Nerk

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

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

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

"By your accent."

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

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

To Forgive, and to Seek Forgiveness

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

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

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

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

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

Like A Kid Again

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

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

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

Baseball is Back!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zeke and Amos

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

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

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

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

I think it's a cool story.

Michigan Baseball

Baseball brings people together; it bridges all gaps. 

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

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

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

It was a cool moment, brought out by baseball. 

The Granite

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

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

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

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

Put on Your Happy Face

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon Bar Sinister

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

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

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

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

A Question

Was Toby Keith a solo artist?

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

Lack of Planning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coffee Tales

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rolling Them Bones

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

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

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

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

Trouble Comes Calling

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

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

What did I think, he asked.

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

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

Kung Fu Philosophy

Will worry change the future?

- Kwai Chang Kane

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

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

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

St. Patrick's Day

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

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

Street Parking

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

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

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

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

Wait, What?

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

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

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

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

Cancelled (Not What You Think)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pacino? Really?

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

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

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

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

Poetic and Immersive

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

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

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

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

Wayne State Wildlife (Not What You Think)

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

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

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

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

What I don't do I don't do

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

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

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

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

"Could you just try?" he begged.

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

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

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

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

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

Well, Water

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

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

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

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

The Ol' Perfesser

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Predicting the Future

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

George Farmer.

True story. Life is stranger than fiction?

Seeking the Transcendent

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

- Robert Royal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unconditionally?

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

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

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

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

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

Shear Cruelty

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

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

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

A Lesson in Magnetism

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

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

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

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

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

Another Yogi-ism

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

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

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

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

I laughed out loud. 

Fried Cloyce

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pops and the crib manager just smiled.