Zeke's Driving Test

Okay, I'll admit up front that the title is a hook. A quite misleading one at that. But this post does involve me Uncle John (sometimes called Zeke) and it is about driving tests.

Back in the day many of us Cosgriffs lived and worked near Wayne State University in downtown Detroit. Now I can't speak for how they are recently but as I hear few complaints I think they're much better. But in the seventies and eighties WSU students were notorious walkers and drivers. Notorious that is for weaving in and out of traffic in their vehicles and vaulting across the street on foot trying to make their classes. Warren Avenue between Interstate 75 and Trumbull Avenue, a course about a mile and a half long, was the major roadway where all the action took place. It could be a harrowing drive if you didn't pay attention.

Uncle John noticed this as well as the rest of us. He used to quip that the road test for new drivers ought to be making it from I-75 to Trumbull along Warren without killing two people.

You caught that, didn't you? He was willing to spot you the first fatality because in that stretch of road you were going to kill somebody. And it would not be your fault, it would not be held against you.

Personally I think old Zeke had the right idea.

What's Best For Kids

Had he (a parent) sought out and hired a teacher for his child, that teacher might well say: Having chosen me for this work, you will either have to trust that I know better than you how to accomplish it, or go and find some other teacher for your child. But an agent of government can not afford to commend the competition.

That quote is from one Richard Mitchell, the self styled Underground Grammarian from years past and someone from whom I learned more about teaching and government authority (I'm willing to argue abuse of authority) than any professor of Education whilst earning my teaching certificate. I can't truthfully call it a degree because that implies the aforementioned professors gave me real direction on what an actual education should involve. I jumped through the hoops, was handed a piece of paper, and then taught as I thought best under what circumstances I faced. Believe me, anybody can become certified to teach (I may well be proof of that), much more so today than when I was in college in 1982. It is not an impressive accomplishment.

But that idea goes farther than what I intend to for today. What the late Dr. Mitchell (he passed in 2007) meant here was that (a) we should respect true teachers, folks actually trying to make our children better people and who, indeed, work along with us as parents and members of society towards that most important goal, as opposed to (b) public school teachers who, by and large, as agents of government, tend to work against worthwhile improvement in their charges. That's because they're interested in what the government thinks best rather than what actually is best.

This is a primary reason why as I age I become increasingly libertarian. Governments rarely care about what's best for your child; they care about keeping themselves in authority. They care about holding, and wielding, power. Our liberal friends seem to recognize that when it's Donald Trump yet can't see it in Joe Biden. Ditto, conversely, our conservative pals.

But once more I digress. Parents are by their nature (yes, I realize there are bad ones, and it is of course okay for society to get involved in those situations) more concerned with what's truly best for their children than public authorities. Government needs to get out of the way and let parents do what they do best: raise their kids well. That involves mom and dad actively, even almost exclusively, choosing who teaches their offspring and letting the true professional teach as they ought. It's a simple concept, and hardly radical. Yet that's also exactly why it's a threat to government schools.

Not So Subtle?

I write things. Blogs and books and Facebook updates, you name it. I write.

My favorite book is my first one, A Subtle Armageddon. Yet I've always feared that it was too obscure, too unclear, for the general audience. Still, it's doing well with reviews on Amazon, averaging 4.5 out of 5 stars over 119 reviews. So I'm hoping that perhaps it's an easier read than I believe.

One reader said: A Subtle Armageddon paints a gripping portrait of a world devoid of emotion, where nature becomes the ultimate teacher. The prose is vivid, with moments of profound insight. Both unsettling and thought-provoking, this book questions dependence and the essence of existence.

Another remarks: (A Subtle Armageddon) is a fascinating dive into a dystopian future where human emotions have been neutralized. Following the protagonist's inner journey, the book explores the transformative power of nature and the awakening of human consciousness. The author interweaves suspense and philosophy in a compelling and thoughtful narrative. With vivid scenes and moments of palpable tension, the story pushes the reader to question control, dependence and freedom. An original and profound novel, perfect for those looking for an intense and stimulating read.

What do you think? You can find A Subtle Armageddon here and decide for yourself.

Kaos Control

Bernie Kopell. What a great Siegfried, head of Kaos, on Get Smart. Then he became the kind and understanding Doc on The Love Boat. But do you know where he really killed it? As Alan-a-Dale on the Mel Brooks short lived comedy When Things Were Rotten. It was a parody of the Robin Hood myth.

All right, I realize this isn't much this morning. But can you understand what goes into trying to blog each and every day? The pressure of creativity is immense; it becomes a terrible weight on a guy's shoulder. Where do ideas come from? How to continue to generate more? Day in and day out it's what to do, what to do? And all just trying to establish one's self. All just trying to offer a bit of entertainment, a tiny respite from the world which we all crave. And all because I simply want what everyone else on this old Earth wants: to be loved and to give love. That's all.

But seriously, he killed it as Alan-a-Dale. Bernie Kopell was indeed an acting tour de force.

Bill Cosgriff's Poker Glory

Dad liked to play poker. Not high stakes poker as you see on TV. Just penny ante stuff, nickels and dimes, maybe quarters. He often hosted poker games with family and friends. Even I had the chance several times to play cards with the guys.

One of his favorite, sort of, that is, games, was the time he held four kings. You don't have to know a lot about poker to know that four of a kind is a powerful hand, and especially strong with face cards. It was draw poker too. That's not like the hold 'em variety so popular lately. There were no community cards: each player held five cards none of which were revealed to the table during play.

So Dad held his kings, and was starting to feel the rush of victory when another player, someone named George, began calling Dad's raises and then raising him more. Needless to say, Dad raised and re-raised himself, properly confident of a big win as the coins piled up in the center of the table. He couldn't wait for the reveal, when he would set down those cowboys and rake in those coins. You need to know that this was in the 1960s, when a pot of 12 or 15 dollars was much more significant than today. $100 dollars a week was good money then.

Dad raised, George raised, and that pot kept growing. Showing those kings was becoming a more satisfying thought every time and Pops was anticipating it with relish. And then my Uncle Bob chimed in.

He said to George, "You better have something, because Bill doesn't bluff."

"I fold," said George immediately. Dad not only lost a shot at kitchen table poker glory, he wasn't even able to keep building the pot on a sure win.

He never did show the guys his hand. He didn't have to. It wasn't called. But he also never quite forgave my uncle.

Joe's righteous anger

Me Grandpa Joe rented welding machines, as many of you by now know. He really wasn't fussy about much, but one of those things was his welding cable.

Each machine typically had to have 150-200 feet of cable while in operation. These cables were copper coated rubber and were about an inch thick. He always made sure that they were rolled in loops which were easy for a man to carry on his shoulder. On this point he was very particular; it could take forever to unknot even one cable. That was just time wasted, he rightly believed. Coil the cables, tie them off, and stack them nicely when the job was through, that was his mantra.

Once Acme Steel Processors (not the company's real name) rented ten welders from Joe and had them for a couple of months. When the job was over, Joe himself happened to be the man who went to pick them up. He was greeted at the Acme plant with a pile of unrolled, tangled cable. All his beautiful welding cable, more than 2,000 feet, was piled in a jumbled, knotted mess upon a pallet. His fuse, short anyway, was set.

About then the foreman came up to Joe and said, "There was trouble with one of your welders. The plant manager wants to talk to you."

Joe barked, "That's just dandy, because I want to talk to him too."

Grandpa stormed into the plant manager's office. The manager, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, never had a chance to open his mouth. Joe lit right into him, a blast of emphatic, rough English, yet with no expletives more than Joe's liberal use of the mild one 'hell', explaining exactly how little he cared for discovering his cable in one God-awful mess. That was not how he delivered it, Joe asserted vigorously. It was gonna take hours to sort out he, um, explained. I've been told it was quite a harangue. Those who do not know Joe must understand that when his dander was up, whole neighborhoods knew it. Hell, to use his favorite word, small towns were made aware.

As Joe was winding down Cloyce made the mistake of remarking, "You don't have to be so loud, Joe."

"Hell yeah I do!" Joe bellowed. "I want everyone in here to know what I think and I don't want to have to tell them each individually!" He was off again.

I don't believe Cloyce ever got to voice his complaint. He was probably quite happy to get back to the mundane tasks of plant managing once Grandpa left.

Fancy New Vehicles

There are a lot of cool new things about cars and vans these days. I think me Pops would get a kick out of the backup cameras which are commonplace now. Hell, me Grandpa Joe might even like that too. But I'll tell you one thing that he would not like at all, and that's the vibration in the steering wheel when you're drifting out of your lane.

Joe was a drifter. I found that out first hand when, as a teenager before I got my license, Joe would drive us to job sites. He swerved from side to side on a road like he was an errant wave in the ocean. It could be, um, ah, disconcerting.

The vans I've rented lately have that feature: the little rumble in the steering wheel to let you know you're not right smack in your lane. Maybe that's good: I did drift once or twice in my last rental. The first time I didn't actually realize what was up. I just felt the vibration and thought, what the hell? Then I saw on the dashboard the little symbol of a van rabidly out of lane, as hyperbolically sideways as the Ever Given when it blocked the Suez Canal, and remembered what it meant.

Joe would have to figure some way to tear that vibration mechanism out of the car. I'm with him. 

To Me

Thank you all for the birthday wishes to me yesterday. I begin my 66th rotation of our star Sol with great hopes.

My gift to my self was a new laptop. It runs circles around my old one, which ran like me. My sincere thanks to the Ohio Cosgriffs, without whose help I would have surely purchased an inferior product. 

What exactly is it, you ask? Well, it's a computer, a laptop specifically. It has a keyboard, upon which I type and images appear on a screen. Let's not get technical. It does what it's supposed to does. I don't need much more than that. Happy Birthday to me.

65

It's really an arbitrary thing, no less so than, say, a Fiftieth Anniversary. Why is that such a milestone compared to the 49th or the 51st? Be that as it may, here I am turning 65. Technically, at 4:30 this afternoon, the more or less exact time I was born. It was a Friday. The world rejoiced.

65. Intellectually you know (or at least assume) that by the grace of God you'll make it. Then you actually do. 

I indeed feel different this morning, although I'm sure that's psychological. A milestone has been achieved, such as it is. The first hint was my Medicare card coming in the mail at the end of March. Oh, this is actually happening, that 65 thing, I thought, even though my joints and muscles have been proclaiming its approach for a few years now. 

Yet here it really is. I took my walk this morning; I puttered in the old barn. Outwardly things seem the same. But, 65. Might as well embrace it with all the gusto those joints and muscles will allow.

Here's The Scoop

I've mentioned Bush's Drug Store before. It's the pharmacy which was more or less across the Street from 1104 Putnam, the house me Pops grew up in. The Cosgriff clan along with most of the old neighborhood went to Mr. Bush for their various apothecary needs.

As with many other such drug stores nearly a century ago, Bush's had a soda fountain and ice cream parlor in addition to his other wares. A regular customer of his was blind; as such, the man had a seeing eye dog.

Every now and then the man would step into the store. Mr. Bush would go around the ice cream freezer, scoop out a serving, and toss it towards the dog. The animal would catch and swallow the treat almost whole, never leaving a drop to the floor. Then his master and the pup would leave for another few days.

Service dogs need TLC too. Mr. Bush was happy to fill the prescription.

Easter 2024

Alleluia! Alleluia! Blessed Jesus make us rise,

From the life of this corruption 

to the life that never dies.

May we share with Thee Thy Glory

When the days of life are past.

And the dead shall be awakened

By the trumpet's mighty blast!

Happy Easter!

Ding Dong Ding

I went down to Electric Eel in Springfield, Ohio yesterday (Electric Eel: for all your drain and sewer cleaning needs!) to pick up a load of snake cables and parts. There was one barrel more than the back of my new old van would hold. But it was relatively light, 100 pounds or so, about what a smaller person would weight. I was able to muscle it up into the passenger seat and go about my business. Who says Marty can't adapt to circumstance, huh?

Once I was out on the street, the bell which signals that your seat belt isn't fastened began ringing. I checked my belt and it seemed secure. The bell kept dinging. I tried unbuckling and rebuckling. The bell continued to chime.

Pulling over, I shut off the car and restarted it. It works for computers, right? Making certain to belt myself in, I started off again. So did the warning bell. Oh well, I thought, I guess I just have to deal with it.

A few miles of constant dinging later, and it was glaringly obvious that that wouldn't do. There was no way I could listen to that stupid dinging all 195 miles back to Detroit. The sound didn't even fit a decent song beat which might have made a hummable distraction. I had to do something. But what? If the alarm bell was somehow broken, what could I do?

Then it occurred to me. I was indeed buckled properly. But the barrel of cable next to me wasn't, and its weight was telling the van's sensors that someone was sitting in the passenger seat. I pulled into the nearest parking lot, buckled the cables in, and Bob's yer uncle, the dinging stopped.

So I drove on home with no dinging, the cables secure at my side. At Cosgriff Sales, we care about the products we sell!

Oh, and we care about the customers too.

The Last Words

On Good Friday, it might be instructive to remember the last words of Christ as he hung from the cross. They are:

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." This is our wonderful hope, that God's mercy is greater than His judgment.

"Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise." He says this to Saint Dismas, the good thief. I pray he says it to me one day.

"Woman, behold your son; Behold, your mother!" Christ signals that Mary, his mother, is our mother.

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Some take this as Christ despairing, yet he was actually praying the 22nd Psalm, a lament which ends in triumph, and proceeds the more famous 23rd: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want."

"I thirst." He thirsts for God's redemption upon us.

"It is finished." Christ signals his work is completed.

"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit." Christ gives himself up to his God and Father, as we should.

In Plain Sight, Sort Of

One thing I'll tell you about getting older: it's easier to hide things from myself.

I walked into my front hall this morning after my walk, took my phone out of my pocket and set it down, took my hat off and set it down, and took my coat off and hung it up. Then I went to the kitchen and got a cup of coffee. Then I couldn't find my phone.

It wasn't anywhere. I was beginning to panic; did I drop it outside and not notice? But if so I would have surely heard it hit the sidewalk. But if I did drop it, finding the darn thing might mean retracing a lot of steps, as far as ten or so blocks from the house. Crap.

Wait a minute. I checked my time right before the front porch to make certain I had trod enough steps. So it can't be that far.

Yet it wasn't nearby outside. It must, it simply must, be in the house.

It of course was. I had sat it on the hall table and placed my hat on top of it. Maybe I do need to move things when I'm searching for stuff.

Tax Day

There are points which I will admit that I love to belabor. One of them is quite appropriate for this moment, as yesterday was April 15, when we're supposed to have paid our income taxes for the previous year. And as I always will assert, I will always shout to the high heavens, income taxes are immoral. Period.

I'm not so libertarian as to argue that all taxation is theft. But the income tax is (so is the property tax, and for similar reasons). Basically, the majority of Americans are saying that because person y made x amount of money he must hand some of it to said majority to spend however they want. If that's not theft I don't know what is.

Don't argue, but democracy! If democracy voted that you had to hand over your house or car would you have to? Of course not. Why so with your money?

The government can get cash from sales taxes and user fees, bond sales, and even import taxes. But how could it pay for all it's paying for now? It couldn't, I readily admit. Government would have to get farther out of our lives, which would be a great moral good. Or have you not noticed the wonderful job it has done on inflation, gas prices, poverty, education, or dozens of other things?

I will only allow this: pay your income taxes, but only because the alternative - fines and jail - are worse for you. In short, your payment of income taxes is predicated on a threat to life if not limb. That's exactly how more honest thieves act.

In The Books

Well, another curling season is in the books. We managed a 10-8 win in the five-six game, which means we officially finished fifth. I've done worse.

Our vice Mark, the man who throws third out of four players, saved our bacon. He made two great hits which removed opposition scoring stones and left us scoring instead, and drew to the very button, the very center of the circular target curlers call the house, when that was all we had. I mean, if he's an inch short it could have changed the outcome. If curling had game rocks like football has game balls, he'd get it.

We caught some breaks too, stealing eight straight points (you're said to have 'stolen' points when you score without 'hammer', the last rock of an end) after giving up five in the first end (an end is sort of like a baseball inning, except teams alternate throwing stones rather than all bat/field at once). It's hard to win when they hang a five on you right off, but we figured it out. 

The thing, yesterday was a very rough day at work. Indeed this entire week is daunting. I hardly wanted to play last night. But I'm glad I did. The win makes work just a bit easier to handle.

Showing my age

April is about my favorite month. Baseball begins, and the second weekend brings the Masters golf tournament.  Life is good.

Interestingly, although I hardly need another reminder of how old I am, I read earlier this week that among the major sports baseball fans average being 57 years old. The only sport with a higher average fan age is golf at 63.

Here I am at 64 and those are the two sports I watch the most.

And then I gain another year later this month, turning 65 the 22nd. Oh well.

But why let all that get you down? Baseball, golf, and my birthday: all in April. I can't think of a reason not to love the most excellent fourth month of the year. 

Pilate's World

This past weekend Catholics had the Long Gospel, a standard practice on Palm Sunday where the Passion of Christ is gone over in detail. One part of that Gospel has always stood out to me. When Pontius Pilate asked Jesus what his purpose was Christ answered, "I came to testify to the truth." Pilate responded with disdain, "What is truth?" This is exactly what the world says when confronted with Jesus, or with any idea of Truth.

Pilate represents the World, which wants no truth. Christ more than represents truth but is rather Truth Itself. And that is why the world rejects him.

The World wants to do what it wants to do and does not want to have to justify itself.  Christ challenges that: certain things are what they are no matter what you think (or want to think). So the World mocks Him: What is Truth?

Save your tongue if your first reaction is to ask, who's truth? That's only childish gainsaying. The question is not and never can be that. The real question, to turn it back on you, World, is, again, What is Truth? What is really real, and what is really false? What do we do with what knowledge the answers to those questions give us?

If you aren't seeking real, honest truth, you're playing to vanity, quite frankly. If you ask, like Pilate, what is truth, you mock and deny truth. Do so if you wish. But the price will be dear if you choose such, as the beginning of all the vice in human history can be seen in that small exchange between God and the World. "I came to testify; What is Truth?" Will you seek Truth, or will you deny it? There is nothing else.

Beefy Don't Get Rattled

I introduced you to my old friend Beefy awhile back. He was a great guy, and in a quiet, unruffled way. While our old buddy Cloyce would indeed upset him (see here: Cloyce attracts deer), by and large Beef was happy watching the world go by.

Beefy liked his drink. He had purchased a bottle of vodka on his way home from work one day, and then stopped at a favored watering hole for a couple beers. By his own admission, he was feeling it a bit as he left the bar an hour or two later.

He was driving down the freeway when he noticed the smell of something burning. That's when he saw tiny flames licking up around the edges of the hood of his car. It turns out a pair of frayed wires had caused a fire. Beefy steered the car well onto a fortunately wide shoulder which happened to be at that spot of the highway. When he had stopped, he jumped out of the car, not forgetting his precious bottle of liquor. 

Beefy climbed up the berm at the roadside and sat far enough away from the car, by then engulfed in flames, to be safe, and began to ease his pain by uncorking the vodka and taking a nip. Soon enough he took another draw at the bottle and then a third, morosely watching his car incinerate itself.

Naturally enough, the fire drew the attention of a Michigan state trooper. The officer pulled up (well behind the flaming hulk of metal of course) and climbed up to where Beefy sat. "That your car?' the cop demanded.

"Yep," Beefy affirmed, with another shot of vodka.

"Well, would you like me to call the fire department?" the trooper asked, sarcastically.

After another drink Beefy simply answered, "If you want to."

That's it. That's the story. Beefy lost a car yet saved his vodka.

Matters of the Heart

The things you see on the road.

Driving along Interstate 70 yesterday in Indiana I saw a billboard with an advertisement for a local hospital. It had two doctors pictured on it, above whom it was displayed in big, proud letters: Highly Skilled Heart Surgeons.

O-kay. You're advertising as quite the accomplishment something I would take as a given, that is, that your heart surgeons are very good at what they do. Am I to assume that, until this most recent advertising campaign, that they lacked something, something you're proud to announce they have overcome?

Would I want, should the need for anyone to handle my thumping gizzard arise, less able heart surgeons to hold my life in their hands? Are there really hospitals out there with less than stellar doctors who might give me a price break on such important matters? Do I want to know the answer to that?

No! I'm going to Indiana so that the Highly Skilled Heart Surgeons can take care of me. Marty is sold on their on oddly reassuring billboard.

Heavenly Help

We Catholics know that when you can't find something you pray to St. Anthony for help. I did that just yesterday in fact and promptly found what I had misplaced. It truly works.

Several years ago one my aunts, a sister of me Mom's (that's typical of how someone becomes your aunt) lost something important. Mom's side of the family is overwhelmingly Protestant whereas Mom converted to Catholicism after she married me Pops. That's important to know only because you won't appreciate the story otherwise.

Mom suggested her sister pray to St. Anthony. In fact my aunt's exact prayer was, "St. Anthony, I don't know you but my sister does. Please help me find what I'm looking for." Lo and behold, she found it in the next few minutes.

Few things are more powerful than sincere prayer, eh? It knows no denomination.

Whatabouters

Whatabouters. I hate them.

You do too I bet. I'm talking (ahem) about those people who object to everything. No choice, no option, is legitimate or proper. Yet they object to any and all suggestions put forth.

I've been on my Parish Council at Church, involved in politics, social clubs, kids sports and what have you and they all have whatabouters. Worse, whatabouters seem to be the most common attendees at meetings for any such organizations. I guess they have nothing better to do.

If A is presented, what about B? If B, have you thought about C? They then commence to run you through the entire alphabet and more of objections. But they won't themselves to commit to anything. Something must be done, but all ideas are all wrong.

Whatabouters. I hate them. They're just a bunch of time wasters.

How I Roll

I noticed that the outer edge of the driver's side tire of my new old van has worn considerably. As such, the first chore of mine today will be to get a new tire. I figure it'll hit me for around a hundred and a half for an inexpensive one.

But Marty, that sort of wear shows alignment issues. Don't you care about that?

Well, no. What I care about is that I have a 2007 Dodge Town and Country with 231,000 miles on it (hence, 'new old van' compared to my newer older van which is a 1996 with 185 grand against it) that isn't worth perhaps two thousand in front end work.

But better gas mileage!

Enough to overcome a couple thousand bucks over what's left of the life of the van? I doubt it.

Safety, Marty, safety!

I honestly don't think that will be a problem. I hear no clunking or other odd sounds when I drive or when I turn. I ain't concerned.

You'll need another tire in a year.

Maybe. Maybe not. If so, I'll spend another $150 on a cheap new tire then. At that rate, I'll need to get at least ten years out of the old Dodge to have paid for the front end work. The van isn't going to last that long.

Does any of this make sense? I'm open to the idea that it does not, quite honestly. Yet it's what I intend to do, and I'll tell you this: me Grandpa Joe would be proud. And that thought delights me.

Dr. Haffner

Humility should, perhaps, prevent me from writing this. Yet it has been on my mind a lot lately and I want to talk about it, as it was one of the quickest yet most profound moments in my life. And I knew it at the time. So if you would kindly indulge me and ignore any hint of arrogance, I would appreciate it.

Dr. Haffner was my instructor in a college Education class called Reading in the Content Areas. My apologies but I do not remember his first name. I still don't actually know what the point of that class was either, but so be it.

We argued all semester, as our basic philosophies of education, our outlooks on life, were radically opposite. I won't bore you with details but it began with the fact that he taught that all things, all things, mind you, are relative and that there are no eternal, objective truths. As too many of you probably know by now, I firmly believe in objective truth. Life simply makes no sense without such a doctrine at the core of our actions.

Part of our grade rested on a 20 page term paper reviewing a book about education. I chose to write about The Abolition of Man, a spectacular little book by C. S. Lewis asserting that the doctrine of objective truth is at the center of any good and useful system of teaching. 

On the day of our final exams Dr. Haffner told us that he would give us back our reviews as we handed in our exams, and offer us a word or two on what he thought about them. The students who left before me, I had noticed, had a couple of minutes of quiet talk with him as they were given back their papers.

When I walked up he took my test and handed me my essay. But when I went to grab it he held on, so that we both stood there kind of staring at one other. It's melodramatic to say such things, but it felt as though a hush came over the room. Finally Dr. Haffner said to me, in a kind of quiet, thoughtful tone, "You really believe this, don't you?"

"Yes sir, I do," I answered in a subdued voice.

He released my term paper and offered me his right hand. "Good luck, Marty," he said with a great and deep sincerity. I simply said thank you, a very grateful thank you, and left.

I really feel, in that moment, we had truly understood each other and that we parted with an enduring mutual respect despite our adversarial stances. It was no more than half a minute, but maybe the most profound and sublime thirty seconds of my life. I actually choke up a bit when thinking about it.

I don't know where you are these days, Dr. Haffner. But I hope you are well.

Blood Draw

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Unknown

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

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

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

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

Perchance to Answer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On A Friday Afternoon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those dear tokens of His Passion,

Still His dazzling body bear!

Cause of endless exaltation,

to His ransomed worshippers!

With what rapture, with, what rapture!

Gaze we on those glorious scars!

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

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

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

Hey Presto

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Day

Uh, Happy New Year!

No, that's not right. Merry Christmas?

Happy Independence Day! Hmm; not that either.

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

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

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

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

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