Weekend Warriors

Yesterday I spoke of the one Friday - and it was only one, I swear! - where we refused to answer the phone after 3:30. There was a reason for that, beyond the obvious ones. Me Uncle John who we call Zeke summed it up well: nothing good ever happens after 4 o'clock on Friday. That's when the Weekend Warriors come out of the woodwork.

Now, I'm not against anyone having additional income streams. Indeed most of my adult life I've worked a second job trying to make ends meet. Further, this was much more of a problem when we still rented welding equipment. Welders were much more difficult to deal with than drain snakes, for reasons I will not bore you about. My blogs can bore you well enough without added exposition, although I do readily offer that service. You're welcome.

Anyway, there were guys who we only heard from late on Fridays, and to a tee they were all nuisances. One would order a welder delivered through rush hour traffic an hour away, and want the driver to wait while he did a 15 minute weld which typically extended to 45. Another would actually bring his work to the old barn, pay Joe for use of a machine right then and there only to take two hours for a 'quick' job, leaving at least one of us to close at 7 or 7:30. A third would have a simple request: take a welder to an industrial site in the wee hours of a Sunday morning for a day job, and ask us to pick it up late, all too often very late, on that same day. And so on and so forth.

We would do it, because that's how we did it forty, fifty, and sixty years ago. It would all start with a phone call after 4 on a Friday. We will not do that anymore. Thankfully, I will add. Although I do put in enough hours on weekends myself, I at least don't affect anyone else doing it.

Dial a Joke

It was at the end of a long, difficult week at the old barn. We sat around the coffee pot, me, me Pops, and me brother Phil as the clock hit 3:30, debating whether to wish the week sayonara and close early. We compromised. We'd stay at the Shop until 5 but would not answer the phone.

Those were the days before cell phones. We did not have an answering machine at work because we always, and I mean always before that point, answered the phone. That was to be the first time we would consciously ignore it. Honest.

Somewhere around 4 the phone began to ring. True to our vow the three of us sat in our chairs, sipping coffee and engaging in small talk. We let it ring.

And boy did it ring. If I had to guess I would say a couple of hundred times. Indeed, maybe several hundred. It went on for a good 15 minutes. Likely more. Eventually we were alternately laughing and then shaking heads at the caller's persistence. He was as determined to get an answer as we were not to provide one. "Can you imagine what the guy must be thinking? Man, Cosgriff gotta be busy not to answer their phone!" 

The thing is, no one ever owned up to the call. But it finally gave up the ghost and we finished our Friday in by then glorious quiet.

Grandpaw Hutchins' coffee

Grandpaw Hutchins liked his coffee strong. So strong in fact that he thought instant coffee one of the greatest innovations ever, because he could brew a strong pot of Maxwell House and then add a teaspoon of instant granules to his cup to give it that much more horsepower. He must have drank two, three pots of coffee a day: no lie. He also was a quiet man who rarely if ever raised his voice. He let his actions speak for him. One day coffee, his manner, and Grandmaw Hutchins' will all came together in a profound, sublime way.

It was one of those typically hot, sticky North Carolina summer days which are well known in the south. At the time, though, all they had for cooking was a wood stove. Keeping that stove going on such days made the kitchen, indeed the whole house, tremendously uncomfortable and nearly unbearable. Finally Grandmaw had had enough of it. When breakfast was over, she announced that from that day forward until the weather began to cool, the stove also would be allowed to cool during the day. When the breakfast embers died, the stove would not be fired up again until it was time to make supper.

Grandpaw didn't say a thing. He simply slid back from the table, grabbed his hat, and walked out the front door. About an hour later he returned with an electric hot plate. He had walked the mile to the nearest general store (he didn't drive), bought that hot plate, and came home.

You see, a cool stove meant no hot coffee. He couldn't have that. Yet demanding the stove be kept burning against Grandmaw's orders, well, that wouldn't work either. So he improvised a conclusion which was satisfactory for all.

I think he handled the situation just right. Don't you?

Feeling Bad For Cloyce

I'm in sales, and I like sales. I particularly like to make big sales. Well, most of time, anyways. Sometimes a good sale does make me feel bad though, believe it or not.

There's this drain cleaner who comes into the old barn, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who's a genuine, purely nice guy. Indeed you can't help but like him, he's so nice. But he's had a run of awful luck lately.

A couple of weeks ago Cloyce lost nine cables in a bad sewer; the homeowner didn't have the money to dig the line up for repair. The cables Cloyce uses are $65 each. We can all say ouch at that, can't we?

A few weeks back in a flood, his power unit was covered in water for several hours. There's another two grand to replace that.

Last Friday morning Cloyce needed another eight cables, again, remember, at sixty five bucks a pop, after someone did not tell him a line they knew was broken was broken.

Suffice it say that I've made a few dollars off Cloyce recently. Yet I honestly feel bad about it. All right, yes, I took his money. Still, I do hope his, ah, fortune improves soon.

Morning Vittles

There were two things in particular which I loved to hear me Grandpa Joe say and they were both associated with working for him. They were, "Let's get that coffee," and, "Let's get them vittles," whenever he decided it was time for a break.

It struck me even back then that his words sounded almost as though we had to hunt them, had to track them down, as if the coffee pot didn't just sit there on a table by the office or that the snacks weren't right alongside it. The vittles were the snacks which he always had me or me Pops or me Uncle John buy for the morning coffee break. Joe paid for them; I think he genuinely liked treating us, but I don't doubt at all he looked forward to them too.

Vittles were the height of the workday for a young boy like me. There were always single serve and two for everyone, an assortment of cupcakes, pies, donuts, and cinnamon rolls. I hoped every morning for a Hostess French Apple pie, which was really only their apple pie with raisins added, but it seemed significantly different. Joe and Pops and me and whomever else was there would lay into them vittles like we hadn't ate in days.

Uncle John rarely did, and I don't know why. He would buy a paper and sit nearby reading it as the rest of us fell into sugar induced stupors. At times I wondered if something was wrong with him, but that was surely the kid in me thinking such stuff.

It was 15, maybe 20 minutes of the day. But man, I miss gettin' them vittles.

Word Gets Around

Up until yesterday, I was pretty certain I would not be curling this coming year (the curling season runs roughly late October to early April). We lost our ice in Windsor, Ontario where I had been throwing stones and I didn't think I had options elsewhere. 

Yet the curling fraternity runs deep and strong. Word gets around about who is doing what as a new year at the rink approaches. Three guys looking for a skip on a Thursday league at the Detroit Curling Club discovered I was available and signed me up. It's nice to be wanted. I really can't say how much I appreciate the invite to play. It makes a fella both happy and humble. 

I was mentally prepared for my curling career to be over but now can go on for another year. We'll see how much they appreciate - or regret - their decision soon enough!

Pops Strikes Joe

I've mentioned many times that me Grandpa Joe rented welding equipment and that me Pops worked for him. I don't believe that I've talked about how Pops was a Teamster. Joe paid for Dad to be union because many sites in the fifties, sixties, and seventies wanted only union workers on the job. It had further advantages for Pops and Joe too. It gave Dad health insurance, something well needed for a man with a wife and 7 kids, and a pension of sorts. I say of sorts because I don't believe the Teamsters did Pops justice on that count, but that's another story.

Anyway, for a long time every three years there was a new contract. I remember a couple of times as young teen toiling at the old barn, the Teamsters business agent would come by the Shop with the master contract to 'negotiate' it with Grandpa Joe. You know, to discuss if there were any particulars peculiar to Dad's job which the master contract either didn't touch or was vague about. For Joe and the agent I think it was simply a reason to kill an hour as they usually just looked over a few points and then shot the breeze; even Pops would join in here and there, just talking. There was never a problem of course.

But what great fun there could have been if there had been issues. Can you imagine the business agent ordering William Cosgriff to go on strike against Joe? Could you see me old Pops walking a one man picket line outside the old barn, 'Joe Cosgriff UNFAIR!' being proclaimed from the sign he'd carry. Or maybe Dad chanting between himself, 'What do I want? FAIR WAGES! When do I want them? NOW!' We could have even gotten him an old oil drum to light a fire to warm himself if it were winter.

And what about poor me? Do I cross the picket line to work for the man who was paying me, or respect my father and stay home in sympathy? Oh, it would have been the latter, but, sadly, out of a reason to be lazy rather than support a strike, all under the guise of supporting me Dad. What could be better?

It never would have happened. Yet, the possibilities and images make me chuckle.

So Kind of You

Labor Day weekend saw me and my sons in Philadelphia watching the Phillies, followed by sightseeing the next day. Naturally, knowing the kinds of cars I drive (me Grandpa Joe would be proud) I decided that I would rent a car for the trip. When time is critical, well, even I play safe. He'd snort at that.

When I picked up the car I informed the management I'd be driving several hundred miles on toll roads. "We'll just put the fares on the credit card we have on file for you if that's all right, Mr. Cosgriff." Sure. It's about the most convenient way to handle it.

Yesterday I got an email assuring me they had succeeded in that task. There were $72.10 in tolls from the Pennsylvania Turnpike charged to my card. Oh, and did we mention the $4.95 convenience fee?

Really? Look, I'm as capitalist as they come (guns don't make America great, the free market does) but after I paid you $552 for the actual car rental you ding me five bucks for charging another $72.10 to my card? How, um, ah, er, convenient. For you. How long did that action take, ten seconds of AI?

I think they do it because it's virtually all profit for them and too low for me to fight. What, I'm going to get a lawyer to battle such a paltry amount?

If money were no object, I would in fact. Just to thank them for their convenience.

Cloyce TV

Me Pops had an old friend growing up, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who spent part of his adult life as an over the road trucker. Cloyce liked the job, other than one particular day.

Generally, Cloyce didn't haul one load of one given item. His truck trailers would be filled with all sorts of miscellaneous flotsam and jetsam destined for someplace other than where they began. He merely picked up a trailer, drove it to terminal, and was given another trailer for the flip flop. Easy peasy.

But one day he was given a load which was nothing but brand new RCA color console TVs. You know, those wooden behemoths which were the centerpiece of most of our dens and living rooms in the Sixties and Seventies. The retail cost of the load was around $60,000, not chump change today but a much heftier sum in 1967.

Cloyce found he was scared to death the whole time he had that trailer full of television sets. "Bill, there's people out there who hijack trucks when they know such valuable things take up the whole trailer, " Cloyce was explaining to me Pops. "They'll kill you over that!"

It wasn't too much later that Cloyce found another job. He didn't want to get another haul like that.

Serious Then Not

I went confession yesterday. I try to go on a regular basis; it is good for the soul. It forces you to reflect on life, what you shouldn't have done, what you should have done, what you could have done better and so forth. 

But enough of that seriousness. I noticed when I arrived that the entire waiting room was nothing but men. All men, waiting for confession.

So, ladies, I give this to you. What's the punchline?

Urban Sightseeing

I have lived in the Woodbridge district of Detroit for well nigh on 65 years now.  It's a nice place to live. I enjoy my morning walks among the old houses.

I can't tell you how many nearby houses I would love to get a look inside. The styles of architecture (don't ask what the specific styles are called; I only know that different houses look different) are fascinating. There are squarish brick structures and clapboard homes, and thin ones and wide ones and ones with turrets. One wonders what imagination developed some of the sizes and variations on homes found in the old neighborhood. 

That thought this morning jogged my memory into the times, three I believe, where me Grandpa Joe and I went exploring old houses. He'd see an older and clearly abandoned home and half bark, "C'mon, boy" to me and we'd go check it out. I doubt me Mom would have approved.

It was keen though to see the insides and how they were laid out. Then, too, you could tell what rooms and shelves and whatnot had been cobbled in, that were not part of how the original interior had been set up. But I think the keenest thing was being in there with me Grandpa Joe, him just being a bit of a kid himself with a kid in tow.

I think he was a bit of a kid, honestly. And I mean that in a kind way. Yeah, he was ornery and demanding and gruff and arbitrary. But he was fascinated with the world around him. What was where, what was what, that sort of thing. Creation, if I may risk going way out on a limb, interested the man. That made for a few quiet and calm adventures between me and him as the days went on.

 

Printing Woes

On Monday after much hassle, I finally had current proof of insurance for my two cars. Yet it didn't stop there.

After finally getting updated insurance forms, my printer decided it didn't like me. It refused to spit the darn things out because, as it informed me politely, it did not recognize my computer.

An easy enough problem to solve, oui? Non. Non, non non at all.

Going to the settings file on my desktop, I located a window which said to type in a code which my printer would give me at my command. Lo and behold, it did. So the printer appeared to recognize my device.

It turns out that it was snickering with evil. I typed the eight digit number into the window on my screen and that spinny thing began which supposedly means something is happening. Great. My issue would be resolved.

Then I heard that evil cackle. The access window on the printer was flashing; it reported that the time frame to use the code had expired. What? It had not even been 30 seconds.

I tried again and was given a new eight digit number. The code expired almost as quickly as I entered it.

Third time's the charm, oui? Non. Non, non non non at all.

In desperation I emailed my cards to me brother Phil, who conveniently lives at the other end of the block. I had to have the cards or else Tuesday I could not legally drive my cars. He came to the rescue, printed them, and brought them down to me.

So, insurance problem settled. But me and that printer are going have a talk. Perhaps an attitude adjustment is in order.

Insurance Blues

I pay my auto insurance in six months increments. That means it comes due on March 15 and September 15 respectively. I'm sure your life is complete now that you have that information.

But you need to know it if this edition of The Sublime to the Ridiculous is to make any sense at all. And no quiet, Ron this time. I'm genuinely interested in what he says here.

When your old insurance expires you get new proofs of it for the next half year. Well, duh. It typically works goes like clockwork. Yet typically is not always.

As I went to print out copies for each of our cars I noticed something very important. They were dated 3/15 to 9/15 this calendar year. But this past Monday was 9/15 of this year. I needed corrections. Fast.

It took three calls to my insurance agent to it straightened out, because for whatever reason it wasn't getting done on time. Maybe that's on me, as technology and I are barely on speaking terms, so perhaps I missed a step in the process. But I don't think so. Be fair: we're  never the culprits when we have an issue with something or somebody else. Admit it.

My first to call my actual agent went to voicemail. I get that. He has others folks worrying him about other dramas. I pressed O for the operator as the prompts suggested, because my guy only promised a 24 to 48 turn around time. That wouldn't do. 

The operators resent the forms by email yet clearly did not understand the problem even though, to my feeble mind, it was obvious. I warned that I tried the email route two times and kept getting the wrong thing. "Just give it about ten minutes to arrive, Mr. Cosgriff, and it'll be fine."

Of course it wasn't. I called back, got a different assistant who still couldn't fathom what I was talking about, before doing something I hate to do. "Could I speak to a supervisor please?" I asked.

One moment later, and it honestly was just a moment, on came a supervisor, who did not at first get it either, Finally, mercifully, she said, "Oh, I see, they didn't update the proofs of insurance and your old ones expire today."

I responded succinctly, "That is correct."

"We'll fix that." The sound of typing told me, or at least I hoped it told me, that everything would soon be made right. And it was. The supervisor waited patiently until the new email came through, which about 90 seconds. Thanking her, I finally had my new, correct, insurance cards.

Or did I?

A Punch in the Bowl

Several years back a good friend of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, was helping his wife with a weekend yard sale. All was going well until a woman began to study a punch bowl which was out for consideration. Mrs. Cloyce had put a ten dollar price tag on it.

The prospective buyer held the bowl up this way and that and asked a question or two, but eventually decided against the purchase. "I don't know why she didn't buy it," Mrs. Cloyce opined. "Ten dollars is a fair price." 

Cloyce responded, "Well, she wanted ten bucks more than she wanted the punch bowl, and you want ten bucks more than you want it. Seems to be you're both thinking the same way."

If it had been full of punch I'm sure it would have been dumped on poor Cloyce. Some things are better left unsaid.

The Rhetoric

Most everyone is saying the presumed right thing in the wake of Charlie Kirk's assassination: tone down our rhetoric. But will we? No. It won't happen. Men are weak, as Elrond says in Tolkien's famous trilogy. Should we? I don't know how to answer that one.

I'm going to say something very direct and very true: abortion is murder, every time, no exceptions. What is your response?

If you agree with me, good. You are on the side of truth and right. If you disagree, is what I just said hate speech? If you think so, you are wrong. Expressing something true and right, something virtually axiomatic, obviously true in itself, cannot be hate. You either agree that it's true or you are wrong.

That's the crux of the issue, perhaps. When we discuss serious matters, when we are debating what government should do or how society in general should act, what are we trying to do? Are we seeking what is true and working to implement that in our daily political and personal actions, or are we seeking our truth, the truth for me (whatever that means, and that as it is can easily and readily be devious), a comfortable truth which fits what we want to be true, a truth which by definition is selfish, not selfless. 

Please don't bother me about isn't this only your truth, Marty? That's vacuous and tired, a simplistic argument which is nothing more than deflection at best. At worst, I will say it, it's evil. Are we seeking the truth? The truth, which is perfectly understandable for any and all...if they want it. 

If we are to solve humanity's ills we must be able to make statements such as this is right and you are wrong. If that's hate speech, progress is impossible.

Long Gone

My newer older van took its final run yesterday. Although the transmission was out I could still manage low gear, so at about 20 miles per hour I guided it to the scrap yard four blocks away. Here's the van at her last stop.  Well, last stop with me at the wheel anyway. 

I don't think I've missed a vehicle so much. There were tears in my eyes as I drove. Hell, I had tears in my eyes when I realized the transmission had blown north of Alger because I knew what that meant, although I manned up by the time I parked it in the lot outside of the scrapyard office. I even drove past twice - twice - later in the day to see where it might be while in processing. I saw it the first time, lined up for whatever fate had in store alongside several other smaller cars. Silliness.

I made at least four Hessel trips with it, two to Newark, Ohio, one to Chester, West Virginia (sight of the Chester Casino incident with Mom and Dad) to deliver repaired snake cables, and two or three trips for business. The gas mileage was awful - about 13 MPG highway - but boy, did it ride well. I felt like I was guiding a battleship, but there's something to be said for being head and shoulders above traffic.

But, all good things. I did get $450 scrap value. Not bad for something you paid $500 for in the first place. I still had hoped to drive it another year or so just the same.

Yeah, making too big a deal of it. I know.

Old Customers, Old Friends

A fella came into the old barn yesterday and asked, "Are you Marty?" 

Seeing as I am, I answered yes. He needed a cable repaired, explaining that I had fixed it for him before. As proof, he showed me the invoice from the previous repair, dated 4/23/1996. It was signed: Paid, Cash, Marty Cosgriff.

That was literally the day after my 36th birthday. Seeing as I'm 65 as we speak, that makes it nearly 30 years since that last job.

I fixed the cable, and the man and I had a pleasant talk. He joked whether the warranty had expired. I joked back that unfortunately it had, and that 1996 prices had expired too. We laughed, and actually had a good visit.

It's nice seeing old friends. And I like days like yesterday.

Destroying Trust

Teachers sometimes distrust students. Students sometimes distrust teachers. Perhaps that last bit is my fault.

I taught for 26 years. Needless to say, and please forgive my going on and saying it because whenever you preface something Needless to say you have to go ahead and say it anyway (it's a law), I lectured with some regularity. It's a teaching standard. During one lecture, I went and threw my students' trust in me under the bus.

While teaching a section of American history on the labor union movement I was speaking of a few early union leaders. One of whom, Samuel Gompers, was an organizer for the American Federation of Labor, or AFL. Rambling along in talking to the students, who were actually eagerly taking notes that day as I droned on, I said something like, "Then we have Samuel Gompers, the founder of the AFL, the American Football League." The pupils dutifully scribbled that down.

A minute later I paused to explain, "Gompers was not the head of the American Football League. He started the American Federation of Labor."

The sighs and the "Aw mans" were audible and exasperated. I must confess that I was far too proud of myself.

Unfortunately I caused an entire generation of learners not to trust instructors. I'm sorry.

Walking the Walk

I'm not really a big city person. I prefer the quiet of rural and semi-rural areas. Still, after having spent time in the hearts of New York City, Boston, Toronto, and now Philadelphia, I must admit there is a charm in what is often called a walkable downtown.

While we did have to move the rental car once on the Sunday we spent in Philadelphia last week, once parked we found several things to see within an easy walk. Granted, Philly is an old and historic city compared to Detroit (as are New York and Boston) but there sure seems to be more to see there than at home. What was most interesting was in how quickly things changed. We could be in a noisy, touristy area, then turn a corner to discover row houses which clearly date to the 1700 and 1800 hundreds nestled in quiet, narrow streets. It really did feel like stepping back in history.

There were museums and shops and outdoor activities all around. They tended towards pricey yet not terribly so, and there was free things to see and do just the same. We had our pictures taken by the Rocky statue near the Philadelphia Museum of Art, for example. 

I doubt that I could live too long in such tightly packed areas but I think I could do it for a year simply for the experience, these dense downtown areas. Perhaps it's familiarity, but I do not feel that for Detroit. C'est la vie.

Feeding Time

As a salesman, I keep an eye out for trends. For whatever reason, certain things sell at certain times, others at other times, and sometimes things simply come into demand out of the blue.

There is an accessory for the Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs!) called a feeding tool. It helps 'feed' the steel cable into a pipeline. You get one with every Model C machine purchase. Yet I've never actually sold many of them piecemeal. Indeed I was selling so few that I had quit stocking them. Then one random day a random guy asked for one, and I ordered two. One for him, one for stock because, well, why not?

The gentleman picked his up and the other sold soon thereafter. I ordered two more.

Those sold in a New York minute. I ordered two more, which likewise moved out of the old barn in haste. So, methinks, there appears a trend hath developed. Yon feeding tool be in demand. I ordered six. Last May. May 2024, I must add.

If you need a second guess how many I still have in stock today, September 6, 2025, you are denser than granite. I guess trends work unpredictably in both directions.

Pit Stop

As we made our way back home from Philadelphia, or at least to my oldest son's home in Newark, Ohio, we made a side trip while still well from arrival. 

The place had several impressive amenities. There were picnic tables here and there outside, while inside the building were sitting areas arranged in conference style, tables surrounded by six quite comfortable looking chairs. Broad, wide windows illuminated a spacious central room which you might even call an atrium. Interior walls were decorated with maps both modern and historic, detailing places and events of yore. There were even a few articles of interest from local artisans along with past archaeological finds. An extensive array of vending machines were to the side and blended into the scene unobtrusively, almost apologetic in their presence. Porticos ran along opposite outside walls, and were lined with sturdy yet graceful rocking chairs. One was occupied by a woman, relaxing and reading a book. It was very nearly a resort. 

Have I mentioned yet that we were at a rest area on Interstate 70 in southeast Ohio?

The place was made up as though it were a destination rather than a convenient spot for, ah, urgent human functions. Do folks actually go there simply to lounge? Would a husband wishing to spend time with his wife ask, "Honey, feel like taking a little time off this afternoon and chilling at the bathrooms on I-70? They have cold drinks and small bags of Doritos. We could pack a lunch. The sunset from the west portico is divine." Of course as I've said, one person was indeed sitting on a rocker reading as though on the deck of a cruise ship or in the lobby of a spa. 

I get it. I get that states try to make rest areas double as promotional adverts for local and statewide places and events. Yet this felt like something beyond that: something almost surreal. 'Welcome to Ohio! Come for the potties, stay for the views.' 

A bit over the top for a bathroom break, in my opinion.

Phone Friends

Modern cell phones are the best. They tell you who's calling and everything. Why just yesterday I had three calls from my dear friend Mr. Risk. First name Spam.

Have a great day folks!

Philly

I am just returned from a trip to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My sons and I took in a ball game at Citizens Bank Park, the home field of the Philadelphia Phillies. It was a dull game until the 10th inning, when the home team won on a two out bases loaded two run single. The crowd went home happy. 

Citizens Bank is the most recent stadium we've visited. It's not the best but it isn't bad. It is a better place to watch baseball than my hometown Detroit Tigers' Comerica Park, where most seats are simply too far from the field. We sat in the third deck of Citizens yet every bit of a hundred feet nearer the action than at a comparable spot in Comerica. The Philly skyline was clearly visible. Honestly, it's more impressive than Detroit's. Oh, and we had ice cream in small collectible baseball helmet bowls. Ice cream tastes better in baseball helmet bowls. It's just science.

We spent Sunday more or less walking Philadelphia. I have pictures of the Liberty Bell and the chamber of the Continental Congress in Independence Hall. It wasn't the cathartic experience which I as a history wonk expected. Independence was declared in that room, and the Constitution formed. Our Founding Fathers debated great things there and history literally made. I'm glad to have seen it. I simply wasn't as moved as I had always imagined I would be.

We posed by the Rocky statue on the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum and spent a sublime half hour or so in the quiet of the Basilica of Sts. Peter and Paul, a massive and beautiful Church. The three of us ate a too expensive but nonetheless very good pepperoni pizza at a somewhat high end pizza joint (high end pizza joint?) and had desserts of what the locals called Water Ice. It's basically a thick frozen Coke and available in several flavors. You need a spoon to eat it and man oh man, the cherry one I had was outstanding. My sons expressed the same sentiments for the banana and peach flavors they each respectively chose.

So, Philadelphia. Would I visit again? Indeed I would. For cherry water ice, to be sure.

Glasses Habit

One of my favorite professors in college - who I won't name as a courtesy although it probably isn't that important - nevertheless had a habit which was distracting. I'm sure it was entirely inadvertent too. I perhaps should have alerted them to it, but timidity, and not wishing to embarrass them, kept me from it.

The professor routinely during lectures would push their glasses up off their nose and in front of their eyes. That's nothing of itself. The issue was that they would invariably do it with their middle finger extended into the bridge of the glasses, as though giving class the bird.

No one seemed to notice, and after awhile I suppose I didn't either. Still, when I did, it became a focal point, and I would have trouble turning my concentration back to the lecture.

It wasn't a big deal, and in retrospect I really ought to have said something. But, I guess, no harm, no foul.