February in November

While out clearing the cars and the walks of snow this morning I thought, "This is a fine February day." Then I remembered it's November 30.

This has the markings of a long winter folks. 

Lions Football

Although football isn't my favorite sport, that doesn't mean I don't pay attention. So the following are my thoughts after Thanksgiving's Detroit Lions loss to the Green Bay Packers.

Adjust, Dan Campbell. Adjust. Sometimes it's best to take the points. Sometimes you should just punt. I'm rather tired of hearing, basically, 'We gamble; it's who we are'. Become something different, then. Good teams adjust, and gambling isn't always smart, because you know what? You should have kicked those field goals. You know what I mean. You should have known at the time too.

It will take the Lions 4-1 the rest of the way to make the playoffs. That is within the team's range. But Dallas isn't a gimme (the Cowboys have played well of late and are fighting for their own playoff lives) and neither are the Steelers (though they appear inconsistent). The Rams will beat them. The Bears cannot be taken lightly either, especially after beating the Eagles. I don't see 4-1; I really don't see 3-2, truthfully.

Yes, you've had questionable calls go against you. And some have gone for you. That's simply the NFL. When rules are subject to the great degree of interpretation as those of American Football, what do you expect? There will be a lot of human error, but no one's out to get you. Deal with it. To be fair, I think Coach Campbell does. This is more directed at the fans.

Are these the same old Lions? They kinda are. If outside forces aren't against them (because I do agree that bad officiating has hurt them particularly at times) they just can't seem to rise to the occasion when the opportunity is there. Dropped passes, poor decision making, a lack of execution: that's on them. It tends to happen at the worst time. Injuries are a factor, and the Lions have had their share of them. All that said, I think we're already at wait 'til next year time. SOL.

Understatement

Christmas is upon us. Even if you didn't know anything about the Holiday you could not possibly miss the excess which surrounds it.

That isn't a bad thing in and of itself. On a commercial level, well, yet it is. Buy! Buy! Buy! is not a mantra for self reflection and growth. It fails too as a signal of hope and welcome. Yet to transform your home into a special place for Christmas is another thing entirely. 

Even that can be taken too far, although I will not and cannot pass judgment on what you think enough in your own abode, on your own property. Do as you will, and I will likely admire it in a spirit of wonder and awe just the same. Still, I rather prefer an understated decor. A nice tree and a nativity scene on the mantle would satisfy me.

It is in the quiet that the transformational appears. Gabriel's horn may blast on the Judgment Day, yet we are past change then and into what we have become. Before that, where do were learn the most deeply? In quiet anticipation where wonder grows delicately in expectation of full bloom, or with a glare that blinds us?

A Christmas tree by itself lighting a room, all darkness around it, I find a greater draw to the happiness beyond, the God-child in the manger who is our sole joy. Go to the light and all will be well.

A Very Catholic Joke

Awhile back me brother Phil and I passed a school as we were driving along. "Oh, look," I said, pointing at a sign. "St. John's Jesuit Academy."

"Hm. I wonder if it's Catholic?' Phil remarked. We both laughed pretty good at that. I actually almost had a spit take with my coffee.

For non-Catholics, the Jesuits are an order of priests who for most of the last 100 years or so have frequently, ah, engaged in questionable theology and methodology. Quite bluntly, think Pope Francis, himself a Jesuit. Conservative Catholics such as Phil and I find them tedious if not, I will say it, heretical.

To drive the point home further, I remember about 40 years ago I had the chance to meet one Dr. William Marra, a relatively well known at the time Catholic philosopher and teacher. He asked where I went to college. "The University of Detroit," I answered, a Jesuit university.

"Oh. Have you been to confession yet?" Dr. Marra asked without missing a beat. He had an idea of what and how they were teaching there during my tenure.

You get the point I'm sure. Even if you aren't Catholic.

Thanksgiving 1984

Giving thanks means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. Sometimes I wonder if it might help if we were to whittle that down to one or two specifics, simply to emphacize what we really should be thankful for. You know, find something small and specific as an illustration of a broader point.

We might say as a general point that we are thankful for family. That's a good thing, right? Yet how about a concrete example of that? For me, one such example is Thanksgiving 1984.

There were only just the three of us in the immediate family at the time. We had Thanksgiving Dinner at Nana and Paw Paw's, and waddled down the block home in the late afternoon, an hour or so before dark. There had been about a two inch snowfall, enough so everything was covered in a nice and clean white blanket. We went into the backyard to play in the snow a bit before actually going inside.

My wife and I began tossing snow up in the air, and Charlie followed suit as best an almost two year old could, all of us laughing and giggling as we watched the spray dissipate. Then we found a slat from an old picket fence and I made a snowball, while Gail took the piece of fence and held it like a bat in Charlie's hands. I pitched the snowball gently; Charlie 'swung' mightily with his mother's help. The ball exploded when hit, and all three of us laughed out loud. Charlie laughed especially hard, as only small children can laugh, without holding back, in a more free spirited manner than us adults. We did it again and again, several times over, each time cackling madly when the snowball vanished in a spray of white. We did it, I don't know how many times. But each time was a laugh riot. It's a memory that even then, forty one years ago now, I knew I would never forget.

It's a prime example of being thankful for family. You'll hear more from me involving everyone else in the family as time goes on. But this being Thanksgiving, I felt it a good place to start.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Beefy's Thanksgiving

I believe I've established that my old buddy Beefy liked to take a pull or two at the bottle of the demon rum. Now we all know what that can do a man's thinking. Here's what it did to him one fine day.

Beef was still living at home with mom and dad when in his early 20s. Yet he wasn't like so many youngsters that he mooched off his folks. He contributed to the household, helping with the bills up to and including food for the holidays. Yeah, by his own admittance he drank too much in them days. But he did his part just the same.

He was sitting at a bar one night a day or two before Thanksgiving while a friend of his expounded on the value of fresh turkey. You buy it live, then dress and cook it yourself. It was much better than the frozen birds from your local market. The bar friend even told Beefy where he could buy live turkeys, even at that late date and that close to the holiday.

Sliding off his stool the next minute, Beefy resolved, even in his altered state, to treat his family to a fresh turkey dinner that very Thanksgiving. He went out and bought a fresh, and remember live, bird.

Now on his way home it occurred to Beef that if one fresh turkey was good, two oughta be a whole lot better. They really should. So when he arrived at home he took the one he had, opened the back door by the kitchen, and tossed a rather upset wild fowl inside, yelling, "Get that one ready Ma, I'm gonna get another!" 

I can't imagine what it was like chasing a live turkey all over a house. But I'm sure Beefy's mother described it to him adequately.

Car Care

Upon leaving my teaching job one night years ago I found a young woman, one of my students, standing in the cold in front of the school. We struck up a conversation as she was waiting for her ride, and she mentioned that she almost had saved enough money for a good used car. "My Aunt actually offered me her two year old car for free rather than trading it in," she told me. "But as nice as that was of her I didn't take it. I don't want to have to care about a car." Her emphasis was on care.

I get that. Nice and shiny and new is, well, nice. So nice in fact that you have to care about it. I understand of course that you have to care about it enough to keep it in good running shape: change the oil, have good tires, fix a cracked windshield perhaps. But this young woman's point was more that, when something is in really great shape, you care about everything. A little ding or scratch becomes a catastrophe, because it ruins nice and new. A ding or scratch on something already dinged and scratched means nothing. Especially with something like cars, whose only purpose is getting you from point A to point B, why worry over minutiae?

That's part of why I always buy used cars. Perhaps I take it to extremes (quiet Ron) but I've never cared about an extra ding or a new scratch. It's only a car. Nothing more.

Wiper Cost

When I first picked up my newer older van, the 96 Chevy which went to newer older van Heaven in Alger this past August, it needed windshield wiper blades. Therefore, off I went to the auto parts store for replacements.

In the parking lot I plucked the blade off the driver's side, the worst of the two, to measure it against the new ones. An attendant in the store asked me if he could help. "I need wiper blades," I explained. Then I was able to use one of those ever-so-clever Dad jokes which everyone enjoys. "Unless you can fix this one," I said, showing the young man the shredded old wiper. Humoring an old man, he politely answered no, although he was likely feeling sorry for my kids and grandkids, a thought he kindly kept to himself.

Hammering away on a computer keyboard he soon found the requisite part number. "We have super fantastic ultra reinforced life changing windshield wiper blades for $29.99!" he exclaimed with confidence.

Now it was time for the famous Spock raised eyebrow. "Young man, it's a vehicle which is 27 model years old. I'm not spending that kind of money on wiper blades."

Sheepishly smiling, he went back to his search. A minute later he offered, "We have the in-store brand for seven dollars, sir."

"Thank you. I'll take two," I replied. I mean, how life changing can windshield wipers be?

Walking and Reminiscing

As I took my usual morning constitutional around my Woodbridge neighborhood this morning I found myself thinking about the things which used to be here as opposed to the things which are here now. It was a nice walk.

At the corner of Forest and Trumbull there was once a store called, I believe, Hattie's. Hattie sold mostly clothes and fashion accessories, hats and the like. It was the kind of store you used to see in neighborhoods when there were true neighborhoods. I remember being in it with Mom; it had a thirties feel, if my mind isn't superimposing a memory. Across the street was an old Cunningham's Drug Store. Detroiters remember Cunningham's, don't we? At one time it was a thriving local chain.

Next to Hattie's was the Marble Bar, which me Pops said had a reputation for being rough even back in the forties. But I remember being impressed with its facade: an art deco monster which read, surprisingly enough, 'the Marble Bar' in rising maroon letters left to right, all set on a ledge which ran above the entrance. A half block down Trumbull the other way sits a liquor store which fronts a dollar store. The whole building used to be an A&P way back when I was not even ten.

At Trumbull and Merrick was once the Trumbull Merrick market, the bread and milk store I've spoken about I'm sure. Now it's the Woodbridge Pub and has helped develop a good vibe in the neighborhood. Immediately next to it is a pizza store. I like their pizza okay, but it's really just pretentious, overpriced hipster pizza. I say that with all due respect. If you like it, cool, and it does have a good reputation. At least among the pretentious.

Just down from that was Kashat's Party Store, which is now a sushi place. Sushi is okay if you like it, I suppose, but I liked it better as Kashat's. But all things must pass, it is said.

So that's it for today. I'm not particularly melancholy nor euphoric just now. I'm just thinking about the old, and new, neighborhood.

The Apple Falls

They say they apple doesn't fall far from the tree. They say that because it's true.

Me Pops would routinely get, I thought, very hung up on time. He would always want the first appointment of the day with his doctor, typically 8 AM, and would be in the waiting room at 7:15. Dad was the prototypical dad: it doesn't hurt at all to get there a bit early. 

I generally felt he thought too much about how much time something would take. Back in the day, he might be sending me on a pickup that was four miles from the old barn and hasten me along with the admonition, "You better go, it's going to take most of the morning." Not really, I would think to myself. It could take maybe as long as 45 minutes if things worked modestly against me, but no big deal.

Yesterday morning I was sending me brother Phil out for two stops, one in Oak Park, one in Ferndale. They are near northern suburbs of Detroit, neighbors, in fact, as they share city limits on one side. At most they're six miles from the Shop. We're looking at no more than a 15 mile round trip. Even factoring in the inevitable down time at both stops it would take Phil an hour, hour and a half or so, tops, outside of a catastastroke, as me Grandpa Joe used to say, to get the job done.

Still, as Phil pottered around the old barn for a few minutes before leaving I found myself thinking, "You oughta get going, boy, it's going to take you most of the day." I didn't say it, but I thought it.

Either way, the apple has fallen.

No Nonsense Barber

As I was way overdue for a haircut, having not had one since September, I found a reasonably priced barber ($14, for the record) in Garden City last Saturday and decided that was a sign to get rid of my excess and wild hair.

I was greeted by a young woman who asked, in an odd, demanding way, as though she had a chip on her shoulder, "Can I help you?"

"Uh, I'd like a haircut."

"Siddown," she commanded, ripping a barber's apron off a chair.

I saddown.

She asked how I wanted my hair cut. "Fairly short on the sides, leave me something to comb," I answered. The I added, trying to be funny, "I want to look like my dad."

"Doesn't help me," she responded tersely. 

It, uh, wasn't a serious statement. "Well, then, just short with something to comb," I reiterated, cowed.

Don't barbers have to take the same chit chat course as barkeeps? Trying to hold up my end of that deal, I attempted to converse. "Cold day, isn't it?"

"uh-hmm." 

"Been cutting hair awhile?"

"Yes."

"Think the Lions'll win tomorrow?"

"Could."

It was then that I realized how very focused she was at her job. I've never seen anyone quicker with the shears, scissors, or a straight razor. Seeing as my eyeballs and ear lobes were in her firing range, I decided to leave her to her work. The fact is she was fast, so much so that I decided I shouldn't risk breaking her concentration. But she was smooth, too. The shears were almost gliding, with no pull at all on my hair. Her scissoring was sharp and crisp, and her job with the straight razor on the final trim work would shame a mob enforcer. Typically that trim work leaves the back of a man's neck a bit red and raw. Not mine, not yesterday.

And the haircut itself was very good, one of the best I've had. I tipped her four bucks. Her lips almost curled into a smile as she said, "Thank you." She was clearly trying to smile. I believe though that she had to fight muscle memory to force even that much of grin.

Just the same, I'll have her cut my hair again. I'll just leave the chit chat at home.

Lost Youth

One of the stories which me Pops liked to tell on himself involved me Grandpa Joe's, his dad's, flatbed trucks which were used for delivery in his welder rental business. These flatbeds were typically about four foot high. When he was a teenager and even into his twenties Dad used to take a run at the back of the trucks and leap onto the bed, ending up in a crouch and rising to full height upon sticking the landing. He did it for kicks, as young'uns do.

One day when he was around 30 the old man found himself eying the back of a truck. Wondering whether he could still make that leap, Pops began a trot towards the open end of the vehicle and jumped as hard and as high as he could. Yet rather than landing as he once could he cracked his shins across the steel beams which surrounded the truck bed and fell into a painful heap upon it.

"I never did that again," he would end the tale ruefully. 

Electrical and Mechanical

I am no electrical expert. I admit that. But I do know some things about electric motors and how they work.

I am not a mechanical engineer either. Yet I know that what is entirely mechanical, while it may be driven by electricity, is at heart mechanical, components put in motion. 

It is not unusual for a drain snake with an electric motor to have what is called a slip clutch. It has little to nothing to do with the motor. 

A customer brought me an electric snake which hummed or buzzed when you turned it on. Nothing more. It clearly had an electrical issue. The young man insisted that if I replaced the clutch the problem would be solved. "I'm sorry, but it won't," I informed him. I demonstrated that the clutch, which can turned by hand, was working properly. "You have a motor problem."

"But I had three or four guys tell me that if I replaced the clutch everything would be all right."

Well, then. Why didn't they fix it? Why are you coming to me? I wanted to go full on Joe Cosgriff and explode at the customer, but I didn't. I took a deep breath, a very deep breath, and I let it out slowly. Very slowly. Then I said, in an almost perfect Mr. Spock voice (if you can accomplish such through gritted teeth), "I am going to suggest that they are mistaken."

He's taking the machine to an electric motor shop for their opinion. Good for him, bad for them.

A Beautiful Thing

While I was at Sunday Mass with The Ohio Cosgriffs in Newark this past weekend an unfortunate thing happened. The Deacon, Deacon Patrick to be specific, had a seizure while delivering the homily. He had turned towards the altar while preaching, yet when he turned back to the congregation his face went blank. Deacon Patrick stood in the pulpit staring into the distance until a Medical doctor attending Mass went to check on him, along with the priest who sat nearby and a couple other congregants. They led him gently from the altar and through a side exit. Within minutes an ambulance was heard, taking the Deacon to emergency.

It turns out that the poor man had a history of seizures. While I don't know his current status it appears a safe presumption that he's okay. Yet at the time, the unknowing congregation sat stunned. Within a few moments of silence my daughter-in-law Tarina began out loud, "Hail Mary, full of grace..." The rest of us soon joined in, as Tarina led us in three Hail Mary prayers and one Glory Be. Most everyone it seemed joined in the prayers. It gave us a chance to express our feelings, and the priest a moment to gather himself before continuing the Mass.

I told her afterwards that it was a beautiful thing for her to do. She shrugged it off as just something she felt needed doing. But I am very proud of her.

Calling A Bluff

I've been in sales for a while now, and I like to think I have an idea how the game is played. One piece involves discounts. I'm not opposed to them...if the volume is there. So, as it's said, show me the money.

One time a fellow did just that. And I still have his money.

Someone I'd never seen before came to me at the old barn about buying an Electric Eel, the snakes I sell. After going through all the early process, showing him a unit and what goes with it, we came to the real nitty gritty. We began talking cost.

"I'm going to be big, Cosgriff, real big," he was preaching to me. "I'll bring you all my business. Can you help me out?"

"Whaddaya want?"

"Ten percent. I'm gonna buy a lot of stuff off you, man."

I hedged. You can usually tell when you're dealing with someone who's putting you on, painting a grand vista; playing with cow cookies. Yet this time, instead of turning him down flat I thought I'd call his bluff. "What's your initial order?" I asked.

"Five," he answered without hesitation.

"Deal," I answered in kind. At the time the units sold for around two grand, so his total was in the area of $10,000. I'd go ten off for that.

"Write me up Cosgriff, and I'll give you a down payment," he says, with an unwarranted degree of self assurance. "I'll pay the balance when you get the stuff." So I wrote him up. 

He gave me twenty dollars.

As Mr. Going Big left, me Pops was staring at me with uncertainty. "You're taking quite a chance on someone you don't know."

"He ain't coming back, Dad. He's trying to play big shot." Pops shook his head gently and grinned.

I never even bothered to process the order. And here better than a decade later, I still have his twenty bucks.

Losing temper like Joe

Me Grandpa Joe, as I think I've well established, had a hair trigger temper. Most of the time, God love him, he should have never lost it. But damn, sometimes I wish I could lose my temper like he'd lose his. I think some people deserve to have someone blow up at them.

One day last a man who had left a machine with us for repair couldn't find our Shop. Now I'll grant that we can be hard to find; we aren't hidden or anything but our building does sit back a ways off the street and is easily overlooked if you don't watch closely. Still, he called three times, presumably knew where we were, and I gave him the address each call with increasingly more specific descriptions of where we were. On the third call he said, "I'm right at the light at Warren and Rosa Parks, where are you?"

I can see the light at Warren and Rosa Parks from the Shop door. He. Was. Not. There. "Look behind you. Do you see a black van (mine) or a green one (me brother Phil's)?"

"I don't see no vans. But I know where your shop is."

That's where I wanted to blow up like Joe. I wanted to scream, like Joe would, "No, you do not see the vans. If you did, you would be where my Shop is and not where you are and we would not be on the phone. But you aren't where I am, so you do not know where I am!" Instead I said, "Stay where you are and I'll come find you."

He was a half block south of me. He did not come past the green house as I told him to. He was not directly across the street from the Murray-Wright High School parking lot, despite my having told him we were immediately across from it and despite his having insisted he was. He was not 'right at' the light at Warren and Rosa Parks. He was entirely wrong about everything he said.

I spotted him as soon as I cleared that green house as I walked towards Rosa Parks. I waived him in. "See, I knew where I was at!" he exclaimed as pulled up to the old barn. 

"No you didn't!" I wanted to scream. Instead I said, through gritted teeth, "Here's your machine. It's $100. We'll load it for you." I wanted to add, now go away, but managed to avoid that too. But damn, I really wish I'd gone all Joe on him.

Near and minor injury

Getting older means, among other things, being more careful about little stuff. Stuff such as picking up your feet when you walk.

Hiking around the neighborhood the other day I nearly went end over end when I hit my left foot against a slightly high section of sidewalk. I managed to keep my balance, not falling even though I took a couple drunk looking steps regaining my balance. Laughing as I got back to walking properly, I reminded myself that, particularly as Woodbridge and the Wayne State University area have their share of uneven walks, I really should pick up my feet as I go along. Or at least pay better attention to where I'm headed.

But wait, there's more. As I took my glasses out of my pocket when I arrived at the old barn with morning exercise over, I pinched my finger between the earpiece and the lens as I went to put them on. I tell you I drew blood. Putting my glasses on. Can you imagine that?

I would should you but it's my middle finger and, you know, decorum.

Engine, Engine

I was sitting with an old friend last night, I'll call him Ron just to give him a name, who was lamenting his recent car repairs. $2300 for this and $8000 for that. Expensive stuff.

Then I did the math. His engine repairs cost more than five times, yes, five times what I paid in 2019 for my new old van.

Actually, it would be a bit more than five times his repairs. My new old van only cost me $1700.

Dang.

Thursday Fun

Did you hear about the guy who was stealing appendages from the mannequin factory?

He was found guilty of armed robbery.

Look, I didn't sleep well last night, okay?

Once More Unto The Breach

Do you remember when I lamented folks who have several screws loose? Why, it was only a few days ago.  I asked, how can they not see screws out in the open coming loose?

Someone apparently read that and said, hold my beer. 

A man came into the Shop yesterday, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, asking if I could reinstall the caster on the front of his drain machine. "Sure. Bring it in, Cloyce."

A minute later Cloyce was back in my door, dragging the machine along behind him. He stopped it just inside and handed me a perfectly fine wheel. "I don't know how it came off, Cosgriff."

Let's see. Exactly where it should mount on the base of the unit were four empty, threaded holes. Empty, completely undamaged holes, the 1/4-20 threads pristine. They would not require re-tapping. No pieces of broken bolt were evident, as you might expect if, say, a machine had been hit or dropped. No bent frame, no residue of the old bolts having been ripped out. Just four open holes where the wheel attached. And Cloyce didn't know how it happened, how that wheel could have come off.

I held the caster in place with one hand as I started four new bolts with the other before tightening them with a screwdriver. "What do I owe you Cosgriff?" he asked, a look of genuine fear and dread in his voice, as though it had been a truly difficult and time consuming job.

"Oh, nothing, Cloyce, we do enough business." What can I say? I felt generous.

You would have thought I had rescued him from the jaws of Hell by the growing look of pure joy on his face. "Oh, thank you, thank you, Cosgriff!" he exclaimed, gripping my hand and shaking it fiercely, he was so excited. "I don't what I would have done without you!"

Uh, maybe go to any hardware anywhere and spend 75 cents on common bolts and lock washers? You might have also gotten a standard flathead screwdriver for installation purposes and perhaps leave that in your toolbox in case it might ever be needed again.

I was cool yesterday, Cloyce. But next time it'll cost ya. Not that he would learn anything from it.

Four Hundred Pounds Plus

Me Pops had a lot of great stories about his time in the welder rental and drain snake business. I hope to one day tell them all. One that just popped back into the front of my mind today involved the biggest man Dad ever dealt with. He was a good guy just the same, genuinely helpful and gregarious. But he was big. And he had the strong to go with his size. I'll leave exactly how big and strong to your imagination. But think bigger than you think big is.

To give an example of his size and strength, there was a job where me Pops was delivering welders along with the heavy cables necessary to weld with. These cables weighed a touch over a pound a foot. That particular day Dad had several 200 ft. lengths to deliver.

Guys were coming up to the back of Dad's truck and doubling up, two to a cable, to carry them over to the tool crib. Big Jim walked up and offered Pops a shoulder. "Put one there, Bill," he instructed.

"They're two hundred footers, Jim."

"Put one there," he replied simply, wagging his shoulder at the old man. So Dad did, setting it down as gently as he could. Then Jim turned about and said, "Give me another," indicating his empty shoulder.

"They're all two hundreds," Dad reminded him. Jim replied, "Give me another."

So me Pops set another cable on that shoulder. Big Jim walked away with more than 400 pounds of welding cable on his shoulders as though taking a stroll in the park.

I want him on my side in a rumble.

Quarter by Inch and a Quarter

I sometimes wonder what my kids will think when the time comes to clean out the old barn. It likely won't matter to me at that point. Still, the thought about their thoughts about what they will discover at the Shop at that time does intrigue me.

Will they be as impressed as I am at the five foot tall crescent wrench me Grandpa Joe acquired from somewhere? The two ton electric hoist: will it cross their minds how many welding machines were raised down, in Joe's parlance, over the years? Parts for drain snakes will surely greet them, parts they won't have a clue as to what they're for or how they work or if they should be scrapped, or sold to a needy plumber.

Then there's the box of several, yes, several thousand quarter by inch and a quarter roll pins. I can't imagine any other thought except, what in the world would the old man need those for?

They have their use. Honest. But I'd be happy if the kids simply stuck a few in their pockets as keepsakes. 

Screw Loose

I ought to be far past the point where it would surprise me, but I'm not. You just think that maybe, just maybe, there might be hope for humanity, that things might change. Of course, they don't.

A customer at the Shop the other day came in to have me put a chuck on his machine. The bolts which attach a handle to the unit were loose. Way loose. So loose in fact that the handles were nearly falling off. "Could you tighten those for me, Cosgriff?" the customer asked.

I don't mind doing that per se. What astonished me is how he could have let them get so loose to begin with. That kind of thing doesn't happen overnight. You never noticed it before now? And you're a professional. You have tools. Why didn't you tighten them up eons ago? 

I've seen this with gear cases on certain drain snakes. The case cover is fastened to the machine with six bolts. All six would be loose by several threads, actually leaving a visible gap between the gear case and the gear case cover. Yet the customer would cry and pout to me about the cost of replacement gears because the old gears had ground down to nothing because the gear oil had all leaked out of the gear case because those bolts were clearly loose. It never occurred to you that bolts set in place to attach something to something should actually be made to attach to that something?

I'm not the best myself at certain chores but I know enough about screws and bolts to understand they should be properly tightened and to see when they are not. Yet after 50 years in the old barn folks still come in with absurdly loose connections and then ask, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, could you tighten those?"

Yes I can. But you really didn't think far enough ahead to tighten them before you came to see me? Some things are just beyond explanation.

Joe's Freezing Dander

It never took much to get me Grandpa Joe's dander up. Still, some things, believe it or not, got his dander up to stratospheric levels remarkably fast even by comparison to his normal, uh, standard.

Joe rented welding equipment, as I think I've well established in these pages. And while you likely couldn't do it now even if you wanted as most water lines are nonmetallic, at one time you could de-ice frozen pipes with a welding generator. 

What makes a welder weld is that you complete a circuit when you 'strike arc', that is, apply the welding electrode to the items you wish to fuse together. Don't fret this too much if you can't picture it. Suffice it to say that when you weld, you're completing an electric circuit. When you do that, you create heat. Heating a metal pipe will then melt the ice which has formed within it.

You also effectively create a short circuit when using a welder to de-ice pipes, causing it to overheat. This will eventually, very eventually in Joe's book, destroy his welder.

Grandpa would fly off the handle even faster than usual when he'd hear of some numbskull using one of his machines to thaw pipe. If you believe he had a quick temper anyway, use his equipment wrongly. You'll find out that nothing really is impossible, even shortening Joe's profusely short fuse.

Mal and Mae

Clarence Malachi Hutchins was me Grandpaw Hutchins. He was called Mal by me Grandmaw Hutchins, whom he called Mae, her middle name. You need to know that. Don't worry, there won't be a test. You just need to know.

One day as Mom and I were, she asked what we were shopping for. I told her coffee, among a few other things.

She brightened up as she told a story from her childhood. "Oh, Daddy used to give us kids coffee all the time, and it bothered Mom," my mother was explaining. 

She continued, "Mom used to yell, Mal, you can't be givin' them young 'uns coffee!"

"It ain't gonna hurt 'em, Mae, he'd answer quietly every time, a little smile on his face," Mom finished. 

"I still hear her say that. I still see him smiling."

"I think he did it just to tease her, but I think Mom liked it just the same," Mom ended with a wistful grin.

Okay, not much of a story. But it was nice to hear Mom talk about her parents and her childhood.

Amos's Turkey Day

The story may sound contrived, trite, or obvious. Yet it's a true story. I haven't even changed the names to protect the innocent.

Amos, you'll recall, was an old friend of me Grandpa Joe. You may remember also that he was considered tight. However true that might be, and I suspect that it's been a bit embellished by the myth-makers of family history, he didn't mind spending a few dimes on good causes. One such cause was St. Dominic's annual Fall Festival.

As should be expected at a large party celebrating autumn, among the games and spinning wheels was a turkey booth. You pick a number, you put your money or ticket on that number, the wheel is spun, and should that number come up, you have the entree for your Thanksgiving feast. Amos approached the booth, selected some number not 13 (he was also superstitious, remember?), and waited for the spin of the wheel. He anticipated nothing, but lo and behold, won a turkey on that first try.

Now, two things were at work that day. Amos was genuinely there to support the Church. But then, he also knew his reputation. He figured he couldn't just walk away with the bird. So he played a second time with a second number (still not 13). He won another turkey.

Then a third one.

And finally, a fourth one.

You may rest assured that Amos spread his largesse. He gave away three of the four turkeys. I've no doubt also that he made his way around the school gymnasium and spent his share of hard earned dollars to help old St. Dominic. But to hear me Pops tell it, the look on his face, the sheer mortification at winning four turkeys in a row at a charitable event, was priceless.

Old Days

Yesterday at the Shop a peculiar thing happened. We went back in time. Well, sort of anyway.

As I repaired a machine for a long time customer another voice from the past came in. He knew the guy who was already there. The three of us began talking about way back when.

Within a couple of minutes a third old hand joined us, and then a fourth. The five of us were soon talking about this and that, that guy and another whom we all knew, the advantages of this machine over a comparable one and before you knew it the old barn was once more the gathering place for local drain cleaners and plumbers which it had been, oh, in the 1970s, 80s, and 90s. One participant even remarked, "This is just like old times! This was where everyone used to gather."

It did feel like that. Sometimes you can go back.

Not All That

I voted today. Big deal. And I mean that. Big. Deal.

We're supposed to be all for democracy. Well, I am too. Yet only because we don't have a better, um, choice. Too often democracy is merely a code word, a dog whistle, for tyranny of the majority.

That's all it means, you know, that fifty percent plus one can make everyone else do their bidding. Knowing what I know about human nature, that is not a comfort. 

So yes, by all means vote. Just remember that your neighbor can be a petty tyrant in his own right. As can you.

Attracting Deer

All right, I've been enough of a curmudgeon this week. Let's get back to fun stories.

There was this fella who came in the Shop all the time who we called Beefy because, uh, well, it fit his stature. Like so many Michiganders, he looked forward to deer season. It begins November 15 every year, so as that's coming up soon I found myself thinking of him.

Beefy managed a plumbing company. There was one particular employee whom Beefy didn't like at all, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was an old friend of the company owner. Beefy didn't care for the guy because he was a slacker. Yet he couldn't do anything but deal with Cloyce because of the guy's friendship with the boss. That didn't keep Beefy from complaining about Cloyce every time he was in the old barn though.

One November years ago Beefy walked into the Shop with a couple small repairs. While tending to one I eventually asked a rather obvious question, just making conversation, "So you going out hunting next week Beef?"

"Yep," he kind of drawled. "Taking Cloyce with me too."

"What? You hate Cloyce, and you're going to spend a couple weeks with him in deer camp?" I couldn't believe my ears.

"Oh yeah, I even bought Cloyce some clothes for it. Nice brown suits. I'm going to tell him his job is to run out into the woods and scare up the deer for the rest of us," Beefy explained.

I don't think I stopped laughing for a half an hour.

Cash is King

For awhile there, I was debit-carding nearly everything. It was simply too easy. But I'm consciously using cash more and more again, at least on smaller or routine purchases. Why? As I become increasingly libertarian and realize that everything electronic is tracked and stored, I find myself thinking, admittedly with a bit of a chip on my shoulder, that it's nobody's business what type of coffee I chose this morning or what sales entice me. Also, I can figure things out for myself without being inundated by ads for something I bought once, thank you very much.

Still, I debit one thing nearly always: gas. That's partly because you never know exactly how much it'll take to fill the tank, but mostly because I don't want to deal with people. In particular, the people buying lottery tickets at the cash register. Or, worse, the folks who can't figure out which candy they want, or what flavor tiny cigar.

Yes, yes, yes, they have the right to be there and all that. If they happened to get in line in front me, that's their good luck. But, really now. You won't care what candy you had in twenty minutes, nor what smoke you had matter. And if you want to give away money, just give it to me. Why bother Lansing with extra lottery money which ain't helping the schools anyway, despite their claims?

All right, I'm becoming a curmudgeon and a libertarian. They kind of go together anyway.