Blood Draw

I believe it was me Uncle Mike what it happened to, but, as they say, no need for facts to get in the way of a good story, so I'll say it was him.

When he was a young man and stationed in South Korea with the US Army, he struck up a conversation with a Republic of Korea, or ROK, soldier who was in his military finery. Uncle Mike was admiring the man's sword which was part of his dress uniform. "Could I take a look at that?" Uncle asked.

The ROK handed it to him and Uncle dutifully admired it for a moment or two before handing it back. "May I see your hand?" the allied soldier then asked.

Confused, Uncle held out his right hand anyway. The ROK took it and nipped the barest bit from Uncle Mike's right pointer finger, just enough for a couple drops of blood to appear and cause just a bit of pain. "Why'd you do that?" he demanded.

"If I draw my sword I must draw blood," was the explanation.

"Coulda told me that before," Uncle Mike grumbled, understandably.

The Unknown

The drug commercials: they're everywhere. And in virtually every one of them the list of cautions which the voice over artist reads is longer than a drug store receipt. We're told more about what could go wrong than how the drug can help what ails you. Then comes the kicker, the final caution which lands like a brick.

Don't take great new wonder drug if you're allergic to it.

Well, how do you know that before you take it?

I mean, seriously, how? Or is this just more Lawyerball?

Perchance to Answer

Me Grandpa Joe had a welder rental business which me Pops by and large ran. Dad frequently spoke about two calls. One he refused on principle, the other he nearly refused on a different principle, but took. 

One large company would only call Joe Cosgriff Welding Machine Rentals on weekends, and I mean late on weekends. They'd call at, oh, 11 PM on a Saturday night, all in a dither over some presumed emergency. Joe would grumble, but dutifully take the order and fill it, delivering whatever in the wee hours of a Sunday.

He happened to be out of town one weekend. That company called, and me Pops answered. He refused the rental. "You call somebody else during regular hours but us at off hours. We're not doing business that way," Dad blithely explained to the company rep.

Pops worried a bit what Joe would think, but grandfather sided with his son. Say what you want about Joe, and much can and has been said, when he delegated authority to Pops he never questioned what Dad did. Joe figured, "I told him to run it, so I gotta let him run it."

Another time we were in a recession, and business was bad. That wouldn't stop Joe from taking his trips, so he decided one day to go off on an adventure. Dad, of course, took over.

He took a call from a very large company (you would recognize it but I won't tell you, just for safety's sake, discretion being the better part of valor) who were notorious for being slow to pay. Me Pops did not like dealing with them. Yet they wanted ten machines asap and there wasn't much other work. Dad opted to take the chance and fill the order, which ballooned into almost every one of the welders Joe owned at the time. At the height of the job, they had 210 units rented.

And, they paid promptly. "I'm glad I took that call!" Dad would say in telling the story. I know Joe did not question his decision on that one.

On A Friday Afternoon

Death on a Friday Afternoon by Fr. Richard John Neuhaus is the most recent book that I've read. I haven't read another book since, having finished it in January. I don't know that there's another book worth reading, quite frankly. Nothing that I've picked up since has held my attention. This is not hyperbole, nor overstatement. The bottom line fact of the matter is that I've never been so shaken or so profoundly upended by anything else I've read, seen, or heard.

I want very much to talk about the book. Several times I've began to write about it and abandoned the attempt. Today I have resolved to try finally to put my impressions to words.

Until recently I thought I had a pretty clear understanding of Christianity in general and my own Catholicism in particular. Yet now, all that seems incredibly wrong. Not that I am no longer Catholic nor because I lack faith in religion or the Church, but because Neuhaus simply laid down arguments so compelling they leave my spirit in wonder. I'm almost ashamed of the childishness which passed for thought in me all these 65 years.

Neuhaus emphasizes the last words of Christ while on the Cross and what they might - almost what they must, but we have to be careful about putting our meaning into Our Lord's words, as even he concedes - and why they're so important. He urges the reader to spend some time on Good Friday at the foot of the Cross with Jesus, and not to rush to Easter so quickly, especially so that we consider His words as He was nailed to a tree.

Christ had to die, you know. That's something we tend to ignore, or at least brush past. The imagery is too disturbing. But He had to die to make right all the wrongs in the world. We can't do it, we humans. At our poor level of understanding we can't fully comprehend evil and as such can't fix things. "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do," Jesus begs on our behalf as He hangs there dying. Someone who knows completely what must be done has to do the job of atonement - at-one-ment, Neuhaus says - because things must be made right. It's simple justice.

But I do not do the book justice. So many things Neuhaus says are simply gems of theology which never occurred to me before. Some are more compelling in the human sense. To give an example, we generally see the Cross as very tall and intimidating. Yet Neuhaus asserts that it was about seven foot high; His Mother Mary and St. John the Apostle were almost at eye level with Him at the foot of the Cross. When Jesus says, "Woman, behold thy son...Son, behold thy mother," He was speaking directly to them in every sense.

Neuhaus comes dangerously close to supporting universalism, the idea that everyone will eventually be saved. I would never have given universalism the time of day before reading this book. I am still skeptical about it. But Neuhaus never says that universalism must be true, only pointing out that God works in whatever way God wants to work, and that we should be careful about assigning imperatives to Him. As such, and despite my philosophic doubts (I think it is fair to ask why we're put through any trials at all if we're to end up in the same place, though I do think that there may be a proper response to that), I am open to the idea that we may live in the hope that all find Heaven. That's a thought I would never have entertained not that long ago.

At times I had to stop reading because I was too teary-eyed to continue. We tend to think of evil as murder and theft and all those things covered by the Ten Commandments, but that isn't the whole of it. The young child who dies of leukemia - that's an evil. It must be made right. We can't take on the depth of that evil. Yet God can, by making it possible for that child to be reborn in the Great Glory of Heaven. Christ had to die because someone had to bear the stain of all evil. All evil.

And He gave himself up so willingly. Why didn't He call legions of angels to save Him from human clutches? Because it wouldn't have served justice. It would not save that child from illness, nor make up for it. It would have only brought glory to the god-man. But what good is there really in a god saving himself? Such a being would be above the world, not in it, and thus looking out for himself, not us. The Christian God insists He's here for us.

What may have hit me hardest reading Death on a Friday Afternoon was a quote Neuhaus used late in the book. It was from a hymn I sang in high school choir, the words of which always have stuck with me:

Those dear tokens of His Passion,

Still His dazzling body bear!

Cause of endless exaltation,

to His ransomed worshippers!

With what rapture, with, what rapture!

Gaze we on those glorious scars!

I can still sing it, though that would definitely not serve justice nor your ears. But the tune has stayed with me for fifty years now. It has run through my mind countlessly over those five decades. Those wounds, those scars of Christ, are the price of evil. And Christ paid it, making possible for each one of us the attainment of a greater good. 

I still fail to say how deeply this book has shook me. I think I get it now, the big, final It, the real Truth, even as doubts linger. I am in awe, I am humbled; I find a strange, exciting calm in me about what the future brings. I feel I have discovered a great clarity which is nearly beyond imagination, nearly unfathomable. 

I don't know what to think. And yet I feel a clarity of thought I never imagined possible.

Hey Presto

I'm sure I've said this before and I'm equally sure that every one of you out there are incredulous at the prospect. I'll go so far as to say that you probably don't believe it. Hell, I don't blame you. With my track record I don't believe I believe it myself. But it's true: I can be taught. And self taught no less.

In trying to get my writing career, such as it is, off the ground, I've resurrected a manuscript which I hadn't touched in about 15 years. When I decided to work on it I first had to find it. You know how computers are: everything's right there on your monitor or on your hard drive. If, and this is a big if, you remember how and where and under what title and form you saved it. That's when we discover HOW COMPUTERS ARE. They are literal. Very, precisely literal. Maddeningly, frightfully, disgustingly literal. A capital letter which should be small and, hey presto, your friendly Dell has no idea what the hell you're talking about.

Still, I managed to find the document. And it was blank, blanker than a Democrat's mind (insert Republican if it makes you feel better and I'm very sorry I offended you please don't cancel me) even though the word count function insisted there were more than 62,000 of them. What to do, what to do.

I selected 'copy' for the entire document, copied it, opened a new text document window and, hey presto, it appears, visible words and all, in the new window. Only rather than quote marks at the start and ending of someone speaking there were vertical lines. Again, who to do etc.

I select copy all again, copied the entire document again, pasted into an open text window of a different writing program and, wait for it... wait for it...hey presto! The entire manuscript was there, and with quote marks around spoken words and phrases.

So I can be taught. Inspiration, where do you come from? And now I get to begin submitting what will hopefully soon be another book, one of them novels we hear so much about. Hey presto, it could happen.

Happy Day

Uh, Happy New Year!

No, that's not right. Merry Christmas?

Happy Independence Day! Hmm; not that either.

Arbor Day! Yes, Arbor Day. Have a great Arbor Day. Go plant a tree.

Oh. Not Arbor Day. Thanksgiving? Don't eat too much Turkey!

Opening Day for baseball? No; off by about a week.

Not that? Then, then storm the Bastille! Remember the Maine and the Alamo! Fly the old Stars and Stripes for Flag Day! Remember your grandparents this Grandparents Day. Or Mom, yeah, Mom on Mother's Day! Treat her right!

Still not it? But I just know something's in the air today. Yet what?

Nerk

I'm not actually sure if that's how to spell it, but that's about how it sounds. But I've been told that the locals in Newark, Ohio say Nerk, Ohiya.

This isn't my first experience with pronunciation not matching spelling. Rutherford, North Carolina, near where a lot of my southern family live, often comes out as, roughly, Rofton or Rullaferd. George Kell, the former Detroit sportscaster who hailed from Arkansas, used to end Missouri with an A: Missoura.

I don't mean this as a criticism. We all have accents and that's just how things are. I remember about 30 years ago talking to a local in Toronto, Ontario, Canada who after a few minutes of conversation asked, "So you're from Detroit?" even though I hadn't told him. "How can you tell?" I asked in turn.

"By your accent."

I actually replied, with no ill intent and as though it were a perfectly reasonable answer, "I don't have an accent."

Of course I do. We all do. We just don't often think of it that way.

To Forgive, and to Seek Forgiveness

For Catholics, today's Gospel reading is the famous one about the Prodigal Son. If you think like me, most folks appear to concentrate on the obstinacy of the elder son in the story without much consideration of the actions of the errant sibling.

That's not all bad. There is a great lesson in forgiveness there, as the older son needed to accept and forgive his brother. It strikes me though that few people care to delve all that far into the importance of what the actual Prodigal did. And that was precisely that he admitted he was wrong and sought forgiveness.

The implications of that are strong and warrant attention. Would his father have been forgiving if the son had not sought forgiveness? Notice I am not speaking here about dad's willingness to forgive; we can safely assume he strongly wished to do that. But did he go to his youngest son and say he forgave him while the lad was actively involved in his debauchery? No. Did he go and forgive his son while the boy was still living his life of choice, even in tending pigs? No. Yet when the child came to his senses and accepted he had sinned, and came to beg forgiveness, his father forgave immediately. Quite literally on the spot in fact.

So it strikes me that part of the lesson is that God is willing to forgive, indeed will very readily forgive, if we ask. Yet if we consciously live in ways contrary to God's will, we will not seek forgiveness. In our arrogance and self importance, in the false knowledge that we are somehow right, we will not ask. Consequently, it seems, we should not then expect it.

There will be greater rejoicing, we are taught, over one repentant sinner entering Heaven than over a hundred of the righteous crossing through the Pearly Gates. That is very much to be expected. But notice that that former sinner, that now Glorious Soul, earned his glory through his humility. He earned his glory by recognizing he was not God.

Like A Kid Again

I've always liked my meals simple. Throw a couple of slices of bologna between a couple other slices of wheat bread and slather on some Duke's mayo and I'm set for lunch. For dinner, I'm content to toss microwaveable food on microwaveable plates and bowls and have at it in no time. Even breakfast can be very simple. Set the kettle on and boil water for instant oatmeal and I can be eating in minutes.

Yet I've discovered another easy breakfast, one designed especially for you chocolate lovers out there. Just get your favorite chocolate cereal, even the one featuring that annoying bird (all right, all right, you're cuckoo for them. We get it. Now shut up), fill a  bowl, but only put about half the milk in. Your reward is chocolate milk almost as thick a Hershey bar when you're done. All that glorious chocolate just sinks right down into the milk. 

Chocolate overload. It's not just for breakfast anymore. But it tastes best then.

Baseball is Back!

Man, it's good to watch baseball again. Even though my Detroit Tigers lost 5-4 in the opener last night, it's still a great feeling. I'm not even worried that they were 0 for 15 with runners in scoring position. The Detroits made it close. Yes, they might have won with as few as two hits with runners anxious to cross home plate. They did have two runners on with one out in the top of the Ninth who they couldn't move against a closer clearly struggling. But no need to panic. It's early.

How about that Spencer Torkelson? A home run in his only official at bat, but four walks in four other plate appearances. That makes his batting average 1.000 on the season, and his on base percentage 1.000 as well. That's a pace to hit one thousand on the year. I'm guessing that won't happen, though.

I think I'll just bask in the glow of the National Pastime this morning. Baseball for seven months; life is good. I won't worry about a thing.

It would be easier not to worry without going zero for fifteen with runners in scoring position. But I'm not panicking. No, I'm not.

Okay, maybe just a little. Yet it's early. It's early. Lot of baseball to be played yet. I'm staying calm.

Oh, but geez, we win with just a couple hits in those situations...

Zeke and Amos

I've talked about me Uncle John who we called Zeke. I talked about me Grandpa Joe's old friend Amos too. At times their paths crossed.

Zeke had once told me that Amos made the best fried chicken in the world. Uncle John loved it, and Amos apparently knew that. He would regularly offer some to me Uncle when he fixed it for dinner.

One day at the old barn Zeke reminisced about a time when he was a boy, maybe 9 or 10, where he really had a taste for that fried chicken. He tramped over Amos' apartment and quite literally begged the old man to fry it up. Amos dutifully did, not wanting to disappoint the boy. Uncle John sat there and ate ravenously, realizing about half way through that his personal chef wasn't having anything for himself.

"I was too young to realize it at the time, but it was a Sunday about Noon. Amos was hung over after Saturday night," Uncle John explained. He laughed at that. "How'd you like to have a kid bug you for food when you're sick? But he still fried it all up for me."

I think it's a cool story.

Michigan Baseball

Baseball brings people together; it bridges all gaps. 

Just yesterday as I entered the neighborhood supermarket (University Foods on Warren in Detroit; they're good folks) wearing my Lansing Lugnuts cap a voice said, "Hey! You're from Lansing?"

I told the young man, "No, I was at a game last year and bought the cap as a souvenir."

"Oh. Well, Lansing's my hometown. Go Lugnuts!" We did a fist bump at his instigation.

It was a cool moment, brought out by baseball. 

The Granite

We won last night's curling game at the Windsor Granite Club 6-4 when I made the very last shot, a relatively easy pick where I simply hit the opponent's scoring stone out of the rings, leaving us with two points and the win. The boys played well in front of me, we caught a couple breaks, and I felt I owed them that last shot after having cost the team two points earlier in the game with poor throws. We've now won three of our last four after a long stretch of mediocre to poor play; can we start the season over, please?

I've played in the Windsor Granite Club for most of the last thirty years. To my knowledge, it's the oldest continuous curling league in the Windsor-Detroit area. Yes, the Detroit Curling Club has been around longer yet had no facility for several years in the mid to late 1990s. The Granite has been in play unbroken since 1960. Somewhat ironically and interestingly, the Granite began at the old Detroit club at Forest and Sixth, just five blocks from when I've lived all my life, before transferring to Windsor when the city opened a rink in I think 1979.

But I fear for the league's future. We have seven teams, the least I've seen by far, and I worry that is unsustainable. We need more bodies, more folks to curl with us. There's history there, tradition, even if that only means something to a few of us. 

All good things and all that, and honestly requires I say that it would be no real tragedy if it ended. The world has and will suffer worse injury. Still, for guys like me, it's the Granite. It's my curling home. I don't really want to move.

Put on Your Happy Face

Even when I'm on even short vacations, I try to get my morning walkies done. A dad bod doesn't maintain itself, you know.

From the back door of our house on Cedar Street in Hessel to the end of Hessel Point Road and back takes me just about 45 minutes. 45 minutes is typically how long I try to walk of a morning. Serendipity. When in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, that's the path I hike.

I had noticed the day I arrived last week that a crew was making its way slowly down the roads of Hessel, spraying thick, liquid tar to seal the cracks in the highways. They use a wand not unlike one on a pressure washer, only it leaves a coat of rubbery, hot tar to dry onto and seal said cracks. 

This past Monday as I trod along a little before 7 AM I happened to notice that the crew, or at least one member of it, decided to have a bit of fun. He sprayed a happy face on the asphalt of Hessel Point Road. 

Of course, I had to stop and take a picture:

Pretty cool, if you ask me. It helped get my day started right.

Simon Bar Sinister

Are you wondering where I could possibly be going with a character from the old Underdog cartoon? I should hope so, because the whole point of blogging is to get your attention.

Back when network censorship of TV programs was a real thing, writers and actors would try to get questionable material past the censors. Perhaps it was to make a point, or perhaps just for giggles to see what they could get away with. They certainly got away with something on that beloved kids cartoon. Surely neither kids nor adults caught the joke.

You see, a bar sinister is a slashed line symbol on family crests of medieval times (this one, /, I think). Sir Walter Raliegh supposedly came up with it. The inclusion on a coat of arms allegedly signals that the person who had it on his crest was an illegitimate child. The developers of Underdog, then, managed to get past watchful dragons a character named more or less literally Simon the...well, you know.

It was rather clever, I must admit. The censors would definitely not have allowed it had they caught it.

A Question

Was Toby Keith a solo artist?

Let's see if anyone can figure it out... 

Lack of Planning

I'm not the only one who walks. Me brother Phil affords himself regular constitutionals. Yet unlike me he tends to hike in the late afternoon or early evening. 

One Sunday afternoon a bit after 4, he went out. While getting his exercise he figured to check out the Shop, the old barn where we work, just to see it was secure. 

He was just a bit surprised to see a plumber waiting by the door. "Man, I'm glad to see you Cosgriff. I need my machine worked on."

"Well, you're really lucky to find me. We normally aren't here this time of the week," Phil explained.

The man said, "Oh, I know. I just hoped someone might come around eventually."

So you came late on a Sunday? Did you intend to wait outside my door until Monday? Still, me brother offered, "Well, since I'm here, let's open up and take a quick look at your snake."

The plumber stammered, "Uh, I don't have it with me."

So you came to the Shop at a time when you didn't think that anyone would be there, and you didn't bring your machine, thought Phil. And, you didn't see a flaw in that plan?

Yet he said, "We'll be here tomorrow morning at 8 then sir."

I don't think we ever actually saw him though. That may he just as well.

Coffee Tales

We Cosgriffs, at least us Detroit and Illinois Cosgriffs, love our coffee. I actually get the urge double, seeing as me Grandpa Hutchins, me Mom's Dad, loved his coffee too. Anyway, family lore, and by family lore I mean that both me Pops and me Grandpa Joe insist it is true, holds the following tale.

When me Pops was about 5, Joe took him along on a train ride to visit family in Illinois. In Chicago I believe, they had to switch trains. There was a layover of a couple hours, so Joe takes his eldest into a diner at the station to mark the time and grab a bite.

The waitress approached right after they had grabbed a table. Setting down menus, she followed with the typical, "Can I start you boys off with something?"

"Two coffees, one black, one half and half," Joe responds.

As Joe tells it, me very young Pops looks up at him and asks innocently, "Joe, you gonna drink that coffee with cream?"

"Two black coffees," me Grandpa corrected himself to the waitress.

That's knowing how you like your coffee, folks.

Rolling Them Bones

I used to like dice games, but now I don't. They're too much of a crapshoot.

See, dice games are games of chance. Then there's craps, a dice game associated with gambling. Then a crapshoot is a turn at craps. And you really take a chance with rolling the dice then. You can lose real money real quick.

So you see the pun? Dice games are like crapshoots, risky and all. Got it?

I just want to be clear about the joke, that's all.

Trouble Comes Calling

I sell drain cleaning machines. As such, every now and then a guy will come into the old barn and ask me - me - for advice on the subject. Imagine that.

The other day a plumber came by and asked for my thoughts on trying to use a steel cable drain snake which was 1-1/4 inches in diameter in a pipe which was 1-1/2 inches wide. Further, said pipe had two 90 degree turns in it. Someone with no plumbing or drain cleaning experience at all can surely see there isn't anywhere near enough clearance for that to work out well.

What did I think, he asked.

I think that you're not only asking for trouble, but laying out the welcome mat and insisting it stay for dinner. Get a smaller machine with a smaller cable. 

But that's just me. I do think I talked him out of it, though.

Kung Fu Philosophy

Will worry change the future?

- Kwai Chang Kane

Who says TV isn't educational? It seems that everyone's favorite kung fu master has hit the nail on the head.

Master Kane's words have come back to me of late. The thing is, I can't remember anything else about the episode where he offered those words of wisdom. But I recall the quote exactly. Someone was fretting so bad that they couldn't function in the present.

We all worry. We all fret. That's okay, if it inspires us towards better efforts. But when worry takes a life of its own, well, remember that it does not affect what is unwritten. At least, not positively.

St. Patrick's Day

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

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

Street Parking

You know what will get an old man mad? Parking in front of his house when there's plenty of other spaces available.

In my neighborhood there are almost no driveways, as the bulk of the houses were built prior to the motorcar taking dominion over the roads. There are some homes with garages, yet even they are relatively few. That leaves street parking, which can limit options quickly itself. And the streets are public, so anyone can park anywhere. 

I get that. I really do, and accept that it is what it is. Still, I see neighbors across the street who will park in front of my house when there are spaces in front of theirs. I mean, don't you want to park in front of your own dwelling? Don't you want fewer steps with packages or whatever in tow? Don't you want to save a couple of steps the next morning when you're heading to work? And here's where the old curmudgeon steps in: don't you want to be courteous towards me? I am towards you. I won't park in front of your place outside of abject necessity. Is it that hard to drive down the block and loop around when you get home?

So park in front of your own place. Is it that much to ask? Can you see me wagging my finger sarcastically as I ask that?

Wait, What?

I complained yesterday about a small charge to my debit card which I did not make. I am glad at this point that I'm going through the process of getting a new card. And it does have me thinking about how easy fraud can be even in this age of safety feature over safety feature.

What I'm leading to is, why aren't safety features always employed? Twice in the last month I've used that now cancelled debit card without being instructed to enter my PIN or zip code, two common manners of making sure the user is the owner of the card. Once was at a Sheetz gas station in Ohio. I was using said debit for gas, and after tapping the thing against a monitor (a standard option nowadays, but one I'll never really get accustomed to) was told to fill up without either safeguard having been requested. We're not talking about an old gas pump at an old gas station in the middle of nowhere. This was a brand new Sheetz (a largish Midwestern/Midatlantic brand) which should have had those features. My question is, why not?

It makes a fella skittish about technology and the safety of his money. In my particular case, I can't help but wonder if that may have been how my card information was, ah, acquired. I didn't think so at the time. But now, well, I may avoid Sheetz until I know things have changed. Or at least stay away from that one. That's too bad for them, because they're nice places on the whole with great services beyond gas: fresh food and such.

We'll see what happens. In the meantime, I'll be much more protective of my plastic cash. 

Cancelled (Not What You Think)

As do many of you out there in the ether, I routinely check my debit card use for all the obvious precautionary reasons. And yesterday morning there was a purchase which I did not recognize. It was for the whopping amount of $1.77. Not all that much; next to nothing these days, really.

But still, principle is principle, and why should I be held liable for even a paltry sum which I did not authorize? Even if it were somehow an honest error, I shouldn't have to pay it, right? Going to my computer, I logged onto my account and doth didst protest.

After entering all the pertinent information a summary page came up, asking if everything about my complaint appeared correct. Seeing that it did, I clicked next. And then I received a message saying thank you, your card has been cancelled, you will receive a new one within seven days.

No! I didn't want that! I just wanted the stupid buck seventy seven refunded. Now I'm without my debit card for a week.

Maybe I should have expected that; it does make sense as a measure against fraud. Yet doggone it, now I'll have to actually go into the gas station to pay for my gas and all that nonsense. I'll have to physically enter a bank to make deposits and withdrawals rather than find a convenient ATM. Rats.

I suppose I'm better off this way, but, again, rats. I'd almost rather have ignored the small charge. I guess that would have been dangerous, though.

Pacino? Really?

A reviewer was kind enough to say the following about my book Michael's Story:

I liked it. A lot of original thinking in here. The color coding -- although that doesn't begin to explain it -- was a unique touch. And reading the prose I didn't get the impression that it was written by a machine. Recommended.

A lot of original thinking? I'm really not sure that's the case, but thank you. It doesn't seem to be written by a machine; I must say I'm very glad to hear that! Charlie Gehringer was Detroit's true Mechanical Man, not I. Recommended; thanks again! Yet perhaps the most interesting observation this reviewer had, and I cut it from the actual review so as to hold it back for effect, "The book is like Al Pacino: short but intense." An interesting quip, I must say.

Is Michael's Story actually like Pacino? Find out here for Kindle or here for print copies.

Poetic and Immersive

Here's an interesting (and flattering!) review of my book A Subtle Armageddon: 

If you love the way C.S. Lewis used storytelling to explore faith and the human condition, you’ll love A Subtle Armageddon. The writing is poetic and immersive, pulling you into a world where the apocalypse is not just physical but spiritual. The protagonist’s journey is filled with quiet moments of realization, powerful symbolism, and deep theological reflection. This is not a fast-paced thriller but a book to be savored and pondered.

Poetic and Immersive? All right, I like that. The Apocalypse is spiritual; yes, and I believe more so than we realize. Not fast paced but a book to be savored and pondered. Well, that was one of the things I was going for in writing it: something to make us stop and think.

Hopefully you will think so too. Here's a link for to find out for yourself. Happy reading!

Wayne State Wildlife (Not What You Think)

As I approached the Wayne State University baseball diamond, aptly named Harwell Field (those who know, know) during my walk this morning, I noticed two dogs in the outfield grass. On closer inspection, they sure looked liked wolves, large and gray. I'd best keep an eye on them, I thought. It even occurred to me to wonder if perhaps I should report the sighting to someone, the police or school authorities, or the DNR, somebody.

There is a tall, wooden wall at the end of left field (it has the old left field scoreboard from Tiger Stadium on it) and I was soon behind the monolith. Clearing it beyond center, I looked around to make certain I knew where those wolves were. They were still there. Indeed, they hadn't seemed to have moved. Odd.

By the time I reached the far foul pole, they were still at attention, apparently exactly as they had been for five minutes or so. Intrigued, I stopped along a fence to study things more closely. Maybe I should call out to them? Right, Marty. Let's draw attention to yourself from a wolfpack.

It was then that I finally realized they were fake, or were long dead wolves courtesy of a taxidermist. The plates they stood upon were kind of a giveaway. Now I'm thinking that they must be there to scare off the Canadian geese that I have often spotted waddling along the field. I must say that I was mildly alarmed as well, at least at first.

What I don't do I don't do

One of my less than favorite regular customers, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, came in last week with a sawz-all, a power driven reciprocating saw. "Can you fix this for me Cosgriff?" he asked.

"Naw, I don't work on sawz-alls," I replied.

"Aw, Cosgriff, it might be something minor."

"I don't have time, Cloyce, I'm busy as hell."

"Could you just try?" he begged.

"Fine, Cloyce, I'll drop everything I know what to do to with and delay all my drain snake customers to work on your sawz-all," I responded in a clearly mad, sarcastic tone. I didn't care what he thought.

There was a broken wire in the power cord, so I tried fixing that. Nothing. "Cloyce, I just don't know what to do."

Cloyce begins rattling off suggestions. "What about brushes? What about this dial? What about this gauge?"

I finally half yelled, "I don't, know, Cloyce. It might be any of those things. I work on drain snakes, not sawz-alls."

"Okay, okay, Cosgriff," he answered, and took thing out. I hope he never brings it back too, but it's hard to make a point stick with guys like that. 

Well, Water

Me Doctor has preached to me for years (you know how doctors nag) the importance of staying hydrated. That means drinking lots of water. But water is like, well, water (well water; see how I worked that in?). 

Well water is great. I still remember me Grandpaw and Grandmaw Hutchins having a well right by their back porch. It looked exactly like something from an old movie too: round and wooden, with a bucket and pulley to drop down into the water for a nice cold drink. There was even a metal ladle hanging on a hook just under the small roof of the well.

That was maybe the best tasting water I ever drank. And cold! You wouldn't believe you could drink it. But you could, right out of the ground.

Sometimes as a kid I would get a drink simply for the neatness of it, to lower that bucket and withdraw that clear water. It was kind of disappointing when they removed the old well and installed a pump. But so it goes.

The Ol' Perfesser

Yogi Berra gets a lot of mileage with his seemingly innocent quips. But another baseball legend, longtime manager Casey Stengel, sometimes called the old Perfesser, surely had his moments too. 

During one game he went to the mound to remove his pitcher from a game in which the hurler was getting absolutely shelled. "I ain't tired, Case," the man complained.

"Yeah, but yer outfielders are," Stengel responded.

At the start of another baseball contest, his pitcher gave up three straight hits on his first three pitches of the game. Casey strolled out to the hill, beckoning the catcher to join him. "What kind of pitches this guy been throwin?" he inquired of the backstop.

"I don't know. I ain't caught one yet," the man replied, in brutal honesty.

When he was a player for Brooklyn in 1923, Casey found himself in Pittsburgh being heckled mercilessly by the local fans. He caught a sparrow between innings and put it under his cap. As he went to bat, the crowd renewed their harassment. Stengel doffed his hat, freeing the sparrow into the skies. Immediately the crowd cheered his humor.

When he was the Yankee manager, Stengel and star player Mickey Mantle were called to testify before Congress over antitrust laws. Stengel offered a long and rambling answer to a Congressman's question; it was such nonsense that nobody could fathom what he might possibly mean. Asked at the end of his manger's monologue what he thought, Mantle answered, "I agree with Casey."

Baseball has its characters more than any other sport, I think.

Predicting the Future

Me Pops cousin Mary (all right, I suppose that makes her my cousin too, once removed or some such) when growing up always said that she was going to marry a farmer. And she did.

George Farmer.

True story. Life is stranger than fiction?

Seeking the Transcendent

If you only want to be what you already are and to be taught what you already think, there’s no real growth, no authentic dynamism possible. You’re stuck within the limits of  “Me.”

- Robert Royal

Robert Royal is the editor in chief of a website called The Catholic Thing. I found that above quote in an article of his addressing the proposed renovations of the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. You may read his opinion of that here if you like: Notre Dame Restorations

The words I lifted from his essay are among the most profound I have ever come across. In a nutshell, I think he speaks to what a good, real, and true education should speak to, and by extension it demonstrates where modern education fails miserably (at least, too often). When we stop seeking what is beyond ourselves, when the transcendent is shown the door, what too easily and readily replaces it? The "Now" or as he puts it, the "Me". 

But most people, in their deepest reaches anyway, don't want simply the "Me". They are looking for the better thing, what C. S. Lewis among others refer to as the numinous, the other than me, that thing which might be called the Divine. We know in our hearts that we lack that transcendence. We visit places such as Notre Dame to actively seek it. It is not in our schools. Indeed, I think we've outright banned it in public education. In too many of our private schools as well.

At the risk of going from the, ahem, sublime to the ridiculous, I will compare transcendent feeling to our current modes of education based on what I found in, of all things, a book titled Baseball Haiku. Haiku is a form of Japanese poetry, and baseball being popular in Japan the sport has found itself the subject of haiku poets both there and here in North America. 

Stripped to its very basics, haiku is a 17 syllable poem in a 5-7-5, three line pattern. The first line has five syllables, the second has seven, and the third five again. The authors of the book, in explaining haiku, teach that it is much more than a rhyming scheme. Haiku is supposed to be the expression of deep and profound thought in limited words. It is supposed to open a door for the reader to the numinous, based on the poet's solitary, one on one connection with it. It is an attempt to express the almost inexpressible.

When I was both a student and a teacher I remember giving and being given English class 'lessons' in haiku. Yet we weren't given that background, that essential understanding. In retrospect, I see that the idea of haiku was so dumbed down as to be genuinely insulting to the true point of it. That's because all we were told was, "See here, write whatever you want in this 5-7-5 pattern and look! You're a haiku artist!" The emphasis wasn't placed on haiku; it was placed on the student.

I assure you that my 11th Grade attempts at haiku were pathetic, and with all due respect so too were the offerings of my students when I was teaching. To the greatest degree it was due to one thing: no actual, honest understanding of haiku. Stripped to nothing but its mechanics, haiku is meaningless. As such, talking about haiku in class was meaningless. It did not have meaning because it could not, given such bare and rote instruction. The meaning isn't in the form: it's in the intent of the poet as he does his best to reflect transcendent truth. It's not something you should be doing for mere classroom credit. It's not a thin way of experiencing another culture. Haiku is about touching the eternal.

Even my poor explanation doesn't in any way get to the real point of haiku. That's greatly because you can't describe it so succinctly in one blog, just as you can't really understand it in one or two class sessions of high school. You're only playing around in a classroom and in fact not learning anything, whether about the style of expression, about yourself, or about the world around you or the otherworldly. There's no connection made between the here and now and the not here and now, the eternal. The student's mind is not made to see beyond itself, and therefore cannot expand and grow. Our education today isn't about anything quite so mystical, despite our natural longing for it. Teachers are left with the mundane drivel of making you the best you you can be, without any true consideration of what might actually do you the most good. 

When education becomes only about you, well, quite bluntly, you will not turn outward but inward. You will have little but your own selfishness and self interest indulged. You will be affirmed only in your base desires. You won't grow. You will only be, again as Royal puts it, trapped in the "Me". I don't see where that can bode well for our future.

Unconditionally?

We are told these days that we must love our children unconditionally and that that means supporting their life choices no matter what. So my question is...

If they decide to become bank robbers do I have to drive the getaway car?

The thing is, loving unconditionally (at least how it's typically meant) fails to ask what love might actually be and what it might in fact demand.

I like how Bishop Robert Barron puts it: love means wanting the good for the other person. Not necessarily what you think is good or what they think is good. You want the good for them. You want what's objectively good and try to help them see and achieve that.

If you don't mean that when you say to love others, you're simply mouthing a platitude. At that point you might as well be the lookout and drive the getaway car, and never mind that that isn't truly love.

Shear Cruelty

Sometimes I think Bill Cosgriff was mean. Me Pops could be guilty of sheer cruelty. Oh yes. He could.

He liked to ask young kids, "If you had twenty sick sheep and one them died, how many would you have left?" If the kid answered 19 he would insist the correct answer was 26 because what he had actually said was twenty five. Of course, if the kid said 26 me Pops would insist the answer was 19 because he had asked about twenty sick sheep. The kid was doomed either way, and Pops loved it.

It took me years to get the joke. Quiet Ron.

A Lesson in Magnetism

One of my kids - I won't say which so that they might each take credit for it - bought me one of those magnetic bowls which you can use while doing various repairs. In my case, some repairs I do involve removing and replacing very small screws in order to access a part or complete a job. When you can place such tiny items in a magnetic bowl, you can't lose them. At least, it's harder to.

Yet you can lose them. That is not the fault of the bowl, but you can.

The other day as I finished installing a power cord on a unit, I had dutifully reset three of the four little screws which held on the steel plate which covered the box where the cord was attached. Are you with me so far?

For whatever reason, the magnetic bowl would not allow me to grab that last screw. Twice, my fingers just slipped off of it, the bowl refusing to release the little mongrel. On the third try, and admittedly in a fit of mild anger, I yanked at that last small bolt. The tray let go, but the screw flew from my hand as I hadn't really gripped it well. A second later I heard just the tiniest ting where the screw hit the Shop floor, likely fifty feet or more away. I swear it mocked me.

I knew I'd never find it. I had to scrounge around old junk drawers until I found a suitable replacement. And I will treat the magnetic bowl with great respect from now on.

Another Yogi-ism

I've read my share of baseball books and articles and consider myself a fairly articulate follower of the sport and its characters. But I learn with every new baseball missive I read, you can't get more articulate that Yogi Berra.

My current read is When You Come To A Fork In The Road, Take It! The title is one of Berra's more well-known malaprops. Still, the book early on gave me another gem of Yogi's.

He was talking about how bad of a student he was in school. "Don't you know anything?" a teacher demanded of him in Eighth grade.

"I don't even suspect anything!" Yogi answered. 

I laughed out loud. 

Fried Cloyce

Me Pops liked to tell stories of his days in the field as he put it, his days going out to job sites to work on me Grandpa Joe's welders. They are some great stories, not the least reason because so many are true. Life is fun.

He told me a few times of when he went to pick up an electric powered welding machine which had not yet been unhooked from the power source. He went to find the job foreman, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, to get it taken care of.

It happened that day that Cloyce was in a mood. Everything had been going poorly for him, and that welder still being hooked up was another poke with a sharp stick. He stormed to the tool crib, demanding the crib manger give him a screwdriver. Cloyce was going to disconnect the machine himself. The crib guy smiled weakly as he gave him a screwdriver. Cloyce and me Pops went out to the welder.

Now it should be noted here that those old Hobart electric welders ran off 440, three phase power, about 4 times household current. They could kill you bad if you weren't careful. As such, insulation was important to your work.

Now, Dad had seen that Cloyce had been given a fully metal screwdriver, and the sheepish grin on the crib manager's face suggested that he knew what he had done. So Pops would have stopped Cloyce before anything bad could have happened. Still, he would let things play out.

Cloyce had walked a few feet before looking at the tool he had. Seeing it was uninsulated he screamed, "They're trying to fry me like a piece of bacon!" He stormed back to the crib, slamming that metal screwdriver onto the counter and demanding a new one. All in colorful language.

Pops and the crib manager just smiled.

The Bowling and Curling Worlds Collide

I played in a Tier 55 curling bonspiel this past Wednesday in Bowling Green, Ohio. We did all right, coming in third. Bronze medals are worth something, right?

Yet the best and most interesting thing which happened was running into two old friends, completely unexpected. I had met Humphrey about 25 years ago. He curls out of Fairbanks, Alaska but was in Detroit then, and we curled together. You figure afterwards you'll never see the guy again...and there he was in Bowling Green the other day, to play in that tournament. It was great to see him.

Further, it turns out that a guy who I had bowled with literally 45 years ago for three seasons now curls. I hadn't seen Mike in, well, 45 years. And there he was, a curler now.

Small world. It's stuff like Wednesday which can make life good.

Pops nearly shot himself

Jokes and novelty songs have been made about this type of situation, but one day me Pops almost shot himself. Really.

It's been nearly fifty years ago. One summer we took a four week family vacation to see Mom's people in North Carolina. Pops drove everybody down in the old Dodge Polara station wagon, stayed a week with us, then left the car there for Mom and us kids while he flew back to Detroit for two weeks. He returned for the fourth week and drove us all back home after that. He spent the two weeks in the middle (other than working) replacing the front porch on our house. It was easier for him to do that chore without us rugrats in the way.

After a few days he had completed the deck but not the stairs. But it was late so he went to bed, knowing he had plenty of time to add them. Yet he hadn't counted on me Grandma Cosgriff's paranoia interfering with his sleep.

Me grandparents lived next door, and Grandpa Joe was off on one of his jaunts for a couple weeks. Grams called Pops in the middle of the night and said she heard a prowler. He grabbed his pistol and rushed out the front door.

He threw open the door and took three quick, unthinking steps. On the fourth step, the step just exactly too far, he realized to himself just too late, 'There ain't no stairs'. He fell face down onto the ground, his pistol in hand right under his chest. Yes, he fell smack on top of the gun.

Luckily, obviously, it didn't go off. And of course, there was no prowler. Pops would often tell the story, yet with a nervous laugh even years later.

Did You Get the Joke?

I must say, I love the company I sell for here in Michigan. I mean that sincerely; it's like working in a family environment, so much so that we can joke with each other openly and friendly. 

Yesterday the vice president of sales called to ask me about checking on an account. Yet when I answered the phone his first words were, "We're just calling to see what kind of work you've done in the last week."

I laughed out loud; he did too. It was all in good fun, but a reflection on Elon Musk asking government workers what they do each week.

Let's be blunt: some of you readers don't think that's funny. Well, let go of your angst and laugh, because it is. Don't wrap your head so tight that you can't let go of what you can't control. I think that's the first step towards happiness quite frankly.

There: humor at the start and profound philosophy at the finish. Is this a great blog or what?

Name that Arc Welder

As many of you know, Grandpa Joe rented arc welders. What you may not know is that each and every one of them, almost 250 at the height of his business, had Joe Cosgriff names. Each was JC 1, JC 2, and so on. As a side note they each had serial numbers from the manufacturer, and Pops knew every serial number by heart. We'd test him often as kids. While dutifully standing beside a machine we'd ask, JC 135? Dad would immediately reply "5CW11276". It worked every time; we witnessed the proof. I've always been impressed by that.

Anyway, many of the welders had what amounted to nicknames. There was Old Number One, Joe's first welder, the one he started the business with. Nokomis was named after Nokomis, Illinois, the town where Joe bought it. He also had MichCon, acquired from the Michigan Consolidated Gas Company, and Gray Trailer, purchased from Gray's Rentals. I don't remember where that place was though. Interestingly enough, the machine was always painted gray.

There were two called long underslung, JC 27 and JC 33 respectively. Their carriages were made so that the welding machines themselves sat low into the frame which held the tires. This also made the entire unit about two feet longer. I believe it was an attempt to create a lower center of gravity on four wheeled trailers. Four wheeled welders were notoriously bad to tow. It wasn't unusual for them to veer all over the place behind a vehicle once you hit about 40 miles per hour. A lower center of gravity helped them tow straighter at higher speeds. I can say through personal experience that 27 and 33 towed much better than the average welder.

He had two Lincoln 600 amp electric welders which looked like large bombs. We called them A-bombs of course. 'Where's that A-bomb going Joe?' was a question which likely startled many a passers-by. There was snub nose, a snub nosed Hobart. Imagine that.

There's more but memory escapes me just now. I'll bring everyone up to speed soon though.

Monday Monday

As I drove about town Saturday afternoon I happened by a school. A large banner on the lawn announced their upcoming Kindergarten Roundup. And now, all I can hear is the Rawhide theme.

Have a great week folks.

Buried Cable

Scrap steel cables are worth a few pennies now, so much so that we have a scrap man who regularly stops by the old barn to pick up what we have. Indeed if I have enough of a load I'll take a bunch in myself. Yet that wasn't always the case.

I remember when I was a small boy, perhaps 7 or 8 years old, that me Pops had accumulated a lot of old scrap cables and no scrap dealer would take them. He could not pawn them off on anyone. If I had to guess, I would say he had several thousand feet of old steel cable, the bulk of it in short lengths of  8 to 10 feet. What to do, what to do.

He hired who were then two of his younger brothers, me Uncle Mike and me Uncle Jim, to bury them. 

As I said, I was little. One morning Uncles Mike and Jim arrived in my parents back yard with spade shovels and a truck nearly overloaded with bent and gnarled cables. They worked hard, digging a trench about 12 feet long, 8 feet wide, and I think about 10 feet deep. When they had done that, they laid all that cable into it until it was nearly half full. Then they covered it all up, tamping it down as they went.

Now I ask you, what might some archaeologist at some future date think of that mess of steel? What outlandish conjectures would creep into his mind when slowly dredging through what was once 4761 Avery in Detroit? Was it as mass of communication cables from an ancient civilization? Part of a scientific experiment whose point was lost to history? The remnants of a forgotten religious ceremony?

Nah, just some iron trash buried by two teens hungry for money and paid for the task by their older brother. But future history is fun to contemplate, isn't it?

Cloyce is Important

One of the fun things the whole COVID debacle has done is mess up the supply chain. But it's a cross to bear and we simply have to deal with it.

A customer of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, is a bit self-important. He didn't want to hear supply chain issues about getting his drain snake back. He only just dropped it off Tuesday and I told him expect ten days or so, which is actually an improvement over the last year on such things. To my irritation, that did not stop him from dropping in Friday. "I already told you ten days, Cloyce," I explained.

"Well, why don't you get on the phone and tell them I need my machine?" he demanded.

"Let me do that. I'll call and say that I really need that part. They'll tell me supply issues. I'll say it's for Cloyce. They'll pause, and I'll hear their worry, panic, and concern. Then they'll say, why didn't you tell us it was for Cloyce to begin with? We'll fly someone out immediately to pick up that one part, then drone ship it right to your shop door. It will be worth all the expense to get Cloyce that twenty dollar part right away and keep him happy." At that I stopped and stared at Cloyce.

He stared back. "You ain't even going to try, are you, Cosgriff?"

No, Cloyce, I'm not. You'll get a call in about ten days. Deal with it.

Joe's Tell

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

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

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

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

Laying the money down

They're always in a hurry until it's time to lay the money down. That's an old saw of me Pops, and it holds true as much now as whenever he first said it. Yet it still amazes me that it happens, that people will hold off on paying for things which, theoretically at least, pay for their living, their food and trucks and houses and such.

For larger projects and orders, except from well established customers, we get significant down payments. Even then, with as much as half down, we'll have folks leave things hanging for weeks, or even months. Yet there are repairs which we simply do and trust that they guy will return. Generally that involves things which we can easily sell to someone else if it comes down to it.

A good example is repaired sectional drain cables. If a fella doesn't return after awhile we just sell them. I won't bore you with the details, but we can make it up to the original customer if it comes down to it. Why, I would even honor our oldest obligation on that count.

We have a man, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, whom we owe six cables from 1983. We called him several times back then until the old man decided it was no longer worth his trouble. Yet if he comes in today I will give him the cables he's owed. I will even sell them to him at the price we charged back then, nine bucks a cable (they're $35 each now) just for the novelty of it. And out of an odd respect for the chutzpah it would take to try and claim them 42 years later.

Hey, it may even make good PR, right?

Listeners

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

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

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

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

"What's that?" me Grandpa asked, actually laughing at his predicament.

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

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

The Joke's On Me

I am getting older. As such I'm beginning to realize how often the joke's on me (quiet, Ron).

I've talked a lot about watching Rifftrax, a movie parody site where they mock movies, TV shows, short films and what all. Last weekend I watched several Rifftrax offerings with my son in Ohio, one of The Ohio Cosgriffs. As usual, I laughed at many of the jokes.

One of the jokes involved the Internet. It was that a character was so old that he still typed www before website addresses. I laughed at that, well, because it was clear I was supposed to. Yet I didn't quite understand the humor. 

Back here in Detroit I tested that joke. And sure enough, you don't have to type www before a web address. You just type weather.com or aol.com and there it is. I just tried it again: I typed mudhens.com, exactly like that, and was taken immediately to the Toledo Mud Hens web site as I now fully expected.

So the old guy joke was on me. But I had to laugh at the time, if only to cover myself.

The Coin Man

I'm not into coin collecting outside of an interest in how our money has changed over the years. Oh, I have a coin or two, and a few old bills, but nothing to amount to anything. But an old friend asked me if I was interested in meeting him at a coin show yesterday and I thought, why not? 

I took my old money with me simply to see what it was worth, although I expected little. Yet I needed a 1959 Lincoln penny so figured to find one there.

My money wasn't worth much, perhaps an extra 20 bucks above face value. That didn't surprise me; tales of wealth from such things are few and far between and never happen to you, do they? But I asked one dealer about getting that 1959, explaining during our conversation that it was to complete a picture from my parents' 50th Anniversary which had a penny from each year they were married attached to it. The 59 had fell off. He gave me one, and would take nothing for it. "It's really only worth marginally more than one cent, and I like that it's going to a good cause," he explained.

I thanked him, and took his business card. "Well, I know it won't amount to much, but I'll at least give you a shout out on my blog." He thanked me in return.

So, if any of you out there are into coin and currency collection as a hobby, I urge you to look up Dave Sutton. He works under Dave's Coin Dungeon, phone 810-599-8300, and his email is DaveS7273@hotmail.com. He's a great guy, and he'll be fair to you.

On a side note, I did buy a one dollar Canadian bill from 1954 for one US buck. Some things are just neat to have.

My Soap Box

Irish Spring is my choice of bar soap. I've probably allowed me self to be played by advertising on that point, being of Irish heritage and all. What's it to ya?

So anyway, I purchased a three pack of Irish Spring the other day and, seeing as the soap dish by the bathroom sink was empty, went to put a fresh bar upon it. I didn't buy the stuff to have it sit on a shelf in a cabinet, right?

Yesterday as I prepared to shave I went to wash my face. Turning on the water and wetting my hands, I reached for the soap dish. It surprised me a little to grab a small pasteboard box instead of my newly purchased Irish Spring. Staring at the box stupidly, I slowly turned around to see a perfectly good bar of brand new soap at the top of the wastebasket. 

Ah, I get it now. You wash with the soap and toss the box. That sure explains all those previously unexplained paper cuts I've suffered over the years.

Grandpaw's Chore

Me Grandpaw Hutchins was a quiet man. But like most quiet men, he could make himself very well heard when he felt the need.

As an older man he couldn't do as much as he once could, a trial we all must face. Yet as with most all seniors he was not, of course, useless. He still did whatever he could for himself and by himself. And one thing he could do and took pride in was mowing his grass.

One day one of my uncles was out mowing hay on his own property. He lived near me Grandpa, and figured he might do his father-in-law a solid and mow his lawn after he finished his own chore. So when the hay was all done, he drove his tractor the short piece down the road to Grandpa's house, lowered the large mower behind the tractor to yard height, and commenced to cutting the grass.

Grandpaw Hutchins heard him soon enough, and went onto his front porch to see what was up. When he spied me Uncle mowing his lawn, he did nothing. Nothing, that is, except stare at my uncle the whole time he was working. Me uncle quickly caught sight of Grandpa himself. He explained to me that Grandpa simply stared at him the whole time, at every pass of the lawn he made. Uncle soon realized he had made a mistake in taking on Grandpa's chore.

"His stare told me all I needed to know," Uncle said later. "I'll never do that again."

Me Grandpaw Hutchins had gotten his point across emphatically, without saying a word. 

A Frustrated Man

An Amazon reader says this about my novel David Gideon:

The books journey from small-town Michigan to the presidency is both inspiring and deeply human. This book captures the essence of his life—his struggles, triumphs, and the relationships that shaped him, particularly with his wife, Diane, whose unwavering belief in his potential is truly heartwarming. The story weaves through his roles as a teacher, senator, and ultimately a leader of a nation, with moments that are equally uplifting and thought-provoking. At times, you may find yourself frustrated with his choices, but that only makes his growth and determination more impactful. A beautifully written story about leadership, love, and finding one’s purpose. Highly recommended for anyone who loves a character-driven, inspirational read.

As always, I'm happy and thankful for such reviews. What I really like about it is the reader's comment that you might be sometimes frustrated by his (David's) choices. I don't want a cardboard character. I want one where you might sometime say, 'What's he doing there? Why's he doing that?" I want a human being to come alive for you. That means imperfections, because we all have them. They have to be there or David won't be believable, and the reader won't be able to relate.

Want to find out how you relate to David Gideon? Just click this link.

Winter Storm Marty

I don't know exactly how much snow fell overnight in the D. The weathercasters were saying 4 to 8 inches were expected; my guess is 2 or 3 actual accumulation in my part of town. But I realize numbers will vary when you're making predictions over large areas such as southeast Michigan.

One thing though which shocks even me: I was looking forward to clearing it. Indeed, I was almost anxious. That was never as issue, oh, not so far back in Marty history. Yet yesterday before the first flake arrived, I found myself plotting my attack on the winter storm demon. I was almost relishing it.

I figured to get out and get started at 6:30. I was actually out and started at 6. Shoveling a path to the first of our three cars, I fired it up, cleared the windows, and made a wide path all around the car for easy access. Returning to the walks, I pushed and tossed the snow cover off of them, taking great pride in forming nice, solid lines at the edges. Add a layer of salt, and they were ready to be safely trod upon.

Now to the other cars, my new old van and my newer older van. Firing them up, I watched with delight as the ice melted off the windows. I soon drove both of them around the neighborhood (one at a time) to allow what bits of snow were still on them to blow off, driving through the alleys around the old barn so that they would be open for myself and my customers. 

Looking back upon that work, I can honestly say it didn't feel like a chore. I was, I am, rather too pleased with myself. This adulting thing isn't so bad if you just embrace it.

The Meat Cleaver

Boy, President Trump and Elon Musk sure are active, aren't they? They seem to want to bust the chops of every federal agency. And, you know, quite a few of them deserve busting. My understanding is that even the Pentagon is to come under deep scrutiny. Good; no one should be exempt.

I think a lot of the angst on the matter is the way in which particularly Elon Musk is handling the situation. He appears to be using a meat cleaver, simply hacking away. I'll admit myself that's fraught with difficulties. It absolutely creates uncertainty, and it affects people everywhere and to a greater degree than we might imagine. I do appreciate that. But if there's another way to trim the fat or to get rid of spending on stuff we shouldn't pay for, why hasn't it happened? 

Mostly, there isn't the political will on anybody's part to examine Washington in depth and writ large and do something about it, even though few people argue nothing needs doing spending-wise. Further, so you think how Musk is doing it is messy? How messy will it get when things are piled up under minutiae in a Congressional committee? Because this I'll guarantee: what ifs and what nots will be thrown around and nothing will get done. If relying on Congress to, yes, actually do its job and tend to the purse is the answer, we appear to have been barking up a tree for decades now. As such, and arguably at the very least, someone else has to try.

There isn't that much money to cut? According to a Congressional Budget Office report from July 2024 there were 491 federal agencies which lacked Congressional authorization yet were budgeted at $516 billion dollars. So theoretically, that money should not have even been spent. That's about one-fourth of Trump's targeted cuts (his original aim was for $2 trillion per year) right there. All right, perhaps some of those agencies ought to be authorized. Then authorize them, because it strikes me as eminently reasonable that if you don't have formal approval to even exist you shouldn't get the money. But, again, political will. Something Congress sorely lacks.

Have I mentioned the Festivus Report issued in November 2024 by Senator Rand Paul of Kentucky? He cites One Trillion Dollars of waste at the taxpayers' expense. You know, important stuff like finding out if lonely rats (yes, rats) seek cocaine quicker than happy rats, to the tune of $419,000. Or $2.1 million for Paraguayan border security. You read that right. Or...you get the point. Even if some of the money Sen. Paul cites is justifiable, surely not all is worthwhile.

I don't see where this is even a liberal/conservative, Democrat/Republican issue. If you're either of the latter you should be working for budget cuts because you want smaller government. If you're of the formers, I would think you want sensible budgeting precisely to get more money for your other causes. We should all want fiscal responsibility, even if we're at cross purposes philosophically. So why don't we have it?

A-hem. Political will. At least Trump and Musk are actually trying to address the entire budget. Like it or not, they're doing something. And no one else is.

Dinging in My Ears

Did you know that your phones can give you notifications, can tell you something just happened or that a thing asks for your attention? It's true! But is that good?

I purposely set up notifications for certain things. If I get a text message, I get a ding. If someone comments on a Facebook post, I get a ding. If I spend five bucks at Dollar General with my Cash app, I get a ding that I've spent money, even though I fully realize that's what I just did.

It's all to a purpose, right? It's so I can keep up on things and make sure there isn't anything nefarious going down which might adversely affect my life. The trouble is that I've now set up so many notifications I've lost track of them.

My cell routinely dings and I can't find out what it's trying to tell me. There's supposed to be a little red dot at the corner of an app to let me know, hey Marty, an item of extreme importance requires your immediate attention. Yet too many times I hear a ding and can't find it. 

I suppose that I've set too many alerts on too many apps. The trouble it is I don't know which ones or how to shut them off. Then there's the fact that before all these up to the minute notifications life and I were getting along just fine. It does make me pine for the old days.

The Winter is Over

The winter is over. Well, all right, it isn't. But it feels like it. Baseball Spring Training begins this week.

For my Detroit Tigers, it begins Wednesday when their pitchers and catchers report. We're expecting 4 to 8 inches of snow here in the D that night, but you know what? It'll still feel like spring as I read about camp starting Wednesday morning. 

Most teams begin either tomorrow or Wednesday. Position players report, generally, a week from today. I gotta hand it to the Cubs, though. They're getting a heads up. Their pitchers and catchers reported yesterday while the rest of the team arrives Friday. Yes, baseball for Chicago fans began on a Sunday, and as it should. Baseball might just be a religion. It is for us true believers. After all, God created baseball.

You didn't know that? Oh, come on. The very Bible starts with, In the Big Inning. 

Actual games don't fire up until the 21st. But that's okay. Just hearing cowhide hit leather and the crack of the bat in the cages warms my heart. 

Pops' patience tried again

Remember that I've spoken about how me Pops didn't mind doing favors but you needed to hold up your end of the bargain? Well, there was another instance where the old man held his ground, firmly and simply.

A customer called late on a Saturday and said he needed his drain snake fixed for a couple Sunday jobs: would Pops meet him early Sunday to fix it? Reluctantly Dad told the man yes. "I'll be at the Shop at 7:30. Be there then, because my family goes to the 9:00 Mass and I'll need time to get ready." This was back when men wore suits to Church.

"I'll be there Bill!" the man promised.

Of course he wasn't there. Dad waited until 8, then locked up and went home.

About 8:40, just as Pops and me Mom had all us kids piled into the station wagon and Dad suited up, he heard a loud, constant horn honking. Turning, he saw the customer's truck rushing down the street towards him, tearin' up jack. He got even with Dad, rolling down the window of his van and yelling with a smile, "Man, I'm glad I caught, you, Bill!"

The old man looked him in the eye and said, "You're just in time to be too late!" He got behind the wheel of the family car and we were on our way to St. Dominic's Church, leaving the man sitting on the street.

I don't know whether the guy ever came back. I don't think me Pops cared. 

No Sale, uh, No Loan

Amos was a good friend of me Grandpa Joe. He was a good man at heart too, but like so many of us he had his foibles, his issues. Two were that he was tight and that he liked his drink. Yet he was also honest, doing his very best to be right by folk.

One day he ran into a buddy on the street, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who remarked, "Remember you owe me $20, Amos."

"Since when do I owe you twenty bucks?" Amos demanded.

"I loaned it to you in the bar the other night," Cloyce said.

That bugged Amos. He couldn't remember borrowing the money. But he had been drinking, so maybe his memory was faulty.  And if he owed the money he had to pay it back, as right was right. Yet he couldn't imagine he actually bummed the cash.

Amos was beside himself what to do. Eventually he returned to the watering hole which was supposedly the scene of things. It happened that the guy behind the bar was the same as the night in question. "Did I get $20 off Cloyce when we were here?"

"Well, I can't say as I never saw any money change hands. But I seen Cloyce in here for years and he ain't never had no more than five bucks on him at a time," the barkeep explained.

At that revelation, Amos figured he was off the hook. Cloyce was trying to fleece him, take advantage of his drunken state and sense of honor. They never spoke again.

Tired Cloyce

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

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

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

It was a jury rig. But hey, it worked for him, and who am I to argue?

U Said What

The Second Trump Administration appears set on deep cuts if not an outright gutting of USAID, a government group who doles out international grants to various groups in foreign nations. I say it's high time.

I could go through the list of tax money, that is, your money and mine, going to the various groups, and it's fair to note that quite a lot of it was going towards left wing causes. But I won't. Do you know why I won't? Because that isn't the real point. My tax money should not be going towards plays in Ireland or comic books in South America on general principle. Such stuff are not in the interests of the United States. Period.

Take note: I would freely include support of things which I might otherwise like. I am, or am trying to be anyway, a serious Catholic. Yet I would not be all right with US taxpayers' cash contributing to a Nativity Scene at the Vatican. Let the Catholics do that. It's their Church.

I won't say that I'm down with everything President Trump and Elon Musk are doing; who's in lock step with anyone anyway, and I'm willing to call them out if need be. But this - keeping American aid from going towards what are essentially personal, individual causes - I'm more than okay with. Government shouldn't be doing it for anyone, regardless of outlook.

Keep rooting this stuff out, fellas, and keep cutting.

Joe's urban exploration

I have lived in the Woodbridge district of Detroit for well nigh on 64 years now.  It's a nice place to live. I enjoy my morning walks here.

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

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

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

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

Roiled Cloyce

We rented a cabin in Hessel, MI in the Upper Peninsula for years, and for years this one fella rented almost at the same time. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. The thing is, his rental and ours offset by one week, meaning Cloyce and his family left during the middle of our two week stay.

The cabins rented Saturday to Saturday. On Cloyce's second Saturday one year the family which was renting his place next arrived, rudely, at 7 AM. They knocked on his door and basically demanded to know when he was leaving. Cloyce, properly annoyed, answered, "Checkout time is 11." He thought for a moment and then made it a point to explain further, "And check in time is 2."

They didn't like that. Yet they were the ones being insensitive. They figured if they sat nearby staring it might hurry Cloyce up.

They were barking up a tree, and those of us who knew Cloyce knew that.

He quite understandably took his breakfast: at around nine. He then took one suitcase to his van. Then he took one article of clothing out the cabin, folding it at the van door and putting it in the suitcase. Filling the case one piece of clothing at a time took about a half hour. Then he filled, in the same way, a second suitcase. Then he took about 15 minutes finishing the last cup of coffee from the kitchen, sipping it on his porch as he watched the watercraft go by. Then he emptied the fridge one item at a time, after bringing out the cooler empty. Lastly he packed his fishing gear one piece by one. Finally he took the folding chairs from the porch and tied them to the roof of his van.

The he sat on the stoop of the porch and stared back at the early arrivals. Eventually he looked at his watch and called to his wife, "Okay hon, let's go. It's 10:59, just about checkout time." And they were on their way home.

My guess is that it was actually about 10:59 and fifty-five seconds. I'm surprised he didn't pack the loaf of bread one slice at a time, because I wouldn't have blamed him if he did.

O, That Polonius!

Have you ever came across something where you thought, why didn't they teach us that in school? Well, I have. Just yesterday in fact, as I read an article about the bunk that is, be yourself, as though that's all there is to life. No need to grow, no reason to improve ourselves; that would involve judgment about better or worse, right and wrong, and we can't have that, can we? 

With all the Shakespeare they made us read in high school, one simple little fact did not get shown. And it makes quite a difference in interpretation.

Polonius is a character in Hamlet. He's most widely remembered as the man who advised, 'To thine own self be true'. How often have we heard that (or similar) in today's world? "You've got be true to yourself." Uh-uh. 

Well, here's this: Polonius was a conniving imbecile. Virtually every judgment he makes in Hamlet is wrong. He's also a spy who routinely tries to pull everyone else's strings. The Shakespeare critic William Hazlitt calls him 'an impertinent busybody' only looking out for numero uno. Hamlet refers to Polonius as 'a tedious old fool'. He died while spying on Hamlet, seeking some advantage. Why should we take his advice on anything? Why would we want to?

So remember anytime you think, to mine own self be true, I've got to be true to myself, you're acting on the encouragement a pompous windbag who cares only for himself. Is that really how you want to be seen?

Fear This

I'm going to run the risk this morning of being the cranky old guy that everyone avoids. It's my right as a cranky old guy. Anyway, my blog, my rules. I'll write what I want, and you can avoid it if you want.

I'm sick of the fearmongering in this world. I shouldn't be; it's nothing new under the sun. It's always been here and likely always will. Still, there are times it really grates on a guy.

When I was 14 and a freshman in high school (to save you the time figuring out when, it was 1974) I remember our science teacher giving us a handout which said we would be out of oil by 1985. Period, end of report, no doubt about it. Yet here we are today with a couple hundred years of known reserves. Right about the same time we were pummeled with tales of a nuclear winter which would freeze us all out before 1990. Now we're apparently growing too hot. I think I'm within my rights to ask, what the hell? Why do you want to scare kids like that? And why are you still doing it today?

Ronald Reagan was supposedly leading us into nuclear holocaust. When AIDS was first discovered I read an article which claimed that the United States Army alone would have a million cases by 1995 or so. Neither concern hit anywhere near the heights which were predicted. And need I even mention COVID as an example of what government inspired hysteria causes?

Just to show that this rant isn't driven only by my personal philosophy, the right does it too. Barack Obama was not a particularly good President so far as I'm concerned, but he wasn't His Satanic Majesty either. Trying to remove President Clinton during the Lewinsky scandal merely created a sideshow that wasted our time and energy. Few people out to gut the Second Amendment are fire breathing commies. Many of them are otherwise good people who simply disagree with you. We don't need to insult anyone, we should strive not to insult anyone, especially those we may actually convert to our line of reasoning if we're patient and civil.

It all becomes one big game of the boy who cried wolf. One of these days a true crisis may arise which actually threatens life, the universe, and everything. Yet a lot of folks (like me) are going to say humbug simply because we've heard it all before. We need to be better about seeing things as they are and acting from that rather than trying to play people, especially the young, like puppets. We need to begin speaking to others, or at least not merely speaking at them as though they're great stupid fools too ignorant to believe the 'obvious'. It's beneath our dignity as human beings, and I'm sick of the whole thing.

Breaking the Silence

Alec Brough was a crony of me Grandpa Joe when they were both working on construction sites together. Alec would also rent welding machines from Joe once Grandpa had left field work behind. Alec was a mountain of a man, the kind who impressed you with his size alone. Added to that was the loud, brash, and demanding way he carried himself. With his physical stature and intimidating nature, Alec was called the Bear. I'm told that it was easy to see why Joe and Alec got along. A birds of a feather type thing, although Joe was more average in build.

There came a time when the Bear had developed a serious health problem. I don't recall what ailed him exactly, yet it required a lengthy hospital stay. Me Grandpa Joe, being a man who believed in things such as visiting the sick (for as rough as he was, I can't say enough that Joe did have a sense of justice) took time to call on his old buddy as he recuperated.

Joe went to the hospital, creeping quietly through the corridors trying to show respect for the place and its current tenants. Finding the Bear's room, Joe pushed the door open slowly and deliberately so as not to disturb anyone or anything. The Bear looked to be asleep, so Grandpa eased over to the bed.

After a second or two Alec whispered, "Joe? Is that you?"

"Yeah, Alec," me Grandpa relied.

The Bear rose up to full sitting position and bellowed, "Why in the world are ya comin' in here so quiet? How am I supposed to know it's you if you ain't raisin' Hell?"

Yep. They got along all right. 

Being Prepared on the Road

I told a story once of me Pops and his cousin Jim having taken a cross country trip when they turned 18, to celebrate getting out of high school. If you missed it, here it is: Room to Roam

Their journey went without major incident, but that didn't mean there wasn't a concern or two along the way. As me Pops tells it: "To save time and money, we'd only get a motel room every other day or so. Often one of us would sleep in the back of the station wagon while the other drove, just to keep a move on." There were few freeways in 1954, and things were far apart in the American west you see.

Dad was at the wheel one day while Jim caught some Zs. Jim had curled up into a ball and threw a blanket over himself and dozed off.

A little while later, Pops came across a hitchhiker. They were way out somewhere, no one or nothing else anywhere near them, and Dad took pity on the guy. He pulled over and let him in the car.

The guy seemed all right at first, but then he began talking out of his head, as Dad put it. Me Pops thought, "Uh-oh, what have I gotten us into?" He wanted Jim to be awake and aware but didn't know how to signal him without upsetting the hitchhiker into a frenzy. 

The problem solved itself. Dad could see his cousin in the rear view mirror, and noticed Jim's hand slide out from under the blanket and grab a full pop bottle by the neck. He stealthily slid it back under the blanket with him. Pop bottles were glass back then, and could be very effective weapons. But for me Pops, the important thing was that Jim was aware of the situation.

Thankfully nothing came of it. It wasn't too much farther down the road before the passenger indicated they were at his stop. He thanked my Dad and left without trouble. Still, they didn't pick up any more hitchhikers.

To Be Too Late

There was this very helpful and concerned fella who used to come into the old barn, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who really cared about our well being. Indeed whenever we might face peril, he'd call out a warning. Trouble was, his warnings were always just a tad too late. Or at least, late enough that they'd have been no help at all.

"Watch it Phil!' he'd yell to me brother just exactly one instant after Phil had lost his grip on something and it fell to the floor, shattering. 

"Watch it Marty!" he'd scream at me the very moment after the tool I was using under pressure had slipped and was flying across the Shop.

"Watch it Bill!" Cloyce would belatedly warn me Pops precisely when a red hot fitting he had been heating had already popped out of the bench vise and just missed falling into his boot. 

To this day whenever I have narrowly averted catastrophe I can hear Cloyce's panicked yell, "Watch it Marty!"

Cloyce's warnings were truly just in time to be too late. Every. Single. Time. But I suppose he meant well.

It's funny now but wasn't at the time

A few years ago we had a serious health issue with mom. She was suffering fainting spells and eventually ended up with a pacemaker, but is doing well now. That allows me to view the incident with a bit more humor today, because, as with much of life, there is humor even in distress. Especially when the distress has passed.
While at work one day my phone rings, and I saw it was mom. I knew it because our phones tell us everything today, so as I took it out of my pocket the words 'incoming call Mom' stared back at me. "Hi Mom, what's up?"
I didn't like the uncertainty immediately obvious in her voice. "Do you have my doctor's phone number?"
"Yeah, somewhere, why?"
"Well, I blacked out and fell and hit my head..." I interrupted her to say, "I'm closing, ma, and I'm taking take you to Emergency."
"I'd rather you call the doctor to see what he says."
I replied tensely, "He's gonna say take you to Emergency."
"I'd feel better if you'd call him." So, not to make her any more upset, I said I would and then call her right back. The doctor, of course, though very nice about it, made it quite clear that I should not be speaking to him but rushing her to the hospital instead. I do believe I could hear his eyes rolling as we spoke. I called Mom back and said I would be at her house right away.
As I had a key, I let myself in. Mother was not to be found, until I noticed her bathroom door shut. I knocked frantically and said, "I'm here, ma, let's go."
"In a minute. I'm brushing my hair and fixing my lipstick."
"We're going to Emergency, Mom, not a wedding reception," I barked in dismay. "They're not going to say, 'oh, don't treat Mrs. Cosgriff, her hair's mussed' Let's go!"
"I'll only be a minute." She had responded with the finality of tone that told me I would be waiting until she was good and ready to go. Being a North Carolina girl, she would not be pushed, and I knew not to push back when she became that way. It would only make things worse, 'cause them southern gals, when they get riled, they's fractious.
So we get to the hospital, they take her in right away, and we begin to sit and wait. She was soon lying on a gurney in a room as I sat next to her. After a while she opined, "Well, I hope they find something, but I've lived a good life, no matter what."
I said nervously, having been thinking about the never never myself all along and not wanting to, "Let's not talk like that, Ma, let's see what the doctors say."
About half incensed she asked, "What, don't you think I've had a good life?"
"No one says you haven't, Ma, but let's not think about that just yet."
"Well, I've lived a good life anyway." There's that finality again, so I clammed up. But I really didn't care for it that second.
An hour or so later I was standing next to her. She said, stating more than asking, "It don't look right, does it, you seeing your mother lying in a hospital bed with all these wires and needles."
"No, Momma, it don't," I whispered. I couldn't help but remember barely a year before, watching my dad as he lay dying in that same hospital. She was right on the money. It didn't look right at all.
"But I've had a good life." she said again. Aw, c'mon, ma, didn't we just go through this? I felt the exasperation of Ray Romano.
So a few weeks and several tests pass, and the doctors became sure she needed a pacemaker. It was obvious that even Mom was now believing that her good life had an indefinite amount of time left and that she needed to get about living it. I sat with her on that Wednesday morning, waiting for the procedure. She fretted, "I wish they'd hurry up and do it. I have to weed my garden.", getting anxious. "And I'm hungry. But you know they won't feed me until after they're done."
Several starts and stops later (you know how hurry up and wait hospitals can be), and after not too little worrying about all the things she had to do, they put in the pacemaker. After she left for the OR, the next time I saw her was back in her room, all rosy cheeked after appearing grayish and wan a few hours before. She was eating and complaining, "They better let me go soon. I've got to get to work on my garden, and you know the house needs cleaning."
As my siblings were by then with her, I slipped out to find her doctor. I advised him to release her soon for his own good, because them southern gals, they's fractious.