Joe's Birthday

Today is me Grandpa Joe's birthday. He would have been 121. Sure, that would not be a likely age for him to have made. But I can imagine the hell he would have raised if he had.

He passed away August 27, 1991, just shy of 86, so we buried him pretty close to his birthday. He smoked heavy from his teens (his doctor at the end remarked that his lungs were probably like leather). No doubt some tobacco farmer lived the high life because of Joe. 

I remember him smoking Carltons. It's a silly thing to be sentimental over but I can still see clearly those red packages they came in, and him opening a fresh one on his front porch, tearing the cellophane off with a carpet knife because that's what he did when something didn't open readily enough. Which, for his purposes, they typically would not. 

He went home in style. Me Pops rented a large black Chevy Suburban and drove Joe back to Jacksonville, Illinois for internment. Joe always promised himself he was going to buy one new car before he died. He never did, but his last trip was in one. I wonder if, perhaps, that was Pops' salute to his old man.

Down at the funeral home in Jacksonville I remember me and me cousin Art were standing by the casket. One or the other of us said, "This ain't right."

"What?" the other asked.

"He can't leave this world without a pack of cigarettes."

"I'll get the smokes, you get the lighter," I said. Off we were to find a store. I bought a pack of Carltons for the first and only time in my life. Art got the lighter. The undertaker solemnly placed both in the vest pocket of Joe's suit.

A little while later we were talking to an uncle, telling him what we'd done. "I don't know that that was a good idea," Uncle remarked. "What if that butane mixes with the gases of the body decomposing? It might cause an explosion."

Hell, Joe would have loved that! Dirt spraying up and the headstone falling over to the side? Magnificent. And I can't help imagining me Grandma Cosgriff lying next to him, shaking her head and tsk tsking. She had to do that often enough in life, and now two of her grandkids go and give Joe one final reason to annoy her. Everyone else in the cemetery would be thinking, 'That's just Joe'. Grandpa would simply be cackling in the way he always did when he found something funny, a hee hee hee as though forced out of his body.

Happy Birthday Joe. I know you're still rooting that explosion.

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.

Too Tight Pops

Me Great Uncle Bill, a brother to me Grandpa Joe, owned a garage down in Jacksonville, Illinois where our particular branch of Clan Cosgriff originated, at least in these United States. He was a crackin' good mechanic too by all accounts, with a thriving business. Me Pops would sometimes help out when the Detroit Cosgriffs were in town for visits.

One of Dad's first assignments was an oil change. Not being sure exactly how tight oil plugs were supposed to be reinstalled on vehicles, he took what his teenaged mind thought the obvious route. Pops elected to tighten the hell out of it.

Great Uncle Bill, having by chance seeing his nephew's super strength being applied to the bolt, blandly suggested, "Red (Dad had red hair up into adulthood when it turned black), they might want to change the oil again someday." 

Me Pops got the message. As it was much more subtly put than what he would have given by his own Pops, me Grandpa Joe, he likely quite appreciated the style in which such sage wisdom was delivered.

Grandpa Joe and Great Grandpa James

I've spoken often about Grandpa Joe, and occasionally about his father, Great Grandpa James. Readers should well understand by now that Joe seemed to always make his presence felt, quite emphatically and quite often. Only his own dad was able to influence that.

A tale me Pops told me may illustrate the fact. Great Grandpa James lived on the same farm in west central Illinois his whole 92 years. Grandpa Joe was born there. Naturally enough, every summer Joe would load the family into some old wreck of a car and they would head out to see the extended family. The trip made further sense because Grandma Cosgriff, me grams, was from the same area too, so they could visit both sets of relatives.

One year when Pops was still in high school, him and a brood of his cousins were out in a large field shagging flies. Grandpa James, 85 at the time, noticed them, and went out in the field to watch. Eventually he asked if he might try hitting the baseball a bit. Now, he had a hernia at the time, and the grandkids knew it. But they also didn't know how they could tell their grandfather no, so they dutifully let him hit.

He was hitting well by Pops' account, just another guy tossing a ball in the air and thwacking it with a bat as it came down towards earth. Indeed all them grandsons were impressed by the old man. But Pops noticed Joe watching from a ways off, by the house he was born in, as if deciding something but not sure how to proceed. Joe Cosgriff being uncertain about anything was very unusual.

Grandpa Joe finally muscled up his courage and strode out into the field where his father had yet to relinquish the bat. He walked up to Grandpa James and said timidly (Joe Cosgriff speaking timidly?), "Dad, do you think you should be doing that, with your hernia and all?"

His father paused a moment to reply plainly, "Joe, I believe I'm about old enough to do as I please." He then proceeded to hit another 15 minutes. Joe put up no argument. He simply drew on a cigarette and walked back to the house.

It was surprising, yes. But every man has his parameters. Joe's was what Great Grandpa James declared..

My ancestral home in central Illinois

I will be leaving Jacksonville, Illinois within the hour. If it isn't too odd for an American born and bred to say, or pure hyperbole, it is the closest I have to an ancestral home. Both of my paternal grandparents, me Grandpa Joe and me Grandma Alice, were born and are buried here. Me Uncle John whom me Pops called Zeke, and me Aunt Carol are in the same cemetery, in plots directly opposite my grandparents.

Until this visit I have only been here for funerals, though I will stop by the graves to pay my respects as I go. Yet that doesn't mean there haven't been some genuine good times. My brother and I ate breakfast at a dive restaurant, which was a favorite of Joe's, one morning while here for his internment. It was a dive too, but the food was good.

On the same trip, the night before the funeral, me Uncle John, that same brother and I took a walk around the square, then down West College to the Illinois School for the Deaf where our Uncle Charlie, a brother of me Grandma Alice, worked for years. It was cool, and genuinely sublime, to listen Uncle John, who ordinarily was not expansive, talk about his youthful time in Jacksonville and about this or that along the way. He actually asked if we wanted accompany him, and was honestly excited talking about things along the way. He had his demons, and his time in Vietnam didn't help (me Pops always said he was different after the War) but there was a part of him who was truly a good, sentimental man.

Pops liked being here and spoke often of it as well. I need to rack my brain and try to remember and pen some of his stories about coming here too, although I know I've shared one or two along the way. Perhaps one day I'll spend a long weekend here and walk more thoroughly in their footsteps. After all, it is my ancestral home.

Great Grandpa James

I tell tales about me Pops. I tell tales about me Grandpa Joe. But have I yet to tell tales about me great-grandpa James?

They says he could raise more hell without drinkin' or cussin' than anyone that ever was. He was a small man, it's true, less than 5'3", but that ne'er stalled him. He backed away from nuthin. I been told he participated in a thousand fights, and he lost them all. Each and ev'ry one. He opined one day, "If I find a guy I can whoop, I'd stay close by that guy, I'd follow him all over and whoop him each day". That's an Irish tude, idn't it?

But he remained just the same a dedicated peacemaker, never engagin' in battle save when necessary, no matter how often necessity occurred. A true, just peace, he believed in. And folks respected that.
In late 1800s west central Illinois where he was a farmer like so many, the barn dances circled from farm to farm each Saturd'y night. Many families and personalities competed poorly those days, and some to a disturbin', measured acceptance. Arguments and such, threats almost to McCoy-Hatfield levels, existed everywhere. Some tribes refused to appear at the weekly festivals when certain others intended to arrive; it was an upsettin' scene.

When it was me great-grandpa James turn to host the soiree, he sent out notice. Ever body was invited, and ever one must play nice. And perhaps most importantly, ever soul must attend and observe the rules. Ya know what?

Each body attended. Each family observed the rules. And indeed, a good time was observed by all.
A good time was had by all. It just depends sometimes, ye see, on the force of personality to influence attitude.