Eerie Hessel

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

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

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

Fashion Plate

While at the funeral home for me Grandpa Joe years back I met an old gentleman who knew both him and me Grandma Cosgriff when they were all youths in Jacksonville, Illinois. The three went to school together as I recall.

It was quite nice of the man to come offer his respects. I want to say he dressed for it, and I suppose he did, though his clothing showed little fashion sense. That's saying something coming from me.

I won't say that he clashed. But he clashed. Spectacularly. A checkered sport coat covered a plaid shirt, while striped pants adorned his legs. His tie was paisley and shoes were white. Blazing white in fact, white hot as the Sun. Even the kerchief in his suit pocket had a pattern of its own. It seemed to change as he moved.

At least I think it did. You know how snowy over the air TV is when there's the barest reception? That man was a walking motion picture snowstorm, an epic blizzard of activity upon itself. But he was there, so God bless him for that. I'm actually glad I got to meet him. I have something to aspire towards.

A Grave Matter

Today is me Grandpa Joe's birthday. He would have been 119. Sure, that would not be a likely age for him to have made. But I can imagine the hell he would have raised if he had.

He passed away August 27, 1991, just shy of 86, so we buried him pretty close to his birthday. He smoked heavy from his teens (his doctor at the end remarked that his lungs were probably like leather). No doubt some tobacco farmer lived the high life because of Joe. 

I remember him smoking Carltons. It's a silly thing to be sentimental over but I can still see clearly those red packages they came in, and him opening a fresh one on his front porch, tearing the cellophane off with a carpet knife because that's what he did when something didn't open readily enough. Which, for his purposes, they typically would not. 

He went home in style. Me Pops rented a large black Chevy Suburban and drove Joe back to Jacksonville, Illinois for internment. Joe always promised himself he was going to buy one new car before he died. He never did, but his last trip was in one. I wonder if perhaps that was me Pops' salute to his old man.

Down at the funeral home in Jacksonville I remember me and me cousin Art were standing by the casket. One or the other of us said, "This ain't right."

"What?" the other asked.

"He can't leave this world without a pack of cigarettes."

"I'll get the smokes, you get the lighter," I said. Off we were to find a store. I bought a pack of Carltons for the first and only time in my life. Art got the lighter, a real nice one as befit the moment. The undertaker solemnly placed both in the vest pocket of Joe's suit.

A little while later we were talking to an uncle, telling him what we'd done. "I don't know that that was a good idea," Uncle remarked. "What if that butane mixes with the gases of the body decomposing? It might cause an explosion."

Hell, Joe would have loved that! Dirt spraying up and the headstone falling over to the side would be an absolute classic for him. And I can't help imagining me Grandma Cosgriff lying next to him, shaking her head and tsk tsking. She had to do that often enough in life, and now two of her grandkids go and give Joe one more reason to annoy her. Everyone else in the cemetery would be thinking, 'That's just Joe'. Grandpa would simply be cackling in the way he always did when he found something funny, a haw haw haw as though forced out of his body.

Happy Birthday Joe. I know you're still rooting for that explosion.

The Voice

Oh, I've made my share of mistakes in life. Some of them were real doozies, too. And a great big Quiet Ron! before I go a step further.

Still, for all my errors and foibles I've tried not to commit stupid mistakes. Those are mistakes that are very, very avoidable. They're Eleventh Commandment mistakes.

You never heard of the 11th Commandment? Ahem: Thou Shalt Not Press Thy Luck. It's a footnote to the famous Ten which precede it. Honest.

Should you presseth thy luck you could be in all manner of trouble. So don't do it. One way to press it is to not gas up when you should.

I had a quick jaunt out to Dearborn yesterday. It was at most a 12 or 15 mile round trip. Yet I was at 1/8 of a tank of gas. I figured I could get to my destination and back to the old barn. 

Then I heard that voice in my head (sometimes it's all right to listen to that voice) what if there's a traffic jam? That's not much gas if you're sitting on I-94 for 90 minutes.

I gassed up before leaving the neighborhood. No stupid mistake for me. At least not yesterday.

Insect Death Penalty

Me Grandpaw Hutchins was the most mild mannered, easiest going man I have known. Nothing seemed to bother or rankle him. He just moseyed on with his life.

Of course, using the word nothing is rarely accurate. There's always something, the famous 'they' say. And there was something with Grandpaw. If he got strung by a bee, that bee had too die. It. Had. To. Die.

Before even tending his wound, Grandpaw would grab the fly swatter which hung by his back door and begin stalking the culprit. With a stealth generally found only in the most experienced ninjas, he would make his way quietly through the house, keeping a steady eye on the miscreant, waiting for the right opportunity. Eventually the insect would settle somewhere, to be stunned in the next instant which brought death by the hard, fast, and true slam of Grandpaw Hutchins' mesh weapon. Justice had been served, North Carolina style.

Then he would become again mild mannered Grandpaw Hutchins. I loved that man.

Poor Preaching

I've always enjoyed watching the Little League World Series. But the coach of the Lake Mary team from Florida was off base in his speech urging his team on in the bottom of the Sixth Inning of yesterday's championship game, the standard last inning at that level of play. He told the kids that the outcome was already written, that God had told him they would rally and win (they were down 1-0) so all they had to do was finish the job.

That was wrong of him. It sends a very bad message. Two, in fact. The future is never preordained, and the Almighty doesn't take sides in kid's games, if indeed in any sports at all.

I get it: he wanted to inspire his charges, to help them relax. Yet it gives the wrong expectation about God. If the Florida boys lose (the game is in extra innings as I write) what are they supposed to think about their coach's words? Did God toy with them? Did their coach and mentor? It’s simply not right.

If they win, what might they think? That God thought more of them than a corollary set of kids from Chinese Taipei, who, like the Floridians, were simply playing a game they loved? I would hope not. But the invitation is certainly there. And what are those Chinese youngsters supposed to think should they ever hear that speech?

The whole thing invites cynicism and/or arrogance. Neither is good.

Also Sprach Cloyce

One of the long time plumbers I sell to, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, doesn't always get the drift of a conversation. His snake had broke, and he was begging me to fix it ASAP if not sooner as he had no other. Reluctant to do so as I was way behind that day yet genuinely feeling bad for him, I agreed to do his major repair quickly, telling him to leave the unit and it would be ready in about three hours.

I got the job done as promised and Cloyce duly arrived to pick it up. "You know, Cloyce, you've been in business long enough that you ought to think about getting a spare machine," I told him. "If I'm not available or don't have a part you could be down for days, even a couple weeks"

"That's a good idea, Cosgriff. What's a new power unit cost?"

"$1900."

Cloyce responded, "Say, that's not a bad price. Do you have one in stock?"

"Yes, sir."

"Cool." Cloyce paused. "What would you give me as a trade in for mine?"

I sighed. "I can give you $300, Cloyce, if you want to do that, but it defeats the point of having a spare."

Cloyce stared at me, blank eyed and mouth agape. Then, I swear I could hear the opening chords of the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey, Also Sprach Zarathustra, growing in the background. As the melody grew, a new life came into Cloyce's eyes. His mouth pursed, and his eyes widened. You could hear the kettle drum roll as the music hit crescendo. "Ah. I get it, Cosgriff. Buy it as a backup."

"That's right, my friend."

He shook his head in agreement. "Let me try to get the money together then."

Yet as he left the old barn he said, "But $300 for my old one if I want, right?"

I sighed again, just a bit more heavily. "Yes, Cloyce, $300 trade in." Just when you think you've made an inroad...

Happy Anniversary?

Large companies, and I suppose small ones too, like to brag about any lack of accidents at their establishments. That's all right of course, and long term safety is a good thing. Yet how we frame things affects perspective.

Most of us have seen or worked at places with signs that announce, 'Accident free for 107 days' or the like. Of course, good for them. Then I saw a sign which proclaimed 'Accident free for 365 days' and my first thought was, are you celebrating the first year anniversary of an adverse incident?

Have a laugh, and have a great Friday, although you may obviously need to look somewhere other than here for the former.

We All Scream (and We Should at This)

A Massachusetts town has shut down a 12 year old boy's home made ice cream business, one where the lad was giving half the proceeds to charity I will point out, citing food handling concerns. What utter nonsense. Here's the story.

This is, as is so often the case, government regulatory powers run amok. Stories such as this make my blood boil. It doesn't even matter, as a moral point, whether it's a 12 year old or an adult. If someone wants to make homemade ice cream and sell it simply to make a few bucks for themselves then dammit, they have the right to do so. It isn't anyone else's, much less the government's, business. If you're afraid you'll get sick then don't buy the stupid ice cream. Who the hell are you, government or anyone else (and government is 'anyone else' being a bully), to tell someone they can't do such a thing?

I remember buying bread from a home based baker in the Upper Peninsula who was forced to put an emphatic sticker on his wares, warning that his bread was baked in a kitchen not regulated by the Michigan Department of Agriculture. Oh the humanity. This guy baked bread of his own free will and I bought a loaf (and some cookies) on mine. So piss off, Ag boys. It's nothing to you.

These are prime examples of why I am growing increasingly libertarian as I get older. One of their standards is that if you can do something for free, you can do it for pay. This can't be applied to all things at all times I'll admit, but it's a good general principle. The Hessel baker could give his bread and cookies away quite morally and have no issue with the government. He can therefore sell them for profit without a government stamp of any kind. Just like the preteen in Massachusetts with his ice cream. He can give it away (which he did end up doing, although with requests for good will donations) but he can't sell it? Inane. No, worse: bizarre.

Government is too big and too much a part of our lives. Time to tell it to, to, just go away.

The Paranoia Grows

I think advertising exists solely to develop paranoia in the body politic. It does this by causing worry over our actual, physical bodies.

Deodorant has been a medicine cabinet staple for as long as I can remember. I get that: certain odors are unpleasant for everyone. I brush my teeth twice daily and even use a mouthwash which 'kills germs missed by brushing alone AND strengthens enamel' (two jobs in one? Who can resist?). I use foot powder. Give me my regular old Old Spice, something I've emphasized to an admittedly bizarre extreme in these very environs, and I'm fine. 

At least, I thought I was fine. Now there are, all over the place, ads for whole body deodorants. Do I really need that? Is the odor from back of my knees annoying folks? I'm sure that's not an issue. I have many more, and much more effective, ways of being a pest. 

Well, I know what they're talking about, and all I can say is, I'm clean. When I'm not clean I get clean. The advertising oligarchs aren't going to make me any more paranoid. I assure you, I've quite cornered that market all on my own. The paranoids have been after me for ages.

Follow Up

Yesterday I spoke about being at a hard rock show at the Upper Peninsula State Fair. Here's a little more.

You want to talk about a driving beat and harsh bass guitar licks? I was wearing a baseball cap during the performances, and the cap was vibrating on almost every song. Every time the drummer struck one of the 9,000 drums or cymbals on his set (when did rock music drum sets become so complicated?) or the bass player strummed a note, my cap literally vibrated along with it. 

Granted, we were pretty close to the stage (row 18 for what that's worth) and it was, at the risk of understatement, loud. But I never imagined a cap playing along to the beat.

I think my biggest fear, and me son Charlie expressed a similar concern afterwards, was whether my hearing would be affected. "ARE YOU HEARING OKAY, DAD?" he asked me as we got into the newer older van to go back to Hessel.

"YES, THE SHEARING WAS ALL RIGHT," I answered. 

No, it wasn't like that. We could each talk and hear normally, a fact that surprised the both of us.

Fuel For Thought

Me son Charlie and I were at the Upper Peninsula State Fair last Friday. We stayed long enough to hear the free rock concert that night, featuring Saliva and Fuel, two hard rock bands from about twenty five years ago who are still active.

I honestly enjoyed it. I will be the old man and say that Saliva's songs all kind of sounded the same to my ear. Hard rock and metal, while I like them well enough, both seem to hit me that way. You kids get off my lawn! 

But Fuel, who I had never heard of before last week, I liked quite a bit. They have their own distinct sound, at least in my mind. It helped that their various songs each sounded different, or different enough that I could tell them apart. I won't bore you with a set list (mostly because I have no idea of the song names) but during their encore they did a great hard rock cover of Hotel California. It was really, really good.

I might actually buy a couple of their albums. You know, be the old man in the alt rock section of the record store (vinyl is making a comeback you know) who gets made fun of behind his back by the half goth teen employees who take his money just the same.

Acting Presidential

Kennedy said at the Berlin Wall, "I am a Berliner."

Reagan demanded at that same spot, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that wall!"

Kennedy gave sympathy. He offered to hold hands. Reagan demanded action for rightness sake, and got it. 

The first man was a politician. The second was a leader.

Give me more leaders, not hand holders, narcissists, or the teleprompter dependent. 

Tastes Great

Many of us, I believe anyway, have our moments when anger, disbelief, anxiety or other movement of the emotions hit us in such a way that we can't quite think straight. As a result, we may use language poorly, employing improper terms or the like.

Me son Charlie and I were in the Cedarville Dollar General Thursday evening when I was looking over the display of Old Spice deodorants. As I've decried before in these very spaces, I like regular, plain old Old Spice, not wolfbane and savage beast or whatever other varieties Old Spice offers these days. And as is typical there were none of the traditional aroma which I wanted. "I want plain Old Spice, not any of these weird flavors!" I said out loud in the store.

Turning to my son, who clearly heard my lament, he explained with a grin, "You just said flavors of Old Spice, Dad."

"Well, the original style tastes best." I harumphed indignantly. At that point, why not go ahead and run with it?

MDOT Sleight of Hand

Road construction crews. I know they take a lot of grief. But I realize the roads need work. We must deal with things as best we can.

Heading north yesterday towards Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, a construction sign appeared near Grayling. The left lane would be closed in three miles. Oh well. It can't be that bad in the middle of the afternoon, miles from nowhere.

It wasn't. Everyone was able to merge without turning off their cruise control. Life is good.

Yet not five miles later the left lane was closed again, and this time it caused a backup of about a mile and a half. It seems the Michigan Department of Transportation was playing Got ya! You drivers cruised past that first construction zone and grew complacent, but we set up a second bit of road work for exactly when you were breathing easy. It was like when a murder mystery has a trick first ending. Hey, the butler did do it! Oh, wait, he didn't?

It wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't for the construction crew exchanging high fives though.

The Assumption of Mary

Today in the Catholic Church is the Feast of the Assumption of Mary. The Mother of Christ was taken, that is, assumed, straight into Heaven at death.

We should honor Mary deeply and devoutly. She is after all the mother of Christ, the Son of God. Some part of her is found in Christ Himself, wouldn't you think? I mean, God does not violate biology. So too as Christ is our Brother, Mary is really and truly our Mother.

Conservatives, and perhaps especially conservative Christians, are unfairly said to denigrate women. Yet here is an example of a woman being exalted above every man who ever was save Christ Himself. Mary is the greatest single Creation there is, has, and ever will be. She should be venerated above any man.

If there's a greater respect for women, I simply cannot imagine what it might be.

On and Yon

I don't mind saying that I put in a good day yesterday. Took my walk early, then got to the old barn and managed about 90 minutes productive work. I came home long enough to clean up, and drove to Toledo to call on three customers. Arriving back at the Shop around 12:30, I set about getting everything done for today which needed to be done for today, actual manual labor most of it. I broke a sweat (horrors!) before locking up the place for home around 4:30.

Feeling rather too proud of myself, I recollected on my accomplishments as I walked into the front hall. Reaching for my cell phone, I realized that I had left it on a shelf on a charger at the Shop.

Aw nuts. I'd have to retrace my steps and fetch it. Yet I almost talked myself out of that. What's the chances I would really need it overnight? 

But the fear with that is, late yesterday afternoon or evening would be the one time in months someone might try to reach me in a serious emergency. Short of that, perhaps I might get an important business call. "Forsooth, Martin! I am in desperate need of a new drain serpent forthwith, immediate upon the coming morn! Make haste to return my inquiry, lest my hand be forced and I seek the aid of yon competitor."

I need the money more than yon anybody. I went back and got my phone. 

Saving Everything but Time

Back, oh, fifty or sixty years ago, me Grandpa Joe had several delivery drivers who worked for his welder rental business. One in particular, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, seemed to have a mental block about putting gas in his truck. And it drove me Pops crazy.

At the time you could fill up one of the trucks for around five bucks. Dad would give the drivers five dollar bills as necessary to put gas in their vehicles. Yet invariably Cloyce would return to the old barn on fumes, to triumphantly hand the five spot back to the old man proclaiming "I saved you five bucks, Bill!"

The trouble was that he wasn't really saving anybody anything. From a practical standpoint all it really meant was that on his next delivery Cloyce's first stop would be the gas station and not the job site. It would make more sense to gas up on the return from one trip, that job being done, than to take ten minutes before the next job simply to fill up the tank.

Cloyce did it constantly, and it irked me Pops every time. No amount of explanation could convince Cloyce that it was better to gas up today than add a complication to tomorrow, a complication which might easily snowball: you have to load the truck a few minutes earlier, then get to the gas station and it may be crowded, or the roads might be jammed, and so on. But all Cloyce could see what the he 'saved' five dollars today, not that he would just have to spend it tomorrow anyway.

Still, to Cloyce, it was saving money. Go figure.

Later and Later

I read somewhere, who knows where (probably a meme or something), that we lose 70 minutes of sunlight during August. That's more than an hour, Captain Obvious tells me.

It does seem as though September is a much different month than August. Maybe that's why. They're both still Summer, September until the 21st anyway, yet the one does feel much more autumnal. August sets it up by giving time away. What's up with that, August?

My morning walks have to start later and later. Boo, hiss. I like being out before 6 but it's becoming less of an option. 

Yeah, slow news day. Quiet Ron.

Righteous Anger

You should never, ever, raise your voice to your elders. I firmly believe that. Well, except for the obvious stuff, yes. Screaming "Watch out!" when there's immanent danger is of course encouraged. But you do not raise your voice to your elders.

I yelled at me Grandpa Joe, um, a few times. Not that much, but it happened. Lord knows that it was only the supreme force of will which kept it from happening more often.

But the thing is, he didn't care. He was upset and that made you upset, and now you're both ornery. Yet he'd forget about it, getting beyond the moment with remarkable and inexplicable speed. He didn't see why you couldn't either. We'd each just yell at one another, finish the immediate project with subdued intensity, and he'd say "Let's get that coffee" and he was beyond it. Joe kinda figured you should be too.

There's something to be said for that. To be sure, that old man could have used a longer fuse. Yet what was over was over. We got mad at one another, it was done, that was it. Full stop.

What you had to get with Joe was that, he was Joe. A personality so unique that it came with its own aura. But if you could just accept that aura, he'd be all right by you and you'd be all right by him. And you would end up having a lot of good times together.

I suppose I should hold this blog a few days, seeing as he has a birthday coming up August 29. That might be a good thing to do. But why should I be constrained by the calendar? It'd never hold Joe back. So I can't let it hold me back either.

Gotcha

The political season is upon us. It's about the only thing worse than football season for pretense.

We're going to have all too many gotcha moments in the coming weeks. He said this, she said that, can you believe all the things they said?

I can. From both sides. It's nothing new. Mitt Romney's said things he shouldn't have said, Hillary Clinton said things she shouldn't have said, Donald Trump certainly has said things he shouldn't have said, and Kamala Harris has said things she shouldn't have said. It's all going to be out there for all of us to see between now and November. We are in the season of gotcha moments, each side trying to outdo the other. And, truth be told, too many people on each side of the divide buying too much into it.

They're politicians. They're stupid. Now that that's off the table, maybe try actually looking at what the issues are and, yes, examine within reason what the candidates say, and vote accordingly. Yet can we expect the average person to act better than the average politician?

Love Hate Relationship

I love, and by that I mean I hate, when customers try to assure me that a repair they want done will be easy. I'm sure I've been crabby about that before, among other things. In fact, I'm rather crabby now.

I'll say it again, I'll shout it from the rooftops, I will put it in as plain a language as I can: until I know exactly what is causing the trouble, and until I determine how to fix the problem, and until the necessary repair is complete and a unit is operating properly, no job is easy. It's easy when it's done, in which case rightly speaking it was easy. Easy only applies in the past tense. Easy never applies to the future tense, nor will it fit in the present tense. End. Of. Report.

The next time a caller assures me that his job will be easy, I'm just going to give him the parts and say, have at it. I might even shove them into his ears through the phone. 

Lack of Negotiation

Me Grandpa Joe, he didn't negotiate price. Oh, he'd occasionally allow his friend Amos to do so in his stead, so I'm probably playing a bit loose with this assertion. Still, Joe to my knowledge never himself negotiated a price.

I found this out on a trip through western Michigan with him, looking for a pump jack as I recall. I'm still not sure what a pump jack is but I know it had to do with the oil wells he once invested in, and I know they were big because we had to take his manual shift stake truck with the ten foot bed to get one.

Anyhow, after driving for two days, two days of me learning to drive a stick I might add (so there were a lot of fits and spurts and stalled engines as I was learning through trial by error) we ended up at his friend Ford's. Ford was his actual first name; I don't remember his last. Ford took us out into a field of various and large machinery, about in the middle of which was an old pump jack. It looked like an oversized grasshopper to me. Joe asked Ford what he wanted, and Ford told him. Joe took a drag on a cigarette, then just said kinda quietly, "I think I'll pass." We began the trip home.

Grandpa explained to me that a fella knows what his stuff is worth, and who was he to argue with that? I get what he means. I rarely negotiate myself, usually giving a simply yea or nay when dealing with a seller one on one. And it ain't like we can typically negotiate anyway: at Kroger you pay what Kroger asks for groceries or you walk on by. I suppose I was just a bit miffed that, after lurching across the state and staying one long night in a tired old hotel, the journey was for naught. In the end though, I respect his point. And it is hard to beat time with your Grandpa.

 

And So It Begins

I'll be voting today in the Michigan primaries. I hope to be the first voter in my precinct. I've been the second once. I was in the building at 7 AM when voting began yet when I signed in someone some how had beaten me to the punch. I never saw anyone else, but so it goes.

I don't know how I'll vote on everything but I do know how some of my ballots will go. I'm voting for Justin Amash for US Senate in the Republican Primary. He was the most principled Congressman we've had in ages when he was in the US House. He tried to make every single vote, and explained every vote he cast on his Facebook page. You want transparency? That's transparency.

I will vote against every single millage, especially new ones but even renewals. Millages are taxes against property, and I believe that property taxes are as immoral as income taxes. The people, with the government as an intermediary, are saying, "Nice house you got there! Give us $4,000 a year or we'll take it away from you." That's the very definition of extortion. If it was the mob demanding protection money we'd have a fit. But, hey, democracy, which is really just tyranny of the majority quite frankly. That's why even in a republic as we have you need minority rights protected somehow. 

But, but, libraries! Police and fire protection! Schools! Can't you see how bad public schools are for the body politic (and their students) with their propaganda and lack of honest education? Time to defund them. Police and fire protection ought to come from the general budget, because they're a general interest. Paying them through property taxes simply lets government get fat while using the general fund for vote buying schemes. Libraries too, if you're going to have them at all, should be through the general fund.

The fact is that governments at all levels tax us enough already. We have no direct recourse against it except denying millages. It's the best we can do as individuals to stop feeding the beast.

Well, that was more of a rant than I started out for it to be. Uh, 'Merica. Democracy. Go vote. 

Right Up My Alley

I almost always still get a Sunday paper, and when I do I always try my hand at the New York Times crossword, which is in the Detroit Free Press every week for some reason. Go figure.

While I generally only completely finish the thing about three times a year (hey, it's a challenging crossword) yesterday's offering was right in my wheelhouse, a great big fat pitch down the middle of the plate. The main clues were about logical fallacies. Logic is a subset of philosophy.

I nailed each answer without more prompts than the clues themselves. I even got, on the first pass, the Latin one: Post hoc, ergo propter hoc. Roughly translated for those of you not familiar with the language of ancient Rome, it means, after, therefore because of. It's the argument that since A occurred before B, A caused B. Here's a solid example: Marty was born in 1960, and civil war broke out in Angola in 1961. Therefore, Marty caused the Angolan Civil War. That's obviously untrue. I think. I mean, I was a year old in 1961. I don't remember much of anything.

Anyway, I got them all correct, each and every error of logic, even the No True Scotsman. I knew one day that that minor in philosophy from the University of Detroit would pay off.

I'm Only Sleeping

No, not the Beatles song from their album Revolver, a great record by the way (I can't make up my mind whether it or Sgt. Pepper is the group's best) where John Lennon laments that he's, uh, only sleeping. But sleep for me is on the one hand more elusive, while on the other can happen quite unexpectedly.

I can be at home stretched across the bed of an evening, clean, fed, and seemingly comfortable after a trying day, yet can't get close to sleep. The ceiling draws near as I stare at it; closed eyes are only that, and there are no distractions. My mind isn't set onto any disturbing, hurried or worried thoughts. I just can't drift off. 

Then in the middle of the afternoon at the old barn I'll find myself hot, dirty, completely uncomfortable, sweat soaked and generally physically miserable. I'll sit down at my desk in what passes as an office, with a coffee from my Shop Keurig at the ready, taking a break to gather myself, and doze off in seconds, chin on my chest, with no trouble whatsoever. I don't even realize it's happened, and am typically jolted awake by a phone call twenty minutes later. 

Why is that? And I should have shut off my phone.

Texting

A customer texted me this morning that he would be later than he expected, closer to 10:30 rather than around 9 as he hoped. I texted back a thank you for the heads up, and see you then. That's when it occurred to be: look at you two old duffers (he's about my age) texting. Pretty soon you'll be lip synching on TikTok or whatever it is the kids do these days.

I must admit it's something I would not have expected not that long ago. Yet technology will have its way, and we all ought to embrace that which improves our lot in life. There is after all that tendency as we age to question the new - why should I do it that way? - when it means altering even basic habits.

Some lament that it reduces the direct personal touch, isolating us all the more from one another. I don't think that that's an entirely unfair criticism. Still, texts allow us to get information in a manner convenient for all involved. If I send a text and the recipient is occupied, he can answer at his leisure. Calling is still an option when time is critical. 

Don't get me wrong. I still believe that you have to show me a good reason to change before I effect it. Change merely to change is rather pointless even where there's no harm. But I can be taught. I'll text you about it after I post my blog.

Nail on the Head

A reviewer on Amazon offered this analysis of my book A Subtle Armageddon, which he also gave five stars out of five: 

It took me a few pages to get into the groove with this book, because the narrative style is different. It is very metered, and not long on dialogue. But the plot kind of demands that. And once you have read a few pages, you realize that there is a lot of substance here. I'm glad I got into the groove and read it. Thoroughly good and thought provoking piece of fiction.

This is about the most fair review I could have for the story. It indeed starts slow, and is plodding: I knew that when I wrote it. I'll even go so far as to say it's obscure enough at first that I sometimes have trouble rereading it myself. But I felt constrained by the circumstances I had set up for the tale. The world I described at the beginning had to be boring. It couldn't be dynamic. There wasn't anything to cause conflict. 

As A Subtle Armageddon rolls on, it picks up. There is wonder and pathos, discovery, anger, fear and reassurance. It's my favorite of my books, though I honestly understand when folks struggle getting into it. Yet the payoff, I hope anyway, is worth it.

Here's a link if you're curious. Tell me what you think.

Almost Two Years

Mom's been gone coming up on two years now. It's amazing the silly things which pluck recollections from the back of your mind.

Yesterday I went to the pantry for napkins, just run of the mill white paper napkins, the last of a monstrous multi-pack I bought at a warehouse store in August 2022. I don't even understand why that came to mind, but there you are. I then immediately thought, Mom was with me when I bought these.

I'm not really super depressed, to be honest. Kind of melancholy, yes, and certainly sad. How in the world dinner napkins could bring something like that out, I don't know. But images of her being with me, holding onto the shopping cart for support, and all those other Sundays with Mom just came right out. I honestly find it just a little bit funny too, so it's not all bad. There's a sense of wonder why involved. 

Still, something as mundane as getting a napkin from the pantry has me missing her. So it goes.

Ear Hair and Tim Allen

You know that scene in The Santa Clause, the 1994 movie where Tim Allen has to take the place of Santa, and he keeps trying to shave a Santa like beard but it keeps regrowing immediately? You know, this one. He shaves, and his beard grows back as he watches?

I feel that way with ear hair. I don't see a barber but around every 4 to 6 weeks because I don't care that much about appearance. But I've noticed pesky ear growth recurring enough that I bought a trimmer. And I swear the hair redevelops on my lobes the instant I trim them. Right. Now. Kapow. I can almost see it in the mirror. Well, I find myself trimming it about every second or third day anyway. Annoying.