My Inner Joe Cosgriff

Me Grandpa Joe, I loved that man. Hoo boy, though, did his temper have a short fuse. I'm sure I've spoken of that. But you know, the older I grow the more I get his temper. And I'll you something further: the older I get, the harder it is to hold that genetic disposition in check. There are times where it's all I can do to keep my temper down. Even then, I still lose it, but that's for another blog.

I can't begin to tell you exactly how much I wanted to throw down on a customer call just yesterday. I didn't, but I sure wanted to.

He had an issue with a drain snake, and I of course work on such animals. He told me what it was doing and I told him what it likely needed. He asked me to ship the part. "Well, why don't you try this test first," I started to explain, because there's a simple way to test this particular item and it could save everyone time and effort if the guy would take a few minutes to try it.

I was cut off, quite rudely I will add, which will not help his case. "We've done all the testing. Send me the part." FYI by his own admission they had not looked inside the motor, and the test I had in mind requires opening the motor.

That's where I nearly lost it, because I know absolutely, beyond any doubt, he had not tried the test I intended to suggest. I know that because it's not something anyone without my knowledge of the problem would know. Not that I'm all that, but merely that it's a very specialized type of knowledge which only someone with experience could have. And you must open the motor to do it. 

I my mind I could actually hear myself yelling at the man (and in Joe's voice no less!) "No! You have not done all the testing; you don't know what the test is! You called me because you don't know what's wrong but now you don't wanna listen to my advice!" I wanted to hang up on him, I was so mad. I haven't missed a rotary phone in ages, but I wished we were on one simply for the grand finale slam of the earpiece onto the cradle.

Instead I'm going to send him the part, and it had best work, for his sake. Because I will go off on him if he calls later with a complaint. I guarantee that.

Customer Base

While on the road early yesterday me brother Phil and I decided to stop for breakfast. We arrived at the front doors of a restaurant exactly as the manager was unlocking them for business. "Just the two of you today?" she asked pleasantly.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll have more customers than us," Phil quipped.

"It's really too early for jokes, sir," she responded. But I thought it was good.

Danse Craze

Several years ago I happened to be at a wedding reception with a friend who happened to be French. I'll call him Monsieur Cloyce just to give him a name.

At one point as Monsieur Cloyce and I were chatting the DJ called for anyone interested to come out onto the dance floor for a group dance. When all were assembled he began playing began The Chicken Dance. Hilarity ensued.

Monsieur Cloyce and I had elected not to participate. But he did turn to me and remark, "At home in France, we have a similar event at weddings. We call it, Le Danse Du Coq."

"Really?" I asked. "What does that translate to?"

"The Chicken Dance," Monsieur Cloyce answered solemnly.

I suppose I might have guessed that.

To Begin With

There are times where all you can do is scratch your head. 

A customer brought a large drain machine into the old barn for repair. "I think I burned it out, Cosgriff. Do have an idea what it will cost me?"

This particular machine had all the cords cut off at the reverse switch box attached to the motor. "Not really, without going over it. But where are the cords?" I asked.

"I was trying to fix it myself," he replied sheepishly, "and threw them away."

You threw them away? I thought in silence. "Well, a complete rewire is $175, so you'll need at least that if I can get it running. So whatever getting the problem fixed costs, $175 will be added on if you approve the repair."

"So we're starting at $175?" he demanded in shock. Yes, but you tossed the cords, I again thought quietly.

I sighed. "No charge at all if you don't approve the fix. I'm simply explaining that whatever the trouble is it'll be an additional $175."

The guy's shoulders dropped. "I guess I shouldn't have thrown them out."

I guess not. Why did you even think that was a good idea?

With You Always

In the Catholic Lectionary, today is the Feast of the Ascension of the Lord. Forty days after Easter Christ was taken up to Heaven before the eyes of His Apostles, who still expected the earthly Kingdom of Israel restored. If you ever think you don't 'get' it, remember that neither did His closest followers at first. To add to their confusion the famous men in white appeared, asking, "Men of Galilee, why do you stare into the sky? This Jesus...will return." Yet in the Gospel of Mark read during today's Mass, we are left with Christ's promise, "I am with you always, until the end of the age."

It's a wonderful, consoling, hopeful, thrilling consolation. He is with us always. 

When we are dealing with death, He is there.

Illness? He holds our hand.

That aggravating coworker? Christ is by your side, ready to help you deal with that rascal with all the Christian Charity you can muster.

He is even there when we face too much. I am not one to believe that God never gives us more than we can handle. Neither do I believe in Jesus, take the wheel. We are here to do whatever job the Lord wants us to do. It's our task, not His. That might mean we are allowed to become overwhelmed precisely so that we get it in gear, to get our house in order, to be in a sense told to stop. You can't handle all that. Prioritize. Learn to focus. Do what you can and let go of what you can't. And Christ will still be there through it all for support.

His physical self left us. But Christ the Son of God remains with us as God. Until the end of the age. 

Easy Negotiations

Me Grandpa Joe, he didn't negotiate price. Oh, he'd allow his friend Amos to do so in his stead, so I'm probably playing a bit loose with this assertion. Still, Joe to my knowledge never himself negotiated a price.

I found this out on a trip through western Michigan with him, looking for a pump jack as I recall. I'm still not sure what a pump jack is but I know it had to do with the oil wells he was invested in back in the day, and I know they were big because we had to take his manual shift stake truck with the ten foot bed to carry one.

Anyhow, after driving for two days, two days of me learning to drive a stick I might add (so there were a lot of fits and spurts and stalled engines as I learned through trial by error) we ended up at his friend Ford's. Ford was his actual first name; I don't remember his last. Ford took us out into a field of various machinery, about in the middle of which was an old pump jack. It looked like an oversized grasshopper to me. Joe asked Ford what he wanted, and Ford told him. Joe took a drag on a cigarette, then just said kinda quietly, "I think I'll pass." We began the trip home.

Grandpa explained to me that a fella knows what his stuff is worth, and who was he to argue with that? I get what he means. I rarely negotiate myself, usually giving a simply yea or nay when dealing with someone one on one. And it ain't like we can typically negotiate anyway: at Kroger you pay what Kroger asks for groceries or you walk on by. I suppose I was just a bit miffed that, after lurching across the state and staying one long night in a tired old hotel, the journey was for naught. In the end though, I respect his point.

Religious Hockey

It's supposed to be true. But if not, truth should never get in the way of a good story, right?

Years ago, when I believe Gump Worsley was the goaltender of the Minnesota North Stars, a Minneapolis bar ran a contest where first prize was dinner for two with Worsley. A local guy won, and he took his teenage son with him for the supper.

The day after, a sportswriter claimed he had had a religious experience. He said that he walked into a restaurant the evening before and saw the Father, the Son, and the Goalie Host.

Not bad. Some people do treat hockey like a religion too.

Rising Pressure

The first thing they do when I walk into my doctor's office is take my pulse and my blood pressure. They put the machine on me yesterday and it read my BP at 182/88. "That's kind of high, isn't it?" I asked the nurse, the fear in my voice well within reason.

"These machines are always high," she assured me, clearly lacking the concern I felt she should experience. Well, okay, but 182 over 88? "The doctor will check it again when you see him." And he did, at a much better 138/74. Not terrific, but not particularly dangerous either.

The nurse is right though: their machines do always seem to be high. I've noticed that for years at my doctor's, and my BP is always better when they measure it old school during my exams. So my question is, Why do you use such inaccurate equipment? Why bother, if you don't like the results which are spit out?

The blood pressure machine I have at home (I take my own BP most mornings on my PCP's suggestion) typically has me in the 130-140 over 75 or 76 range, so I trust when he checks it the old fashioned way. But if the unit I bought at a drugstore in Cedarville, MI (my old one conked out when I was up north last year, not that that's important for you to know yet it does help pad my blog) for all of forty bucks is reasonably accurate, why can't the Detroit Medical Center find one more reliable than what it's got?

Maybe there are some questions which simply aren't answerable. Like, why can't the Cocoa Puffs bird eat his cereal in a calm, rational manner? 

Grandpaw Hutchins' dogs

Me Grandpa Hutchins had a couple of pets over the years which, for whatever reason, stand out in my mind. I guess they simply impressed me somehow.

One he called Watch. Watch was the largest collie I have ever seen. He looked like Lassie on steroids. Lots of steroids. He weighed, the vet told Grandpa, 135 pounds. That's a lot of collie.

Watch was a playful animal though. That's not bad until you take his weight into account. He'd knock you down without any evil intent. He was just being man's best friend.

Grandpa had another little beagle named Tommy. I liked old Tommy; maybe that's why I gravitate towards beagles, so much as I might gravitate towards any particular breed of dog.

What I remember most about Tommy was that he lost his voice when he was about 14 (84 in people years). He would start to bay as beagles do but only the first 'wrope' would come out. Yet his mouth kept silently opening and closing for several seconds, as though he had to complete the rest of the barking anyway.

Watch and Tommy. Two pretty good old dogs.

Rooney, Mickey Not Andy

As regular readers of this blog know, I've been told that my voice is unique. One wag remarked that I had a future on The Cartoon Network. A waitress insisted that I sounded like Jiminy Cricket. Several folks have told me that I sound like a local newscaster who's name escapes me this minute. My laugh is apparently quite distinct. And then on the phone yesterday a customer told me that I sound exactly like Mickey Rooney. Yes, the old actor who started out as Andy Hardy.

I suppose it's better to be known for something. But Jiminy Cricket? Andy Hardy? 

Well, here's a a clip of Andy Hardy. You tell me. And maybe it's the power of suggestion, but while watching that clip I do seem to hear me. I wonder if I would have stood a chance with Judy Garland...

Balky Marty

A few years ago I was at a Tigers game with an old friend. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. 

Cloyce and I are both fairly avid baseball fans. We know the rules and what to watch for, although if I may say I'm better at it than he is.

We were sitting along the first base side of the diamond, just about right in line with the pitcher. In this case it was a left hander, so we had a really good look at him. 

Before I go on you need to know what a balk is in baseball. Among other illegal actions, if the pitcher is ruled to have started his throwing motion he must either throw a pitch to the batter or throw to an occupied base, one with a runner on it. If he fails to do either, runners move up. It keeps the pitcher from faking his intentions.

At one point the Tigers had a runner on first; we were playing Baltimore. The Orioles pitcher barely lifted his right foot, then put it back down again without doing anything else. You had to watch very close to see it, but I caught it. "He balked!" I said out loud. The next instant the home plate umpire called time, indicated balk, and motioned the runner on first base to advance to second.

"How did you see that?" Cloyce asked, awed and amazed at my baseball prowess. 

"I came here to watch a game. Didn't you?" I asked in all haughtiness. I mean, you're supposed to see things like that if you're really paying attention, right? 

To this day Cloyce will occasionally look at me and ask, "Balk?," as though he still can't believe it. But hey. I call 'em as I see 'em.

Mom on Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to all the Moms out there. Happy Mother's Day too to all of you whose Mothers had you. They deserve the credit, and you owe them everything. Don't waste the chance they gave you. Start by thanking them.

I know she won't see this, but I feel bad that I don't talk about my own mother here anywhere near the degree to which I talk about Pops or even Grandpa Joe. She was - is - a great Mom, a bit headstrong, maybe, but with her moments. One of those wasn't that long ago.

When she had a pacemaker at 80 the doctor was explaining after the surgery that it had a ten year battery. "But I need twenty," she immediately told him, as though obvious.

It is a good attitude, right?

Happy Mother's Day Mom, and to all Moms.

Memories of the State Fair Coliseum

The Shrine Circus is here at the Coliseum! The Shrine Circus is here!

If you're singing that jingle in your head as you read it, then you're old enough to remember the Michigan State Fair Coliseum in Detroit. I happened by it yesterday, catching the progress of its deconstruction. The picture above is of the now open north end of the stadium.

A lot of great memories came into my mind. We took the kids to the Shrine Circus there two or three times as I recall. During the Michigan State Fair, we would watch the equestrian competitions in it. My son Charlie and I saw ZZ Top at that old barn in 2005; it was great to see and hear them live in a small venue. When I was 10 me Grandpa Joe took me to a rodeo there. Great seats too; we were right by the gate where the cowboys were released riding the bucking broncos. 

Ah well. Time marches on. They are saving the front facing to use as a picnic area, which is cool. I'll put a picture of that at the end here.

Inside Out

I often leave for sales trips in the wee hours of the morning. One day I rose at 2 AM, dressed in the dark, and was on my way to Indianapolis to make a couple deliveries and call on a few customers.

A little after Noon, having finished my work and on the way home, I pulled into a truck plaza for a pit stop, bite to eat, and a cup of joe, because road trips require coffee. It's science.

Drying my hands in the men's room after washing I saw in the mirror, and to my horror, that my pullover shirt was on inside out. It was plain as day. Not one of my customers mentioned it either. Although it does explain the regular, inexplicable snickering.

The lesson is, don't dress in the dark. Also, don't trust anyone to prevent embarrassment for you.

McCartney, Cash, and Starr

I doubt than an iconic English musician needs a push from me. But here it is anyway.

Paul McCartney's latest single, Days We Left Behind, may be his best song in decades. Sentimental without being cloying, it's an intimate reflection on his personal history yet with feelings with which we can all relate. His weak, tired voice adds depth, giving the song a bit of an ethereal, other worldly sound. It's not unlike Johnny Cash's voice fatigue in Ain't No Grave. Wistful, yet powerful.

He and fellow Beatle Ringo Starr release a duet this Friday, Home to Us. Although they've sung and performed together frequently since the Fab Four split, it's their first full on duet. I'm looking forward to it.

Ringo by the way has had some good stuff lately too. Here's Look Up from 2025 if you're interested.

The dog did it

I woke up laughing this morning. I believe that's because I was laughing in a dream.

I have no idea where we were in this dream, but my buddy Nick and I were out and about somewhere. Probably curling in a weekend bonspiel, as we needed a room for the night. So we find a hotel.

As we begin to fall asleep in this double bed, I look over my shoulder to see Nick lying on his side facing away from me, but so close to the edge of the bed that I though he would fall out. Then I turn away from him, and here's my son's dog Gaspode, a black and white Australian Shepherd. So I start petting him.

All of a sudden Gaspode leaps over me and, taking one big hop on the middle of the bed, he comes down with all four paws against Nick's back, knocking him onto the floor with a loud thud. Then 'Spode just sits in the center of the bed, studying his conquest.

I raise up and start laughing out loud. Then I was petting Gaspode and saying, "Who's a good boy? He's a good boy!" and laughing like all get out. All the while Nick is laying on the hotel room floor stunned.

Then I woke up laughing and, honestly, looking for Gaspode, wondering where he was. I laughed for about ten minutes before I settled down.

You can't make this up. But I sure hope Nick's all right.

Humor In Uniform

This past weekend, as I established yesterday, I played in a curling bonspiel. One of our opponents was skipped by a very nice man named Greg Major.

Seeking to break the ice with him I made a small, indeed very small, joke. "So I take it you've been promoted from captain?"

He was kind enough to laugh at the quip, then responded, "I was never in the military myself. But my father was. He was a Sergeant Major in the British Army. So my family has a Sergeant Major Major in its history!"

Well, touche. 

An Economics Lesson, or, What Comes Around

I played in a curling tournament this past weekend. It was kind of cool: I never curled in May before, as the curling season typical ends by the middle of April. Since I paid the fee when I registered the team, each other guy owed me $110 bucks.

Dallas showed up and paid me, part of which were two five dollar bills. Jeff, another team member, then approached me. "There's a team 50/50 raffle, and I put us in. So it's ten bucks if you want in too, Marty." I said sure, and gave him the two fives Dallas had just given me.

Jeff caught Dallas a minute later while I still happened to be standing nearby.  Dallas said, "I'm in if you can change a twenty." Handing it to Jeff, Jeff gave Dallas the two fives which I had given him, which I had just gotten from Dallas a few minutes before.

There's an economics lessen there, eh? The money's gotta keep on movin'. And somehow it manages to do just that, even in close quarters.

Emergency Stepson

One day when me Pops was about 35 years old he noticed an older woman, he guessed she was 80 or so, standing nervously in the foyer of the bank where he had just made a business deposit. Just waiting for someone, he thought. And she was. She was waiting for him.

As Dad was opening the outer door he felt her arm slip under his elbow. "So nice to run into you here!" she told him pleasantly. "We can talk as we go to my car."

Pops sensed something, not bad, but enough that he went along with it. She talked about her day and how wonderful the weather had been. Dad nodded and affirmed a thought or two as the older woman spoke. He allowed her to lead, not knowing which car in the bank lot was hers.

She released his arm as they approached the vehicle, drawing the keys from her purse. "Thank you, young man," she explained, "Maybe I'm worrying too much, but I simply didn't like the looks of the two men hanging around near the bank door." 

At that, Dad did recall a couple of shady characters on the street corner as they left. "You're welcome," he replied. He didn't mind at all being an emergency stepson.

Enough is Enough

Me Pops had this old friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who apparently did not have the best marriage.

A couple of years after Cloyce lost his wife, the woman's sister's husband passed away. Awhile after the funeral, Cloyce got a call from his former in-law. She suggested that, with their respected spouses gone, perhaps they could get together.

"What did you say?" Pops asked on being told the story.

"I told her no," Cloyce responded. "I said I spent 40 years with your sister, and that was enough."

"Ouch," Dad said. "That even hurt me."