They Call Me MISTER Charles

Wednesday I had to actually go into my bank to perform a transaction because my debit card wasn't working at the outside ATM. Woe is me.

The teller was a very helpful young woman who was able to settle the matter. To do so she needed to see my ID; I duly slid my driver's license under the glass to her. Looking at it she responded, "We'll get this all straightened out, Mr. Charles."

Mr. Charles, not Mr. Cosgriff. It's happened before, with other folks at other places, as though they can't pronounce my last name but want to be professional and courteous. So it becomes Mr. First Name.

I'm okay with that so far as it goes. Yet I also don't see how Cosgriff is all that difficult to say. A bare knowledge of phonics would suffice. 

All right, I grew up with the moniker, so perhaps my opinion isn't quite objective. Ah well. It is what it is.

Winning is winning

I had the pleasure of playing in the 121st Annual Detroit Men's International Bonspiel this past weekend. I think I've played in about 30 of them. We did all right, missing out on advancing by about a half of an inch: that's how close our last rock was to scoring the winning point in our last game. So it goes; we had fun.

Curling bonspiels are different than a lot of tournaments. They aren't double elimination or anything like that but, rather, come with game guarantees. You are guaranteed to play a certain number of games, typically 3 or 4 depending on the length of the spiel. With the Detroit Men's, it's a four game guarantee. Everybody begins in the championship or 'A' event. Lose and you drop to the B, lose again the C, lose again to the D, lose then and you're out. You've played your guaranteed four games.

But I remember one time, I assume because of a scheduling quirk or an odd number of teams or some other unusual circumstance, that in order to make sure everyone got to play a fourth game, the Detroiters were forced to add events. Events E through Q were invented basically as dumping grounds to give everyone their fair share of play. Events E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, and Q were one-offs. And that was the year Team Cosgriff won the prestigious J Event.

We've done better. We've won the B, C, and D Events in the past. But we honestly, and proudly, can claim to be the sole ever J Event winners in the history of the Detroit Men's International Bonspiel.

We're still waiting for our trophy though.

A minor family squabble

I come from a relatively large family; I'm the second oldest of seven. My sister Susan arrived a little more than a year after me. Consequently, she was just a grade behind me all through school.
One day a teacher asked me, as Susan and I stood in the hall near his door, "Cosgriff, just how many of you are there?" I answered that I had four brothers and two sisters.
"No you don't," Susan corrected me. "You have five brothers and one sister."
I was caught off guard for a moment before her confusion dawned on me. "Nooo, YOU have five brothers and one sister. I have four brothers and two sisters," I explained, surely in that denegrating voice elder siblings speak with towards their younger ones caught in obvious mistakes.
But I'm right, aren't I?

Cosgrove the horse thief

Mom's had a few brushes with celebrity. She met George Clooney once when he was filming a movie (Out of Sight, for those interested) in her neighborhood. She met Jennifer Lopez then too, but said that Clooney was much nicer.
Once she met Martin Sheen. He had come to Mass at her Church and somehow they were introduced. When told she was Ella Cosgriff, he asked, as so many people seem to about our surname, "Cosgrove?"
"No, Cosgriff," she replied. Then she repeated the family tale that we were once Cosgroves, but as an ancestor was reputedly a horse thief back in Ireland we had changed our name so as not to be associated with villainy. "Cosgrove was a horse thief," she finished.
The actor laughed out loud. "Really? I'll have to tell my lawyer that story. His name is Cosgrove," Martin Sheen explained to Mom.
The legend continues...

The horse thief

Me old granddad insisted it was true, and who am I to argue with me old granddad?
We get called Cosgrove a lot. We do. It's a natural enough occurrence. The name, she's close to Cosgriff, but Cosgrove being a bit more common, folks gravitate towards it. We get that. But we resent it too. Cosgrove, you see, he stole horses. A horse thief he was. A scoundrel if there ever were one.
Me granddad, he told a tale of the family which dated back to the old sod, to County Tipperary. Why the Irish be so concerned with not merely bein' Irish (who'd not want to be Irish, I ask ya) but with bein' Irish down to the county, well, there's a certain sophistication to that which most of the world cannot understand, their not bein' Irish and all.
So the tale goes, real short here, is that in years gone by we were Cosgroves. Real, true Cosgroves. Then one of them old relatives, he decides that making an honest livin' did nothing to suit him. Dishonesty was his call. Dishonest beyond covetin' someone's property but actually absconding with it. In his case, their horses.
That were bad. Real bad. Folks needed their horses, they did, for plowin' and travelin' and gettin' into minor mischief well short of horse thievin'. That could not be tolerated.
You could not be associated with such foul people and keep your good name. So you change your name, make a good new one. With us, it was to Cosgriff. Cause we could not in no way be associated with a horse thief.
Me granddad insisted it were true. Who I am to doubt such a tale?

What's in a name?

Me old granddad insisted it was true, and who am I to argue with me old granddad?

We get called Cosgrove a lot. We do. It's a natural enough occurrence. The name, she's close to Cosgriff, but Cosgrove being a bit more common, folks gravitate towards it. We get that. But we resent it too. Cosgrove, you see, he stole horses. A horse thief he was. A scoundrel if there ever were one.

Me granddad, he told a tale of the family which dated back to the old sod, to County Tipperary. Why the Irish be so concerned with not merely bein' Irish (who'd not want to be Irish, I ask ya) but with bein' Irish down to the county, well, there's a certain sophistication to that which most of the world cannot understand, their not bein' Irish and all.

So the tale goes, real short here, is that in years gone by we were Cosgroves. Real, true Cosgroves. Then one of them old relatives, he decides that making an honest livin' did nothing to suit him. Dishonesty was his call. Dishonest beyond covetin' someone's property but actually absconding with it. In his case, their horses.

That were bad. Real bad. Folks needed their horses, they did, for plowin' and travelin' and gettin' into minor mischief well short of horse thievin'. That could not be tolerated.

You could not be associated with such foul people and keep your good name. So you change your name, make a good new one. With us, it was to Cosgriff. Cause we could not in no way be associated with a horse thief.

Me granddad insisted it were true. Who I am to debate such a tale?

Mulberry Season 2015

Funny, isn’t it, how we sometimes identify people with certain times, places, or things.

In the alley behind our old family repair shop there is a row of mulberry bushes which have been there for years. My grandfather would, in the late spring or early summer when they were in season, always stop and treat himself to a few of the little fruits as he went to and from work.

Little? Well, mulberries are small compared to most fruits. In context, they’re like raspberries who have spent a lot of time in the gym; a scant few are a handful. They’re juicy and sweet, and Grandpa Joe liked them. I remember vividly his picking and popping them into his mouth as he made his way down the alley, as though he were a kid again.

Time passes, and so, sadly, did Grandpa Joe. Yet the mulberries still grew, and I couldn’t help over the years but develop a liking to them myself. As I hike to and from work nowadays I’ll stop and have a few. As it were, my daughter also came to know and like the mulberries too. Often we’ll take bowls and go fill them with the little purple black fruits, snacking as we pick, and my wife will make pies out of those which make it back home. I like the idea that three generations of a family have been able to enjoy those berries ripening on the same bushes.

Now, I’m not all that naive; I know that Joe Cosgriff was ornery and arbitrary, with a hair trigger temper. I know it from the tales my Dad and his siblings have told, and from the personal experience of having worked with him for a good 15 or 18 years. I know too that there was a part of him which was somehow kind and appreciative, and that there were moments when these came out despite, perhaps, himself. There were good times and trying ones, and lasting impressions. I find as I grow older that, in the end, it is the good times which matter more than the difficult, even if it seems there were more tough days than easy. I believe too that the smallest, almost innocuous, memories can also be the greatest insights into the honest character of someone.

What prompts me to write this? It’s June, and the mulberries are in. And I’m thinking about you, Joe.