No Sentiment There

I surely am sentimental. There are more than enough times when I think of my kids growing up, and become wistful. Then there are the times I walk into Wal-Mart in August and the sentiment ebbs, a least momentarily.

Last week I found myself heading into a Wal-Mart for a few things, to be inundated with back to school sales the instant I was in the door. Rows and rows of notebooks, pencils, lunchboxes, backpacks, crayons, erasers, and countless other ephemera which the school people deem of critical importance to education stared towards me.

They beckoned pointlessly, no siren calling this old boy. Those August days I do not miss one iota. I have absolutely no sentimentality for back to school sales. The thought of dashing off to battle the other parents at Meijer because college ruled notebooks are available for ten cents each, but only until Midnight, holds no pining for the old days from yours truly. 

I shook my head sadly, and with true compassion, at the young mothers and fathers dealing with it that day. I grabbed the few things I needed right quick and nearly danced through the checkout line, happily leaving backpack choices to picky 8 year olds and exasperated parents. Maybe I ought to feel more sorry for them. I could tell by the occasional glance that I was envied. I didn't mind one bit.

The no sales clause

I came in yesterday at lunch with tuna salad. You know, a mix of tuna, mayo, relish, onions, celery and the like, all in a blob (that sounds so appetizing, doesn't it?) which you can put on bread for a sandwich, eat on a bed of lettuce, or dip crackers in for your easy lunchtime enjoyment. I told everyone, "I bought tuna salad, but I'm not selling it to you. I'm only telling you it's there if you want any."

I said it that way on purpose. Joe Cosgriff used to say it just that way.

Me Grandma Cosgriff, Lord love her, used to pry her guests with cookies and candies, coffee and snacks and so forth, as they would sit visiting. And Joe would invariably bark, displaying his classic impatience, "Don't sell them on it! It's there if they want it." And he meant it in two ways. Don't make guests feel obliged, but also that they were welcome to whatever he or she had just the same.

Somewhat conversely though, if you and he were the only two sitting at the kitchen table, he would roll out a litany of what was available. There's coffee, milk's in the fridge, and there's cookies in the jar and there's some hard candy in a bowl and even sandwich fixins if you care for it. "But I'm not sellin' ya on it. It's there if you want," he would add at the end.

What exactly the difference was between how he put it and me Grams did, I'm not sure. Yet I did and do agree with his final point. Be a good host. Just don't sell it.

A Grave Matter

Today is me Grandpa Joe's birthday. He would have been 120. Sure, that would not be a likely age for him to have made. But I can imagine the hell he would have raised if he had.

He passed away August 27, 1991, just shy of 86, so we buried him pretty close to his birthday. He smoked heavy from his teens (his doctor at the end remarked that his lungs were probably like leather). No doubt some tobacco farmer lived the high life because of Joe. 

I remember him smoking Carltons. It's a silly thing to be sentimental over but I can still see clearly those red packages they came in, and him opening a fresh one on his front porch, tearing the cellophane off with a carpet knife because that's what he did when something didn't open readily enough. Which, for his purposes, they typically would not. 

He went home in style. Me Pops rented a large black Chevy Suburban and drove Joe back to Jacksonville, Illinois for internment. Joe always promised himself he was going to buy one new car before he died. He never did, but his last trip was in one. I wonder if perhaps that was me Pops' salute to his old man.

Down at the funeral home in Jacksonville I remember me and me cousin Art were standing by the casket. One or the other of us said, "This ain't right."

"What?" the other asked.

"He can't leave this world without a pack of cigarettes."

"I'll get the smokes, you get the lighter," I said. Off we were to find a store. I bought a pack of Carltons for the first and only time in my life. Art got the lighter, a real nice one as befit the moment. The undertaker solemnly placed both in the vest pocket of Joe's suit.

A little while later we were talking to an uncle, telling him what we'd done. "I don't know that that was a good idea," Uncle remarked. "What if that butane mixes with the gases of the body decomposing? It might cause an explosion."

Hell, Joe would have loved that! The sight of dirt spraying up as the headstone fell over backward would be an absolute classic for him. And I can't help imagining me Grandma Cosgriff lying next to him, shaking her head and tsk tsking. She had to do that often enough in life, and now two of her grandkids go and give Joe one more reason to annoy her. Everyone else in the cemetery would be thinking, 'That's just Joe'. Grandpa would simply be cackling in the way he always did when he found something funny, a gutteral haw haw haw laugh as if it were being forced out of his body.

Happy Birthday Joe. I know you're still rooting for that explosion.

700 Curling Clubs

Camille Villaneuve, and I hope I've spelled his name correctly, was a French Canadian from Chicoutimi, Quebec. I only met him once and that over twenty years ago now. But he was a cool guy.

He was kind, soft spoken, and earnest. In manners and appearance he made me think of me Grandpaw Hutchins. His claim to fame was that he was trying to set a record for having curled in the most curling clubs in the United States and Canada.

One Sunday he arrived at the Roseland Curling Club in Windsor, Ontario right before our regular league play and asked to get into a game. Of course we accommodated him. We would have done it regardless, but after hearing his story there was no way we could have said no.

He was if memory serves me at 274 curling clubs then, so his game with us made 275. He carried a neat display case which contained pins from everywhere he had been (curlers are great for having their emblems emblazoned on pins). Needless to say, we gave him one from Roseland. 

It was sublime to kind of, sort of curl with me Grandpaw Hutchins, even though he himself likely never heard of curling. Camille curled very well too, winning his game as a skip. Upon hearing he intended to sleep in his van in the club parking lot that cold winter night I tried every way in the world to convince him to cross the border and spend the night with my family in Detroit. I would have loved that. Yet he insisted he'd be fine, and you reach a point where you just stop pressing simply not offend his honor. He'd clearly done it before and was quite happy with the arrangements.

Mr. Villaneuve's ultimate goal was to play in 700 clubs. I found an article online which said he hit 701 in 2018. I was glad to see that. He was still throwing them stones at 92 years old, God bless him. I hope he's still curling.

Blind Clock

Hey Zeke (that's me Uncle John) what would we call it? Blind Squirrel? Stopped Clock? Lightning can strike twice? I'm sure one applies. But yesterday in my golf league I scored the second birdie of my life.

It was on the 10th hole (we played the back nine) a par 3, and was as close to the pin as I've ever been off the tee, about two feet. I was below the hole, so putting uphill meant I could strike the ball more firmly, and the lie was straight as a tack. Boom! The sound of a golf ball dropping into the cup is almost as satisfying as hitting a baseball. First birdie since you and I played Dearborn Hills back in 1990.

You were the first person I thought of when I drained that putt. I even looked up to the sky as I pumped my fist. I still have the ball and the scorecard you signed from the first birdie. I set aside the second birdie ball so that that first one would have company.

This one's for you, Uncle John. I miss golfing with ya.  

Roastin' Ears

I don't believe that I've spoken much about me Grandmaw Hutchins. Let's rectify that situation, if you don't mind.

She confused my brother Patrick one day without meaning to. She instructed him to go out to the fields with his grandfather, obviously me Grandpaw Hutchins, and pick some roastin' ears for supper. "Roastin' ears?" a confused Patrick asked. "Yes, roastin' ears," she impatiently replied. Then realizing his confusion she added, "Corn."

"Oh yeah, corn," Patrick responded. He went away repeating questioningly under his breath, "Roastin' ears?"

Grandmaw burst out laughing. "He didn't know what roastin' ears was!" she exclaimed delightedly.

I laughed with her, not wanting to admit that a city boy like me didn't know either. But man, that bit of confusion sure tickled Grandmaw.

Burnin' Gas

This is going to be one of those entries which probably isn't as funny as I think it is, especially as I didn't witness the joke. Still, I'll give it the old college try. After all, I did graduate from an old college.

I went to work early this morning to get a machine done for a fella who wanted it five days from yesterday (let's see how quick he actually gets to the Shop for it) and as I was leaving to come home for a bit the guy across the alley was trying to get his old van started. This he managed, but boy, was that thing burning gas. You could smell it, strong and engulfing the air all around. It was an odor I hadn't come across in years. Since back when we had a couple hundred old Hobart welders in fact. The smell of a motor burning too much gas is one you remember.

Anyway, it reminded me of a time when old Amos Sheffield was working for me Grandpa Joe. Joe sent Amos out to pick up a gas drive, a welder powered by a gasoline engine. When Amos got to the job site he himself smelled that smell. He knew the Hobart would need work once back at the old barn.

The foreman sauntered over to Amos as he hitched up the machine to his vehicle (a car, because Joe at the time didn't believe in pickup trucks) and remarked, "The old girl worked pretty well, but it sure was burnin' gas."

"What?" Amos asked incredulously. "You got one of our machines to burn gas? How'd you manage that? I gotta let Joe know about it. I can't believe you made one of our welders burn gas," and on and on, as me Pops would tell it, until the foreman finally smiled and said "Get outta here," and went about his business.

Yeah, probably not that funny a story. But Pops liked it.

Gambling Cloyce

One of our old drain snake repair customers, a particularly tight character who I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, had cheap ways which went beyond drain snake repair.

He himself admitted to me Pops that he couldn't let his own wife go shopping on her own. "Oh, Bill, she'd spend a nickel too much on soap powder (non-liquid laundry detergent to those too young to know what soap powder is) if I wasn't right there to watch her," he explained one day to the old man. Granted, a nickel meant more in 1968; you could still get nickel Hershey bars then for example, even though those paled next to the nickel chocolate bars of thirty years before that. 

Pops just shook his head at the admission.

Yet despite how hard he squeezed the dollar legend had it that old Cloyce could be known to go nuts with his money in one place: a carnival. We never heard it from Cloyce of course but from other plumbers who knew him. Several such common acquaintances told me Pops that Cloyce would actually spend wildly at fairs on games of chance. He could not get enough of the wheel of fortune, apparently.

"Big Six wheels would have Cloyce all starry-eyed," said one drain cleaner. "He'd keep betting quarters until his old lady fetched him home," another told Dad. Bet that cost him a lot of soap powders, thought me Pops to himself. 

I guess we all have our devils. Cloyce apparently had two. 

Adventure on M-33

My newer older van has gone to newer older van Heaven. Her transmission gave out as I was on my home from Hessel in Michigan's Glorious Upper Peninsula. Though the gas mileage was atrocious I loved driving that thing. 

I managed to get the van to a gas station, engine screeching as she tried to hold sixty, then forty, then thirty miles an hour before I was able to park her over to the side at a Marathon near Alger, Michigan. Taking my membership card from my wallet (I would burn my one free two hundred mile tow per year getting the car home) the first issue was getting AAA to understand where I sat. I didn't think 'a Marathon gas station at 2320 state route M-33 about a mile north of exit 212 of Interstate 75' would be that hard to understand. Indeed I thought it was quite precise. Yet the operator for some reason couldn't seem to grasp it. Yet I finally got through to her and was assured a truck would be there in about 45 minutes.

That's not bad, but I didn't completely trust AAA under the circumstances. I did a web search on my cell phone (imagine that, Grandpa Joe: calling road service from a phone in your car on something like the Internet...not that you would have. You would have rang one of us to come tow you just the same) and quickly found a nearby company. "You're Charles Cosgriff? An order just came in to us from AAA for you," I was told. "We'll be there shortly." Oh. Cool beans.

And they were. The newer older van was soon on the back of a flatbed tow truck and we were on our way.

As were neared Bay City, the driver received a call that the company had a pickup in Oscoda for towing to Warren, just above Detroit. Could he meet that wrecker and take both vehicles to the Detroit area? Yes he could; we pulled into a parking lot just off the freeway and waited. I can't say I wasn't disappointed with the delay, but I get it. Why should two drivers have to make a long tow when one was already headed the same direction?

The Oscoda truck was actually there very quickly (he was already en route to the D), gave us his tow, and headed back. It turns out he left too soon: the hydraulics went out on the truck I was with. He couldn't load the Oscoda car. The company sent another truck...who was unable to take two cars at once. Why even send him? Hell if I know. 

So a third tow truck was hailed. The drivers worried that they might not be able to easily get my newer older van off the original truck, what with the hydraulics out. Great. 

But somehow, and quite impressively to my small mind, they determined they could back one tow truck against the other and roll my newer older van from the hydraulic less vehicle onto the third truck's bed. Further adversity was saved!

And so fortunately was further adventure. About two and half hours later I was home, my newer older van parked for the last time next to my house (I had things to unload, and I think I can force her the quarter mile to a nearby junk yard on Monday or Tuesday). Still, I'm genuinely sad. The newer older van was very good to me. I'm gonna miss her.

Do Tell

Boy, do I have a story to tell you. It's one interesting, frustrating tale. And I will tell it to you. Tomorrow.

This is what we writers call a 'tease', a blatant attempt to stir curiosity so that you return later. Tune in tomorrow and we'll find out if my cast spell has worked.

It Happens Every Time

One of the nice things about being in Hessel in Michigan's Glorious Upper Peninsula is that on clear nights and early mornings (and no full moon) you can see a lot of stars. As I was up at 3:30 this morning, I stood in the back yard and admired just such a sight. Life is good.

Yet the donuts have to be made. I needed to get packed for my return to the D after a short UP jaunt. As I pottered around I remembered that I have a find the Space Station app on my cell phone. I uploaded it several months before expressly to try to spot the space station one night as I was up north, away from the city's glare, and promptly forgot I had done it. So I took a moment and opened it. Well, whaddaya know? It was to pass over Hessel at 5:07 AM, well before daylight in these parts at this time of year. I was actually putting the app to use. 

Just after five I set my task aside and marched through the back door. The skies had clouded over since I had been outside the 90 or so minutes before. 

Well, I hope to spend one more long weekend up here at the end of September or beginning of October anyway, the good Lord willing and the Creek don't rise. We'll see what happens then.

 

Doctor Marty

Believe me, you do not want Marty as your kindly old MD. Even I will admit that. For starters, I doubt I'd I'd be all that kindly. Then there's fact that I don't care for blood, which might just make being a doctor a tad difficult. But perhaps I could be mistaken for one.

I did actually play a doctor in the background of the movie Little Murder which was filmed in my neighborhood back in 2009. I was in two blink and you miss them scenes but I was in there, lab coat and all. So there's that. I could believably be mistaken for a doctor. In fact I was once mistaken for a doctor. Or more precisely, the doctor was mistaken for me.

Me Uncle Frank who lived up in Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula had to have surgery. He told me that as he was coming out of surgery and still very groggy, a doctor came over to speak to him. He thought that the doctor was me. All the while he was answering the surgeon's questions Uncle Frank said he was thinking things like, "Marty's not a doctor," or "Marty's not here, he's in Detroit," and the like. A funny story, in a cutesy kind of way. I assured him it could not have been have been me, for the reasons he cited plus one other. "What's that?" he demanded to know.

"You survived the surgery," I replied with a laugh. 

You know what? When he told the story the next time he added that reason to his list.

Pistachios

Pistachios have become quite a favorite snack of mine. I first tried them several years ago while staying with my son and daughter in law for a few days. I liked them so much that I was a bad guest, eating so many of theirs that one day during the visit I slipped out to the store and replaced them with a fresh bag. Then in remarking how much I liked them, my unknowing daughter in law insisted I take the replacement bag home with me. So I did. Ain't I a stinker?

Lately my doctor has recommended them as a source of dietary fiber, which he suggested in that way only doctors can, the heavy undercurrent being well if you don't want to die a horrible, avoidable death then do as I say. In this case he did not have to sell the idea quite so hard.

You can buy pistachios shelled or unshelled, just like peanuts. Lazy Marty likes them shelled, because he can take a handful and pop then in his mouth all at once. Frugal, vaguely (only vaguely) health conscious Marty likes them shelled. They're cheaper, and they make me eat one at a time. Indeed I enjoy the taste more that way. And I eat fewer because one does tire of dealing with the shells.

I've had pistachio custard (very good) and keep a keen eye out for spumoni ice cream. Spumoni is a variation on Neapolitan but with chocolate, cherry and pistachio rather than chocolate, vanilla, and the strawberry which no one eats. 

Pistachios. Recommended by the Marty Council on good eats.

Double Meanings

We all know that there are things we say which have double meanings. No, not those meanings. Quiet, Ron.

The other day at the old barn I told my brother that so-and-so could have his order because he's paid for. "He's paid for?" Phil demanded. No, the stuff is paid for; my bad grammar is just bad grammar.

Last week as we were driving to Electric Eel to pick up some stuff I told that same brother of mine that "We'll get loaded, then we'll go into the office and sign our paperwork."

"You want to get loaded before we get to the plant?" he asked, shock on his face.

See what I have to put up with? 

Green Kicks

Is there such a thing as a second childhood? I'm beginning to think yes.

For about ten years, from my middle teens until I was 24 or 25, I had a pair of green tennis shoes which I loved. I wore them until I absolutely had to get rid of them. Me Aunt Carol actually made a portrait of frayed green shoes and gave it to me. I need to find that.

A couple of weeks ago I was in WalMart, just moseying around the store. In the shoe aisle I discovered green sneakers very much like that old pair from way back when. Did they have my size? Yes! So of course I bought a pair.

Now I have green kicks almost exactly like the ones from my teen years. I feel really, really happy about it.

Second childhood? Well, if the shoe fits...

Lilac, not Lavender

We all daydream don't we? Dream home, dream vacation, dream trip; we all think those things eh? For some it's a dream car. My dream car is a 1967 Cadillac. A lilac one, because I will not call it lavender.

Me Grandpa Joe had one like that. The last car with tail fins, modest though they were. I have no idea where he got that Caddy, but I know he had it painted lilac because there was a sale at the car paint place.

I remember well the day we discovered Joe had it. We got back home from visiting Mom's folks in North Carolina and me Pops pulled up to park right behind that Caddy as we got home. "I wonder who's purple Cadillac that is?" He wondered aloud.

 He should have known.

That car became my delivery car. Joe being Joe, he had a hitch put on that thing for delivering Hobart welders. He put it in the fleet. And ol' Marty got to deliver them welders with it. Proudly, if in retrospect.

That was the car I drove through four feet of water in Milan. I'd link you to that blog but I'm feeling lazy just now.

A friend of Joe's joked that he once saw a line of welders a mile long bein'  pulled by a big purple Caddy. It was that Caddy.

And that's my dream car. A lilac '67 Caddy with modest tail fins. And maybe an old Hobart welder to tow behind it.

The Assumption of Mary

Today in the Catholic Church is the Feast of the Assumption of Mary. The Mother of Christ was taken, that is, assumed, straight into Heaven at death.

We should honor Mary deeply and devoutly. She is after all the mother of Christ, the Son of God. Some part of her is found in Christ Himself, wouldn't you think? I mean, God does not violate biology. So too as Christ is our Brother, Mary is really and truly our Mother.

Conservatives, and perhaps especially conservative Christians, are unfairly said to denigrate women. Yet here is an example of a woman being exalted above every man who ever was save Christ Himself. Mary is the greatest single Creation there is, has, and ever will be. She should be venerated above any man.

If there's a greater respect for women, I simply cannot imagine what it might be.

Everything Has Limits

One of the major arguments which atheists make against God is that if He's all powerful, why isn't everything perfect? Why do we have a world with evil and a Universe where bad things can happen? Why can't we all have been made perfect and suffer no trials? It sounds compelling. Yet it isn't really a strong argument.

All powerful only means that God can do anything which it is possible to do, not that He can do absolutely anything. Catholic theology teaches that God cannot do what is intrinsically contradictory, for example. He can't make a rock so large that He can't lift it.

Now, He has made us humans both self aware and with free will. Could He have made us any other way? I'm inclined to argue no. What's the point of self awareness and freedom in an automaton, a robot? Is it even possible for there to be such creatures? Could they actually appreciate anything and thus have meaning in their lives? If their only option is to be exactly what they were made to be, no more and no less, could they actually find value in the world around them? Could they see value in themselves and their works? Machines may work very well, but do not realize much less appreciate what they do. I don't see how we could not be created self aware beings.

We are then faced with free will, which strikes me a necessary facet of self awareness. If you can't be free to choose is it possible to really appreciate anything? This means we can do as we please, left to ourselves. It must further mean that those who choose to do evil will exist. Evil, then, will happen and all the bad results along with it, not because God wants it, but that free will demands consequence, that our bad actions must reach their conclusion (and our good works as well). Otherwise, choice is sterile.

So, can it be any other way? Could God have created a perfect world? It is hard for me to say yes.

Pulsating Humor

My pulse has always been low. As a matter of fact, it was 46 at my last checkup in June. My doctor isn't particularly worried, yet as with so many other things as we age he wants to 'keep an eye on it'. "So when do we start to get concerned?" I asked my MD.

"If it gets to 40 or less."

"Ah," I responded, "At that point we have to 'pump' my heart up?"

The doctor stared at me for a couple of seconds, then blinked once and said, "I have other patients to see, Mr. Cosgriff."

Hey, come on. It's clever.

The Old Ball Game

I think sometimes that I could go without sports entirely. Baseball is my favorite and the Detroit Tigers my team, and they're doing very well. Yet I've become content not watching or listening, just catching the scores the next day. In short, I generally feel I don't really miss even baseball.

Then I go to the ballpark. And it all comes back.

I was in Newark, Ohio last weekend visiting the famous Ohio Cosgriffs. We drove into Columbus to see the AAA Clippers, as we've done before. Waking through the gate, seeing the diamond, the deep green grass, being with family and seeing the other families and fans, the aromas, hearing the crack of the bat, watching the great plays (this particular game ended with a great diving catch by the Columbus center fielder to save a 2-1 Clippers win, with the tying run on third and the lead one on first and both likely to score without that play), and getting the Clippers replica jerseys which were being given away that night (we were stylin' I tell ya, the four of us in matching outfits); it all came back, why I love baseball.

I can't wait for the next game.

A Blank Slate

I still buy the Sunday paper. Well, most Sundays at least. Today was not an exception.

After taking my morning walk I grabbed a paper, made a cup of coffee, and sat down to enjoy the ritual. I finished the comics (always read the comics first; it establishes a good mood) and looked over page one. With a sip of coffee I opened section A to continue the story I was reading.

Page two was completely blank. So was page three. Something obviously went wrong in the printing process.

Well, I thought, with a philosophic air, 'No news is good news'.

Just trying to start your week with a bit of levity, dear readers. But the pages were blank as I said.

Don't Ask Me

Now, before I start I want to establish that I'm not talking about innocuous questions such as what color to paint a room or what I think about an outfit or a sport or a book. Those are generally matters of taste and I'm happy to leave them at that. But with regard to The Great Questions, questions about how to act or what to do in serious situations, that's what I'm addressing here.

Far too many folks these days begin a presumably serious, introspective discussion with something like, "Be honest, because there's no right or wrong answer."

Here's my painfully honest and arguably harsh response. 

Don't bother me with the damn question then. If you aren't trying to find out what's really, truly, actually right or really, truly, hideously wrong with a venture or outlook then we ain't got nothing to talk about. If there really is no 'wrong' answer then it don't matter what we do. And if there is a right answer, the statement is hypocritical nonsense, if not downright Orwellian, dangerous to our growth and well being as persons. It's as simple as that.

People wonder what's wrong with the world. I can tell you that readily. It comes from answering serious and necessary questions as though there's no right or wrong answer.

Nickels and Quarters

Me Grandpa Joe was always proud of his willingness to work. Sometimes this led to impressive results; sometimes to the unusual; sometimes to the funny.

He never went more than two weeks without a job even during the Great Depression. That's considering he would quit a job when jobs were scarce. Why work for someone or something you didn't like, he reasoned. There's truth to that.

Once he and a buddy found themselves working long hours. They decided, in friendly rivalry, to see how long they actually could work (this was before rules and laws forbade such things). The two of them concurrently pulled 61 hour shifts, which only ended when the foreman ordered, "You're both crazy. Get the hell outta here!"

Joe took a new job once while he was already employed; it paid twenty five cents an hour (significant at that time) more than the one he held. While getting his gear together his suddenly former employer begged him to stay, ending his plea with an incredulous, "So you'd leave me for a quarter an hour?"

"Hell, I'd leave ya for a nickel an hour," Joe said simply as he left.

I don't know about you, but I admire the man.

Weekly Disorder

Today is, what, Thursday? Thursday, correct? So tomorrow is Friday. The day after Thursday is Friday, am I right? And Wednesday precedes Thursday, for that matter. I have my facts straight, then?

Then why, dear customer who did it, were you calling me on Wednesday to see if the repair I promised you for Friday was ready?

"I'm not rushing you Cosgriff. I'm just checking." Uh-huh.

Look, if I promise you Friday it will be ready on Friday, the good Lord willing and the creek don't rise. If however you call on Friday and I have indeed forgotten or somehow not delivered on my promise, we'll deal with that then and with my sincere apologies. But until then, please remember that Friday is after Thursday, which comes after Wednesday. Understand?

How To Read This Blog

I don't know whether to laugh, although that seems the best response. The very fact that it exists suggests all sorts of jokes, because it sounds like the start of a comedy skit, something along the lines of The Argument Clinic. I simply can't wrap my head around the idea. Can there actually be such literary supplements?

Whelp, in this great narcissistic age we live in, indeed there can. While trolling around Amazon this morning I found a book on how to use self help books properly. I am not making this up. Here it is.

Now, I want to stress that I do not mean in any way, shape, or form to disparage anyone seriously in need of help in overcoming any given problem. But how to read self help books effectively? Shouldn't the self help book itself guide you on whatever manner you need aid? Certainly no author genuinely interested in helping someone work through an issue presented it with, "Here now, in trying to help you effectively solve a problem I've written a book on how to overcome it. You won't be able to understand or implement any of its ideas or basic concepts, but there you are." Why wouldn't a self help book strive to be anything except helpful on its own terms?

To be fair, I have not read the book. There's at least one other on the subject too. But I stopped searching after that. Some things I'm not sure I want to know the answer. 

First and Foremost

For years I tried, never successfully. I planned, I resolved, I did everything within my power to make it happen. Triumph was elusive. The day came when I simply assumed it wasn't in the cards. It wasn't meant to be. Then, out of the blue and totally unexpected, it happened.

I was the first voter in my precinct on Election Day today, a primary election here in Michigan.

During my usual morning walk I figured I'd vote before opening the Shop. It would be easy enough as the polling place is literally across the street. So at the end of my daily constitutional (I have to slip a political reference in on an election day, you know) I went over to vote. And I was number one, numero uno.

Perhaps not trying is the secret of success.

The Discard Pile

It's important to have a sense of humor in life. It eases a lot of stress.

Last month, while in Hessel in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, I stopped in at the local library. They were holding a used book sale, obviously as a fund raiser but also, I'm sure, to clear the shelves for new wares. Lo and behold, and to my delight, I found a copy of my novel David Gideon. My initial thought was, how cool! The Les Cheneaux Public Library had bought a copy. My very next thought was, and it's in the discard pile.

It was a chuckle worthy incident with a strand of humility tossed in. Isn't that where most all books will end their lives, cast off for the brightest and newest? I did have a laugh at myself over it. And after all, what should I expect? My writing simply isn't going to be everyone's cup of tea.

I nearly bought it. Then it occurred to me that a sale to a (hopefully) impressed reader might lead to other sales of my other books. So I grabbed a pen, signed the inside cover "I hope you enjoy my book! Marty Cosgriff." and slid it right back in place. We'll see what happens.

Tiring

It's all so tiring, life, isn't it? Everything in politics is a catastastroke, to use the term me me Grandpa Joe invented Sports are analyzed to death. I just want to see a batting average or win-loss record, that's all. The future is bright but might be dim, depending on who's doing the talking. And in all three cases, there's a wave of detail rolling over you from the ocean of media available.

I understand details, if something's your specialty. But part of the trouble with the world is the constant barrage of them, and from all sides. It's really too much. I'm not sure anyone can get it all down pat.

I wonder if that's the point. I remember a shop foreman I saw frequently when I was delivering me Grandpa Joe's welders. A big sign in his office proclaimed, 'If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull'. Don't worry about actually making sense. Overwhelm the masses with too much information to readily comprehend, even if it's nonsense. When that doesn't work, well, create a new wave.

Maybe the best thing to do is ignore it all and act on common sense. I think so. And yes, it exists. The rolling tide hasn't erased basic right and wrong from the chalkboard. It certainly doesn't keep us from understanding hits divided by at bats.

Woodbridge Fishmonger

I know it still happens to a degree - Schwan's comes to mind, and I suppose ice cream trucks count - but it seems to me that there used to be a lot more neighborhood door to door food vendors. Twin Pines milk and dairy products used to ply their wares when I was a boy. I'm not sure Twin Pines even exists anymore.

I remember a fishmonger who used to come around regularly. Man, he had a voice; you could hear him blocks away. "Fer-esh, fish, fish, fish, fish, fish," he'd yell. "Fer-esh, fish, fish, fish, fish, fish." It was a booming tenor, I tell you. I hear it like yesterday.

Eventually I'd look up and there he'd be, bounding down the street with a bounty of freshly caught fish hanging by his side. Me Mom never bought any as I recall, but he must have done all right for himself. He came around for years.

That's it. That's my boyhood memory for today. I remember the fishmonger.

Roundabout

One of my kids, I'll call them Cloyce just to give them a name, came home from kindergarten one day all excited about a severe. The teacher had demonstrated severes in class.

I didn't understand what Cloyce was talking about; it had been a long time since I was in kindergarten. I asked for an explanation.

"You know, a severe."

"I can't picture it, Cloyce, sorry."

Cloyce ran and grabbed a small globe of the Earth from the bedroom. "Something round like this. A severe."

Ah, a sphere. Cloyce either wasn't enunciating quite right, or my hearing wasn't picking it up.