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.