Presidential History

Simply to be more lighthearted today - I think we could stand a dose of levity - I have now seen two things repeat themselves in history. Thirty years ago I would not have expected either.

As a student of history I was always somewhat amazed that any father-son combination would end up in the White House. Yet Presidents 2 and 6, John and John Quincy Adams, accomplished it. That'll never happen again, I once thought. Then, George and George W. Bush become Presidents a mere eight years apart.

As a side note, John, John Quincy, and grandson Charles Francis Adams were all at one time in their respective careers US Ambassadors to Great Britain.

Now Donald Trump becomes the second split term President, after Grover Cleveland, who was the 22nd and 24th Chief Executive. What are the chances that would happen once, and now we have it twice. 

History is interesting, even in its trivia.

No, Really

Today is Election Day in these United States. One particular voter in my precinct will remember it for a long time.

This voter, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, intended to vote absentee. In Michigan, this means that your ballot must be returned in the envelope issued with the absentee ballot. Cloyce received his ballot and filled it out. Yet before he could mail the thing in - I am not making this up, it actually happened - his dog ate it.

Cloyce still wanted to vote, of course, so he duly went to the precinct this morning. The officials didn't want to allow him to vote, on the grounds that he registered to vote absentee. "Where's your absentee ballot?" he was asked.

"Uh, the dog ate it," Cloyce answered in complete honesty.

The poll worker stared at him, raised eyebrow and all, exactly like your teacher would. When I left, they were still trying to sort it all out.

Oooh, Shiny

Does it happen to you? Do you have trouble finding things you just had?

I was up at the old barn this morning to make sure I had a repair completed for 10 o'clock. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Everything was done except for the chuck. I had attached the chuck to the drive shaft of that particular unit and was promptly distracted. Minutes later, I can't find the shaft with the new part. 

Not on the work bench. Not back in the office. Not on a shelf near the bathroom. I couldn't find it. It wasn't near anyplace I'd been, it seemed. You would think that a drive shaft with an obviously new silver chuck would stand out. Nope.

It had reached the point where I had determined to go into my parts bin and simply get new everything to install when I saw what I sought. The drive shaft and chuck were sitting right next to the repair. And I mean right smack dab next to the machine. How could I have not seen it?

It's gonna be a long week...

Plastic Saw

Young kids, especially around 4 or 5 years old, can be very literal. It makes sense. They aren't old enough to appreciate nuances such as jokes.

As I sat on the bottom step of my porch handing out candy this past Halloween, a small boy in a serial killer costume approached. He was holding a clearly plastic chainsaw. "I'll give you candy if you please don't hurt me with your saw," I teased.

He stopped and pulled his mask onto the top of his head. "I won't hurt you," he told me with complete sincerity. Holding the chainsaw up for me to examine he continued, "See? It’s just a toy."

"Ahhh," I responded, trying to sound like I was comfortably reassured. It might have been the cutest thing I heard all night.

Hard Luck Highway

Well, they've gone and done it. The current owners of the property have torn the Clubhouse down. Undoubtedly that's because they did not know its history.

Me Grandpa Joe had dubbed it 'The Clubhouse' because that's where the neighborhood drunks (and I call them that affectionately I assure you; I thought well of each one of them) hung out in it. It was an old brick garage behind the house Joe then owned, and he didn't care if they used it as a hangout. Pop Turner, Tall Glass (he drank from a long tall glass, Joe would say), L.B., Chuck the mechanic (he was a crackin' good  mechanic when sober), Grandpa (not Joe, but another guy everyone called Grandpa, Heaven knows why anymore), a guy named Watson and a few others. They just sat within its confines on old makeshift benches and passed out whiskey to each other in plastic cups, talking in low mumbles once the juice had been flowing a while.

Sometimes a craps game might break out. Then the whole neighborhood heard the ruckus. Yells and screams and ooos and aaahhs; sure, they shouldn't have been wasting their money like that, but they weren't hurtin' nobody and only vaguely disturbing the peace. They never fought over a result either. They just shot craps and drank.

I did see them pretty down one day though. They had invited Mr. Moss to play with them. Mr. Moss was a dignified old gent who lived on the block. He had a small electric company and generally kept to himself. But for whatever reason, maybe he had no work and was bored, he joined the boys in the Clubhouse that one afternoon. They invited him to play because he had money. Simple as that.

He proceeded to clean them out. What they hoped would be an easy road to a large payout for somebody became a payout for Mr. Moss. He dominated the game so completely that everyone else was out of money in about 45 minutes. I never seen such a dejected group in my life. Easy Street had become Hard Luck Highway.

I think Mr. Moss felt a bit sorry for them, because he left quickly only to return with a couple bottles for the boys. He didn't drink himself but I imagine he felt obliged. And the guys themselves were thankful for a small victory.

I don't believe Mr. Moss was ever again invited to shoot craps with them, though.

Halloween in Review

So I donned the old Gerry Cheevers style hockey mask last night and did the Jason thing as I passed out candy to trick or treaters. I was happy with the reactions.

"It's Jason!" screamed several kids as they approached my house. They were screams of delight, quite honestly. I must admit though, that I am a bit concerned about the number of seven and eight year olds who know who Jason is. But if I can know the character despite having never seen a single Friday the 13th movie, maybe they can too.

One child, who seemed truly afraid, said, "Please don't hurt me," as she carefully held out her Halloween bag for a piece of candy. Another young boy, obviously more a man of the world, asked plainly, "Please don't cut my head off."

"Well, since you said please," I growled in return.

A few wondered aloud if perhaps I were in fact Michael Myers. Those were the ones I thought should have their heads lopped off.

I'm thinking we had about 400 kids over two or two and a half hours. Almost all I must say were very well behaved too. It was indeed a Happy Halloween.