The Most Sincere Pumpkin Patch

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

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

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

For Starters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost Art

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

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

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

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

And So It Begins

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

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

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

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

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

Lonely roads

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

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

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

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

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

Slap-happy Amos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Story Stays the Same

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

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

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

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

Cloyce should not have rushed the old man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strident Fatherly Advice

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

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

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

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

Amos Prevents Murder

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's good thinking," concurred Amos.

A passive aggressive Cosgriff?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Like I Said

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

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

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

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

How to Vote

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rant over.

No Quotes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Mess With the Pharmacist

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

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

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

Canadian change.

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

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

Old Turkey

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We Need in 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Good Run

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

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

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

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

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

Calling A Bluff

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

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

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

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

"Whaddaya want?"

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

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

"Five," he answered without hesitation.

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

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

He gave me twenty dollars.

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

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

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

Worst Ever? Nowhere Near

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

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

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

 

It Happened One Day

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

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

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

Chili Fries Betrayal

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

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

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

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

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

Good Morning

What a way to start the day.

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

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

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

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

The Litany of Cloyce

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

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

"Okay, Cloyce."

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

"That's fine, Cloyce."

"Then she wants to go grocery shopping,"

"Whatever, Cloyce."

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

"I don't care, Cloyce."

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

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

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

"I hope she is, Cloyce."

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

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

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

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

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

Enunciate

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

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

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

To Grandmother's House We Go

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

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

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

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

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

Downstate Michigan

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

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

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

Horses in Hessel

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

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

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

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

Checkpoint

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

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

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

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

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

It was good by the way.