So, you wanna know how to draw to the top of the four foot in curling? Allow the master to demonstrate:
Or how about an education on how to call the line on a hit and roll, to remove an opponent's stone and slip yours under cover?
There's your curling lessons for the day. Come out to the rink and I'll test you.
About 20 miles out of Detroit on I-96 is Levan Road. The sign for the exit says Levan Rd. There's nothing unusual about that, is there?
Years ago me Grandpa Joe had a delivery driver, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was a little slow on the uptake. Me Pops one day sent him out with a load of welding equipment intended for a place off Levan in western Wayne County.
About three hours after the scheduled delivery time, the company called asking where it was. This was the time before cell phones, so there was no easy way to track Cloyce. Dad had to wait to hear from him for an explanation.
Cloyce happened to walk into the old barn about ten minutes later anyway. "I couldn't make that delivery, Bill," he said.
"Why not? Pops demanded. "I wrote out exact directions." Surely the old man did, knowing Cloyce.
"Well, Bill, I drove all the way out past Ann Arbor (easily 40 miles beyond target) and I could not find Levanrd." Apparently Dad wrote the abbreviation for road too close to Levan.
With a heavy sigh Dad more precisely explained himself and sent Cloyce back out.
I went to Mass the other day at St. Hedwig in Detroit. It was funny.
Oh, everything went all right until the very end. But I think the priest had an appointment and was running late. Yet the choir was singing a hymn and apparently intended to see it through all six or eight verses.
From the altar, Father waved at the choir loft, clearly an indication he was ready to wrap things up. The singing continued. He waved more emphatically, as if trying to catch the attention of a far off friend or a New York City cab. The song went on, and very well, I'll concede.
Father next made the cut sign. He ran his pointer finger across his neck, slowly and deliberately. He really did. And the song finally stopped. I think it just ended, but I'm sure Father took it as a victory.
I've seen more unusual endings to a Church service.
Nah, I haven't.
Me brother once bragged facetiously, "When I have a hammer I'm like lightning. I never hit the same place twice!"
A buddy of his, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, responded, "Well I'm not lightning then. When I'm hammering a nail I can hit the same place two, three times."
"That so?" Phil asked.
"Yep. It's usually my left thumb," explained Cloyce.
Oh, that Cloyce.
While out clearing the cars and the walks of snow this morning I thought, "This is a fine February day." Then I remembered it's November 30.
This has the markings of a long winter folks.
Although football isn't my favorite sport, that doesn't mean I don't pay attention. So the following are my thoughts after Thanksgiving's Detroit Lions loss to the Green Bay Packers.
Adjust, Dan Campbell. Adjust. Sometimes it's best to take the points. Sometimes you should just punt. I'm rather tired of hearing, basically, 'We gamble; it's who we are'. Become something different, then. Good teams adjust, and gambling isn't always smart, because you know what? You should have kicked those field goals. You know what I mean. You should have known at the time too.
It will take the Lions 4-1 the rest of the way to make the playoffs. That is within the team's range. But Dallas isn't a gimme (the Cowboys have played well of late and are fighting for their own playoff lives) and neither are the Steelers (though they appear inconsistent). The Rams will beat them. The Bears cannot be taken lightly either, especially after beating the Eagles. I don't see 4-1; I really don't see 3-2, truthfully.
Yes, you've had questionable calls go against you. And some have gone for you. That's simply the NFL. When rules are subject to the great degree of interpretation as those of American Football, what do you expect? There will be a lot of human error, but no one's out to get you. Deal with it. To be fair, I think Coach Campbell does. This is more directed at the fans.
Are these the same old Lions? They kinda are. If outside forces aren't against them (because I do agree that bad officiating has hurt them particularly at times) they just can't seem to rise to the occasion when the opportunity is there. Dropped passes, poor decision making, a lack of execution: that's on them. It tends to happen at the worst time. Injuries are a factor, and the Lions have had their share of them. All that said, I think we're already at wait 'til next year time. SOL.
Christmas is upon us. Even if you didn't know anything about the Holiday you could not possibly miss the excess which surrounds it.
That isn't a bad thing in and of itself. On a commercial level, well, yet it is. Buy! Buy! Buy! is not a mantra for self reflection and growth. It fails too as a signal of hope and welcome. Yet to transform your home into a special place for Christmas is another thing entirely.
Even that can be taken too far, although I will not and cannot pass judgment on what you think enough in your own abode, on your own property. Do as you will, and I will likely admire it in a spirit of wonder and awe just the same. Still, I rather prefer an understated decor. A nice tree and a nativity scene on the mantle would satisfy me.
It is in the quiet that the transformational appears. Gabriel's horn may blast on the Judgment Day, yet we are past change then and into what we have become. Before that, where do were learn the most deeply? In quiet anticipation where wonder grows delicately in expectation of full bloom, or with a glare that blinds us?
A Christmas tree by itself lighting a room, all darkness around it, I find a greater draw to the happiness beyond, the God-child in the manger who is our sole joy. Go to the light and all will be well.
Awhile back me brother Phil and I passed a school as we were driving along. "Oh, look," I said, pointing at a sign. "St. John's Jesuit Academy."
"Hm. I wonder if it's Catholic?' Phil remarked. We both laughed pretty good at that. I actually almost had a spit take with my coffee.
For non-Catholics, the Jesuits are an order of priests who for most of the last 100 years or so have frequently, ah, engaged in questionable theology and methodology. Quite bluntly, think Pope Francis, himself a Jesuit. Conservative Catholics such as Phil and I find them tedious if not, I will say it, heretical.
To drive the point home further, I remember about 40 years ago I had the chance to meet one Dr. William Marra, a relatively well known at the time Catholic philosopher and teacher. He asked where I went to college. "The University of Detroit," I answered, a Jesuit university.
"Oh. Have you been to confession yet?" Dr. Marra asked without missing a beat. He had an idea of what and how they were teaching there during my tenure.
You get the point I'm sure. Even if you aren't Catholic.
Upon leaving my teaching job one night years ago I found a young woman, one of my students, standing in the cold in front of the school. We struck up a conversation as she was waiting for her ride, and she mentioned that she almost had saved enough money for a good used car. "My Aunt actually offered me her two year old car for free rather than trading it in," she told me. "But as nice as that was of her I didn't take it. I don't want to have to care about a car." Her emphasis was on care.
I get that. Nice and shiny and new is, well, nice. So nice in fact that you have to care about it. I understand of course that you have to care about it enough to keep it in good running shape: change the oil, have good tires, fix a cracked windshield perhaps. But this young woman's point was more that, when something is in really great shape, you care about everything. A little ding or scratch becomes a catastrophe, because it ruins nice and new. A ding or scratch on something already dinged and scratched means nothing. Especially with something like cars, whose only purpose is getting you from point A to point B, why worry over minutiae?
That's part of why I always buy used cars. Perhaps I take it to extremes (quiet Ron) but I've never cared about an extra ding or a new scratch. It's only a car. Nothing more.
When I first picked up my newer older van, the 96 Chevy which went to newer older van Heaven in Alger this past August, it needed windshield wiper blades. Therefore, off I went to the auto parts store for replacements.
In the parking lot I plucked the blade off the driver's side, the worst of the two, to measure it against the new ones. An attendant in the store asked me if he could help. "I need wiper blades," I explained. Then I was able to use one of those ever-so-clever Dad jokes which everyone enjoys. "Unless you can fix this one," I said, showing the young man the shredded old wiper. Humoring an old man, he politely answered no, although he was likely feeling sorry for my kids and grandkids, a thought he kindly kept to himself.
Hammering away on a computer keyboard he soon found the requisite part number. "We have super fantastic ultra reinforced life changing windshield wiper blades for $29.99!" he exclaimed with confidence.
Now it was time for the famous Spock raised eyebrow. "Young man, it's a vehicle which is 27 model years old. I'm not spending that kind of money on wiper blades."
Sheepishly smiling, he went back to his search. A minute later he offered, "We have the in-store brand for seven dollars, sir."
"Thank you. I'll take two," I replied. I mean, how life changing can windshield wipers be?
As I was way overdue for a haircut, having not had one since September, I found a reasonably priced barber ($14, for the record) in Garden City last Saturday and decided that was a sign to get rid of my excess and wild hair.
I was greeted by a young woman who asked, in an odd, demanding way, as though she had a chip on her shoulder, "Can I help you?"
"Uh, I'd like a haircut."
"Siddown," she commanded, ripping a barber's apron off a chair.
I saddown.
She asked how I wanted my hair cut. "Fairly short on the sides, leave me something to comb," I answered. The I added, trying to be funny, "I want to look like my dad."
"Doesn't help me," she responded tersely.
It, uh, wasn't a serious statement. "Well, then, just short with something to comb," I reiterated, cowed.
Don't barbers have to take the same chit chat course as barkeeps? Trying to hold up my end of that deal, I attempted to converse. "Cold day, isn't it?"
"uh-hmm."
"Been cutting hair awhile?"
"Yes."
"Think the Lions'll win tomorrow?"
"Could."
It was then that I realized how very focused she was at her job. I've never seen anyone quicker with the shears, scissors, or a straight razor. Seeing as my eyeballs and ear lobes were in her firing range, I decided to leave her to her work. The fact is she was fast, so much so that I decided I shouldn't risk breaking her concentration. But she was smooth, too. The shears were almost gliding, with no pull at all on my hair. Her scissoring was sharp and crisp, and her job with the straight razor on the final trim work would shame a mob enforcer. Typically that trim work leaves the back of a man's neck a bit red and raw. Not mine, not yesterday.
And the haircut itself was very good, one of the best I've had. I tipped her four bucks. Her lips almost curled into a smile as she said, "Thank you." She was clearly trying to smile. I believe though that she had to fight muscle memory to force even that much of grin.
Just the same, I'll have her cut my hair again. I'll just leave the chit chat at home.
One of the stories which me Pops liked to tell on himself involved me Grandpa Joe's, his dad's, flatbed trucks which were used for delivery in his welder rental business. These flatbeds were typically about four foot high. When he was a teenager and even into his twenties Dad used to take a run at the back of the trucks and leap onto the bed, ending up in a crouch and rising to full height upon sticking the landing. He did it for kicks, as young'uns do.
One day when he was around 30 the old man found himself eying the back of a truck. Wondering whether he could still make that leap, Pops began a trot towards the open end of the vehicle and jumped as hard and as high as he could. Yet rather than landing as he once could he cracked his shins across the steel beams which surrounded the truck bed and fell into a painful heap upon it.
"I never did that again," he would end the tale ruefully.
While I was at Sunday Mass with The Ohio Cosgriffs in Newark this past weekend an unfortunate thing happened. The Deacon, Deacon Patrick to be specific, had a seizure while delivering the homily. He had turned towards the altar while preaching, yet when he turned back to the congregation his face went blank. Deacon Patrick stood in the pulpit staring into the distance until a Medical doctor attending Mass went to check on him, along with the priest who sat nearby and a couple other congregants. They led him gently from the altar and through a side exit. Within minutes an ambulance was heard, taking the Deacon to emergency.
It turns out that the poor man had a history of seizures. While I don't know his current status it appears a safe presumption that he's okay. Yet at the time, the unknowing congregation sat stunned. Within a few moments of silence my daughter-in-law Tarina began out loud, "Hail Mary, full of grace..." The rest of us soon joined in, as Tarina led us in three Hail Mary prayers and one Glory Be. Most everyone it seemed joined in the prayers. It gave us a chance to express our feelings, and the priest a moment to gather himself before continuing the Mass.
I told her afterwards that it was a beautiful thing for her to do. She shrugged it off as just something she felt needed doing. But I am very proud of her.
I've been in sales for a while now, and I like to think I have an idea how the game is played. One piece involves discounts. I'm not opposed to them...if the volume is there. So, as it's said, show me the money.
One time a fellow did just that. And I still have his money.
Someone I'd never seen before came to me at the old barn about buying an Electric Eel, the snakes I sell. After going through all the early process, showing him a unit and what goes with it, we came to the real nitty gritty. We began talking cost.
"I'm going to be big, Cosgriff, real big," he was preaching to me. "I'll bring you all my business. Can you help me out?"
"Whaddaya want?"
"Ten percent. I'm gonna buy a lot of stuff off you, man."
I hedged. You can usually tell when you're dealing with someone who's putting you on, painting a grand vista; playing with cow cookies. Yet this time, instead of turning him down flat I thought I'd call his bluff. "What's your initial order?" I asked.
"Five," he answered without hesitation.
"Deal," I answered in kind. At the time the units sold for around two grand, so his total was in the area of $10,000. I'd go ten off for that.
"Write me up Cosgriff, and I'll give you a down payment," he says, with an unwarranted degree of self assurance. "I'll pay the balance when you get the stuff." So I wrote him up.
He gave me twenty dollars.
As Mr. Going Big left, me Pops was staring at me with uncertainty. "You're taking quite a chance on someone you don't know."
"He ain't coming back, Dad. He's trying to play big shot." Pops shook his head gently and grinned.
I never even bothered to process the order. And here better than a decade later, I still have his twenty bucks.
Getting older means, among other things, being more careful about little stuff. Stuff such as picking up your feet when you walk.
Hiking around the neighborhood the other day I nearly went end over end when I hit my left foot against a slightly high section of sidewalk. I managed to keep my balance, not falling even though I took a couple drunk looking steps regaining my balance. Laughing as I got back to walking properly, I reminded myself that, particularly as Woodbridge and the Wayne State University area have their share of uneven walks, I really should pick up my feet as I go along. Or at least pay better attention to where I'm headed.
But wait, there's more. As I took my glasses out of my pocket when I arrived at the old barn with morning exercise over, I pinched my finger between the earpiece and the lens as I went to put them on. I tell you I drew blood. Putting my glasses on. Can you imagine that?
I would should you but it's my middle finger and, you know, decorum.
I was sitting with an old friend last night, I'll call him Ron just to give him a name, who was lamenting his recent car repairs. $2300 for this and $8000 for that. Expensive stuff.
Then I did the math. His engine repairs cost more than five times, yes, five times what I paid in 2019 for my new old van.
Actually, it would be a bit more than five times his repairs. My new old van only cost me $1700.
Dang.
Did you hear about the guy who was stealing appendages from the mannequin factory?
He was found guilty of armed robbery.
Look, I didn't sleep well last night, okay?
Me Pops had a lot of great stories about his time in the welder rental and drain snake business. I hope to one day tell them all. One that just popped back into the front of my mind today involved the biggest man Dad ever dealt with. He was a good guy just the same, genuinely helpful and gregarious. But he was big. And he had the strong to go with his size. I'll leave exactly how big and strong to your imagination. But think bigger than you think big is.
To give an example of his size and strength, there was a job where me Pops was delivering welders along with the heavy cables necessary to weld with. These cables weighed a touch over a pound a foot. That particular day Dad had several 200 ft. lengths to deliver.
Guys were coming up to the back of Dad's truck and doubling up, two to a cable, to carry them over to the tool crib. Big Jim walked up and offered Pops a shoulder. "Put one there, Bill," he instructed.
"They're two hundred footers, Jim."
"Put one there," he replied simply, wagging his shoulder at the old man. So Dad did, setting it down as gently as he could. Then Jim turned about and said, "Give me another," indicating his empty shoulder.
"They're all two hundreds," Dad reminded him. Jim replied, "Give me another."
So me Pops set another cable on that shoulder. Big Jim walked away with more than 400 pounds of welding cable on his shoulders as though taking a stroll in the park.
I want him on my side in a rumble.
I sometimes wonder what my kids will think when the time comes to clean out the old barn. It likely won't matter to me at that point. Still, the thought about their thoughts about what they will discover at the Shop at that time does intrigue me.
Will they be as impressed as I am at the five foot tall crescent wrench me Grandpa Joe acquired from somewhere? The two ton electric hoist: will it cross their minds how many welding machines were raised down, in Joe's parlance, over the years? Parts for drain snakes will surely greet them, parts they won't have a clue as to what they're for or how they work or if they should be scrapped, or sold to a needy plumber.
Then there's the box of several, yes, several thousand quarter by inch and a quarter roll pins. I can't imagine any other thought except, what in the world would the old man need those for?
They have their use. Honest. But I'd be happy if the kids simply stuck a few in their pockets as keepsakes.
I ought to be far past the point where it would surprise me, but I'm not. You just think that maybe, just maybe, there might be hope for humanity, that things might change. Of course, they don't.
A customer at the Shop the other day came in to have me put a chuck on his machine. The bolts which attach a handle to the unit were loose. Way loose. So loose in fact that the handles were nearly falling off. "Could you tighten those for me, Cosgriff?" the customer asked.
I don't mind doing that per se. What astonished me is how he could have let them get so loose to begin with. That kind of thing doesn't happen overnight. You never noticed it before now? And you're a professional. You have tools. Why didn't you tighten them up eons ago?
I've seen this with gear cases on certain drain snakes. The case cover is fastened to the machine with six bolts. All six would be loose by several threads, actually leaving a visible gap between the gear case and the gear case cover. Yet the customer would cry and pout to me about the cost of replacement gears because the old gears had ground down to nothing because the gear oil had all leaked out of the gear case because those bolts were clearly loose. It never occurred to you that bolts set in place to attach something to something should actually be made to attach to that something?
I'm not the best myself at certain chores but I know enough about screws and bolts to understand they should be properly tightened and to see when they are not. Yet after 50 years in the old barn folks still come in with absurdly loose connections and then ask, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, could you tighten those?"
Yes I can. But you really didn't think far enough ahead to tighten them before you came to see me? Some things are just beyond explanation.
It never took much to get me Grandpa Joe's dander up. Still, some things, believe it or not, got his dander up to stratospheric levels remarkably fast even by comparison to his normal, uh, standard.
Joe rented welding equipment, as I think I've well established in these pages. And while you likely couldn't do it now even if you wanted as most water lines are nonmetallic, at one time you could de-ice frozen pipes with a welding generator.
What makes a welder weld is that you complete a circuit when you 'strike arc', that is, apply the welding electrode to the items you wish to fuse together. Don't fret this too much if you can't picture it. Suffice it to say that when you weld, you're completing an electric circuit. When you do that, you create heat. Heating a metal pipe will then melt the ice which has formed within it.
You also effectively create a short circuit when using a welder to de-ice pipes, causing it to overheat. This will eventually, very eventually in Joe's book, destroy his welder.
Grandpa would fly off the handle even faster than usual when he'd hear of some numbskull using one of his machines to thaw pipe. If you believe he had a quick temper anyway, use his equipment wrongly. You'll find out that nothing really is impossible, even shortening Joe's profusely short fuse.
Clarence Malachi Hutchins was me Grandpaw Hutchins. He was called Mal by me Grandmaw Hutchins, whom he called Mae, her middle name. You need to know that. Don't worry, there won't be a test. You just need to know.
One day as Mom and I were, she asked what we were shopping for. I told her coffee, among a few other things.
She brightened up as she told a story from her childhood. "Oh, Daddy used to give us kids coffee all the time, and it bothered Mom," my mother was explaining.
She continued, "Mom used to yell, Mal, you can't be givin' them young 'uns coffee!"
"It ain't gonna hurt 'em, Mae, he'd answer quietly every time, a little smile on his face," Mom finished.
"I still hear her say that. I still see him smiling."
"I think he did it just to tease her, but I think Mom liked it just the same," Mom ended with a wistful grin.
Okay, not much of a story. But it was nice to hear Mom talk about her parents and her childhood.
Amos, you'll recall, was an old friend of me Grandpa Joe. You may remember also that he was considered tight. However true that might be, and I suspect that it's been a bit embellished by the myth-makers of family history, he didn't mind spending a few dimes on good causes. One such cause was St. Dominic's annual Fall Festival.
As should be expected at a large party celebrating autumn, among the games and spinning wheels was a turkey booth. You pick a number, you put your money or ticket on that number, the wheel is spun, and should that number come up, you have the entree for your Thanksgiving feast. Amos approached the booth, selected some number not 13 (he was also superstitious, remember?), and waited for the spin of the wheel. He anticipated nothing, but lo and behold, won a turkey on that first try.
Now, two things were at work that day. Amos was genuinely there to support the Church. But then, he also knew his reputation. He figured he couldn't just walk away with the bird. So he played a second time with a second number (still not 13). He won another turkey.
Then a third one.
And finally, a fourth one.
You may rest assured that Amos spread his largesse. He gave away three of the four turkeys. I've no doubt also that he made his way around the school gymnasium and spent his share of hard earned dollars to help old St. Dominic. But to hear me Pops tell it, the look on his face, the sheer mortification at winning four turkeys in a row at a charitable event, was priceless.
Yesterday at the Shop a peculiar thing happened. We went back in time. Well, sort of anyway.
As I repaired a machine for a long time customer another voice from the past came in. He knew the guy who was already there. The three of us began talking about way back when.
Within a couple of minutes a third old hand joined us, and then a fourth. The five of us were soon talking about this and that, that guy and another whom we all knew, the advantages of this machine over a comparable one and before you knew it the old barn was once more the gathering place for local drain cleaners and plumbers which it had been, oh, in the 1970s, 80s, and 90s. One participant even remarked, "This is just like old times! This was where everyone used to gather."
It did feel like that. Sometimes you can go back.
I voted today. Big deal. And I mean that. Big. Deal.
We're supposed to be all for democracy. Well, I am too. Yet only because we don't have a better, um, choice. Too often democracy is merely a code word, a dog whistle, for tyranny of the majority.
That's all it means, you know, that fifty percent plus one can make everyone else do their bidding. Knowing what I know about human nature, that is not a comfort.
So yes, by all means vote. Just remember that your neighbor can be a petty tyrant in his own right. As can you.
All right, I've been enough of a curmudgeon this week. Let's get back to fun stories.
There was this fella who came in the Shop all the time who we called Beefy because, uh, well, it fit his stature. Like so many Michiganders, he looked forward to deer season. It begins November 15 every year, so as that's coming up soon I found myself thinking of him.
Beefy managed a plumbing company. There was one particular employee whom Beefy didn't like at all, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was an old friend of the company owner. Beefy didn't care for the guy because he was a slacker. Yet he couldn't do anything but deal with Cloyce because of the guy's friendship with the boss. That didn't keep Beefy from complaining about Cloyce every time he was in the old barn though.
One November years ago Beefy walked into the Shop with a couple small repairs. While tending to one I eventually asked a rather obvious question, just making conversation, "So you going out hunting next week Beef?"
"Yep," he kind of drawled. "Taking Cloyce with me too."
"What? You hate Cloyce, and you're going to spend a couple weeks with him in deer camp?" I couldn't believe my ears.
"Oh yeah, I even bought Cloyce some clothes for it. Nice brown suits. I'm going to tell him his job is to run out into the woods and scare up the deer for the rest of us," Beefy explained.
I don't think I stopped laughing for a half an hour.
For awhile there, I was debit-carding nearly everything. It was simply too easy. But I'm consciously using cash more and more again, at least on smaller or routine purchases. Why? As I become increasingly libertarian and realize that everything electronic is tracked and stored, I find myself thinking, admittedly with a bit of a chip on my shoulder, that it's nobody's business what type of coffee I chose this morning or what sales entice me. Also, I can figure things out for myself without being inundated by ads for something I bought once, thank you very much.
Still, I debit one thing nearly always: gas. That's partly because you never know exactly how much it'll take to fill the tank, but mostly because I don't want to deal with people. In particular, the people buying lottery tickets at the cash register. Or, worse, the folks who can't figure out which candy they want, or what flavor tiny cigar.
Yes, yes, yes, they have the right to be there and all that. If they happened to get in line in front me, that's their good luck. But, really now. You won't care what candy you had in twenty minutes, nor what smoke you had matter. And if you want to give away money, just give it to me. Why bother Lansing with extra lottery money which ain't helping the schools anyway, despite their claims?
All right, I'm becoming a curmudgeon and a libertarian. They kind of go together anyway.
Me Pops liked to tell stories. Some of them were even on himself. He once got in trouble with me Grandma Cosgriff, his mother, for eating peaches.
It's true. One morning, Dad always said it was when he was 14, he woke up early and hungry. Grandma as it were had bought a can of peaches. Once Pops spied them on the pantry shelf, their destiny was sealed. They would end up supporting the growth of a strapping teen age boy.
Oh, did I mention that it was a gallon of peaches? And that me young Pops ate the whole syrupy lot?
Grandma was furious. That gallon can was to be dessert for everyone at that evening's supper. It was meant for the whole family, Grandpa Joe and Grandma Cosgriff and all eight kids. And Dad scarfed the entire thing down before breakfast. Which, when served, he ate too.
Joe for his part thought it was hilarious. Dad always seemed overly proud of the accomplishment as well. Yet in telling the tale he never said what Grams did about it. But I tell you what: even I can see the look on her face.
I'm not sure the reasons behind it, but Amos Sheffield whom I've mentioned a few times once went through a spell where he needed many surgeries. For whatever other reasons of which I am also unsure, me Pops ended up the contact person for him. Amos had no children and what family he had were all living in Kentucky.
I should mention here that Amos was extremely, indeed fervently, superstitious.
One day during the course of all Amos' health issues he had to have a surgery fast. It was a we need to know this instant, don't dwell on the answer, we'll lose him if don't operate immediately situations. Yet Amos himself was in a coma and could offer no instructions. Pops happened to be in the hospital and was approached about what to do. Operate, he of course told the doctors.
The surgery was done, and Amos came out in flying colors.
Well past any danger a couple of weeks later, Amos still lay in the hospital recuperating. Me Pops went to pay a visit. As they talked, Pops could see that Amos was calculating. Eventually he asked, in a fit of pique, "That was my thirteenth operation. Why'd you let them do it?" he demanded of Pops.
"What was I supposed to do?" Dad responded incredulously.
"When was the surgery?" Amos then demanded.
"I dunno. Two Fridays ago I guess."
"That was the Thirteenth!" Amos exclaimed. "You let them operate on me for the thirteenth time on Friday the 13th?"
"You're made it, didn't you?" Dad said with a wave of his hands. But I suppose when superstition gets a hold on you, it grabs tight.
Joe Cosgriff could play fair. Not always, maybe, but who of us do?
When me Pops, his eldest son, was five, his parents gave him a tricycle. He went out the front of the house to ride it one summer day. "Don't go too far," Joe instructed his boy.
"How far is too far?" my then very young Dad asked.
Joe pointed down the street. "Not past that fire hydrant." Young Pops was on his way.
A neighbor happened to be nearby. "You don't think Bill was rude talking to you like that?" he queried.
"What's rude? He needed to know how far was too far," Joe replied.
The perfect answer, I think.
I was (cue Willie Nelson) on the road again yesterday. It began at the Electric Eel plant (all right, it began at home, but you know what I mean) in Springfield, Ohio followed by three deliveries in the Toledo area. I got back to Detroit with more money than when I left. It's a good feeling.
Anyway, there's this truck stop in the town of North Baltimore which is a regular, oh, I'm trying not to use the word stop again because it sounds bad to use the same word too often, um, place I visit for coffee and snacks. In this case it was for a breakfast burrito, which was very good, but also to see the Halloween decorations which are typically displayed in the concourse this time of year. They also go all out for Christmas; it's fun stuff to see.
But I was shocked as there were no Halloween decorations at all. Not the least bit. There's usually hulking skeletons and a ten foot tall 'death' all in black and holding a giant scythe, and all sorts of other regalia. Again, I was surprised to the point of shock.
Which leads to the question: was that their point? I was after all shocked, and isn't shocking folks the whole idea behind Halloween? Did they actually intend to shock by have nothing macabre on display? If so, well done, North Baltimore. Or am I thinking too hard?
Well, never that...
Me Grandpa Joe and me Grandpaw Hutchins (me Grandmaw Hutchins called him Mal after Malachi, his middle name) were definitely on the opposite sides of the attitude spectrum. Grandpaw was quiet and reflective. Joe was, well, Joe. His presence was, shall I say, emphatic. I love and respect both.
An interesting thing about Joe was how he did seem to adjust to different personalities when circumstances demanded as much. For as loud and brash as he could be, he always kept a cool and laid back demeanor around me Grandpaw Hutchins. I've long wondered whether Joe saw the calm dignity which emanated from Grandpaw and felt he had to respect that, talking to my maternal grandfather almost in reverence.
I doubt they met very often in their lives but I noticed even as a boy that Joe was always calm as he talked to Mal. Some folks just command that, even perhaps those with laid back personas.
"I say, Martin."
"What's that, old bean?"
"You appear to have neglected something."
"Indeed? What might that be?"
"You failed to, oh, what it is those infernal Americans call it? Blog. You failed to post a blog this morning."
"I have, have I? Well, I'd best rectify that oversight!"
And there you have it. Everybody happy?
There was an old friend of me Grandpa Joe, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who regularly stopped by the Shop to visit. I always liked when he showed up. It meant we'd stop work and get coffee, and typically a long coffee break as Cloyce and Joe traded true fiction.
Out coffee pot was a tall thirty cup cylinder. We only used it for hot water though, as we always had instant coffee on hand along with sugar and powdered cream for people who actually do that to their morning joe. Yet while we all made coffee, Cloyce would merely pour himself a cup of hot water and sip on it. Just like that.
I never knew why. I don't think it was because he cheap. Oh, old Cloyce was cheap, quite honestly. But it's rare that someone's cheap with another guy's largesse, although Joe would not have minded at all for Cloyce to have as much coffee as he liked.
So, Hot Water Cloyce. To each his own I suppose.
It does not look like a good day for the annual Detroit Marathon. Rain will dog it most of the morning. C'est la vie. So much as I do watch, I'll watch from my living room window.
I like the Marathon for the sense of event it brings. I don't like it for tying up my street for twelve hours. Quite frankly, and to perhaps sound like a curmudgeon (I take pride in that) I have the moral right to come and go as I please outside of a true emergency. Everyone does; it's a general interest, not a special interest. And a marathon isn't a crisis, it's a special interest. I'm not sure we ought to clog up city streets for such, even just a few hours a year. I should not have to ask police to move a barricade so that I can go wherever the hell I want to go when I want to go. No one should.
But it brings in money! All right. But it costs money too. Those barricades have to be set up and taken down. Those police officers have to be paid to, basically, stand around watching runners go by while real crimes are happening elsewhere. The streets have to be cleaned, three times so far this week. They were only cleaned once in my neighborhood the entire rest of the spring, summer, and fall. There are watering stations, medical stations, porta potties, and mile signs to be emplaced along with whatever other supporting regalia may be necessary. There are city employees tied up during the entire year planning all that. For, again, a special interest.
Okay, that ended up more of a rant than I meant. Honest! I will enjoy it well enough. But the instant that barricade goes down (I hear that will be about 11:30 from where I sit) I'm going to Burger King. That'll do more for the general economy than a footrace. And my stomach will love me.
Although it does not happen so much as it once did, I will still occasionally get a robocall aimed at me Pops. That's not surprising, seeing as I use the same business number from when he started up in 1966.
You've gotten them, I'm sure, where the computer voice begins, "This is a call for" after which there is a brief pause before the apparently same voice fills in, in this case, "William Cosgriff" before proceeding. Naturally enough I hang up on them.
One call did make me raise an eyebrow. "This is a call for," the voice started, then said, "William the Fiftieth Cosgriff." I was perplexed, even intrigued, yet went ahead and hung up.
A couple days later, and then again after that, calls came in for William the Fiftieth Cosgriff. I nearly hit 'one' to take the call. I was that curious. Then I remembered: his middle name being Leo, there were times where he sent things out as William L. Cosgriff. 'L' is the Roman numeral for 50. The artificially generated voice was translating the capital L as a form of fifty.
Sometimes artificial intelligence is as dumb as regular human intelligence.
Michael’s Story pulled me in with its mix of dystopian tension and personal awakening. At first, I wasn’t sure where it was heading. Initially the pacing felt slow, and the style took some adjusting, but as Michael’s journey deepened, I found myself drawn into his search for truth and meaning. What I appreciated most was how the book moved from confusion and false starts into something sharper: a reluctant man confronting not just external corruption but his own ego and uncertainty. The world, controlled, stratified, eerily reminiscent of 1984, gave me plenty to think about, especially the questions of freedom, identity, and destiny. By the final chapters, Michael’s transformation felt both painful and inspiring. Yes, the writing could be tighter, but the story’s heart shines through. For me, this was a rewarding and thought-provoking read.
These words are from an Amazon reviewer. I think they're insightful, but then, I would, as he's complimenting my book Michael's Story.
Shameless shill time! If you want to see if this reviewer is correct in his assessment, Michael's Story is available here and here. I think it's worth it, but then, I would, because it's my book.
Did my eyes deceive me? I couldn't have seen what I thought I saw, could I? It's simply too outlandish to be true.
In Game Two of the National League Championship Series Yoshinobu Yamamoto threw a complete game! Oh yes he did! He pitched all Nine Innings! In a playoff game!
I wonder if Detroit Tigers manager A.J. Hinch is aware of this novelty, the idea of letting starting pitchers go all the way, or at least past six innings. He should take note of it. Hell, all of Major League Baseball should.
Mothers know everything. The old eyes in the back of the head? Moms. They have them. They even have an uncommon foresight which isn't always appreciated.
Me Mom passed away, sadly, in 2022. To me brother Phil came the task of clearing our her things. Oh, we all helped to one degree or another, but the bulk of the job fell on his shoulders. Even Mom seemed to anticipate that.
One day as he was sorting out stuff he picked up something, I don't remember what, and was just about to let it fall into the trash can. Yet a slip of paper caught his eye. Taking it out from its center in the object, it turns out that it was a note from Mom: "Phil, don't throw this away without giving the other kids a chance to see if they want it. Mom"
I don't know whether to laugh or cry at that. But Mom, she knew he would toss it and didn't want that without a chance to see if it might be valuable to one of his siblings. I'm going to have to ask him what it was, and if one of us took it.
A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about truth; this has been exactly reversed.
- G. K. Chesterton
Why, why, why weren't we taught Chesterton in schools? Why don't we hear him from the pulpits? The more I read of him, the more I wonder why he isn't better known. Or more well known than he is anyway.
This quote is from at least a century ago yet fits today perfectly. We should doubt ourselves but not truth. We should admit we are fallible and need help yet have no worries about where help lies. Yet we trust in ourselves while believing there is no truth. If that isn't an oxymoron, a contradiction in itself, then what is?
It reminds of a comment from one Peter Kreeft, a more recent, lesser known, yet astute commentator on human nature: "Religion is indeed a crutch, as the atheists argue. And until the atheist confesses that he is a cripple, he will not be in the market for a crutch."
If our premises are poor our reason will be skewed. Until we each admit that we aren't the center of the Universe we will not see the Universe properly. Almost all human error begins in the hubris that we know best. Yet without an undoubtable truth above and beyond us we can't know anything. Even ourselves.
I didn't see the play, nor do I care to hunt it up on the Internet this morning. But I did fall into the wormhole a bit and follow up on Detroit Lions' fans lamenting a procedure penalty against them which negated a touchdown. The locals lost to the Kansas City Chiefs 30-17 last night.
Complaining about the refs is nothing new to football, or most any sport indeed. It's about time we had robo-umps in baseball to call balls and strikes, quite frankly. Yet it sure seems to me that football fans are among the worst at railing against the officiating. I mean, isn't it possible, just barely on the radar, a shadow on the horizon, that, perhaps, the penalty was legit, maybe?
Can we still be friends, or should I just go now?
When me Pops graduated from High School in 1954, he and his cousin Jerry took a three week trip out west to celebrate. They drove an old station wagon, figuring to spend some nights sleeping in the back to save on hotel costs. Sometimes one of them would drive while the other caught a nap.
Being young and naive, and consider too that it was the middle Nineteen Fifties, they occasionally picked up hitchhikers. They only had a scare once.
Pops had picked the guy up while Jerry was asleep in back, dozing under a blanket. Everything seemed all right at first. But then the man began talking out of his head. It was all nonsense stuff, me Pops recalled, yet the guy was getting himself all worked up and increasingly animated, throwing his arms around to emphasize this or that point, and growing angry.
"What am I gonna do?" thought the old man, traipsing across the barren landscape of I believe New Mexico. Glancing at the rear view mirror, he realized that an apparently awake Jerry was worried too. Dad had seen a hand reach out from under a blanket and stealthily grab an empty glass Coke bottle, sliding it back with him obviously for use as the weapon Jerry was increasingly convinced would be needed.
Thankfully nothing came of it. When they had reached the hitchhiker's destination the guy readily hopped out, said thanks to the boys, and went about his day. Yet they stopped picking up hitchhikers after that.
Well, it was painful, I'm sure, for those who watched. I didn't, and am rather happy about that. My Detroit Tigers lost in a 15 inning marathon and are out of the baseball playoffs.
That has its advantages. I can watch the final three weeks of the season without anxiety as I have no horse in the race. I lean towards wanting Milwaukee to win it all now, as a tribute to the late Brewers play by play man Bob Uecker. But I can watch; I'd given up on watching Tigers games because it simply wasn't worth the emotional investment. Especially when they can't hit, as has been the trouble really all season.
Get some bats, guys, please? And Riley Greene, I care about strikeouts. You fellas whiff too much. That's gotta stop. Far too many times this season we'd have two on and one or no outs and, strike three, strike three, inning over. It matters. We care. You're losing too many 3-2 games.
Hinch, stop trying to outmaneuver the other manager and just try to win games. I'm sorry, dude, I don't buy yanking a pitcher after three innings for a 'suitable matchup' against a particular batter in the fourth. It's too early in the game to worry about such minutiae, overuses your bullpen, and wastes a pitcher. I'm also tired of losing a good hitter for the duration of a game because you pinch hit for him early, again for a suitable matchup. All that in search of miniscule advantages? It's senseless. There. I said it.
I'm tired of hearing about the great clubhouse chemistry. I'm tired of seeking mere sustainability. Make me want to watch rather than ignore your October baseball for fear of being let down.
I'm okay, maybe, with sustainability. Sustainability seems a reasonable goal. But is it? Sustainability didn't mean much when we won four division titles in a row yet with painful playoff exists and a poorly contested World Series. I'll take a world championship once every decade or two over long stretches of simple winning seasons. The Yankees do that, as did the Moneyball A's. It has not left their fans happy.
But, I suppose, at least we've made the playoffs the last two years. We didn't play dead when in them, or at least didn't completely roll over. Yet it's time for more. Get. Some. Bats. And Stop. Striking. Out.
We're in October, and for baseball fans that means playoffs and the World Series. My Detroit Tigers play a winner take all game five in Seattle this evening. I don't know if I want to watch or not, these old nerves and all. But I have seen two playoff games live in my life. One was classic in its heartfelt salute.
In the 1987 Ametican League Championship Series at old Tiger Stadium here in Detroit Darrell Evans, a fan favorite, was picked off third at a critical moment in game 4. It was a bad play; he simply lost his concentration. Evans felt terrible. The team was rallying and that miscue killed it.
As it was I attended game 5 the next day. Evans came up to bat in the bottom of the first. As he approached home plate the crowd spontaneously rose, and gave him a standing ovation. It showed Darrell that while things happen, we were still with him.
Moments like that mean more than the game. They show respect and affection. They're what sports should be about.
This is probably more funny to me than it will be to most of you, my readers. But I found it so funny at the time that I almost busted a gut trying not to laugh out loud.
There's a Monty Python skit (Quiet Ron, and bear with me) where John Cleese answers a phone and all you hear is his side of the conversation. The conversation was nothing but Cleese responding 'yes' to the apparent questions coming from the caller. The reverie was only interrupted once.
Cleese was responding, and I'm including the interruption for brevity's sake, "Yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...size 7...yes...yes...yes...yes" and so on until he hung up. Or the skit ended, I don't remember which.
One day at the Shop me Pops answered a phone call. And I tell you true his entire end of the conversation was Yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes... and so forth. From back at my workbench in the old barn, near enough the office that I could of course hear, all I could think was, "If he says size 7 I'm going to lose it."
There you have it. Funny for me, and hopefully at least enough to bring a smile to your face.
He rented arc welders. Some of these weighed 1100 or 1200 pounds, so when they were shipped they had to be loaded by an electric hoist or crane onto the back of a pickup truck or flatbed. They tended to swirl in a gentle circle as they were raised or lowered. Sometimes they would have to be raised several stories, and as a boy of about 15 I had gotten into the bad habit of standing nearly under the machines as they were raised, simply to watch the twirl.
One day while out on a job site with Joe, I was doing just that. Without a word he stepped near enough for me to hear. Looking up at the welder too as it rose he asked, "We used to have an old dog that would watch from underneath as we raised a load. You know what we did with him?"
"No, what?" I asked in return, only half listening and still looking up.
"We buried him."
As his point slowly dawned on me, and as he had already walked away, I took several steps from the action myself. Dummy me wasn't thinking that things can fall, and that half-ton things falling a long way can hurt you bad.
Point taken, Joe.
I still get tickled over this story.
My oldest son is a veteran, and I am very proud of him for that. And his service has also given me a pulling the leg on people opportunity which I get a lot of miles on.
You see, he was a prison guard. That meant of course that he spent over a year stationed at Fort Leavenworth, site of the US military's largest prison. For most folks, that's the extent of their knowledge on the garrison.
Consequently, I got a lot of Dad joke mileage on that fact. Friends would come up to me and say, "So I hear your son's in the Army."
"Yep," I'd answer plainly.
"Where's he at?"
I would answer simply, "Leavenworth."
This would always be followed by a pause as they processed information which clearly stunned them. Eventually they would ask, sheepishly, "Leavenworth?" And I would respond, "Yep. Couldn't be more proud of the boy."
There would be another pause as they tried to think what to say next. But after letting them hang for a few seconds I would say, "He's a prison guard. He's on the right side of the bars." It's funny how much relief they showed when I would finally admit whole story. Many of them would audibly sigh when I let the cat out of the bag.
Have I properly thanked you son, for feeding my impish sense of humor?
A plumber whom I deal with, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, isn't a bad guy, but he can be a bit pushy, especially about price. In the old barn last week as he was purchasing a few items the usual question came up. "Can you do a little better, Marty?"
I deftly yet purposely changed the subject. "I saw your selfie on Facebook where you were at the Lions game this past Sunday."
"Yeah! Great game. Glad I could be there."
I agreed. "No doubt. Great seats too?"
Beginning to suspect an ulterior motive, Cloyce answered warily, "Yeessss."
"Cool beans," I replied before continuing, "Did you ask the Lions for a better price, or did you just buy the tickets?"
"Okay, Cosgriff, what do I owe you?" he asked, kind of embarrassed.
I call that point made.
It was at the end of a long, difficult week at the old barn. We sat around the coffee pot, me, me Pops, and me brother Phil as the clock hit 3:30, debating whether to wish the week sayonara and close early. We compromised. We'd stay at the Shop until 5 but would not answer the phone.
Those were the days before cell phones. We did not have an answering machine at work because we always, and I mean always before that point, answered the phone. That was to be the first time we would consciously ignore it. Honest.
Somewhere around 4 the phone began to ring. True to our vow the three of us sat in our chairs, sipping coffee and engaging in small talk. We let it ring.
And boy did it ring. If I had to guess I would say a couple of hundred times. Indeed, maybe several hundred. It went on for a good 15 minutes. Likely more. Eventually we were alternately laughing and then shaking heads at the caller's persistence. He was as determined to get an answer as we were not to provide one. "Can you imagine what the guy must be thinking? Man, Cosgriff gotta be busy not to answer their phone!"
The thing is, no one ever owned up to the call. But it finally gave up the ghost and we finished our Friday in by then glorious quiet.
It was one of those typically hot, sticky North Carolina summer days which are well known in the south. At the time, though, all they had for cooking was a wood stove. Keeping that stove going on such days made the kitchen, indeed the whole house, tremendously uncomfortable and nearly unbearable. Finally Grandmaw had had enough of it. When breakfast was over, she announced that from that day forward until the weather began to cool, the stove also would be allowed to cool during the day. When the breakfast embers died, the stove would not be fired up again until it was time to make supper.
Grandpaw didn't say a thing. He simply slid back from the table, grabbed his hat, and walked out the front door. About an hour later he returned with an electric hot plate. He had walked the mile to the nearest general store (he didn't drive), bought that hot plate, and came home.
You see, a cool stove meant no hot coffee. He couldn't have that. Yet demanding the stove be kept burning against Grandmaw's orders, well, that wouldn't work either. So he improvised a conclusion which was satisfactory for all.
I think he handled the situation just right. Don't you?
I'm in sales, and I like sales. I particularly like to make big sales. Well, most of time, anyways. Sometimes a good sale does make me feel bad though, believe it or not.
There's this drain cleaner who comes into the old barn, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who's a genuine, purely nice guy. Indeed you can't help but like him, he's so nice. But he's had a run of awful luck lately.
A couple of weeks ago Cloyce lost nine cables in a bad sewer; the homeowner didn't have the money to dig the line up for repair. The cables Cloyce uses are $65 each. We can all say ouch at that, can't we?
A few weeks back in a flood, his power unit was covered in water for several hours. There's another two grand to replace that.
Last Friday morning Cloyce needed another eight cables, again, remember, at sixty five bucks a pop, after someone did not tell him a line they knew was broken was broken.
Suffice it say that I've made a few dollars off Cloyce recently. Yet I honestly feel bad about it. All right, yes, I took his money. Still, I do hope his, ah, fortune improves soon.
There were two things in particular which I loved to hear me Grandpa Joe say and they were both associated with working for him. They were, "Let's get that coffee," and, "Let's get them vittles," whenever he decided it was time for a break.
It struck me even back then that his words sounded almost as though we had to hunt them, had to track them down, as if the coffee pot didn't just sit there on a table by the office or that the snacks weren't right alongside it. The vittles were the snacks which he always had me or me Pops or me Uncle John buy for the morning coffee break. Joe paid for them; I think he genuinely liked treating us, but I don't doubt at all he looked forward to them too.
Vittles were the height of the workday for a young boy like me. There were always single serve and two for everyone, an assortment of cupcakes, pies, donuts, and cinnamon rolls. I hoped every morning for a Hostess French Apple pie, which was really only their apple pie with raisins added, but it seemed significantly different. Joe and Pops and me and whomever else was there would lay into them vittles like we hadn't ate in days.
Uncle John rarely did, and I don't know why. He would buy a paper and sit nearby reading it as the rest of us fell into sugar induced stupors. At times I wondered if something was wrong with him, but that was surely the kid in me thinking such stuff.
It was 15, maybe 20 minutes of the day. But man, I miss gettin' them vittles.
Up until yesterday, I was pretty certain I would not be curling this coming year (the curling season runs roughly late October to early April). We lost our ice in Windsor, Ontario where I had been throwing stones and I didn't think I had options elsewhere.
Yet the curling fraternity runs deep and strong. Word gets around about who is doing what as a new year at the rink approaches. Three guys looking for a skip on a Thursday league at the Detroit Curling Club discovered I was available and signed me up. It's nice to be wanted. I really can't say how much I appreciate the invite to play. It makes a fella both happy and humble.
I was mentally prepared for my curling career to be over but now can go on for another year. We'll see how much they appreciate - or regret - their decision soon enough!
Anyway, for a long time every three years there was a new contract. I remember a couple of times as young teen toiling at the old barn, the Teamsters business agent would come by the Shop with the master contract to 'negotiate' it with Grandpa Joe. You know, to discuss if there were any particulars peculiar to Dad's job which the master contract either didn't touch or was vague about. For Joe and the agent I think it was simply a reason to kill an hour as they usually just looked over a few points and then shot the breeze; even Pops would join in here and there, just talking. There was never a problem of course.
But what great fun there could have been if there had been issues. Can you imagine the business agent ordering William Cosgriff to go on strike against Joe? Could you see me old Pops walking a one man picket line outside the old barn, 'Joe Cosgriff UNFAIR!' being proclaimed from the sign he'd carry. Or maybe Dad chanting between himself, 'What do I want? FAIR WAGES! When do I want them? NOW!' We could have even gotten him an old oil drum to light a fire to warm himself if it were winter.
And what about poor me? Do I cross the picket line to work for the man who was paying me, or respect my father and stay home in sympathy? Oh, it would have been the latter, but, sadly, out of a reason to be lazy rather than support a strike, all under the guise of supporting me Dad. What could be better?
It never would have happened. Yet, the possibilities and images make me chuckle.
Labor Day weekend saw me and my sons in Philadelphia watching the Phillies, followed by sightseeing the next day. Naturally, knowing the kinds of cars I drive (me Grandpa Joe would be proud) I decided that I would rent a car for the trip. When time is critical, well, even I play safe. He'd snort at that.
When I picked up the car I informed the management I'd be driving several hundred miles on toll roads. "We'll just put the fares on the credit card we have on file for you if that's all right, Mr. Cosgriff." Sure. It's about the most convenient way to handle it.
Yesterday I got an email assuring me they had succeeded in that task. There were $72.10 in tolls from the Pennsylvania Turnpike charged to my card. Oh, and did we mention the $4.95 convenience fee?
Really? Look, I'm as capitalist as they come (guns don't make America great, the free market does) but after I paid you $552 for the actual car rental you ding me five bucks for charging another $72.10 to my card? How, um, ah, er, convenient. For you. How long did that action take, ten seconds of AI?
I think they do it because it's virtually all profit for them and too low for me to fight. What, I'm going to get a lawyer to battle such a paltry amount?
If money were no object, I would in fact. Just to thank them for their convenience.
Me Pops had an old friend growing up, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who spent part of his adult life as an over the road trucker. Cloyce liked the job, other than one particular day.
Generally, Cloyce didn't haul one load of one given item. His truck trailers would be filled with all sorts of miscellaneous flotsam and jetsam destined for someplace other than where they began. He merely picked up a trailer, drove it to terminal, and was given another trailer for the flip flop. Easy peasy.
But one day he was given a load which was nothing but brand new RCA color console TVs. You know, those wooden behemoths which were the centerpiece of most of our dens and living rooms in the Sixties and Seventies. The retail cost of the load was around $60,000, not chump change today but a much heftier sum in 1967.
Cloyce found he was scared to death the whole time he had that trailer full of television sets. "Bill, there's people out there who hijack trucks when they know such valuable things take up the whole trailer, " Cloyce was explaining to me Pops. "They'll kill you over that!"
It wasn't too much later that Cloyce found another job. He didn't want to get another haul like that.
I went confession yesterday. I try to go on a regular basis; it is good for the soul. It forces you to reflect on life, what you shouldn't have done, what you should have done, what you could have done better and so forth.
But enough of that seriousness. I noticed when I arrived that the entire waiting room was nothing but men. All men, waiting for confession.
So, ladies, I give this to you. What's the punchline?
I have lived in the Woodbridge district of Detroit for well nigh on 65 years now. It's a nice place to live. I enjoy my morning walks among the old houses.
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 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. But he was 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.
On Monday after much hassle, I finally had current proof of insurance for my two cars. Yet it didn't stop there.
After finally getting updated insurance forms, my printer decided it didn't like me. It refused to spit the darn things out because, as it informed me politely, it did not recognize my computer.
An easy enough problem to solve, oui? Non. Non, non non at all.
Going to the settings file on my desktop, I located a window which said to type in a code which my printer would give me at my command. Lo and behold, it did. So the printer appeared to recognize my device.
It turns out that it was snickering with evil. I typed the eight digit number into the window on my screen and that spinny thing began which supposedly means something is happening. Great. My issue would be resolved.
Then I heard that evil cackle. The access window on the printer was flashing; it reported that the time frame to use the code had expired. What? It had not even been 30 seconds.
I tried again and was given a new eight digit number. The code expired almost as quickly as I entered it.
Third time's the charm, oui? Non. Non, non non non at all.
In desperation I emailed my cards to me brother Phil, who conveniently lives at the other end of the block. I had to have the cards or else Tuesday I could not legally drive my cars. He came to the rescue, printed them, and brought them down to me.
So, insurance problem settled. But me and that printer are going have a talk. Perhaps an attitude adjustment is in order.
I pay my auto insurance in six months increments. That means it comes due on March 15 and September 15 respectively. I'm sure your life is complete now that you have that information.
But you need to know it if this edition of The Sublime to the Ridiculous is to make any sense at all. And no quiet, Ron this time. I'm genuinely interested in what he says here.
When your old insurance expires you get new proofs of it for the next half year. Well, duh. It typically works goes like clockwork. Yet typically is not always.
As I went to print out copies for each of our cars I noticed something very important. They were dated 3/15 to 9/15 this calendar year. But this past Monday was 9/15 of this year. I needed corrections. Fast.
It took three calls to my insurance agent to it straightened out, because for whatever reason it wasn't getting done on time. Maybe that's on me, as technology and I are barely on speaking terms, so perhaps I missed a step in the process. But I don't think so. Be fair: we're never the culprits when we have an issue with something or somebody else. Admit it.
My first to call my actual agent went to voicemail. I get that. He has others folks worrying him about other dramas. I pressed O for the operator as the prompts suggested, because my guy only promised a 24 to 48 turn around time. That wouldn't do.
The operators resent the forms by email yet clearly did not understand the problem even though, to my feeble mind, it was obvious. I warned that I tried the email route two times and kept getting the wrong thing. "Just give it about ten minutes to arrive, Mr. Cosgriff, and it'll be fine."
Of course it wasn't. I called back, got a different assistant who still couldn't fathom what I was talking about, before doing something I hate to do. "Could I speak to a supervisor please?" I asked.
One moment later, and it honestly was just a moment, on came a supervisor, who did not at first get it either, Finally, mercifully, she said, "Oh, I see, they didn't update the proofs of insurance and your old ones expire today."
I responded succinctly, "That is correct."
"We'll fix that." The sound of typing told me, or at least I hoped it told me, that everything would soon be made right. And it was. The supervisor waited patiently until the new email came through, which about 90 seconds. Thanking her, I finally had my new, correct, insurance cards.
Or did I?
Several years back a good friend of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, was helping his wife with a weekend yard sale. All was going well until a woman began to study a punch bowl which was out for consideration. Mrs. Cloyce had put a ten dollar price tag on it.
The prospective buyer held the bowl up this way and that and asked a question or two, but eventually decided against the purchase. "I don't know why she didn't buy it," Mrs. Cloyce opined. "Ten dollars is a fair price."
Cloyce responded, "Well, she wanted ten bucks more than she wanted the punch bowl, and you want ten bucks more than you want it. Seems to be you're both thinking the same way."
If it had been full of punch I'm sure it would have been dumped on poor Cloyce. Some things are better left unsaid.
My newer older van took its final run yesterday. Although the transmission was out I could still manage low gear, so at about 20 miles per hour I guided it to the scrap yard four blocks away. Here's the van at her last stop. Well, last stop with me at the wheel anyway.
I don't think I've missed a vehicle so much. There were tears in my eyes as I drove. Hell, I had tears in my eyes when I realized the transmission had blown north of Alger because I knew what that meant, although I manned up by the time I parked it in the lot outside of the scrapyard office. I even drove past twice - twice - later in the day to see where it might be while in processing. I saw it the first time, lined up for whatever fate had in store alongside several other smaller cars. Silliness.
I made at least four Hessel trips with it, two to Newark, Ohio, one to Chester, West Virginia (sight of the Chester Casino incident with Mom and Dad) to deliver repaired snake cables, and two or three trips for business. The gas mileage was awful - about 13 MPG highway - but boy, did it ride well. I felt like I was guiding a battleship, but there's something to be said for being head and shoulders above traffic.
But, all good things. I did get $450 scrap value. Not bad for something you paid $500 for in the first place. I still had hoped to drive it another year or so just the same.
Yeah, making too big a deal of it. I know.
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