Hold Thy Tongue Marty

As a general rule, it really is best to hold your tongue. But, hell, sometimes that can be hard.

I sent an order UPS to a customer. Okay, I sent my brother out with the package to UPS it to a customer, but potato, pa-tat-o. After he had left the old barn, and as they had prepaid, I sent an email explaining that the order was on its way and that I would be snail mailing a paid invoice later that day. That's a standard business practice, right?

The next day I received an email from said customer wondering why, as they received the parcel, there was not an invoice enclosed. They enquired, would I be sending one by the regular mail?

I might not have been quite so upset with the question except that they asked it in a reply to the original email informing them that a paid invoice was forthcoming in the regular mail. 

Bite. Thy. Tongue. Marty. 

I cannot tell you how badly I wanted to reply to the email by asking if they actually read their emails. I cannot tell you how seriously I considered a smarmy, snide response. Something along the lines of, 'What? You didn't get an invoice? I will overnight air one to you immediately!' or some such. But no, I calmly replied that one was already in the mail, but to let me know if they didn't get it soon. 

I'm easing my anger by writing this blog entry. But I'll bet you know the feelings I'm dealing with, eh?

Technology Which Festers

I get it. You get it. We all get it. The Internet follows us around. 

You order one thing - one thing - and the Internet thinks you need hundreds of it. Thousands. 

Yesterday I ordered a 23557 Clutch Casting for a Ridgid K-1500 mainline drain cleaning machine. I haven't needed one in years. The one I'm getting may be the only one I need for the next four or five. Yet the first thing which came up this morning on not one but two websites I frequent were ads for that part.

What particularly annoys me is not only the general uselessness of the ads, but that they didn't encourage me to buy another for purely economic reasons. Each happily informed me that I could get AN AUTHENTIC RIDGID 23557 CLUTCH CASTING FOR ONLY $173.99! But hell, the one I actually ordered was forty bucks less. If I need another anytime soon I'm going back to those guys.

But to give you, yes, YOU, the chance to satisfy your curiosity as to what I'm talking about and be smothered in ads for such a part, click here. Yes, it's for the more expensive one. I'm not telling you all my secrets. You'll buy the cheaper one and then overcharge me.

Organization Hurts

I have too much of a lazy streak, and I'm perfectly aware of it. Still, there are times where the cleaning bug hits. Or, more truthfully, forces my hand.

It's been incredibly busy at the old barn these last few weeks. For that I am truly thankful; it means the bills get paid and there's some left over to save and squander. I'm better at the latter than the former, although I am improving at putting money back, and even at avoiding impulse buys. At Meijer the other day I actually returned a baseball magazine to the shelf. Why read projections for the upcoming season which will almost certainly be wrong when I can read tons of baseball articles online, if not for free at least already paid for through internet and cell phone fees. 

But I digress.

As a consequence of the flush of work (heh, heh, flush, from a guy who sells drain snakes) the Shop has gotten very crowded. It reached the point where I was cautiously stepping over and around machines to get to my work spaces. I often had to move two to four units to get to the one I wanted to fix, then doing it again an hour later on the next repair. That won't do for the long haul. So I spent Saturday and Sunday organizing. 

I did a good job of it too, if I may say so myself. I created easy access to my tools and my main work areas. I could by the end of Sunday afternoon actually walk into what goes for my office and readily get to the shelves at the back of it, where I stock small parts and cutters. There were - try to wrap your head around this - aisles I could walk through from the front to the back of the old barn. It was still crowded. But getting from A to B was doable without risking accidental death or disfigurement.

Monday morning when I opened, around six AM to hit the work week running, the Shop was dark. I kill the lights at night, you see. As I reached into my pocket for my cell to use its flashlight function to illuminate my way to the fuse box (yes, the Shop still has fuses) I thought, "Marty, you don't need to do that. You created a path!" So I boldly went forth with no fear, not a care in the world...and knocked the wind out of me, striding smack into the handle of a drain machine which stuck out into the aisle. I sucker punched myself in the gut. Pride goeth before the fall indeed.

David Gets Complimented

I typically avoid politics. Honestly ... I haven't watched the news in three years. I don't even know why I chose this book. But I'm glad I did. The characters were believable, and the discussions thought-provoking, pensive and entertaining. I could see a TV series in the future. Write-on Charles.

Well, thank you Rick on Amazon. I am very pleased with your review of my book David Gideon. It isn't really supposed to be about politics but, rather, David becoming President is merely the hook. On that basis, it does offer a forum for raising questions and having discussions about this issue or that, whether within the circle of family and friends or in the larger society. I don't want readers to get hung up on his Presidency. I want them to see the man, and the woman behind him. David may not be the actual hero, you know. 

Write-on Charles. I like that turn of phrase. And a TV show? Well, I hadn't given it that much thought. But man, what a compliment!

A fella is naturally apprehensive in putting his writing out for public consumption. I mean, this blog, The Sublime to the Ridiculous, is exactly that. Just froth by and large. To put the kind of effort I've put into my books and have folks rave about them like Rick, wow. A guy feels as though he can write well enough, but it's the readers who actually can tell him whether he in fact does. I feel good reading such reviews. It really does make one feel humble too, if it isn't too bizarre to be humble and ecstatic at the same time. 

The characters are believable and the story is entertaining. Thought provoking and pensive. To hear that from a man I'll never know, wow. Just wow.

And after all that attempt at humility, now I've got to be a shill for the book: David Gideon

Thanks for reading this, and thank you for all the support and encouragement you've given me.

The Green Monster

Being St. Patrick's Day, for obvious reasons I fished through my clothes this morning to find something green. I came across my 'Green Monster' t-shirt which I bought while at Fenway Park in Boston in 2016. And that leads me to what I want to say to you today: at times I'm slow on the uptake.

Fenway Park features a 37 foot wall in left field. It is painted green. As such, for years Red Sox fans have affectionately referred to it as the Green Monster. Are you with me so far? Good.

Anyway, sports teams tend to have mascots, and Boston is no different. Traipsing around the stands and on the field during the pre-game and between innings and what not was a costumed, human sized figure in a Red Sox uniform. He looked like a full sized Elmo or Cookie Monster, the Sesame Street characters. But rather than red or blue, he was made of up green shag carpet. And I could not figure out who or what he was supposed to be.

Until about the fourth inning, when it finally dawned on me. He was the Green Monster.

At times I really need things explained to me. At least it gave me green to wear on St. Patrick's Day though. 

What's Wrong With Great Grandpa James?

When me Grandpa Joe was young a trip into town was still an event. It was horse and buggy days in west central Illinois where he was raised, so hitching up the wagon was enough of a chore that you only did it for serious shopping excursions for serious business.

One such seriousness involved candy. Great Grandma Mary would, among her other and arguably more important purchases, buy candy for her kids as a treat. Her youngest, me Grandpa Joe, remembered those gifts fondly. Yet one aspect of it confused the then young boy.

Once home, his mother would offer the candy to everyone. The six children would take their share with delight. Great Grandpa James would, however, always decline the chance to delve into the sugary treats. Grandpa Joe recalled that he would think, "What's the matter with that old man, not taking candy?"

I think most of us thought that way as kids under such circumstances.

All Wrong

When me Pops was trying to get his drain snake repair business off the ground he was willing to go above and beyond the call of duty, to show customers he was serious and, hopefully, have good word spread around fishing for more. But you better not have taken advantage of that.

One former customer, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, called around 8:30 on a Saturday night asking if Dad could meet him at 8 Sunday morning for a machine repair. Pops reluctantly said yes. As I said, he was trying to get set up and wanted to show goodwill and effort.

Dad was at the old barn at 7:45. Cloyce wasn't there at 8.

Or 8:15.

Or 8:30.

When he still wasn't there by 8:45 Dad went home. At the time he liked to go to 9:30 Sunday Mass at old St. Dominic and needed time to get ready.

At 9 there was a loud knocking at the front door of the house. It was Cloyce, demanding, "Where you been Bill? I been waiting at your Shop for an hour!" 

Now, me Pops was generally mild mannered. But Cloyce went and said the wrong thing to the wrong man at the wrong time. The old man let him have it. 

And now you know why I said former customer a few lines back.

Good Customer

A fella appreciates honesty. It can renew faith in humanity.

It was a zoo yesterday at the old barn. It was particularly hectic between around 10 until Noon, where literally one customer after another (and three at a time twice) waited, all of them patiently to their credit, for service. I haven't had a run of business like that in quite a long while. 

One customer returned 15 minutes or so after I had done a quick fix on his snake. My first thought was a lament: "What's wrong? Did I not do the job right? Rats. I don't need this right now."

But that wasn't it. "Hey Cosgriff! I forgot to pay you," he said upon opening the Shop door.

I didn't realize he hadn't. It completely slipped my mind. Things were so hectic that as soon as I finished his job I had simply thanked him, and he me, and left without either of us thinking about the money aspect. All was totally incidental on both of us. 

I would likely had never given it a second thought. I'd have assumed he paid. He's a long time customer and completely trustworthy, as he proved by returning. 

Work was a mess yesterday. Yet that one bright spot made it all worthwhile. 

My Two Cents Worth

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Why, I've become adept enough that I monitor my banking activity online, thank you very much. I've even learned to get comfortable with and use the ATM in the lobby of my bank. I make deposits and withdrawals all by my lonesome. It's what the bank wants, to not deal with Marty directly. Likely enough most folks don't want to deal with me. Beat you to the punch, Ron.

But technology is not without its issues, and I had one yesterday while banking. The first machine failed to work properly. It wasn't my fault, the bank employees assured me. They'd been having trouble with that particular ATM all day. Moving to the next machine, everything worked fine.

But in checking my bank account online this morning I noticed an unexpected deposit for, I am not making this up, two cents. Yes, two Lincoln coppers. Two entire pennies. The explanation was that it was an interest payment, an apology of sorts, for my trouble with that first ATM. 

So you ain't gotta worry about Marty's two cents no more. It's laying right in the bank. But if you upset me enough I may still give it to you anyway.

Rain, I Don't Mind

Yesterday I did something I've never done before. I let rain stop me from driving. Well, more specifically, I allowed a little voice to convince me that I should stop.

I was on my way home from a short road trip and could see the ominous clouds grow on the horizon. They meant business. Between they and I was a travel center. Pull into that truck stop, the voice said. Wait out the rain.

So I did as told. There was an IHOP, so breakfast called as well. Right as a country omelet was placed before me it commenced to pour outside, the proverbial sheets. Most likely flannel, the rain was so heavy. I ate, and knew that I had also avoided a terrible fate, or at least bad trouble.

How could I know that? How do you prove a negative? Nothing bad happened, really by definition. I was safe, fat, and happy watching the rain from my booth.

I knew because the cautionary voice told me. It pays to listen.

Clean Slate

Bush's Drug Store was pretty much right across the street from the house me Pops grew up in at 1104 Putnam in Detroit. The Cosgriff family frequented it for their medicines and whatever other sundries the store might have offered.

One day when in his teens me Pops and a friend were drifting around the old neighborhood, killing time on a winter afternoon. As the pair neared the store his buddy said to Dad, "Bet you can't hit Bush's sign with a snowball." Above the doorway, adorned with the Coca-Cola moniker, was sign which said 'Bush's Drugs', a typical way of advertising in the day. Actually, until yet I suppose.

"Sure I can," a supremely confident Teenage Pops replied. He scooped up a handful of snow, packed it tightly, and let it fly, striking the sign dead center.

It shattered into dozens of pieces. Pops assumed the sign was metal or wood, but it was slate. On that cold day, a well pitched snowball was bound to do irreparable harm.

'This is going to take weeks for me to pay for,' Teenage Pops thought woefully. But right was right, and the Cosgriffs and Mr. Bush were friends as well as patrons and druggists, so Dad went in to confess what he had done.

"I threw a snowball at your Coke sign and it shattered, Mr. Bush," he explained when the pharmacist came from a back room.

Mr. Bush offered a wry smile. "Well, young man, you picked a good day. They're coming out tomorrow with a new sign to replace it. Clean up the debris and we'll be fine."

The fog lifted, the angels sang, and Teenage Pops' Shop salary wouldn't be dunned. Life was good.

Learning From Me Pops

I just received my new business cards. I had the Shop address put on them. That should not surprise; the locals who actually come to see me need to know where its at while it doesn't really matter to the out of towners. And I learned from me Pops not to use me home address on such ephemera.

Me Pops was a smart man. But like so many of us he made his share of tactical errors, as he would himself confess. One was putting his home address, since it was also his business mailing address (mail never has come to the old barn, for whatever reason), on his first business cards. He found out quickly that that was a mistake.

Customers, and not the good and worthwhile ones, would hunt him down at horribly odd hours, 8:30 at night on a Saturday for example, to fix their cable or machine which had been broken for five days because they had an emergency job to handle. Dad, having a wife and bunch of rug rats to feed, clothe, and house, and also being concerned with someone else's emergency (who wants a backed up sewer at any time let alone late on a Saturday evening?) would generally open up and take care of business.

Yet that got old very fast. And, again, it was the less than stellar drain cleaners who demanded his time. Add this to the fact that a homeowner in dire straits would find another way out of their dilemma somehow, and he stopped such late night weekend nonsense. It would teach those special plumbers a valuable lesson too: get your drain snake fixed when it breaks, and not only when you would need it, potlikker.

March 8, 1987

I'm not sure how certain memories stay strong in my mind. Especially those which seem at the surface decidedly unremarkable.

March 8, 1987, was an unusually warm late winter Sunday here in Detroit. It hit 75 that day, and that may still be the record. I was with my son Frank, who was about 14 months old then. I don't remember at all where my wife and oldest son were, only that Frank and I were home alone most of the day.

My son and I ate hot dogs for lunch and went to a school park a block away. I held him in my lap and we swung gently on a swing; a couple times I put him snugly in the kids' size swing and pushed him a little less gently but never too hard. We climbed atop the small slide and slid down several times. Often Frank simply toddled around as I followed, picking up this or that for intense study before dropping it when interest waned.

The sun shone bright and, as I said, it was warm. And I've always remembered it as a nice day yet on a very deep level. If there's such a thing as sublimity, I learned it on March 8, 1987.

A Blind Squirrel Clock

Last week I had to rent a van for a trip to Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) because of the amount of product I was getting. My new old van is good and reliable but would have surely buckled under the weight of what I was picking up. So it was to U-Haul I did go.

For whatever reason, the clock in the rental van was one hour and twenty eight minutes behind. Yep, 1:28 behind. Why that odd number, I don't know. But it bugged me enough that I had to try to set it straight.

At my stop for coffee around 3 AM, before returning to the highway, I proceeded to punch various buttons in various orders trying to find where to reset the clock. Lo and behold, the method paid off: I was able to set the clock to the right time. Thank you, thank you very much.

Yet the key thing is I didn't do any damage. I don't believe so anyway. Well, there was an explosion somewhere after I hit one of the buttons. But it was faint and far away - you could barely see the flash - so I don't think that was me.

So I figured out how to reset the van clock. Just don't ask me to do it again.

Spliced Cloyce

I don't think you need to know a lot about drain snake cables to understand this tale.

Back in the 60s and 70s there was this one plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was as the parlance says, so tight he squeeked. He had the first dollar he ever made. He'd squeeze a penny so hard Lincoln would yell. You get the picture.

One day old Cloyce came into the Shop to have me Pops repair his cable, which had broken. Again. When a snake cable breaks you can use a threaded metal piece called a splice to fix the break. In this particular case the cable was broken less than 18 inches from the end. Typically in such instances Pops would put on an end fitting rather than a splice, as splices too close to a cable end can cause problems. Trust me on that.

So the old man says to Cloyce, "I'll just put an end fitting on."

Cloyce was aghast. He was almost panic stricken at the thought. "Oh, no, Bill, splice it. I can't lose any length; that's my good cable.

Me Pops looked over the snake. He counted 18 splices in Cloyce's 'good' cable. The thing needed to be replaced, but Cloyce was too tight for that. So Dad spliced it and charged accordingly. 

The fact was that with what he had paid for over 18 splices (well, 19) he could have more than paid for a new cable. Probably two, honestly. Yet that's simply not how old Cloyce thought. He was a forest for the trees sort of guy.

The Voice

It happened again last night at curling. I had an old friend come up to say, "I heard that laugh, and I immediately thought, Marty's here!" Yes, with the exclamation point.

Remember last week? I had virtually the same thing happen, as I wrote here . While it's good to be known for something, I have to admit stuff like this makes a guy just a bit self conscious and vaguely paranoid. 'Someone told a joke, and I laughed. Was it that laugh?' 

"And you do have a distinct voice," my buddy Nick tells me. Yeah, distinct. I've been told I have a future with the Cartoon Network. Seriously. Right on TV, on a baseball pregame show: Tiger Pregame

Oh, I'm not going to stop. If it's that much a part of my personality, that ingrained after all these years, I probably couldn't if I wanted to. And it is good to be remembered. It leaves me interested for what may happen next Thursday..

Irish Attitude

Let's not have a sniffle, Let's have a bloody good cry, And always remember the longer you live, the sooner you'll bloody well die.

As I listen to Irish music while St. Patrick's Day approaches I'm struck by its piety, its spark, its sentimentality, and its vague fist raised at solemn things like, oh, death.

The above chorus is from Isn't It Grand, Boys, a traditional Irish ditty. Its most famous version is courtesy of The Clancy Brothers, and sort of either mocks, dares, or is matter of fact about death and dying. I love it. It's very, well, Irish. Here it is, folks, the song says. It is what it is. 

And it makes me proud of me Irish heritage. I love this time of year.

It Happened One Day

I remembered I was running low on coffee pods at the old barn when I happened to be at a Dollar General, which was fortuitous as they can be difficult to find. I happened to discover they sold coffee pods, so I happened to buy some. As they happened to be on sale, I happened to buy several boxes.

As it happened, one flavor I chose was 'donut shop blend'. But they didn't happen to say which donut shop. Yet as there happens to be this thing called the Internet where all of human knowledge appears to be kept in storage, most of it in very deep storage unless you happen to like cat videos or morally questionable entertainment, I decided to find out which donut shop blend Dollar General's happened to be.

It happens to be from Fred and Mary's donut shop and troll doll emporium in South Witchita, Kansas. Closed Mondays. You're welcome.

A funny thing happened on the way to the classroom

Teaching adult education for twenty odd years was fun, and occasionally rewarding. Yet certain moments are bound to stand out. I will never forget the two funniest incidents I have ever had in a classroom.

While grading a short essay for an Economics course, the student was asked the difference between stocks and bonds. In an obvious yet hilarious cut and paste off the Internet (a practice we frowned upon of course and graded accordingly), the answer began: "Stocks were medieval devices of public humiliation and torture." It went on to explain, in some, ah, fascinating detail, the exact nature of certain forms of torture. Reading this challenged my attempts to stay calm and professional, to not laugh out loud at my desk in a room full of students. I had no trouble keeping control until the last sentence: "Bonds are government issued interest bearing securities."

Well, the student was half right in his answer, and I was able to keep my professional wits. Barely.

On another occasion, I had an English assignment to grade. With that one, I did go on to completely lose my composure in peals of laughter which I tried valiantly to hide but to no avail. I had to leave the room for ten minutes initially, hiding in an empty teacher's lounge while leaving the other instructor (there were two of us at all times in our teaching arrangement) to lament my having abandoned him. Luckily it was a slow night.

The assignment was to make comparisons in the form of analogies. The first prompt read: "Tom's car was old." Expected responses were along the lines of, 'Tom's car was older than baseball.' Instead I was treated to, "Tom's car was older than a dead frog."

I was okay at first; I stifled my giggles, although it took it a few seconds of tongue biting to maintain myself. But I was good.

The next prompt was, 'Abby was hungry.' Harmless enough. Until I read the student's offering.

"Abby was very hungry, like a sad clown who had fell off his bike."

I immediately roared uncontrollably. Shawn, the other teacher, asked what was up. Giving him the paper I replied between guffaws, "Read the first two sentences and I'll be back in a few minutes."

On my return, finally beyond any wild laughter, the first thing Shawn said was, "I can see why you didn't give credit for the first analogy. The frog may not have been dead that long."

I returned after another twenty minutes. Good times.

Slight Comfort

I was able to start this week as so many people wish they could: an early Monday dentist appointment. Don't harbor any ill will towards me. Jealousy is so ugly.

It was simply to have my teeth cleaned, though. No needles or extractions or anything uncomfortable. Indeed the dental hygienist complimented me when the procedure was about halfway finished. "Are you doing okay, Mr. Cosgriff?"

"Mphh uhhh hmm uh huh," I answered. I mean, she had a small mirror, a pick of some sort, a water jet and a water vacuum in my mouth.

"Good, good," she responded. And then, as if to reassure me, "And you're not bleeding at all."

That was good news, considering that I had no expectations of bloodshed from a mere cleaning. But I made it a point to be a particularly cooperative patient after that.

The Prodigal Father

Most of us are familiar with the parable of the Prodigal Son. I was introduced to it in a new way through the book Death on a Friday Afternoon. It struck me deep, and that at the risk of understatement quite frankly.

We know that the father saw the returning, humbled, repentant son and ran out to greet him while he was still far off. But did the father just happen to see the young man returning that day? Did he notice him as he passed an open window or while he toiled in his fields? No; he didn't stumble upon his son's return. He spent day after day standing on the portico of his home, scanning the horizon for the lad's return, hoping, wishing, pining for his son's safe and soon coming back home. It wasn't an accident. The father actively sought his progeny. 

Then he ran - ran - out to greet him. Dad didn't sit on a throne and demand the son slink all the way back to him, prostrate and ashamed (although the boy was surely properly ashamed) and beg for forgiveness (although the young man, properly as well, expected he should do that). The father saw his son, perhaps as a spot on the horizon which gradually took human, family form, and, recognizing him after all that time, ran out to him.

So God the Father will do for us. He won't demand you inch forward and beg. When he sees your repentance, He will run to you in welcome. Such is His love for us. He will look past all the terrible things we've done and throw His arms around us. We will have been found by the One who constantly scans the horizon for all of His lost sheep.