Make 'em laugh

What weighs more, a gallon of water or a gallon of butane? A gallon of water, because butane is lighter fluid.

I bought the world's worst thesaurus today. I mean, it's awful. Awful.

After I was shopping yesterday the cashier couldn't scan one of my items. "That must be free," I told her.

Did I ever tell you about when I was fired unjustly from my job at a calendar factory? All because I took a couple days off.

My son complained during the winter that the house was too cold. I told him go stand in the corner. He demanded why. I said the corner is 90 degrees.

You're welcome.

No Place Like Home

I stopped by an old friend's house a few days ago. "You're welcome to whatever you like, Marty. Just treat the place like your own home."

So I threw him out, because I didn't want visitors. 

Okay. Where's my rim shot?

Pure Bull

"Sure Marty, we can bull you."

I must admit I was at first taken aback by that response to an email I sent last week. It was to one of my suppliers in response to a small parts order sent via the ol' Internet.

No one wants bull of course. But in the next part of the reply they had copied and pasted the relevant part of my own missive: 'Please ship and bull Cosgriff Sales...'

I like jokes, and I like joking with people who can joke. Touche, my friend. Touche.

They did add that, kidding aside, they would ship the order within the next three days. 

A Peach of a Morning

Me Pops liked to tell stories. Some of them were even on himself. He once got in trouble with me Grandma Cosgriff, his mother, for eating peaches.

It's true. One morning, Dad always said it was when he was 14, he woke up early and hungry. Grandma as it were had bought a can of peaches. Once Pops spied them on the pantry shelf, their destiny was sealed. They would end up supporting the growth of a strapping teen age boy.

Oh, did I mention that it was a gallon of peaches? And that me young Pops ate the whole syrupy lot?

Grandma was furious. That gallon can was to be dessert for everyone at that evening's supper. It was meant for the whole family, Grandpa Joe and Grandma Cosgriff and all eight kids. And Dad scarfed the entire thing down before breakfast. Which, when served, he ate too.

Joe for his part thought it was hilarious. Dad always seemed overly proud of the accomplishment as well. Yet in telling the tale he never said what Grams did about it. But I tell you what: even I can see the look on her face.

Surviving Superstition

I'm not sure the reasons behind it, but Amos Sheffield whom I've mentioned a few times once went through a spell where he needed many surgeries. For whatever other reasons of which I am also unsure, me Pops ended up the contact person for him. Amos had no children and what family he had were all living in Kentucky.

I should mention here that Amos was extremely, indeed fervently, superstitious.

One day during the course of all Amos' health issues he had to have a surgery fast. It was a we need to know this instant, don't dwell on the answer, we'll lose him if don't operate immediately situations. Yet Amos himself was in a coma and could offer no instructions. Pops happened to be in the hospital and was approached about what to do. Operate, he of course told the doctors.

The surgery was done, and Amos came out in flying colors.

Well past any danger a couple of weeks later, Amos still lay in the hospital recuperating. Me Pops went to pay a visit. As they talked, Pops could see that Amos was calculating. Eventually he asked, in a fit of pique, "That was my thirteenth operation. Why'd you let them do it?" he demanded of Pops.

"What was I supposed to do?" Dad responded incredulously.

"When was the surgery?" Amos then demanded.

"I dunno. Two Fridays ago I guess."

"That was the Thirteenth!" Amos exclaimed. "You let them operate on me for the thirteenth time on Friday the 13th?"

"You're made it, didn't you?" Dad said with a wave of his hands. But I suppose when superstition gets a hold on you, it grabs tight.

Tricycle to the Hydrant

Joe Cosgriff could play fair. Not always, maybe, but who of us do? 

When me Pops, his eldest son, was five, his parents gave him a tricycle. He went out the front of the house to ride it one summer day. "Don't go too far," Joe instructed his boy.

"How far is too far?" my then very young Dad asked.

Joe pointed down the street. "Not past that fire hydrant." Young Pops was on his way.

A neighbor happened to be nearby. "You don't think Bill was rude talking to you like that?" he queried.

"What's rude? He needed to know how far was too far," Joe replied.

The perfect answer, I think.

Saturday Silliness

The big trouble with seasickness? It comes in waves.

I once suffered from hypochondria. Placebos cured me.

My wife insists she isn't putting glue on my firearms. But I'm sticking to my guns.

From Groucho Marx: I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.

I failed math class more times than I can count.

Russian dolls are just full of themselves.

Have you noticed that despite the high cost of living, it remains popular? 

I'll show myself out now...

Disappointed, I Was

I was (cue Willie Nelson) on the road again yesterday. It began at the Electric Eel plant (all right, it began at home, but you know what I mean) in Springfield, Ohio followed by three deliveries in the Toledo area. I got back to Detroit with more money than when I left. It's a good feeling.

Anyway, there's this truck stop in the town of North Baltimore which is a regular, oh, I'm trying not to use the word stop again because it sounds bad to use the same word too often, um, place I visit for coffee and snacks. In this case it was for a breakfast burrito, which was very good, but also to see the Halloween decorations which are typically displayed in the concourse this time of year. They also go all out for Christmas; it's fun stuff to see.

But I was shocked as there were no Halloween decorations at all. Not the least bit. There's usually hulking skeletons and a ten foot tall 'death' all in black and holding a giant scythe, and all sorts of other regalia. Again, I was surprised to the point of shock.

Which leads to the question: was that their point? I was after all shocked, and isn't shocking folks the whole idea behind Halloween? Did they actually intend to shock by have nothing macabre on display? If so, well done, North Baltimore. Or am I thinking too hard?

Well, never that...

Joe and Mal

Me Grandpa Joe and me Grandpaw Hutchins (me Grandmaw Hutchins called him Mal after Malachi, his middle name) were definitely on the opposite sides of the attitude spectrum.  Grandpaw was quiet and reflective. Joe was, well, Joe. His presence was, shall I say, emphatic. I love and respect both.

An interesting thing about Joe was how he did seem to adjust to different personalities when circumstances demanded as much. For as loud and brash as he could be, he always kept a cool and laid back demeanor around me Grandpaw Hutchins. I've long wondered whether Joe saw the calm dignity which emanated from Grandpaw and felt he had to respect that, talking to my maternal grandfather almost in reverence. 

I doubt they met very often in their lives but I noticed even as a boy that Joe was always calm as he talked to Mal. Some folks just command that, even perhaps those with laid back personas.

Better Late

"I say, Martin."

"What's that, old bean?"

"You appear to have neglected something."

"Indeed? What might that be?"

"You failed to, oh, what it is those infernal Americans call it? Blog. You failed to post a blog this morning."

"I have, have I? Well, I'd best rectify that oversight!"

And there you have it. Everybody happy?

Hot Water Cloyce

There was an old friend of me Grandpa Joe, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who regularly stopped by the Shop to visit. I always liked when he showed up. It meant we'd stop work and get coffee, and typically a long coffee break as Cloyce and Joe traded true fiction.

Out coffee pot was a tall thirty cup cylinder. We only used it for hot water though, as we always had instant coffee on hand along with sugar and powdered cream for people who actually do that to their morning joe. Yet while we all made coffee, Cloyce would merely pour himself a cup of hot water and sip on it. Just like that.

I never knew why. I don't think it was because he cheap. Oh, old Cloyce was cheap, quite honestly. But it's rare that someone's cheap with another guy's largesse, although Joe would not have minded at all for Cloyce to have as much coffee as he liked. 

So, Hot Water Cloyce. To each his own I suppose.

A Marathon Rant

It does not look like a good day for the annual Detroit Marathon. Rain will dog it most of the morning. C'est la vie. So much as I do watch, I'll watch from my living room window.

I like the Marathon for the sense of event it brings. I don't like it for tying up my street for twelve hours. Quite frankly, and to perhaps sound like a curmudgeon (I take pride in that) I have the moral right to come and go as I please outside of a true emergency. Everyone does; it's a general interest, not a special interest. And a marathon isn't a crisis, it's a special interest. I'm not sure we ought to clog up city streets for such, even just a few hours a year. I should not have to ask police to move a barricade so that I can go wherever the hell I want to go when I want to go. No one should.

But it brings in money! All right. But it costs money too. Those barricades have to be set up and taken down. Those police officers have to be paid to, basically, stand around watching runners go by while real crimes are happening elsewhere. The streets have to be cleaned, three times so far this week. They were only cleaned once in my neighborhood the entire rest of the spring, summer, and fall. There are watering stations, medical stations, porta potties, and mile signs to be emplaced along with whatever other supporting regalia may be necessary. There are city employees tied up during the entire year planning all that. For, again, a special interest.

Okay, that ended up more of a rant than I meant. Honest! I will enjoy it well enough. But the instant that barricade goes down (I hear that will be about 11:30 from where I sit) I'm going to Burger King. That'll do more for the general economy than a footrace. And my stomach will love me.

The Fiftieth Cosgriff

Although it does not happen so much as it once did, I will still occasionally get a robocall aimed at me Pops. That's not surprising, seeing as I use the same business number from when he started up in 1966.

You've gotten them, I'm sure, where the computer voice begins, "This is a call for" after which there is a brief pause before the apparently same voice fills in, in this case, "William Cosgriff" before proceeding. Naturally enough I hang up on them.

One call did make me raise an eyebrow. "This is a call for," the voice started, then said, "William the Fiftieth Cosgriff." I was perplexed, even intrigued, yet went ahead and hung up.

A couple days later, and then again after that, calls came in for William the Fiftieth Cosgriff. I nearly hit 'one' to take the call. I was that curious. Then I remembered: his middle name being Leo, there were times where he sent things out as William L. Cosgriff. 'L' is the Roman numeral for 50. The artificially generated voice was translating the capital L as a form of fifty.

Sometimes artificial intelligence is as dumb as regular human intelligence.

Michael's Story

Michael’s Story pulled me in with its mix of dystopian tension and personal awakening. At first, I wasn’t sure where it was heading. Initially the pacing felt slow, and the style took some adjusting, but as Michael’s journey deepened, I found myself drawn into his search for truth and meaning. What I appreciated most was how the book moved from confusion and false starts into something sharper: a reluctant man confronting not just external corruption but his own ego and uncertainty. The world, controlled, stratified, eerily reminiscent of 1984, gave me plenty to think about, especially the questions of freedom, identity, and destiny. By the final chapters, Michael’s transformation felt both painful and inspiring. Yes, the writing could be tighter, but the story’s heart shines through. For me, this was a rewarding and thought-provoking read.

These words are from an Amazon reviewer. I think they're insightful, but then, I would, as he's complimenting my book Michael's Story.

Shameless shill time! If you want to see if this reviewer is correct in his assessment, Michael's Story is available here and here. I think it's worth it, but then, I would, because it's my book.

What is This Sorcery?

Did my eyes deceive me? I couldn't have seen what I thought I saw, could I? It's simply too outlandish to be true.

In Game Two of the National League Championship Series Yoshinobu Yamamoto threw a complete game! Oh yes he did! He pitched all Nine Innings! In a playoff game!

I wonder if Detroit Tigers manager A.J. Hinch is aware of this novelty, the idea of letting starting pitchers go all the way, or at least past six innings. He should take note of it. Hell, all of Major League Baseball should.

Mom Knows All

Mothers know everything. The old eyes in the back of the head? Moms. They have them. They even have an uncommon foresight which isn't always appreciated.

Me Mom passed away, sadly, in 2022. To me brother Phil came the task of clearing our her things. Oh, we all helped to one degree or another, but the bulk of the job fell on his shoulders. Even Mom seemed to anticipate that.

One day as he was sorting out stuff he picked up something, I don't remember what, and was just about to let it fall into the trash can. Yet a slip of paper caught his eye. Taking it out from its center in the object, it turns out that it was a note from Mom: "Phil, don't throw this away without giving the other kids a chance to see if they want it. Mom" 

I don't know whether to laugh or cry at that. But Mom, she knew he would toss it and didn't want that without a chance to see if it might be valuable to one of his siblings. I'm going to have to ask him what it was, and if one of us took it. 

Chesterton and Kreeft

A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about truth; this has been exactly reversed.

- G. K. Chesterton

Why, why, why weren't we taught Chesterton in schools? Why don't we hear him from the pulpits? The more I read of him, the more I wonder why he isn't better known. Or more well known than he is anyway.

This quote is from at least a century ago yet fits today perfectly. We should doubt ourselves but not truth. We should admit we are fallible and need help yet have no worries about where help lies. Yet we trust in ourselves while believing there is no truth. If that isn't an oxymoron, a contradiction in itself, then what is?

It reminds of a comment from one Peter Kreeft, a more recent, lesser known, yet astute commentator on human nature: "Religion is indeed a crutch, as the atheists argue. And until the atheist confesses that he is a cripple, he will not be in the market for a crutch." 

If our premises are poor our reason will be skewed. Until we each admit that we aren't the center of the Universe we will not see the Universe properly. Almost all human error begins in the hubris that we know best. Yet without an undoubtable truth above and beyond us we can't know anything. Even ourselves.

Lamenting Lions

I didn't see the play, nor do I care to hunt it up on the Internet this morning. But I did fall into the wormhole a bit and follow up on Detroit Lions' fans lamenting a procedure penalty against them which negated a touchdown. The locals lost to the Kansas City Chiefs 30-17 last night.

Complaining about the refs is nothing new to football, or most any sport indeed. It's about time we had robo-umps in baseball to call balls and strikes, quite frankly. Yet it sure seems to me that football fans are among the worst at railing against the officiating. I mean, isn't it possible, just barely on the radar, a shadow on the horizon, that, perhaps, the penalty was legit, maybe?

Can we still be friends, or should I just go now? 

Cousins Have Your Back

When me Pops graduated from High School in 1954, he and his cousin Jerry took a three week trip out west to celebrate. They drove an old station wagon, figuring to spend some nights sleeping in the back to save on hotel costs. Sometimes one of them would drive while the other caught a nap. 

Being young and naive, and consider too that it was the middle Nineteen Fifties, they occasionally picked up hitchhikers. They only had a scare once.

Pops had picked the guy up while Jerry was asleep in back, dozing under a blanket. Everything seemed all right at first. But then the man began talking out of his head. It was all nonsense stuff, me Pops recalled, yet the guy was getting himself all worked up and increasingly animated, throwing his arms around to emphasize this or that point, and growing angry.

"What am I gonna do?" thought the old man, traipsing across the barren landscape of I believe New Mexico. Glancing at the rear view mirror, he realized that an apparently awake Jerry was worried too. Dad had seen a hand reach out from under a blanket and stealthily grab an empty glass Coke bottle, sliding it back with him obviously for use as the weapon Jerry was increasingly convinced would be needed.

Thankfully nothing came of it. When they had reached the hitchhiker's destination the guy readily hopped out, said thanks to the boys, and went about his day. Yet they stopped picking up hitchhikers after that.

Silver Lining

Well, it was painful, I'm sure, for those who watched. I didn't, and am rather happy about that. My Detroit Tigers lost in a 15 inning marathon and are out of the baseball playoffs.

That has its advantages. I can watch the final three weeks of the season without anxiety as I have no horse in the race. I lean towards wanting Milwaukee to win it all now, as a tribute to the late Brewers play by play man Bob Uecker. But I can watch; I'd given up on watching Tigers games because it simply wasn't worth the emotional investment. Especially when they can't hit, as has been the trouble really all season. 

Get some bats, guys, please? And Riley Greene, I care about strikeouts. You fellas whiff too much. That's gotta stop. Far too many times this season we'd have two on and one or no outs and, strike three, strike three, inning over. It matters. We care. You're losing too many 3-2 games.

Hinch, stop trying to outmaneuver the other manager and just try to win games. I'm sorry, dude, I don't buy yanking a pitcher after three innings for a 'suitable matchup' against a particular batter in the fourth. It's too early in the game to worry about such minutiae, overuses your bullpen, and wastes a pitcher. I'm also tired of losing a good hitter for the duration of a game because you pinch hit for him early, again for a suitable matchup. All that in search of miniscule advantages? It's senseless. There. I said it. 

I'm tired of hearing about the great clubhouse chemistry. I'm tired of seeking mere sustainability. Make me want to watch rather than ignore your October baseball for fear of being let down. 

I'm okay, maybe, with sustainability. Sustainability seems a reasonable goal. But is it? Sustainability didn't mean much when we won four division titles in a row yet with painful playoff exists and a poorly contested World Series. I'll take a world championship once every decade or two over long stretches of simple winning seasons. The Yankees do that, as did the Moneyball A's. It has not left their fans happy.

But, I suppose, at least we've made the playoffs the last two years. We didn't play dead when in them, or at least didn't completely roll over. Yet it's time for more. Get. Some. Bats. And Stop. Striking. Out.

Special Moments

We're in October, and for baseball fans that means playoffs and the World Series. My Detroit Tigers play a winner take all game five in Seattle this evening. I don't know if I want to watch or not, these old nerves and all. But I have seen two playoff games live in my life. One was classic in its heartfelt salute.

In the 1987 Ametican League Championship Series at old Tiger Stadium here in Detroit Darrell Evans, a fan favorite, was picked off third at a critical moment in game 4. It was a bad play; he simply lost his concentration. Evans felt terrible. The team was rallying and that miscue killed it.

As it was I attended game 5 the next day. Evans came up to bat in the bottom of the first. As he approached home plate the crowd spontaneously rose, and gave him a standing ovation. It showed Darrell that while things happen, we were still with him.

Moments like that mean more than the game. They show respect and affection. They're what sports should be about.

Size 7

This is probably more funny to me than it will be to most of you, my readers. But I found it so funny at the time that I almost busted a gut trying not to laugh out loud.

There's a Monty Python skit (Quiet Ron, and bear with me) where John Cleese answers a phone and all you hear is his side of the conversation. The conversation was nothing but Cleese responding 'yes' to the apparent questions coming from the caller. The reverie was only interrupted once.

Cleese was responding, and I'm including the interruption for brevity's sake, "Yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...size 7...yes...yes...yes...yes" and so on until he hung up. Or the skit ended, I don't remember which.

One day at the Shop me Pops answered a phone call. And I tell you true his entire end of the conversation was Yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes... and so forth. From back at my workbench in the old barn, near enough the office that I could of course hear, all I could think was, "If he says size 7 I'm going to lose it."

There you have it. Funny for me, and hopefully at least enough to bring a smile to your face.

Subtle Joe Cosgriff

As all friends and relatives would attest, as a rule Grandpa Joe had a less than subtle way of getting his point across. Still, there were times when he could be impressively restrained while making his point well understood.

He rented arc welders. Some of these weighed 1100 or 1200 pounds, so when they were shipped they had to be loaded by an electric hoist or crane onto the back of a pickup truck or flatbed. They tended to swirl in a gentle circle as they were raised or lowered. Sometimes they would have to be raised several stories, and as a boy of about 15 I had gotten into the bad habit of standing nearly under the machines as they were raised, simply to watch the twirl.

One day while out on a job site with Joe, I was doing just that. Without a word he stepped near enough for me to hear. Looking up at the welder too as it rose he asked, "We used to have an old dog that would watch from underneath as we raised a load. You know what we did with him?"

"No, what?" I asked in return, only half listening and still looking up.

"We buried him."

As his point slowly dawned on me, and as he had already walked away, I took several steps from the action myself. Dummy me wasn't thinking that things can fall, and that half-ton things falling a long way can hurt you bad.

Point taken, Joe.

Still a Favorite

I still get tickled over this story.

My oldest son is a veteran, and I am very proud of him for that. And his service has also given me a pulling the leg on people opportunity which I get a lot of miles on.

You see, he was a prison guard. That meant of course that he spent over a year stationed at Fort Leavenworth, site of the US military's largest prison. For most folks, that's the extent of their knowledge on the garrison.

Consequently, I got a lot of Dad joke mileage on that fact. Friends would come up to me and say, "So I hear your son's in the Army."

"Yep," I'd answer plainly.

"Where's he at?"

I would answer simply, "Leavenworth."

This would always be followed by a pause as they processed information which clearly stunned them. Eventually they would ask, sheepishly, "Leavenworth?" And I would respond, "Yep. Couldn't be more proud of the boy."

There would be another pause as they tried to think what to say next. But after letting them hang for a few seconds I would say, "He's a prison guard. He's on the right side of the bars." It's funny how much relief they showed when I would finally admit whole story. Many of them would audibly sigh when I let the cat out of the bag.

Have I properly thanked you son, for feeding my impish sense of humor?

Key to History

How many of you have old keys hanging around? Maybe they're on your key ring, or perhaps in your junk drawer. At the Shop, we have keys hanging on nails right inside the office door, most of which haven't been used in ages. 

Some are the keys to cars which have long met the compactor.  I know that one key is for the last flatbed truck we had for delivering welders. That truck's been gone 30 years. We also still have the key from a 1961 Ford delivery truck. That truck Joe bought from 7-Up; you could see the 7-Up logo where it was painted over on the driver's door. Smaller keys are old shop locks for padlocks which are who knows where. Most of them have not been touched since well before Pops died, and he's been gone more than 12 years now.

Why don't we get rid of them? I dunno. It's habit to have them there I suppose. One key is attached to a key ring which has the baby from the first Incredibles cartoon. That's, what, 2004? The baby is no longer bald but has a nice head of dust hair. It's to be expected I suppose, after hanging inside the doorway for close to 21 years now.

Some of those keys might even fit locks we still have if we were to try and find them. I'm not fired up to find out though. I suspect me kids when clearing out the old barn hopefully way, way into the future, will wonder why the hell we kept them, and just toss them out. 

Yet the joke is on them. A few keys are actually painted to the woodwork, although I will admit it's kinda sad that we didn't bother taking them down the last time we painted. 

Ah, hell. I'll just call it art.

Cloyce Pays My Price

A plumber whom I deal with, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, isn't a bad guy, but he can be a bit pushy, especially about price. In the old barn last week as he was purchasing a few items the usual question came up. "Can you do a little better, Marty?"

I deftly yet purposely changed the subject. "I saw your selfie on Facebook where you were at the Lions game this past Sunday."

"Yeah! Great game. Glad I could be there."

I agreed. "No doubt. Great seats too?" 

Beginning to suspect an ulterior motive, Cloyce answered warily, "Yeessss."

"Cool beans," I replied before continuing, "Did you ask the Lions for a better price, or did you just buy the tickets?"

"Okay, Cosgriff, what do I owe you?" he asked, kind of embarrassed.

I call that point made.

October Hessel

We all know, that is, we baseball fans know, that October baseball is special. I can tell you that October Hessel is special too.

To be sure, I enjoy it. It has its own charm compared to the summer. But the days are shorter and the change more stunning because you don't notice the days getting shorter quite as profoundly in the day to day world where you live. It's as if sunset were suddenly 7 PM at home in late September. You're here in July, then you're here the first weekend of October. The difference is striking.

I was star gazing from the front porch at 6 AM today. I drove 'into town', Cedarville, all of three miles away for a coffee a few minutes later. There wasn't even a hint of dawn as I ventured east, the brights on as I drove.

The Sun is lower in the southern horizon this time of year, and for lack of a better term it seems unfocused, as through sent through a diffuser of sorts. Yet it's fierce enough to drive me off the porch by Noon whereas I can read there comfortably until around 2:30 in June. Then there's the Halloween decorations, which feel really incongruent to area. Neat, yes. But incongruent where you aren't a native. 

But, it's Hessel. Even though I will spend today working (telecommuting is another weird thing about October Hessel) you can't beat that. When I close the laptop, I'm Up North. I can't say that at home.

The Cloyce Serenade

I'm not against music. Honest, I'm not. But my tastes are limited (give me Johnny Cash over Lady Yada or Masta Rappa Thugface any day) and I think there's a time and a place for it. After maybe having the radio on, our old Shop is not ever the time or place. Especially for live music.

One day as I was working alone in the old barn an old family friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, appeared. He helped himself to a cup of coffee and we chatted as I fixed cables.

A little while later a plumber came in. I'll call her Anne, which is not her real name, because she may not care for this memory. Anne was one of the few women plumbers at the time, which was around 35 years ago. Anyway, I stopped what I was doing to do a quick repair on the drain machine she had brought in. She and I and Cloyce chit chatted.

Cloyce asked if Anne liked music. She warily answered yes. "Well, I play a little bit," Cloyce responded. He went outside and brought back his guitar. And he began, there's no other way to say it, serenading Anne.

Anne was clearly embarrassed by the attention. I was embarrassed for her. She looked at me with an awkward, pleading smile, the kind which asks, 'What's all this then?' quite emphatically. I sheepishly half smiled in return and kind of shrugged my shoulders. Making it a point by then to hurry up the repair, I soon had Anne's machine done. Cloyce strummed his guitar, staring longingly at Anne the whole while.

I don't think she was more glad to leave the old barn. I know I was never, no offense to you of course Anne, more glad to see her leave. And I doubt to this day Cloyce even realizes how weird the whole thing was.

We thankfully did not lose Anne as a customer, though I would not have held it against her. Although, perhaps, I might have wrote a ballad about it.