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.

Stretching A Buck

Me Grandpa Joe had his welder rental business, but he also owned a couple of rooming houses with single rooms as well as apartments for rent. With eight kids plus he and me Grandma Cosgriff, 10 mouths to feed and house and clothe required a decent income stream.

Joe's money rule was simple. He used the earnings from the welders to pay for the business. Me Grandma Cosgriff got all the income from the rooms and apartments to pay for the food and clothes and such for her and me Pops and his seven siblings. You know, the various household expenses. 

Now, me Grams was good with a buck. I'll likely go into more detail on that in another blog, but suffice it to say her reputation for handling money was well established. Me Grandpa Joe garnered no such accolades.

One day Joe was lamenting to his older brother, me Great Uncle Bill who me Pops was named for, "Boy, a dollar from the room rents sure goes farther than a dollar from the welders."

Uncle Bill replied simply, "Look who's spending the welding money and look who spends the rent income."

Joe couldn't challenge that judgement. He knew it was true.

The Ladder

It wasn't just a ladder. It was The Ladder, the one we used every time extra upward steps were needed at the Shop. "Get the ladder, boy," me Grandpa Joe would say to me when a light burned out. 

The Ladder was a wooden, ten foot step ladder and a staple at the old barn. I'd love to know how old it was. Joe might have gotten it from his brother, me great Uncle Bill, in Illinois, just like he did the bench grinder which was bought in 1928 and we used until 1990. The Ladder could have been that old. It wouldn't surprise me.

I'll bet I was many miles up and down the steps of that thing. Replacing lights, whitewashing the old barn once a year, fixing windows; I even employed it a few times at my house for this or that.

It was rickety for as long as I remember. Someone had to hold it as a safety measure when in use, except when leaned against a wall unfolded. The old red ladder was out of alignment and warped something awful. Holding it up for others required your strength; it about had a mind of its own.

Me Pops left it up against a wall in a far corner of the Shop about fifteen years ago and we ain't used it since. On top of all else the wood was clearly rotten. Yet he couldn't throw it away. So it sat and stuff piled up around it. Until yesterday, that is, when I reluctantly tossed it into the dumpster I rented for an old barn clean up.

Tease me if you want, but I darn near shed tears as I carried it out. The choice felt callous, yet was the right one. It was just a tool and was no longer safe. It needed to go. That didn't stop me from setting it up one last time and climbing up, carefully, six steps. I even got out me phone and took a couple pictures of the view. Silliness.

The true issue is sentimentality, of course. Right before I grabbed it for the dumpster I heard Joe grumble plain as day, "Get the ladder, boy." Well, it's been got.

Bumper Cars

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 to do 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 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 said years later, "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?