The Sigh Moment

I made a trip to Electric Eel in Springfield, Ohio yesterday, just one of dozens (maybe a couple hundred) I've made in the last dozen or so years. It was uneventful, which is good. You don't really want eventful road trips as a rule because that nearly always means trouble. About the worst that happened was the sigh moment. Typically, there's one of those per road trip.

Yesterday it happened as I passed a Wendy's in Bellefountaine, Ohio. For whatever reason it popped into my head that one Friday years ago, me and me Pops stopped there for fish sandwiches for lunch. And a Frosty; you gotta have a frosty at Wendy's. Anyway, we actually had stopped at that particular fast food joint several times over the years. And I looked over at it, merely sighing as I drove past.

At this point in my life I figured that me and Pops would be making these trips together regularly. I had in fact resolved that on his next birthday, when he would have turned 78 (that would have been 2014), I was going to screw up my courage and insist that either me or my brother Phil go with him on all road trips. He was going to get the Son Speech, similar to the Doctor Speech we all get after a certain age. You don't need to be traipsing alone all over the country at your age, Pops. You don't need to be trying to lift hundred-pound boxes at all, let alone by yourself, Pops. Me or Phil need to go with you on sales runs.

Obviously enough by now, I never got to make that speech. Maybe it's just as well. I know the old man would have gotten his dander up to hear it. We'd have likely went around and around about it, reasonably politely to be fair and honest, before coming to tepid agreement. But it would have been uncomfortable for all involved.

Instead, I take road trips and see things which remind of old times. Places and haunts which he liked to stop at whether anyone was with him or not. Places I often stop at solely because he would have stopped there.

And I have the sigh moment. Then it's just on to my next destination.

Ram Parts

One of the many neat tools you can buy from Electric Eel is a little cylindrical unit called a Kinetic Water Ram. It has a pump with which you can build up air pressure, and a trigger whereby you release it. You stick it over a drain opening, build up the pressure, and wham! A burst of air opens the line. Neat, huh?

But like anything else it requires service from time to time. After a lot of use the washers inside the unit wear so that it won't hold pressure, for example. There's a repair kit available for when this happens.

One day a customer called and explained his trouble and I said he needed that kit. He asked if I'd order it and call him when it arrived. Fair enough; we do that regularly. I told him sure.

When the Ram repair kit came a day or two later I called the guy to let him know it was in. Thanks, he said, but he was by then in the middle of a large plumbing job and couldn't get to my Shop for a couple days. No problem, I replied, we'd hold it for him.

As I hung up the phone I sat and I looked at the kit. O'er the Ram parts we watch, I thought.

Not bad. Not bad at all. To me.

Ready, Set, No.

The 8 foot long drain cleaning cables I sell come in barrels of 20. At just about a pound a foot, that's 160 pounds each. At 66, I appreciate help lifting them into the new old van. Indeed, it's almost a necessity, though I can manage it if I must.

Wednesday last I went to Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) and was happy to have me brother Phil along. But I did learn that when you ask a question, it's really important to wait for the answer.

I rolled a barrel up to the side door of the van and leaned it backwards for us to lift. As we each bent down opposite one another and began to take hold of the barrel I asked, "Ready?" and immediately started to lift.

"No," Phil replied. Consequently, I nearly heaved myself into a hernia. Fortunately, my hands just slipped off the barrel, and I was able to regain my balance with one backward step.

Have a question for someone? Wait. For. The. Reply. Your back will appreciate it.

Can't be that busy

I remember me Pops would frequently ask, to no one in particular and everyone in general, "You ever notice that the guys who claim they're the busiest always have the time to tell you how busy they are?" It sure seems that way.

I had a customer at the Shop yesterday who came in (without his machine for some reason) and wanted to know how much and how long to put a chuck on his Eel. I told the man twenty five bucks and we could do it while he waits. "Cool. Let me go get my machine Cosgriff and I'll be right back. I got a lotta jobs waiting."

He left to get his machine an hour later. Several times in the interim as he was supposedly about to leave he would stop before reaching the door and ask about a cutter, or the turnaround time on rewiring his unit, or simply to tell me about how much he loves his Model C Eel. I ended up fibbing to him and said I had to close at three, just to expedite things. Well, to move him on anyway. "Okay, Cosgriff. Let me go get it 'cause I'm really busy. Got a lotta jobs lined up."

I hope he was very busy, because he was really selling me on the point. Yet he did not return by three. Or by my actual closing for that matter.

The Amish Store

A few miles north of Bellefontaine, Ohio, is a small store run by the Amish community. It sells Amish made goods as well as candies and herbs and a few other things. They have the best chocolate covered raisins I've ever had.

A few weeks ago I stopped in on my way back to Detroit from Electric Eel. I grabbed a couple things and went to the counter to pay. I could see many young women in a small room behind the counter, working hard at whatever they needed to get done. Although there was a ringer by the cash register and a sign to ring it for service, I didn't do that. I was in no hurry, and the staff was busy. They'd get to me soon enough.

A young Amish girl, maybe four years old and standing right behind the counter, had other ideas. She looked up at me and smiled. She clearly had an impish thought percolating in her mind. Then she boldly stepped up to the counter, smiled a bigger smile, and reached up for the ringer. Ding ding ding ding ding ding! She rang the bell several times in quick succession and with great glee, then jumped back out of the way.

A young woman turned around, obviously a bit irritated, and rushed to the register to take care of me. I looked at the child and winked. I know the cashier presumed it was me who had rung the bell so emphatically. But I wasn't about to throw an Amish toddler under the bus. Especially since she had so much fun ringing that bell.

Drain Snake Methodology

The other day I found myself talking to myself while I installed a new reverse switch on an Electric Eel Model C (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs). Only thing was, the customer was standing right by me as I worked. Only other thing was, I didn't care.

At one time I would have been embarrassed by that. Yet this time around I even remarked to the guy, "A fella's getting pretty comfortable with who he is and what he's doing when he can carry on a conversation with himself and another man standing there."

He just smiled and replied, "I ain't sayin' nuthin, Cosgriff. I don't want to interfere with your method."

Thank you sir. That's what we'll call it: my method. It sounds a far sight better than going crazy.

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.

Joe Wasn't Worried

I spoke yesterday about picking up drain snakes from Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) this past Tuesday. As it were, me Grandpa Joe picked up parts for Dad a time or two. Once in particular led to a bit of honest concern.

You think I drive rattletraps? Those who know Joe know I don't hold a candle to him on that count. That old man drove a few vehicles which should never have been on the streets. He took one one day, towing a trailer behind it, to Electric Eel to get some stuff. I don't remember which one it was. But it made an impression, a decidedly negative one, on Dick Hale, the owner of Eel at the time.

Mr. Hale was no stranger to risk and no coward, being a veteran of the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. But when he saw what Joe was piloting, Mr. Hale was sincerely worried about Grandpa's safety. So much so that he called me Pops later in the day to be sure Joe made it home all right.

Dad thought it was funny. Joe just said, "Aw hell."

Loading Zone

We, me brother Phil and I, had a huge amount of drain snakes and accessories to pick up at Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) yesterday. It was so big that about halfway through the loading process I began to think about what I could afford to leave behind for a later, return trip. I wasn't sure we could pack it all in the cargo van we had rented for the purpose. Then I thought, "Dad could do it. Dad would be able to figure out had to load everything."

From that point forward, that van was getting every single part of my order on board. It was going to happen. No doubt about it.

We began studying the problems involved in what had become the jigsaw puzzle within the cargo space of the van. A rearrangement here, a couple of small boxes slotted into tiny spots, a reminder that what had to come out first had to be left by the back doors, slide a few things behind seats, and plain old stubbornness led to - ta da! - getting that entire order on board for the remainder of the trip, to Indianapolis and Detroit respectively.

Dad could do it. In fact, Dad did.

What Difference Does it Make?

There was once a plumber who came to our Shop who was a bit rough around the edges. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. Cloyce was a good guy and a good plumber just, as I said, rough around the edges. Gruff. He was also from England. Not that that matters, except to the story.

One day as he waited for me to put a new cord on his Electric Eel Model C (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) I decided to engage him in conversation and to satisfy my curiosity about a question. "So where exactly in England are you from, Cloyce?" I asked.

He asked in return, "Do you know England very well?"

"No, not really," I replied honestly.

"Then what the (insert common expletive here) difference does it make?"

I was initially surprised, then I laughed out loud. It was vintage Cloyce.

He was from Norwich, just so you know. Although I don't know what the (insert common expletive here) difference it makes.

Indexing

Our furnace went out overnight Sunday to Monday. Happy days. At least it didn't pick the very coldest time to fail us. But it seems to have tried.

Yet this provided an instance where Marty, yes, even Marty, was able to take advantage of an inspiration he had years ago. I began saving phone numbers with clues to the owner. One customer might be 'Cloyce, owns C', for example. This meant his name was Cloyce and he owned a Model C Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs). As such, I had an solid idea of who was calling when the phone summoned me.

Likewise, this habit helps in other ways. If I want to call someone it gives me a clue who to look up. In this week's case, I couldn't remember my furnace guy's name. So I literally search my contacts for 'Furnace Guy' and up pops 'Steve Furnace Guy'. Hey presto, I'm on my way to renewed home heating.

Of course, I don't save Ron as anything but Ron. Because, Ron. Those who know, know.

Feeding Time

As a salesman, I keep an eye out for trends. For whatever reason, certain things sell at certain times, others at other times, and sometimes things simply come into demand out of the blue.

There is an accessory for the Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs!) called a feeding tool. It helps 'feed' the steel cable into a pipeline. You get one with every Model C machine purchase. Yet I've never actually sold many of them piecemeal. Indeed I was selling so few that I had quit stocking them. Then one random day a random guy asked for one, and I ordered two. One for him, one for stock because, well, why not?

The gentleman picked his up and the other sold soon thereafter. I ordered two more.

Those sold in a New York minute. I ordered two more, which likewise moved out of the old barn in haste. So, methinks, there appears a trend hath developed. Yon feeding tool be in demand. I ordered six. Last May. May 2024, I must add.

If you need a second guess how many I still have in stock today, September 6, 2025, you are denser than granite. I guess trends work unpredictably in both directions.

Double Meanings

We all know that there are things we say which have double meanings. No, not those meanings. Quiet, Ron.

The other day at the old barn I told my brother that so-and-so could have his order because he's paid for. "He's paid for?" Phil demanded. No, the stuff is paid for; my bad grammar is just bad grammar.

Last week as we were driving to Electric Eel to pick up some stuff I told that same brother of mine that "We'll get loaded, then we'll go into the office and sign our paperwork."

"You want to get loaded before we get to the plant?" he asked, shock on his face.

See what I have to put up with? 

Patron Saint of What?

The phone rang yesterday morning; it was a customer in distress. "Oh, man, Marty, I'm glad you're there! I need help, and you're the Patron Saint of Drain Cleaners!"

Well, how about that? I'm a saint while I'm still here on Earth. But what would my stained glass window look like?

It would be in a large cathedral, of course, with me operating a genuine Electric Eel Model C, hands firmly on the handle, cable held straight, my eyes turned piously towards Heaven as the water begins to drain down the pipe. An aura, a subdued halo would be around my head as I gaze, perhaps. I might be wearing the brown robe of a monk. Bright, shining yellow glass from above my head would appear to  bless my task. Just imagine the actual Sun coming through all that. Saint Marty of Detroit, Patron of Drain Cleaners, would be on a small plaque at the bottom of the window. An Angelic Choir can be heard in the background.

I like it.

Ding Dong Ding

I went down to Electric Eel in Springfield, Ohio yesterday (Electric Eel: for all your drain and sewer cleaning needs!) to pick up a load of snake cables and parts. There was one barrel more than the back of my new old van would hold. But it was relatively light, 100 pounds or so, about what a smaller person would weight. I was able to muscle it up into the passenger seat and go about my business. Who says Marty can't adapt to circumstance, huh?

Once I was out on the street, the bell which signals that your seat belt isn't fastened began ringing. I checked my belt and it seemed secure. The bell kept dinging. I tried unbuckling and rebuckling. The bell continued to chime.

Pulling over, I shut off the car and restarted it. It works for computers, right? Making certain to belt myself in, I started off again. So did the warning bell. Oh well, I thought, I guess I just have to deal with it.

A few miles of constant dinging later, and it was glaringly obvious that that wouldn't do. There was no way I could listen to that stupid dinging all 195 miles back to Detroit. The sound didn't even fit a decent song beat which might have made a hummable distraction. I had to do something. But what? If the alarm bell was somehow broken, what could I do?

Then it occurred to me. I was indeed buckled properly. But the barrel of cable next to me wasn't, and its weight was telling the van's sensors that someone was sitting in the passenger seat. I pulled into the nearest parking lot, buckled the cables in, and Bob's yer uncle, the dinging stopped.

So I drove on home with no dinging, the cables secure at my side. At Cosgriff Sales, we care about the products we sell!

Oh, and we care about the customers too.

Did You Get the Joke?

I must say, I love the company I sell for here in Michigan. I mean that sincerely; it's like working in a family environment, so much so that we can joke with each other openly and friendly. 

Yesterday the vice president of sales called to ask me about checking on an account. Yet when I answered the phone his first words were, "We're just calling to see what kind of work you've done in the last week."

I laughed out loud; he did too. It was all in good fun, but a reflection on Elon Musk asking government workers what they do each week.

Let's be blunt: some of you readers don't think that's funny. Well, let go of your angst and laugh, because it is. Don't wrap your head so tight that you can't let go of what you can't control. I think that's the first step towards happiness quite frankly.

There: humor at the start and profound philosophy at the finish. Is this a great blog or what?

What Happens Next

Yesterday morning as I unpacked a parts order from Electric Eel (Electric Eel: for all your drain cleaning needs) I discovered that I had overordered by about 30 the number of spanner wrenches which I normally stock. A spanner in this case is used to disconnect drain snake cables from one another. I assume you want to know that.

A surplus of those tools isn't a bad thing. They're relatively inexpensive, about nine bucks a pop, and are a routine sell, so it doesn't hurt to have the extras. Opening the middle right drawer of my work desk, I dropped the bag of wrenches in. 

We know what's going to happen next, don't we?

We don't? Then let me tell us.

In the coming weeks and months, every time I open that drawer I'll shove that bag of spanners back, looking for whatever else I may have been seeking from inside my desk. In time, papers and detritus, the flotsam and jetsam of business, will begin to cover over the wrenches until they are camouflaged beyond the discovery of the most able spy.

Three years will pass, maybe four, and I'll be looking in the desk for umpteenth time for something entirely unrelated when that bag of spanners will again see the light of day. And I will ask myself in total and complete surprise, "How did those get back there?"

Anyone care to take a bet on that? I'll give you good odds.

Just Because

December has been a great months for sales, and that's good. Because I'm in sales.

Last week I sold two Model C Electric Eel drain cleaners, one on each of two consecutive days. I like that. Because I'm in sales.

Yesterday a very good customer, indeed one of my best, called from Saginaw (about two hours north of Detroit) and asked about getting 30 cables ASAP.  I told him I'd bring them right away. He kindly offered to meet halfway, which I did appreciate, so we set up a meeting point. "I'm not putting you out, am I, Marty?" the man asked me over the phone.

"My friend, I sell things. Delivery is in the job description!" I assured him.

The fact is I like being on the road. I like seeing people, especially those who, at the risk of sounding trite, are friends as much as customers. Ask me to help you; it's all good. Because I'm in sales.

Whither Springfield?

I find myself in Springfield, Ohio quite a lot. Regular readers (you know who you are) understand that's because the company I sell for (Electric Eel: for all you drain and sewer cleaning needs) is based there. But it's struck me lately that dear old Springfield just doesn't get enough love.

It occurred to me while driving there awhile back that you rarely see the mileage to Springfield when tooling along the Interstate. Dayton, Columbus, Cincinnati, they all receive their due. At intervals you will see signs letting you know that Dayton is in 57 miles or Cinci 131. In fact just south of Toledo in Ohio on Interstate 75 there is a sign which proclaims that Tampa, Florida is a mere 1100 miles down the road. But how far to Springfield?

Even coming back from Indiana on Interstate 70, which goes directly to Springfield, you will get no help about the distance there. Yet you will be told how far it is to Dayton, despite the fact that it is not on 70. Indeed I-70 runs about twenty miles above it. Why can't we know about Springfield? 

Or am I asking the wrong question? Is there some dark secret to which I am not privy? Perhaps the question isn't, Whither Springfield? Maybe it's, okay, Springfield, what did you do?

Breakfast Duelists

Having made fantastic time on my trip to Electric Eel yesterday (Electric Eel: for all your drain and sewer cleaning needs) I decided that I could treat myself to a sit down if inexpensive breakfast. So as I approached the north end of Bellefontaine, Ohio and spied a Waffle House, I parked and went in to eat.

The waitress soon poured and then refilled my coffee before setting my meal in front of me. I dug in.

A couple of minutes later, I sensed her presence. I looked up. We locked eyes as I was about to consume a mouthful of eggs. I heard the eerie, echoing, haunting refrain from Hang 'em High. Her raised eyebrow clearly said, "Draw!"

I set the eggs back on my plate and pretended to check a message on my cell phone which lay on the table next to my breakfast. Her attention was then taken by a couple at a nearby booth.

Raising a piece of bacon to my lips apparently set her spider sense to tingling. As she turned to look at me, in a circular motion I set the bacon down and put the phone to my ear. I hoped she would think I had a call and the ringer was on silent. She went back to work.

A minute later she was behind the counter, staring at me. I put some jam on toast. The triangular end of it was nearly in my mouth; her mouth opened to speak. But I set the bread down, making as though to rub a crick in my neck. She picked up a glass, wiping it out with a towel. We eyed one another closely. This was becoming quite the war of wills.

The waitress turned to face the cook, to give him an order. This, I thought, was my chance. I shoved a forkful of hash browns into my mouth. Yet the Force was strong in this one. She wheeled around and fired at me, "So-how-is-your-breakfast-so-far?"

"Urr, ugh, ah, ehh, um-hmmm," I responded, giving a thumbs up as I desperately tried to chew and swallow that bite of food.

I paid my bill and left a decent gratuity. I tipped my hat to her as I left. Well played, milady. Well played.