Evaporating Cloyce

Awhile back I was out to dinner with an old friend; I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. As a start, I ordered a Diet Coke and he asked for milk, then he excused himself for a moment.

The waitress came back shortly with a my glass of pop. For Cloyce, she left an empty glass but set two 4 ounce cartons of milk to the side. Cloyce returned and sat down in front of the empty glass. We began chatting.

Not having noticed the two small cartons, Cloyce eventually picked up the empty glass and remarked, "What? Did I order evaporated milk?" 

When I had finished laughing, I pointed to the milk cartons.

We're Cosgriffs, Ma'am

This past February me brother Phil and I faced a dilemma: could we load an entire cargo van with what appeared to be far too much stuff? But we did it, because we knew Dad could. We couldn't let him down. We got that van loaded.

Yesterday I helped my son pick up a sofa from IKEA. Even I was shocked at how much stuff went with it. The stock clerk as she brought everything out advised, "You can take part today and come back tomorrow for the rest," clearly believing our task insurmountable. The trouble was the IKEA was in Canton, Michigan and the sofa was going to Tawas, Michigan, around 200 miles north. A second trip wasn't very practical.

Me son Frank immediately said, "We can take everything out of the boxes and make it work." That's my boy. His grandfather, me Pops, was surely smiling on him too. In Frank's lead (It was his stuff, so I properly deferred to him) we commenced work. In twenty minutes, my new old van was loaded and we were off.

When we arrived in Tawas my daughter-in-law remarked, with proper awe, "Wow. You got all that into your van?"

"We're Cosgriffs, Ma'am. It's what we do," I responded. And that was that.

The Curmudgeon Speaks

The things which irritate an old man...

As I took my morning walk today I noticed a car with a bumper sticker that said, 'I'd rather be riding transit'. And my first thought was, then why aren't you? Why don't you sell that thing, give the cash to the government to put towards transit, and then take the damn bus where you want to go. They're all over the place. I see them every day. Stop signaling whatever virtue you mean to shame me over and put your money where your mouth is.

Then it hit me. You don't want your money to go to transit without a pile of mine to keep it company.

Well, guess what? I don't want to take transit. I want to take my money (which I earned and you did not, by the way), buy me a car, and go wherever the hell I want to go whenever the hell I want to do it. And I do not want nor expect any of your cash for that right.

In other words, blow that empty posturing out your nose, and keep your hand out of my pocket.

The Near Detention

Possibly the closest I came close to detention in high school was during my freshman year. But doggone it, I was in the right. I was.

It was May and we were in Gym class. It was warm, so the instructor took us outside to play softball. I'll call the gym teacher Miss Cloyce just to give her a name, and because, yes, I'm still upset about the injustice 51 years later. I suppose I can hold a grudge.

Be all that as it may, in my first at bat that day I singled. The next batter hit a ground ball to the kid playing first. Now, in baseball and softball, when you're on first and there's a ground ball you have to run for second base. It's called being 'forced': because it's a grounder the batter has the primary right to first base. This means a runner already occupying that base is forced to vacate. Make sense? If not, take my word for it. But you can look it up if you like.

Now in this case, the first baseman fielded the ball, took three steps, and touched first base with her foot. That meant the batter was out. But since the batter was out, I no longer had to surrender first. I could have returned to it as there was no longer a legal runner behind me. I was not 'forced'. That means that in order for me to be put out I had to be tagged with the ball, because I had two safe spots I could choose between. 

After the opposing player touched first, which I obviously saw, I continued towards second anyway. She threw to second. The second baseman caught the ball and touched the base. I slid; he did not tag me. So I was safe, under the rules of the game.

Miss Cloyce called me out because the throw from first beat me (which it did) and the kid playing second touched the bag ahead of me with control of the ball (which is true). But neither address the rules of baserunning.

I took exception. I pleaded my case, arguing to a degree which likely shocked my peers (believe it or not, I was a quiet kid, at least in ninth grade) that no, I was safe because a tag was required because the force was off. Miss Cloyce said I was wrong. I was not. I insisted upon this point quite vehemently.

I kept it up until she barked, "Say one more thing and you get detention." I sputtered and stammered, but went to the bench, muttering. The students nearby gave me a wide berth, shocked at my angry display.

To be fair, I know you shouldn't harshly argue with a teacher (even gym teachers count as teachers, I suppose) so I do admit that Miss Cloyce had to play the detention card, for the sake of discipline and respect. But dammit, I was safe.

Ushered Out Twice

My brother Phil had a good friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who spent about twenty years as a reservist with the Detroit Police. He never did much more than cover at baseball and hockey games but hey, it helped the regular cops out. 

Once Cloyce was working at a baseball game at old Tiger Stadium when, as part of his rounds, he stopped by the DPD office under the stands. The sergeant, indicating a sad looking fellow sitting over to the side, told Cloyce to escort the guy from the premises for public drunkenness. So Cloyce did. 

About three innings later Cloyce was back by the patrol room, and the sergeant told him to show another guy the door. The same guy, in fact. "Isn't he the one I took out before?" Cloyce asked. 

"He bought another ticket and came back in," the sergeant answered with a shrug. Warning the drunk not to return a third time or he'd face a night in jail, the sergeant gave him over to Cloyce. 

Cloyce spent the rest of the game keeping a sharp eye out for the miscreant. He didn't want his own reputation soiled if the guy actually did get back in the ballpark.

Being Mercenary

One old and tired criticism of Christians is that we are 'only' mercenary. It asserts we only strive to do good so that we can sort of buy our way into Heaven while avoiding the punishment of Hell.

Setting aside the point that there's nothing terribly wrong with such an idea - do we actually want to teach that it's better to do evil if you're so inclined rather than do good from less than perfect convictions? - the criticism avoids the generally accepted fact that people are encouraged to be mercenary in other ways, for much less important goals.

Aren't we mercenary in pursuing a job or career path? To seek a nice house in a nice neighborhood? When on the athletic field? In finding a soul mate? While shopping for cool new things or deciding what to have for dinner? In all these areas and countless others aren't we seeking what is good for us, however mundane? Yet in looking for eternal joy we aren't supposed to consider what's good for us, what will make us truly happy?

Absurd. As a practical matter, I'm fine with someone not breaking into my house simply because he fears jail time. It would be better if he weren't to become a thief for the sake of higher ideals: respect for others and personal discipline for a start. Yet whether out of fear or a clear understanding and acceptance of moral good, he would have acted rightly either way.

Being merely mercenary can never condemn a man. It is less than perfect, yes. But if it slips us through the Pearly Gates and keeps the old homestead secure, I should think it worth the trade.

Memorial Day Reflection

Today is the day where we remember those who gave their lives for our country defending our nation in war. I think this year I want to especially remember those who died because of the wars and battles they fought while not having actually been killed facing the enemy.

I'm thinking specifically about me Pops youngest brother, me Uncle John. While he didn't die until 2005, I don't think he ever completely left Vietnam. I believe there were others in similar trials who even after they came home were still fighting. They deserve our thoughts and prayers too. Give them a minute this Memorial Day.

The Voice in the Casino

Discipline. That's what it's all about. Discipline.

I get the urge to go to the casino a couple of times a year. Typically I indulge it once. Yesterday was that day, I hope, anyway, for 2026.

There's a small casino in Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, just up the road a piece from our second home there. It isn't a very big gambling den. I've seen Seven Elevens that are larger in fact. But it's close by when we're in da U.P. and the small size has its charm. 

Typically I play video poker. I know the odds are in the house's favor with any type of gambling (me Pops always said that the winners didn't build the casinos), and perhaps I'm playing a stupid psychological trick on myself, but with poker I feel I have at least a modest amount more control over the game. I can choose what to hold and play hunches, for whatever tiny advantages those strategies may offer. With straight out slot machines, you just pull a lever (push a button these days) and hope.

My budget is twenty bucks. Once that's gone, I'm gone. You can play for as long as an hour on that if you're judicious, and have a bit of luck. Usually I quit when I'm 10-15 dollars behind. That's when I tell myself that this is stupid and cash out what's left.

Yesterday my $20 was gone in about five minutes. Sighing heavily, I thought, heck, I'm on vacation. I'll play another twenty. That's pretty much how the casinos want you to think I'm sure, and for whatever reason gullibility took over. I fed the machine another Jackson.

It was gone relatively soon, although I managed about 20 minutes of play that time around. Mildly upset at myself for losing forty bucks, I started to leave. "Put in another $20," the voice in my head told me.

"Why? I'm already down $40."

"Just put in another twenty," I was assured.

Half disgusted that I was allowing me to talk myself into something stupid, I gave the poker machine another greenback. I hit the draw button and was dealt four kings, a thirty dollar win at the level I was playing. That gave me a $49 credit. "Now cash out," that same voice told me.

I did. That left me 11 dollars down, within my usual loss range. 

You can play games at a casino, and you can listen to the voice in your head. But they each require discipline. That's the key.

Not Exactly Spring Weather

It's still rather cool in Hessel, cooler than normal even though it's late May in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. There are no buds on the trees, and a few piles of dirty snow are evident from road and driveway clearing due to the unusual snowfall in the area last winter. Today's high is only supposed to be 52, along with clouds, drizzle and windy conditions. I may just order a pizza rather than try to grill outside, and my reading may be inside by a window instead of out in the garage or on the front porch. Oh, I'll layer my clothes and read in the garage for a while, to be sure, because you can't beat the sound of soft rain on a tin roof. But you know what?

It's still Hessel, and a bad day in Hessel is better than a good day at work. Especially if you have a boss like mine. What an ogre.

News Coverage

Well, I've done a thing. I contracted with a PR firm to promote my book A Subtle Armageddon. For $345 they developed a press release which they promised would be sent to nearly 500 news outlets, book retailers, book clubs, influencers, reviewers and various other entities. 

Full disclosure: I expected nothing, and in fact was afraid I was throwing money away. But I did find that the release was sent out through the AP, Associated Press, here, reported verbatim but with a legal disclaimer that all they were doing was forwarding an item sent to them. Whatever. I've been on the AP wire, and not for anything criminal, isolated ASA reviews notwithstanding.

Further, I am being inundated with emails from several people about what they might be willing to offer. Most, quite honesty, involved paying for a new service (though I read them I have so far ignored their offers) and some free (those I took). The firm I contracted also developed a media guide (mine to use as I please, as is the original press release) and have given me advice on what I could do myself with the materials for greater promotion. I don't have to depend on them; I can be proactive with the things they've produced.

I'm going to be coy and not mention the firm's name until I see what happens in the long run. But the early returns are encouraging. I mean, not many of us are on the AP wire, am I right?

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."