Appropriate Pope

Well, there is this about a Pope from the south side of Chicago who's also a White Sox fan. As befits the head of the Catholic Church, he certainly understands suffering. 

Yeah, I know. I'll let myself out.

Trash Day Paranoia

Friday is the normal trash pickup day here in old Woodbridge in Detroit. Yet on weeks where there's been a Monday holiday it's pushed back to Saturday. The reason, I presume, is so that the companies (Detroit trash pickup is contracted out) don't have to give holiday pay to their workers. I don't know if I'd like that as an employee. Sure, you get a three day weekend like many others. Yet it's followed by a one day weekend; you work ten days out of eleven. But like Thomas Sowell says, there are no solutions. Only tradeoffs.

So anyway, we typically put our trash out Thursday after 6 because the trucks may come anytime after 7 AM Friday, and they have been early. Remember this is a contractor, not a city worker as I've allowed. Time means something to them. Yet I didn't put ours out yesterday because pickup shouldn't be until Saturday.

In taking my walk around the neighborhood early this morning I noticed a fellow had his trash and recycling cans out. He must have missed the memo.

Pretty soon thereafter I saw to the side of the road more receptacles, along with those large brown paper bags of lawn refuse. You-all are too early, I told myself very proudly.

Then I realized that more than half the residences had their stuff by the curb (I should spell it kerb so I can sound English - look it up) and paranoia grew within me. Did I miss the memo?

Upon arrival back at home I hastily gathered the trash and set out the eight bags of lawn debris I had accumulated during the week. The trash collectors had better come today.

More Good Words

Here's what Jerry, an Amazon reviewer, says about my book The Interim Generation:

"The Interim Generation" is a thrilling addition to the Infinity Series. The author has masterfully crafted a complex and engaging story that seamlessly blends science fiction and political intrigue. The characters are richly developed, and their struggles and triumphs will keep you on the edge of your seat. His writing style is both descriptive and concise, making it easy to visualize the futuristic world he has created. The plot is full of unexpected twists and turns that will leave you guessing until the very end. Overall, "The Interim Generation" is a must-read for fans of the Infinity Series and anyone who loves a good sci-fi adventure.

I can't say how much reading reviews such as these please me; what writer wouldn't be happy? It's particularly satisfying because I didn't think the story was ready to be put 'out there'. 

I actually published Interim on something of a lark. My own opinion was that the story was too loosely constructed and needed to be tighter. I felt it was missing something, some spark which would give it a life of its own. But the little angel on my shoulder said to get it out there, right now. Don't wait for paperback, (it's only available on Amazon Kindle right now but I'm working on that) just make it available, I was told. And the proof of the pudding? It has the highest average of the three books available in my Infinity series. 

When you hear things such as a 'masterfully crafted...complex and engaging story' with characters 'richly developed' and the style 'both descriptive and concise' of a world 'easy to visualize' a fella starts to think (hope?) that he might actually have a clue to what he is doing. 

The results so far have me considering whether to publish book four now, or whether to wait awhile. Book Four is finished; do I publish it or leave that as a tease?  Well, to tease for a minute, it's a love story about Ben and Natalie, occurring right as the world of Infinity is taking complete hold. Ben believes in the new world; Natalie believes in her and Ben. Their challenges are similar, yet different, from what Michael and Kim and Nathaniel and John face. Sound interesting?

In the meantime, fire up your Kindle and order The Interim Generation here:  Book Three

Blind drain cleaner

Mr. Johnston was a drain cleaner. And I am not making a joke here; indeed I'm rather in awe. You see, Mr. Johnston was blind. Yet by all accounts he was a fine drain cleaner.

To be sure, he had to have an assistant, someone to drive him to jobs and arrange things. You know, find the cleanout (access point) of the drain and set up the machinery. Then he would lead Mr. Johnston to the opening, give him a pair of gloves and start the cable into the line. But then Mr. Johnston would would take it from there.

I've always understood that blind people have their other senses heightened, and that's how I understand Mr. Johnston did his job. He could feel the cable begin to helix, corkscrew, when it hit a blockage just a bit quicker than others. The sound of the machine gave him clues too as to what was happening. The motor might whine a little bit extra when the machine was under stress. Mr. Johnston could pick that up readily.

It's sounds like a joke but it's true. I knew a blind drain cleaner. By all accounts, he was very good at it.

He Can Be Taught

Many of us were taught while growing up that if you're carrying a sharp object and you drop it, let it fall. It's great practical advice, you know.

Among the accessories available (I adore alliteration) for the drain snakes I sell are retrieving tools. They are sharp and typically pointed objects. They have to be, so that they may puncture and burrow into a blockage in a drain and retrieve it. 

A year or so back I was carrying not one but two of them into a customer's office. And I dropped both. And I tried to catch them. 

It was like a juggling act which had gone off the rails. There I was trying to corral those two retrievers, each bouncing off my hands one to the other, and each time digging a barb into my palms. "Oh, ah, oh, ow," I repeated many times over trying desperately to grab them. Of course, they ended up hitting the floor anyway.

Why I had two handkerchiefs I don't know (usually only having one) but it was fortunate that day. I had to wrap them around my hands driving home, hoping the bleeding would stop by the time I got there. Tiny puncture wounds take awhile to seal.

The moral of the story, in case you - as I - didn't get the lesson originally: if you drop a sharp object, let it fall.

Sounding the Alarm

When me Pops was 12 or so, me Grandpa Joe bought him an alarm clock. "I've been waking you up every morning, now you have to wake me. But make sure I don't oversleep!" were Joe's precise instructions.

Dad set the alarm, and promptly woke his father up the next morning. One hour earlier than necessary.

Joe, more philosophic than he's generally given credit for being, (see here), opined, "Well, I said don't let me oversleep, and he didn't." It just meant an extra cup of coffee anyway.

Offset

I don't think global warming or climate change or whatever they're calling it lately is a big deal. But I do wonder if perhaps the seasons have shifted a bit in the last few years.

It's been cold and clammy around here lately, and we're well into May. Maybe it's me, but back when I was a teenager May sure seemed warmer. I feel as though the cold is hanging around several weeks longer than it once did.

Warm weather hangs around until well into November, if you count highs near 60. But that does feel warm for that month, and even recent Decembers appear to have had their share of relative balminess.

So, has the climate changed? Sure. It's just offset itself about a month.

Religion and Change

Should we change simply to suit other people? I would say no, at least generally. 

Don't misunderstand me. I'm not against legitimate and necessary change. Indeed, we cannot become better people if we aren't open to becoming different, even to altering ideas which we may have thought were at the very fiber of our being. But the operative term here is the word simply, in the sense of changing only to satisfy someone else. 

It's fair play to ask: maybe they're the ones who need to change. Maybe you aren't the one who should become different in a given area, but they. That's an important point.

That's the reason I'm skeptical of those who argue that religion should change to fit their worldview. Have they considered, honestly, openly, and fully considered, that maybe they're wrong and religion is right? Because if so, the need to change is on them.

The demand for change simply to suit you may be nothing more than indulgent and selfish. And we should not want to be that.

I'm Only Sleeping

No, not the Beatles song from their album Revolver, a great record by the way (I can't make up my mind whether it or Sgt. Pepper is the group's best) where John Lennon laments that he's, uh, only sleeping. But sleep for me is on the one hand more elusive, while on the other can happen quite unexpectedly.

I can be at home stretched across the bed of an evening, clean, fed, and seemingly comfortable after a trying day, yet can't get close to sleep. The ceiling draws near as I stare at it; closed eyes are only that, and there are no distractions. My mind isn't set onto any disturbing, hurried or worried thoughts. I just can't drift off. 

Then in the middle of the afternoon at the old barn I'll find myself hot, dirty, completely uncomfortable, sweat soaked and generally physically miserable. I'll sit down at my desk in what passes as an office, with a coffee from my Shop Keurig at the ready, taking a break to gather myself, and doze off in seconds, chin on my chest, with no trouble whatsoever. I don't even realize it's happened, and am typically jolted awake by a phone call twenty minutes later. 

Why is that? And I should have shut off my phone.

Loud Bass

Towards the end of a long day on the road Wednesday, when I was about 30 miles away from the old barn, I noticed a vibration in the steering wheel of my new old van. Nuts, I thought. Probably a wheel out of balance. Maybe it's thrown a weight, or a layer of tread had come loose. Hopefully it would get me home, and I could wait until tomorrow to visit the tire shop.

Yet this vibration began acting particularly odd. It had a beat, an honest to goodness beat. It actually throbbed: boom, buh-da-boom. Boom, buh-da-boom. It repeated itself over and over. I can't say I ever had that reaction from a car before.

The vibration steadily become more emphatic, more intense. Soon I was actually hearing a musical bass line exactly in time with the vibration. Boom, buh-da-boom. Boom, buh-da-boom, it went on. The beat matched the vibration precisely.

That's when I realized I was approaching a Honda Accord with its windows rolled up and dark tinted. The closer I got, the more profoundly the bass line droned and the more harshly my steering wheel vibrated. 

Dude, I could care less what music you listen to. I've even been know to turn my own car radio way up and lose myself in a song with a pronounced, driving (ha, ha) beat. But when your sound system is so loud and your bass up so high that it's causing vibrations in cars passing you on Interstate 94 at better than 70 miles per hour, I only have one thing to say.

It's. Too. Loud. That can't even be comfortable for you. 

Small Change

Me brother Phil has a reputation for being tight. Just how tight, well, it would hardly qualify as family lore if the accusation wasn't blown up beyond reasonable proportions now, would it?

Yesterday he drove me to the mechanic to pick up my new old van. The total for the repairs was $694.55; not bad really, considering the muffler, blower motor, and turn signal assembly were replaced.

I handed the cashier seven one hundred dollar bills. She opened the till and gave me back five singles, but then looked up in embarrassment. "I don't seem to have any coins," she told me.

"Ah, don't worry about forty-five cents," I replied. At that point from behind me came an audible gasp, so loud that it quieted the entire room. It nearly took the air out of it.

The love of money, dude. The love of money.

Roundabout

My new old van spent last night at the mechanic's. It needed relatively minor stuff: the left turn signal repaired (like I ever turn left <rim shot>), a blower motor, and a muffler. In short, it's like me. The older I get, the more things that go wrong too. And all at once.

It was however a bit of a chore to get a straight answer out of my mechanic on when I could pick it up. 

I happened to be driving by late yesterday afternoon, and as I had not heard anything I stopped in. "Did someone call you? Because it's not ready yet," he explained.

"No, I was just passing by and thought I'd check on things. So I take it it'll be here overnight?" It was already after 4, and they close at 5.

"Well, we had to get another turn signal assembly..."

"Ok, so, it'll be here overnight?"

"And we had to order a blower motor, but it's not here yet."

"Fine. Then it'll be here overnight?"

"It's been hard to find a muffler too. 2007 is just old enough that it's tough to find a parts house that stocks them."

"I understand. So it will be here overnight?"

"You sure drive some old cars."

Heavy sigh. You know that. You've been my mechanic more than 25 years. "Yes I do. It will be here overnight, then?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, Marty. We'll have it inside though," he assured me.

I appreciate that. A quicker answer would have been appreciated too.

You Can't Do That

Way back in the Eighties cars had catalytic converters in the muffler system. OK, I guess they still do, but whatever. They were expensive things either way.

Mine went out one day in some old wreck I had at the time. I went to Local Auto Parts store, figuring honestly to buy what pipes I might use to replace it. Why not? Converters really weren't very good at their purpose, and I'm cheap.

While looking around the row which had muffler pipes and clamps and such, an earnest employee approached. "Can I help you sir?"

I explained what I wanted, giving the make and model of the vehicle I wanted it for.

"Sir!" He responded in an over the top voice and manner. "I can't tell you how to replace your converter. That would be against the law. There is no way I can tell you that that...and that...and that third one there...with those clamps...will take up the space of your converter exactly!"

"Oh dear," said I, also in mockery. "I am so sorry to have bothered you." He then walked away, and I did not, wink, wink, buy those parts.

Too Tight Pops

Me Great Uncle Bill, a brother to me Grandpa Joe, owned a garage down in Jacksonville, Illinois where our particular branch of Clan Cosgriff originated, at least in these United States. He was a crackin' good mechanic too by all accounts, with a thriving business. Me Pops would sometimes help out when the Detroit Cosgriffs were in town for visits.

One of Dad's first assignments was an oil change. Not being sure exactly how tight oil plugs were supposed to be reinstalled on vehicles, he took what his teenaged mind thought the obvious route. Pops elected to tighten the hell out of it.

Great Uncle Bill, having by chance seeing his nephew's super strength being applied to the bolt, blandly suggested, "Red (Dad had red hair up into adulthood when it turned black), they might want to change the oil again someday." 

Me Pops got the message. As it was much more subtly put than what he would have given by his own Pops, me Grandpa Joe, he likely quite appreciated the style in which such sage wisdom was delivered.

Leo XIV, Marriage, and Family

In his recent remarks to a group of journalists, new Pope Leo XIV affirmed that true family is based on a stable marriage between one man and one woman. Contrary to far too many things which Pope Francis said, that doesn't need any clarification.

Bravo, our Most Holy Father. While the Church must be (and is, whether one thinks so or not) open to all, and indeed must minister to all, well, sometimes that ministry calls for unequivocal statements of fact. No one is helped, not any one of us, by failure to acknowledge basic truth. Marriage and family are what they are, not what you may wish them to be.

Yes, the Church must minister to all. Yet ministry cannot be mere affirmation; who needs a Church or family or friends at all to approve what we as individuals already want to do? If we're going to do whatever we want anyway, who needs a Pope? Who needs the permission of anyone else to do what they're so certain is right? I don't argue for the right to do things which I know I'm within my rights to do. I do them. Ministry is for the areas where we need guidance, where we need improvement. Improvement begins with seeking to do the just and true.

As such, to do its work, the Church must speak to Truth. Leo XIV is doing exactly that.

Injury to Insult

A long time customer called yesterday for a price on an admittedly expensive item. I told him upfront that it was pricey, so I believe I was playing fair with him. I then told him the price. "Wow," he exclaimed. "You are high."

Okay, dude, you kind of insulted me there. My prices are fair and competitive (as you should know by now), and I warned you that what you were asking for had a significant cost. Further, you don't have to pay it. You don't want to buy it from me, don't buy it from me. No harm, no foul. There's no obligation on your part and I freely recognize that. Indeed, I appreciate you giving me the chance for the sale in the first place. But your remark indicates that you think maybe I'm cheating you. I don't take that kindly.

Then he blurts out, "Is there anywhere else I can get it?"

That started the insulting all over again, but I tried to make a joke of it, even if a veiled barb. "It's not exactly a standard business practice for me to keep a ready list of competitors who beat my price, for referral to my customers." 

I think he got the point. "Uh, I'm sorry, Marty. I didn't mean nothing." The truth is, he probably didn't, so I stayed cool. And he did buy the part; I have his check in hand as I type. Still, I can't help but feel just a little put out just the same.

Heart attack by suggestion

Ah, Biology 10, the science course I took during my sophomore year at old St. Hedwig. I don't remember much about the course except that it was taught by Sr. Christine, a sweetheart of a nun, one of the most pleasant people I've ever known. Subject matter-wise, though, I really only remember the day when she spoke about how heart disease develops and affects the body.

Sister went over all the usual things which typically precipitate a heart attack: chest pain or pressure, numbness in the arms (particularly the left), sweating, difficulty breathing and so on. Then she lectured on something which none of us kids had ever imagined. She spoke about silent heart attacks, those where there are no obvious symptoms.

As Sister went on with her lecture several of us, myself included, began putting our hands to our chests and monitoring our bodies. If the other students' thought processes were anything like mine, they were something like: 'No sweats, no trouble breathing, no crushing chest pain. Oh no! I'm having a silent heart attack!'

The power of suggestion however unintended (Sr. Christine of course meant nothing, as she was merely teaching a section of a class) can be very strong, and rather childish, in adolescents.

Leo XIV

We have a new Pope, and as virtually every Catholic blog and/or You Tube channel I've watched has said, our first job as laity is to pray for guidance for Leo XIV. They next said to a T, give him a chance. I agree on both of course.

As you've probably read, we don't know much about him but the early, initial signs are good. I was very pleased, indeed almost ecstatic, that Leo XIV appeared on the balcony of St. Peter's already dressed in traditional Papal regalia. Francis didn't do that, coming out in the white daily 'work uniform' of the Pope (although he did eventually take on the vestments). The new Holy Father gave the formal blessing in Latin; taking the name of a well respected Pope who sought to engage the moderns while sticking to doctrine is a hopeful measure too.  

He appears similar to Francis on certain issues yet more conservative doctrinally. He's Augustinian, and they are as a group significantly further right then the Jesuits. He and Vance seem to have had a spat over ordo amoris, ordinate love, but I'm tempted to argue that that's semantics. As Cardinal Prevost he said in a tweet directed at the Veep that we are called to love everyone, which we are. Yet Vance was arguing that, as we live in a world of limited resources we must prioritize our actions, and that the base principle is that we do what we can for family, nation, and world in that order. I'm quite sure that attitude is in line with Catholic teaching.

Leo praised Francis a lot in his first remarks, yet what do you expect? New Popes are going to laud their predecessors, especially the immediate one. There isn't much to read into that.

So, pray for the Holy Father and let it all play out. I think everything will be all right.

As you've probably read, we don't know much about him but the early, initial signs are good. I was very pleased, indeed almost ecstatic, that Leo XIV appeared on the balcony already dressed in traditional Papal regalia. Francis didn't do that, coming out in the white daily 'work dress" of the Pope (although he did eventually take on the vestments). He gave the formal blessing in Latin; taking the name of a well respected Pope who sought to engage the moderns while sticking to doctrine is a hopeful measure too. He appears similar to Francis on certain issues yet more conservative doctrinally. He's Augustinian, and they are as a group significantly further right then the Jesuits. He and Vance seem to have had a spat over ordo amoris, ordinate love, but I'm tempted to argue that that's a semantic issue. As Cardinal Prevost he said in a tweet directed at the Veep that we are called to love everyone, which we are. Yet Vance was pointing out that, as we are in a world of limited resources, we must prioritize our actions, and that the base principle is that we do for family, nation, world in that order. Leo praised Francis a lot in his first remarks, but as Jimmy Akin opined, what do you expect? New Popes are going to laud their predecessors, especially the immediate one. Probably not a good time to get into this, with you at work and me supposed to be working, ha, ha! But that's my first thoughts in a nutshell.As you've probably read, we don't know much about him but the early, initial signs are good. I was very pleased, indeed almost ecstatic, that Leo XIV appeared on the balcony already dressed in traditional Papal regalia. Francis didn't do that, coming out in the white daily 'work dress" of the Pope (although he did eventually take on the vestments). He gave the formal blessing in Latin; taking the name of a well respected Pope who sought to engage the moderns while sticking to doctrine is a hopeful measure too.

He appears similar to Francis on certain issues yet more conservative doctrinally. He's Augustinian, and they are as a group significantly further right then the Jesuits. He and Vance seem to have had a spat over ordo amoris, ordinate love, but I'm tempted to argue that that's a semantic issue. As Cardinal Prevost he said in a tweet directed at the Veep that we are called to love everyone, which we are. Yet Vance was pointing out that, as we are in a world of limited resources, we must prioritize our actions, and that the base principle is that we do for family, nation, world in that order. Leo praised Francis a lot in his first remarks, but as Jimmy Akin opined, what do you expect? New Popes are going to laud their predecessors, especially the immediate one. Probably not a good time to get into this, with you at work and me supposed to be working, ha, ha! But that's my first thoughts in a nutshell.

Cloyce On The Homefront

Me Pops had an old buddy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who owned a small apartment building in the old neighborhood. One day he took a call from a tenant on an upper floor complaining that the married couple in a first floor apartment were making a terrible racket. Cloyce went to investigate.

He walked into the first floor hall just in time to see the husband of the couple in question scramble out of their adobe, hurrying the other way. His wife was in hot pursuit, a pistol in hand.

Seeing that her better half had made an escape, she turned on Cloyce. "What do you want?" the woman demanded, shoving the gun within inches of his nose.

"Bill," Cloyce explained to my Dad, "I spent a year in Korea, most of it right at the front. But I didn't never see the barrel of no gun look as big as the one on that pistol right that minute!"

"I'm just getting some tools from the basement," he told the gun toting mama, his hands extended towards the skies. She let him by, just as the cops arrived. Cloyce was more than ready to turn authority in the matter over to the boys in blue. 

Bait Snake

As most of you likely know by now, I sell and repair drain snakes. They are the steel cable machines used to open various drains. 

We have a shop, colloquially called the Shop or the Old Barn, where we store new units and the ones left for repair. The Shop (or the Old Barn, if you prefer) is well secure. We have four locks on the door, an alarm on the building, and we even run heavy chains with locks through the machines we have on hand inside, all just to make things as theft proof as possible.

A few weeks ago I bought out the remains of an old plumbing store. There wasn't much, but there were some cables I could use or resell. And I bought an old drain cleaning machine which wasn't worth much. In fact, the company which made it is out of business. But I bought it anyway.

Back at the Shop me brother Phil asked incredulously, "What'd you buy that for? We can't get parts or anything. It's obsolete."

"True," I responded, "But you know how there was that old TV show called Bait Car, where the police rigged a car so that they could catch car thieves?"

"Yeah."

"This will be our bait snake. We'll leave it unlocked and if any thief gets this far into our building in a late night robbery attempt, maybe he'll just grab it and leave the rest alone, seeing them locked."

Yes, we have a Bait Snake. Think I can talk Tru TV into a new reality show?

Reading Old School

Yes, I do seem to remember old times all the more as I age. Well, sort of, that is.

I recall reading Arthur C. Clarke's science fiction novel Against the Fall of Night when I was 11 or 12 and being absolutely captivated by it. Yet this morning I can't think of one single fact about the story. Not one plot detail comes to mind. But I remember sitting on the living room couch and being very taken in as I ate Pringles Potato chips and drank Faygo root beer.

So I think what I'll do is order a copy off Amazon. When it arrives I'll stock up on Pringles and grab a few cans of Faygo root beer, burrow myself into my reading space, and try to capture the feeling all over again, 53 years later. 

Can you relive the past? I'm going to try to find out.

Post Dated Cloyce

We have had a lot of interesting individuals come through our Shop door over the years. Some, you had trouble getting money out of them. Not all of those guys were out to con you, though.

One fella in particular, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, has been on open account for better than forty years now. He's slow to pay but he always, eventually, pays. He's a genuinely good guy too. I think he's just undisciplined, kinda the way a kid is undisciplined. The kid means well yet doesn't quite understand how things should work.

A habit of Cloyce's has been to bring a check to pay his bill but then post date it. "Can you hold this for a week, Bill?" he would ask me Pops on presentation of a scrap of at that point worthless paper. And Dad would hold it, knowing that it would be good sometime within the next three weeks.

He's done that to me too. I deal with it because I know Cloyce means well, and also because I genuinely like him. As I say, it's not unfair to say he's almost confusedly childlike in his approach to life. There's a part of me which finds that quaint, or even endearing. I mean that.

Still, getting paid is why we work. Back in September Cloyce came in and gave me a post dated check, asking me to hold it for a few days. I said yes but added, "You know, Cloyce, paying me today with a check I can't cash today isn't really paying me today." Cloyce nodded, and I could almost see that light bulb above his head trying to brighten beyond dim.

Cloyce stopped by the old barn last week to pay his current bill. He wrote out a check. "Look, Marty, I dated it today," he showed me.

"Great, Cloyce, thanks," I replied.

He then asked, "Can you hold it until Tuesday?"

Cue the sad trombone. Yes, I can hold it until then. I actually wonder whether that's his way of making himself pay me, to know in his own mind that a check is out there that he has to, some day, honor. Whatever the reason, I'll surely have my money later next week.

A Pope Joke

Habemus Papam! We have a Pope. An American no less, something I did not expect, who has taken the name Leo XIV.

His background will be analyzed to death in the coming weeks, likely enough by yours truly on these very pages. But for now, I'm going to tell a funny. Don't worry. It's not even PG. And, credit where it's due, it isn't actually my joke.

My number two son is Francis Leo. Upon the announcement of the new Pontiff I texted him, "You might notice the last two Popes have been Francis and Leo."

His response? "Minds will be blown when the next one is Pope Cosgriff!" 

Wouldn't they now!

Delving Deep

...maybe the wisdom philosophy brings isn’t the parent of happiness, which is not that gloomy a suspicion; after all, if only the wise can be happy, the rest of us are in a bad way indeed.

Since the day I finished Death on A Friday Afternoon, which I spoke of in a recent blog, I have been dealing with a frustrating lack of direction in my reading. This despite having gleaned from the book a great calm even with an understanding both clear and muddy (if that paradox can make sense) which calls so strong towards the transcendent that I can barely stand it. I want more reading like that. Yet I'm not sure it's available on this Earth.

A great and welcome diversion has come to me through The Ballpark Book, thanks to my buddy Ron. Reading it is a balm (I assure you I am not trying to overstate the point) which I sorely needed. It's filled with talk about baseball and the classic stadia in which it was and is played. On that level I'm back to reading for enjoyment, and it feels good.

Yet I still want more of what I'll call here heavy reading, the thing which grants understanding yet draws us further towards Truth. Not your truth of my truth; that is no more than a frivolity which borders on hubris, but the Truth. It is there, you know. We can accept it or deny it, but there is no bluff to call, and we deny it at our peril.

In that search I find myself reading old issues of The Underground Grammarian, a delightful series which my friend Paul introduced me to eons ago. The Grammarian, one Dr. Richard Mitchell, speaks in ways which address the ethereal, the numinous, the Truth. I pulled that quote above from one his essays.

We can, if we wish, seek and find that truth. It isn't only for the philosophers but for us all. Don't leave happiness to them. Discover it for yourself.

Good Times I Remember?

I've noticed that as I get older, I reminisce. The old days actually come back to my mind with striking regularity.

Thinking back to my high school days, I remember that I was an awkward, shy, quiet teenager. 

I wonder how many other people miss those times?

Bad Law

The State of Washington has passed and the purported Catholic governor signed a law which would force priests to break the seal of Confession. Briefly put, Catholic priests cannot under any circumstances make public any person's confession. It is a basic right of the free practice of religion and religious conscience. The Federal Department of Justice is investigating it as a violation of the First Amendment.

Good. If ever there was an example of tyranny, this is it. You fear Trump? I fear the left in general, and government power in particular. The left wants what it wants, and reason let alone the Constitution be damned. 

Yet before we wag our fingers too harshly at our left wing friends we should remember that, in this case anyway, it isn't only they who wish to swing the cudgel of government power against religious rights. Delaware and Vermont (unsurprisingly to me) have had recent bills die in committee which would do the same thing, while the very Republican states of Montana and North Dakota have considered similar measures. Thankfully none of them passed. But it does show that liberals aren't necessarily alone. In North Dakota anyway, two of the sponsors of the proposed bill were in the GOP.

Any way you slice it, the Washington law is bad law no matter how good the intention; we seem too ready and able to forget about the road to perdition. We have a Constitution precisely that the citizenry may be protected from such disregard for individual rights. We must teach our friends to respect it.

And Toto Too

While waiting for an appointment in an office building one day I was pleased that the music being played over the speakers was decent. A song I hadn't heard in awhile, Hold The Line by the rock band Toto, came up. It was a hit when I was a senior in high school, and I always liked it. It's a great, hard driving, almost arena rock staple.

Then it becomes your ear worm.

All I heard the rest of the day was,

Hold the line!

Love isn't always on time, no, no, no,

Hold the li-i-i-ine!

Love isn't always on time whoa whoa wo-oh

I don't care how great of a song it might be, when something gets planted in your ear and you cannot shut it off, it gets old, and more quickly than you think.

I had not heard Hold The Line in several years. Right this minute, I hope it's several more.

And there it goes again.

Great Uncle Bill

Grandpa Joe once had an old Packard that he really liked. He also had an older brother whom he was close to, and one day the car and the brother came together in what even Joe admitted was a funny story.

His older brother was Uncle Bill. Joe thought enough of him that he named his first son, me Pops, after him. Uncle Bill was as quiet and reflective as Joe was loud and abrasive. But if you told Uncle Bill something you'd better mean it, because he would do it.

One day someone's car had slid off into a ditch, and Joe and Bill went with Grandpa's Packard to try to pull it out. They hooked up to the car, and Bill got in the driver's seat of the Packard because Joe thought he was better at things like pulling vehicles out of ditches. Uncle Bill revved the Packard up slowly, and gently tried to get into gear several times, with no luck moving the stuck car. Joe as was his wont become more impatient by the second, until he finally yelled, "Hell, rip the bumper off her!"

"I knew right after I said it I'd said it to the wrong guy," Grandpa admitted years later, retelling the tale with a laugh.

Uncle Bill's face drew into a huge grin. He raced that engine and dropped it into gear. The car leapt forward powerfully, as a 12 cylinder Packard should. And he ripped the bumper clean off.

As Joe readily admitted, "What could I say? I told him to do it."

He never did say exactly how they got the car out of the ditch though. But that really isn't the point of the story anyway, is it?

Under Pressure

I had a doctor's appointment this past week; got to get my money's worth out of Medicare, you know.

Everything is fine; I'm the picture of health, if that picture is hanging skin and gray hair. But I think my physician had had a bad commute or was mad at his wife or something.

He decided to check my blood pressure. Wrapping the cuff around my arm, he began pumping that little ball to air the thing up. It was getting tighter and tighter, yet he kept squeezing and squeezing on the tiny air pump.

Uh, Doc, that's starting to hurt. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

Seriously, man, my arm is really tingling below my elbow. Pump, pump, pump.

Honestly, Doctor, my arm is blue, no, purple. My arm is purple, Doc. Squeeze, squeeze.

"Doc!" I finally implored in panic.

"Oh, I am sorry!" He finally released the ball. "Oh dear, Mr. Cosgriff! Your blood pressure is 295 over 178!" 

I'm sure it's not, Doc. Try again, on my other arm. The bicep on my right arm is smaller than my index finger just now.

Peeping Marty

Peeps: the marshmallow sugar infused confection (I'm guessing confection as they don't really seem like candy) we love to hate whose eyes are never quite straight. That makes them cockeyed Peeps I guess. But when you got 'em you gotta eat 'em, right?

I just ate a package of five. They're not nearly so caloric as I would have expected. All five were only a total of 140 calories, so they haven't busted my diet. What I eat the rest of the day will see to that, believe me. But, again, ya got 'em, ya eat 'em.

What struck most was the best by date, though. The package was marked best by January...wait for it...2027. So I could have held out on them for not one but TWO Christmases from now, and they'd still be, well, I suppose, fresh.

Were they designed for bomb shelters? Do doomsday preppers stockpile them? One and half, no, better than one year and ten months from now they'd still be fresh. And that's really only the best by date we're talking about. How long would they be any good after that? 

Maybe Peeps are the new Spam. They made the first batch in 1937. They're making the second batch next year.

My apologies. I should have offered a trigger warning for an immanent Dad joke there.

Hero Worship

Most of us, many of us anyway, have heroes. My dad is my hero, I say with pride. But some people forget that even terms like hero can be used hyperbolically. And uncomfortably.

For example there's this plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who, no matter what he's getting at the Shop, tells me and me brother Phil, "You're my heroes." 

Um, thanks, but we're not. We simply sold you a cutting tool, dude.

It might not bother me so much in a more desperate situation. If Cloyce had burst into the old barn in a panic because his machine quit while he had a hundred and twenty feet of cable lodged in a drain and needed a repair fast and we were able to do that, I'd get the sudden exclamation, "You're my heroes!" But when he says 'you're my hero' for run of the mill stuff, well, it's borderline creepy to me. At least how he says it, that is.

Maybe that just Cloyce's way. Still, I actually shuddered while typing this blog out this morning.