The Used Car

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

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

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

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

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

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

Odd Hessel

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

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

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

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

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

But Still

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

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

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

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

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

Day and Night

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

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

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

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

Grandpaw Ain't Listenin'

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

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

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

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

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

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

Money Talks

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

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

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

Mocking Bird

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

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

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

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

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

Two Years

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

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

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

Rust Bucket

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

"Is that so?"

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

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

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

The 10th Hole

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

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

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

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

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

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

Making the Grade, Maybe?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe's Etiquette

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

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

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

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

Democrats Shocked

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

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

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

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

Take My Address

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

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

"4850 Rosa Parks."

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

I corrected, "No, 4850."

"44850," he instructed his buddy.

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

"4050," he told his phone.

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

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

Whatever. 

One Stupid Out

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

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

And then some guy hits a triple. 

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

One stupid out. Ah well. Ah, rats.

Tough Toenails

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anybody Home?

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

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

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

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

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

Balky Marty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let Mother Nature Deal with It.

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

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

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

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

Sundays Not Quite with Mom

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

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

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

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

Silly Yet Rather Cool

Do you see me son Charlie in this picture:

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

He's waving back at you, you know.

Room to Breathe

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

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

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

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

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

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

High and Low

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

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

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

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

Old Oil

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

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

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

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

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

I Don't Get It Either

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

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

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

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

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

Labor Day 2024

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

So, Happy Labor Day Moms!

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

The Quiet

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

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

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

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