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.

Oil's Well That Ends Well

I had a moment of panic yesterday morning. As I went to check the fluids in my new old van, I discovered that the oil cap was gone. There was a one-inch hole in the valve cover where it should have been.

I have no idea what happened exactly. Within reason, I neglected to put it back on the last time I checked the oil. Luckily, I was only about a quart and a half down, and the local auto parts had a new cap for fifteen bucks. So I made sure all the other fluids were good, and you better believe I made certain that every cap was on tight. You know what I did next?

Drove 320 miles to Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula.

But Marty, shouldn't you have driven around town for a few days to make sure everything was okay?

Aw hell, as me Grandpa Joe would have said. I was otherwise set to go, and it had been driving just fine. What's to wait for?

Indeed. 

Not Hot

Me Grandpa Joe had a good work ethic and a good moral code. He also liked deals on tools, but they had to be on the level.

One day a guy came by the Shop, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was known to be shady. He was trying to sell Joe an acetylene torch. Grandpa was skeptical.

Sensing the dilemma, Cloyce sought to reassure me Grandpa. "It ain't hot here, Joe, I stole it in Baltimore!"

Joe didn't buy it. I suspect he invited Cloyce off the property in his own genteel manner.

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.

The staring contest

Old Amos was tight. He was a good man yet he was very careful with his money. Consequently, me Grandpa Joe would often send Amos out to buy this or that for the welding business. He knew Amos would get him the best deal. One story me Pops liked to tell involved such an event.

I can't remember now what it was Joe wanted, but he sent Dad and Amos after it because it would take two people to handle whatever contraption he wanted to buy. Dad drove, and then simply stood back to watch Amos at work.

Amos tried every way in the world to get the seller to back down on price. He begged, he pleaded, he pointed out flaws in the machine. The guy wouldn't budge. It reached the point where Amos stopped talking and began pacing. He would pace a few steps beyond the man and then return. On his return, Dad said, Amos would stop abruptly right in front of the guy and spend a few seconds just glaring at him. Then he'd walk on, return, and do the same thing. He must have been trying to intimidate him, was all Pops could think.

After as few minutes of this, during which the seller did exchange a quizzical look at the old man, the guy finally said, "Look, just give me my price. But I'll put a lower one on the bill of sale to help you out on the sales tax."

Amos would have none of that. "Now, listen here. I want to get the best price I can out of you," he explained to the seller. "But what goes on paper is going to be right no matter what we agree to." Amos then resumed his pacing tactic.

As I recall (I wish I'd have listened more closely to Pops' stories) they eventually agreed on a price and Dad and Amos took the thing to the Shop because Joe had to have it. But I sure would have liked to have seen that battle of wills, that staring contest.

Electrical and Mechanical

I am no electrical expert. I admit that. But I do know some things about electric motors and how they work.

I am not a mechanical engineer either. Yet I know that what is entirely mechanical, while it may be driven by electricity, is at heart mechanical, components put in motion. 

It is not unusual for a drain snake with an electric motor to have what is called a slip clutch. It has little to nothing to do with the motor. 

A customer brought me an electric snake which hummed or buzzed when you turned it on. Nothing more. It clearly had an electrical issue. The young man insisted that if I replaced the clutch the problem would be solved. "I'm sorry, but it won't," I informed him. I demonstrated that the clutch, which can turned by hand, was working properly. "You have a motor problem."

"But I had three or four guys tell me that if I replaced the clutch everything would be all right."

Well, then. Why didn't they fix it? Why are you coming to me? I wanted to go full on Joe Cosgriff and explode at the customer, but I didn't. I took a deep breath, a very deep breath, and I let it out slowly. Very slowly. Then I said, in an almost perfect Mr. Spock voice (if you can accomplish such through gritted teeth), "I am going to suggest that they are mistaken."

He's taking the machine to an electric motor shop for their opinion. Good for him, bad for them.

Losing temper like Joe

Me Grandpa Joe, as I think I've well established, had a hair trigger temper. Most of the time, God love him, he should have never lost it. But damn, sometimes I wish I could lose my temper like he'd lose his. I think some people deserve to have someone blow up at them.

One day last a man who had left a machine with us for repair couldn't find our Shop. Now I'll grant that we can be hard to find; we aren't hidden or anything but our building does sit back a ways off the street and is easily overlooked if you don't watch closely. Still, he called three times, presumably knew where we were, and I gave him the address each call with increasingly more specific descriptions of where we were. On the third call he said, "I'm right at the light at Warren and Rosa Parks, where are you?"

I can see the light at Warren and Rosa Parks from the Shop door. He. Was. Not. There. "Look behind you. Do you see a black van (mine) or a green one (me brother Phil's)?"

"I don't see no vans. But I know where your shop is."

That's where I wanted to blow up like Joe. I wanted to scream, like Joe would, "No, you do not see the vans. If you did, you would be where my Shop is and not where you are and we would not be on the phone. But you aren't where I am, so you do not know where I am!" Instead I said, "Stay where you are and I'll come find you."

He was a half block south of me. He did not come past the green house as I told him to. He was not directly across the street from the Murray-Wright High School parking lot, despite my having told him we were immediately across from it and despite his having insisted he was. He was not 'right at' the light at Warren and Rosa Parks. He was entirely wrong about everything he said.

I spotted him as soon as I cleared that green house as I walked towards Rosa Parks. I waived him in. "See, I knew where I was at!" he exclaimed as pulled up to the old barn. 

"No you didn't!" I wanted to scream. Instead I said, through gritted teeth, "Here's your machine. It's $100. We'll load it for you." I wanted to add, now go away, but managed to avoid that too. But damn, I really wish I'd gone all Joe on him.

Four Hundred Pounds Plus

Me Pops had a lot of great stories about his time in the welder rental and drain snake business. I hope to one day tell them all. One that just popped back into the front of my mind today involved the biggest man Dad ever dealt with. He was a good guy just the same, genuinely helpful and gregarious. But he was big. And he had the strong to go with his size. I'll leave exactly how big and strong to your imagination. But think bigger than you think big is.

To give an example of his size and strength, there was a job where me Pops was delivering welders along with the heavy cables necessary to weld with. These cables weighed a touch over a pound a foot. That particular day Dad had several 200 ft. lengths to deliver.

Guys were coming up to the back of Dad's truck and doubling up, two to a cable, to carry them over to the tool crib. Big Jim walked up and offered Pops a shoulder. "Put one there, Bill," he instructed.

"They're two hundred footers, Jim."

"Put one there," he replied simply, wagging his shoulder at the old man. So Dad did, setting it down as gently as he could. Then Jim turned about and said, "Give me another," indicating his empty shoulder.

"They're all two hundreds," Dad reminded him. Jim replied, "Give me another."

So me Pops set another cable on that shoulder. Big Jim walked away with more than 400 pounds of welding cable on his shoulders as though taking a stroll in the park.

I want him on my side in a rumble.

Subtle Joe Cosgriff

As all friends and relatives would attest, as a rule Grandpa Joe had a less than subtle way of getting his point across. Still, there were times when he could be impressively restrained while making his point well understood.

He rented arc welders. Some of these weighed 1100 or 1200 pounds, so when they were shipped they had to be loaded by an electric hoist or crane onto the back of a pickup truck or flatbed. They tended to swirl in a gentle circle as they were raised or lowered. Sometimes they would have to be raised several stories, and as a boy of about 15 I had gotten into the bad habit of standing nearly under the machines as they were raised, simply to watch the twirl.

One day while out on a job site with Joe, I was doing just that. Without a word he stepped near enough for me to hear. Looking up at the welder too as it rose he asked, "We used to have an old dog that would watch from underneath as we raised a load. You know what we did with him?"

"No, what?" I asked in return, only half listening and still looking up.

"We buried him."

As his point slowly dawned on me, and as he had already walked away, I took several steps from the action myself. Dummy me wasn't thinking that things can fall, and that half-ton things falling a long way can hurt you bad.

Point taken, Joe.

Pops Strikes Joe

I've mentioned many times that me Grandpa Joe rented welding equipment and that me Pops worked for him. I don't believe that I've talked about how Pops was a Teamster. Joe paid for Dad to be union because many sites in the fifties, sixties, and seventies wanted only union workers on the job. It had further advantages for Pops and Joe too. It gave Dad health insurance, something well needed for a man with a wife and 7 kids, and a pension of sorts. I say of sorts because I don't believe the Teamsters did Pops justice on that count, but that's another story.

Anyway, for a long time every three years there was a new contract. I remember a couple of times as young teen toiling at the old barn, the Teamsters business agent would come by the Shop with the master contract to 'negotiate' it with Grandpa Joe. You know, to discuss if there were any particulars peculiar to Dad's job which the master contract either didn't touch or was vague about. For Joe and the agent I think it was simply a reason to kill an hour as they usually just looked over a few points and then shot the breeze; even Pops would join in here and there, just talking. There was never a problem of course.

But what great fun there could have been if there had been issues. Can you imagine the business agent ordering William Cosgriff to go on strike against Joe? Could you see me old Pops walking a one man picket line outside the old barn, 'Joe Cosgriff UNFAIR!' being proclaimed from the sign he'd carry. Or maybe Dad chanting between himself, 'What do I want? FAIR WAGES! When do I want them? NOW!' We could have even gotten him an old oil drum to light a fire to warm himself if it were winter.

And what about poor me? Do I cross the picket line to work for the man who was paying me, or respect my father and stay home in sympathy? Oh, it would have been the latter, but, sadly, out of a reason to be lazy rather than support a strike, all under the guise of supporting me Dad. What could be better?

It never would have happened. Yet, the possibilities and images make me chuckle.

Urban Sightseeing

I have lived in the Woodbridge district of Detroit for well nigh on 65 years now.  It's a nice place to live. I enjoy my morning walks among the old houses.

I can't tell you how many nearby houses I would love to get a look inside. The styles of architecture (don't ask what the specific styles are called; I only know that different houses look different) are fascinating. There are squarish brick structures and clapboard homes, and thin ones and wide ones and ones with turrets. One wonders what imagination developed some of the sizes and variations on homes found in the old neighborhood. 

That thought this morning jogged my memory into the times, three I believe, where me Grandpa Joe and I went exploring old houses. He'd see an older and clearly abandoned home and half bark, "C'mon, boy" to me and we'd go check it out. I doubt me Mom would have approved.

It was keen though to see the insides and how they were laid out. Then, too, you could tell what rooms and shelves and whatnot had been cobbled in, that were not part of how the original interior had been set up. But I think the keenest thing was being in there with me Grandpa Joe, him just being a bit of a kid himself with a kid in tow.

I think he was a bit of a kid, honestly. And I mean that in a kind way. Yeah, he was ornery and demanding and gruff and arbitrary. But he was fascinated with the world around him. What was where, what was what, that sort of thing. Creation, if I may risk going way out on a limb, interested the man. That made for a few quiet and calm adventures between me and him as the days went on.

 

Golf Cart Shower

Joe Cosgriff rented welding equipment and me Pops worked for him. That meant the old man got to know a lot of folks in the construction trades. One such fella, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, had a streak of Big Kid in him.

Cloyce was job foreman who ran many large jobs for the company he worked for way back when. He was known for being a bit of prankster too. It never interfered with his work though, and was always in good fun.

On the bigger construction sites it wasn't unusual for the company to have a golf cart available so that Cloyce could get around more quickly. One day him and me Pops were out looking for a particular guy for some reason; I don't recall what. When informed that he was on the other side of the plant where they were working Cloyce told Dad, "C'mon, Red (Dad was called Red back then because he had red hair when he was younger), let's hop in the golf cart and go find him."

Cloyce drove them outside the building to tool around to the opposite side; it would be easier than weaving in and out of machinery and what not inside. Pops said that as they passed beyond a corner there was a huge puddle, really a small lake, left in the parking lot from a thunderstorm the night before. He guessed it as better than a hundred feet wide. And he noticed a small grin on Cloyce's face, and a glint in his eye.

"I knew what was coming," Dad would explain in telling the tale, "So I figured I might as well enjoy the ride." Cloyce turned cart right towards the center of that lake and tore through it, completely inundating the old man and himself in the tremendous shower of water which their little vehicle created, both of them shouting like banshees all the while.

It happened that the man they were looking for was standing right in a doorway as the two approached him. "What happened to you guys?" he asked, mouth agape.

"Just ran into a heavy rain," Cloyce answered, as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

The man looked up at the blinding sun, then back at the two soaked golf cart passengers, merely shaking his head.

Pops Had the Power

For the last thirty five or so years of Joe Cosgriff's life, me Pops, his son, had full power of attorney over him. What that meant was that Dad could make any and all decisions about my grandfather's person, property, or business arbitrarily and unilaterally, without Joe's permission or even knowledge. Me Pops could have sold his house, his cars, drained Grandpa Joe's bank account, anything.

That's all stuff Dad would never have done, of course. But Grandpa wanted Pops to be able to make business decisions for him whenever Joe was on the road, which was often. He figured that with no easy ways of communication back then, sixty or seventy years ago, he'd set things up so that me Pops could immediately do whatever was necessary to run the family welding rental business. Joe figured that giving his son full power of attorney was the easiest way to do that: decisions could be made by Dad on the spot.

The lawyer setting it all up was aghast. He vehemently advised Joe not to do it. "It's dangerous to give someone that kind of power over your person and property, Mr. Cosgriff!'" the man argued.

"Hell, if I can't trust him now, when can I trust him?" Grandpa Joe shot back.

Joe and the old man had a good relationship, I tell you what. A good relationship.

Grandma Negotiates With Joe

I'm not sure exactly when it was, so I'll say 1970 because it fits the time frame. But me Grandma Cosgriff was in the market for a car. Her 1956 Dodge had conked out, and she needed wheels. 

Man, that old Dodge of hers was a car. It loomed huge in the parking spot in front of her and Joe's house. I remember many rides in that pale blue over white battleship, hard plastic coverings on the seats so as not to ruin the upholstery.

Anyway, all good things, and Grams was looking for a replacement. About that same time me Grandpa Joe, her husband if I haven't established that by now, had gotten a beautiful maroon 1967 Chevy Impala off his sister Ruth. It was a very nice car; I remember it well too. Joe bragged on that car constantly, how well it drove, how smooth the engine ran, how good it looked. He was really pleased with that vehicle.

Joe had went out one evening, and when he got back home he found Grandma sitting at their dining room table. "Sit down, Joe, we have to talk," she instructed her husband.

He took a chair. "What do we have to talk about?" he asked.

"Ruth's car."

"Ruth's car?" Joe demanded. "What about it?"

Grandma Cosgriff held out her right hand, palm up, and said simply, "Just give me the keys."

"I bragged on that car a bit too much," Joe ruefully lamented to me Pops the next day at the Shop. But that was how me Grams solved her car problem.

Cosgriff Coffee

We Cosgriffs, at least us Detroit and Illinois Cosgriffs, loves our coffee. I actually get the urge double, seeing as me Grandpaw Hutchins, me Mom's Dad, loved his coffee too. Anyway, family lore, and by family lore I mean that both me Pops and me Grandpa Joe insist it's true, holds the following tale.

When me Pops was about 5, Joe took him along on a train ride to visit family in Illinois. In Chicago, I believe, they had to switch trains. There was a layover of a couple hours, so Joe takes his eldest into a diner at the station to mark the time and grab a bite.

The waitress approached right after they had sat themselves at a table. Setting down menus, she followed with the typical, "Can I start you boys off with something?"

"Two coffees, one black, one half and half," Joe responds.

As Joe tells it, me very young Pops looks up at him and asks innocently, "Joe, you gonna drink that coffee with cream?"

"Two black coffees," me Grandpa corrected himself to the waitress.

That's knowing how you like your coffee, folks.

 

The Oklahoma Party Bus

One day as me Grandpa Joe was hobo-ing across the State of Oklahoma, he either thumbed for or was offered a ride. Either way, he took it. And he quickly regretted the decision.

As I heard the story, the six or eight people shoe horned into this old jalopy (I want to say a Model T Ford but I'm simply uncertain) happily shoe horned him in with them. It turns out it was something of a party car though. Joe talked about careening down rough dirt roads, the car hopping and jumping like a bucking bronco while the driver pushed it to whatever speed limit it could hold. He feared at every turn that the entire lot of them would fly off into a ditch, or worse. I'm just surprised me Grandpa would be feared of any kind of driving, what with what he drove and the way he drove them. Perhaps it's different if you're in control.

But as I said, it was also a party car. A whiskey bottle made its way around the vehicle freely, each soul drinking deeply of it, and all being vaguely offended that he would have none of the hootch. And with each empty bottle another one produced itself as though by magic, keeping the revelry on a high.

For Joe's part, he soon wanted the ride behind him. Bouncing all over the road and subsequently being bounced into one another didn't bother the partiers at all. But he tired of it quickly, especially as the largest person in the car always seemed to land right on him with each rut in the road. 

Evening came upon the group, and Joe saw the light of a farmhouse ahead and yelled, pointing, "That's my stop!" even though it was not. Far from it. Anything to get out of that rattletrap Ford and her hard partiers. 

The driver pulled over and let him out at the driveway to the farm. Me Grandpa made sure to start along it until the car was on its way. Well on its way. Then he doubled back to the road, hoping for better luck yet more than happy to hoof it for a spell.

Free Life Lesson

Do you want to know why my fuse is becoming shorter and shorter? Of course you don't. But I'm going to tell you anyway.

One of the things which makes me want to go full Joe Cosgriff (my grandfather had a hair trigger temper) on people are when they want their drain snake repaired and assure me it's an easy task. To begin with (as I've said before) there ain't, and I emphatically mean there ain't, no easy repair in the present tense. They're only easy in the past tense, after you're finished, and then they were easy. Until then anything, and I mean anything, might go wrong.

So that brings me to yesterday. A guy begged me to fix his machine as he waited. "It's easy! It just needs a fitting!" he swore. I agreed to take a look at it.

He proceeds to bring me a style of drain cleaner which I have never seen before. I've been working on drain snakes for over 50 years now (I'm an old man, I can use old man talk) and ain't never seen nothing like his. Clearly it was a knock off of some sort, below professional grade. It was brand new though, with a terrible kink right where the cable came out of the drum. "How much?" he asks. "Can you do it now?"

"$40. Yes, I can do that now (by initial indications it promised to be an easy job - an inexcusably hypocritical error on my part admittedly - and the old barn is so full I had nowhere to put it if he were to leave the thing). Let's pull out enough cable for me to work with and go from there."

Try as we might, the cable would not budge. "It's tied up inside the drum," I said with the experience of a man who has seen many cables tied up inside many drums. 

"It can't be!" the customer exclaimed. "We just had it all the way out of the barrel!"

I wanted to yell, liar! I wanted to ask, how stupid do you think I am? (Quiet, Ron). I wanted to scream, You brought this monstrosity, this offense against God and man, here because you can't fix it, and now you're questioning my judgment? Instead I offered, "We can take it apart and see what we find." I wanted to get that thing outta there, but I also wanted to show him what he was up against.

Fortunately, there are basic design styles across the world of drain snakes. I was able to determine how to get the drum apart. To my surprise (that's sarcasm) there was a Gordian knot of steel cable within it. "You just had this all the way out?" I asked the man. His small smile was sheepish.

To cut to the chase, we eventually untangled and repaired the cable, reassembling the machine along the way. It took two and a half hours in all. "What do I owe you, Cosgriff?"

"$200."

"Two hundred dollars!" he responded in shock. I know he was thinking of that forty dollar initial quote.

"Yep. That cheap because I'm giving the lesson on easy fixes free."

To his credit, he grinned and paid me $200. I hope, but doubt, he learned the lesson.

Temper Temper

I know very well that me Grandpa Joe would lose his temper too quickly. But damn, some days I understand why he did.

A customer called me the other day asking about a part, which I had in stock. Upon telling him that the guy asked, "Will you be in your shop around three o'clock?" 

It was not an unfair question. As we do route sales as well as pickup and delivery, we don't really have set hours these days. "I plan on it, but if you're telling me you're coming at three I'll make sure to be here then."

"That's just it, Cosgriff. I'm busy, and I don't where I'll be at three."

Mentally, I hit the ceiling. I was instantly, though quietly, infuriated. "Why the hell are you asking me if I'll be available at three if you don't know you'll be able to come at three?" Instead I replied through gritted teeth, "Just call me when you're on your way."

I mean, really. You're asking me to commit to a time you can't commit too? Are you even thinking about what you're saying?

Sometimes Joe was right to lose his temper. I think sometimes we all are.

Great Uncle Bill

Grandpa Joe once had an old Packard that he really liked. He also had an older brother whom he was close to, and one day the car and the brother came together in what even Joe admitted was a funny story.

His older brother was Uncle Bill. Joe thought enough of him that he named his first son, me Pops, after him. Uncle Bill was as quiet and reflective as Joe was loud and abrasive. But if you told Uncle Bill something you'd better mean it, because he would do it.

One day someone's car had slid off into a ditch, and Joe and Bill went with Grandpa's Packard to try to pull it out. They hooked up to the car, and Bill got in the driver's seat of the Packard because Joe thought he was better at things like pulling vehicles out of ditches. Uncle Bill revved the Packard up slowly, and gently tried to get into gear several times, with no luck moving the stuck car. Joe as was his wont become more impatient by the second, until he finally yelled, "Hell, rip the bumper off her!"

"I knew right after I said it I'd said it to the wrong guy," Grandpa admitted years later, retelling the tale with a laugh.

Uncle Bill's face drew into a huge grin. He raced that engine and dropped it into gear. The car leapt forward powerfully, as a 12 cylinder Packard should. And he ripped the bumper clean off.

As Joe readily admitted, "What could I say? I told him to do it."

He never did say exactly how they got the car out of the ditch though. But that really isn't the point of the story anyway, is it?

Name that Arc Welder

As many of you know, Grandpa Joe rented arc welders. What you may not know is that each and every one of them, almost 250 at the height of his business, had Joe Cosgriff names. Each was JC 1, JC 2, and so on. As a side note they each had serial numbers from the manufacturer, and Pops knew every serial number by heart. We'd test him often as kids. While dutifully standing beside a machine we'd ask, JC 135? Dad would immediately reply "5CW11276". It worked every time; we witnessed the proof. I've always been impressed by that.

Anyway, many of the welders had what amounted to nicknames. There was Old Number One, Joe's first welder, the one he started the business with. Nokomis was named after Nokomis, Illinois, the town where Joe bought it. He also had MichCon, acquired from the Michigan Consolidated Gas Company, and Gray Trailer, purchased from Gray's Rentals. I don't remember where that place was though. Interestingly enough, the machine was always painted gray.

There were two called long underslung, JC 27 and JC 33 respectively. Their carriages were made so that the welding machines themselves sat low into the frame which held the tires. This also made the entire unit about two feet longer. I believe it was an attempt to create a lower center of gravity on four wheeled trailers. Four wheeled welders were notoriously bad to tow. It wasn't unusual for them to veer all over the place behind a vehicle once you hit about 40 miles per hour. A lower center of gravity helped them tow straighter at higher speeds. I can say through personal experience that 27 and 33 towed much better than the average welder.

He had two Lincoln 600 amp electric welders which looked like large bombs. We called them A-bombs of course. 'Where's that A-bomb going Joe?' was a question which likely startled many a passers-by. There was snub nose, a snub nosed Hobart. Imagine that.

There's more but memory escapes me just now. I'll bring everyone up to speed soon though.