

Damn, that was fun. One of me best times with me Grandpa Joe.