Memorial Day Reflection

Today is the day where we remember those who gave their lives for our country defending our nation in war. I think this year I want to especially remember those who died because of the wars and battles they fought while not having actually been killed facing the enemy.

I'm thinking specifically about me Pops youngest brother, me Uncle John. While he didn't die until 2005, I don't think he ever completely left Vietnam. I believe there were others in similar trials who even after they came home were still fighting. They deserve our thoughts and prayers too. Give them a minute this Memorial Day.

Zeke's Nightmare

Me Uncle John who we sometimes call Zeke worked with me Grandpa Joe in Grandpa's welding machine rental business. At times the pressure of the job got to him.

Zeke came into work one morning looking frazzled. "You okay, John?" my Dad asked him.

"I didn't sleep well," he answered. "In fact I feel like I worked all night."

"How can that be?"

Uncle John explained, "I dreamed I was ill, so I called in sick. But we were so busy that Joe knocked out a wall to my second floor bedroom and had a ramp built up to it, so you guys could bring me welders to work on anyway."

Me Pops just shook his head. "You really need to separate your work and private life better, Zeke."

Blind Clock

Hey Zeke (that's me Uncle John) what would we call it? Blind Squirrel? Stopped Clock? Lightning can strike twice? I'm sure one applies. But yesterday in my golf league I scored the second birdie of my life.

It was on the 10th hole (we played the back nine) a par 3, and was as close to the pin as I've ever been off the tee, about two feet. I was below the hole, so putting uphill meant I could strike the ball more firmly, and the lie was straight as a tack. Boom! The sound of a golf ball dropping into the cup is almost as satisfying as hitting a baseball. First birdie since you and I played Dearborn Hills back in 1990.

You were the first person I thought of when I drained that putt. I even looked up to the sky as I pumped my fist. I still have the ball and the scorecard you signed from the first birdie. I set aside the second birdie ball so that that first one would have company.

This one's for you, Uncle John. I miss golfing with ya.  

Zeke's Answer for Everything

We all, well, many of us anyway, daydream of coming into big money. You know, winning the lottery or the like. Me Uncle John who I sometimes call Zeke was no different. He dreamed of winning the lottery. Indeed, he was quite prepared for it. He had in truth determined the very first thing he would do if he won. Seeing as folks like to hit you up for money if they thought you had a pile, Zeke said that if the big bucks came his way he would begin answering every single question No. Then he would answer the actual question.

"Hey John, how are today?"

"No. I'm doing great, thanks for asking."

"How about this fine weather we been having, John?"

"No. It's been pleasant, hasn't it? I might go golfing."

"What are doing for dinner today Zeke?"

"No. Well, I believe I have a taste for Mexican, now that you got me thinking about it."

Such a kidder. Until I realized he meant it.

Zeke's Driving Test

Okay, I'll admit up front that the title is a hook. A quite misleading one at that. But this post does involve me Uncle John (sometimes called Zeke) and it is about driving tests.

Back in the day many of us Cosgriffs lived and worked near Wayne State University in downtown Detroit. Now I can't speak for how they are recently but as I hear few complaints I think they're much better. But in the seventies and eighties WSU students were notorious walkers and drivers. Notorious that is for weaving in and out of traffic in their vehicles and vaulting across the street on foot trying to make their classes. Warren Avenue between Interstate 75 and Trumbull Avenue, a course about a mile and a half long, was the major roadway where all the action took place. It could be a harrowing drive if you didn't pay attention.

Uncle John noticed this as well as the rest of us. He used to quip that the road test for new drivers ought to be making it from I-75 to Trumbull along Warren without killing two people.

You caught that, didn't you? He was willing to spot you the first fatality because in that stretch of road you were going to kill somebody. And it would not be your fault, it would not be held against you.

Personally I think old Zeke had the right idea.

Zeke and Amos

I've talked about me Uncle John who we called Zeke. I talked about me Grandpa Joe's old friend Amos too. At times their paths crossed.

Zeke had once told me that Amos made the best fried chicken in the world. Uncle John loved it, and Amos apparently knew that. He would regularly offer some to me Uncle when he fixed it for dinner.

One day at the old barn Zeke reminisced about a time when he was a boy, maybe 9 or 10, where he really had a taste for that fried chicken. He tramped over Amos' apartment and quite literally begged the old man to fry it up. Amos dutifully did, not wanting to disappoint the boy. Uncle John sat there and ate ravenously, realizing about half way through that his personal chef wasn't having anything for himself.

"I was too young to realize it at the time, but it was a Sunday about Noon. Amos was hung over after Saturday night," Uncle John explained. He laughed at that. "How'd you like to have a kid bug you for food when you're sick? But he still fried it all up for me."

I think it's a cool story.

Zeke's Flat Tires

You read that right: flat tires. It's not about any particular flats which me Uncle John who we call Zeke had in his lifetime, although he had his share. More than his share, he might argue. But this is about potential flats.

Any sharp object can cause a flat: a screw, a nail, even a small bolt under the right speed and angle can imbed itself into a tread. Ask a math nerd. However it happens, a few miles down the road and you're on the shoulder fighting to break lug nuts loose, lamenting your poor luck. You didn't, you couldn't even see when it happened. But you would find the dread nail and curse it.

Again, this isn't about real life flats but possible ones. I can't tell you how many times we'd be walking to and from the old barn to one of our satellite garages and Zeke's eyes would zero in on an object laying in the alley as though he were Iron Man seeing with the ultra sensitive sight of his metal suit. He pick up that vile nail and hold it out for you to see, right in front of your eyeballs. "That's a flat!" he would proclaim with scorn.

He was, of course, right. For all the actual flats we dealt with, it was best to get all the potential ones out of the way. 

Respect

Uncle John whom we call Zeke and me Grandpa Joe, his father, well, their relationship was rocky, if I may be cryptic and dance around the issue. Yet Zeke impressed me with his sense of decency when Joe passed. Riding along with me and me brother Phil as we drove to Jacksonville, Illinois for Grandpa's funeral, Uncle John became surprisingly open and introspective about losing his father. He remarked, "Me and that man didn't always get along. But he gave me life. I have to go to his funeral. I owe him this."

Zeke was a man with his demons, God bless him, but he knew right from wrong. He knew that he had to do what was right, and damn personal histories. I think I learned all I needed to know about him on that road trip to his father's hometown.  You do what's right by your folks. You owe them that.

Mom's been gone over two years now, and I miss our Sunday trips. I did them out of love and was happy to, but we need to remember that part of love, perhaps the most important component of it, is doing what you're supposed to do. Ideally you do this freely and willfully. Yet even then, part of it is recognizing obligation. There's nothing wrong with admitting that fact.

During a homily one Sunday the priest was lecturing on the Ten Commandments. The first three deal with our relationship with God; the following seven with relationships between ourselves. What's the first of those? Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother. Before we do anything else, even before we're told not to kill or steal, we're told to honor our parents. That's how important our debt to them is.

If five hour drives and McDonald's cheeseburgers made my infirm mother happy in her last years, I owed her that. I owe her much more, but we do what we can at the time. If the best Zeke could do at the time was attend his father's funeral, he saw that he owed him that. I say Zeke paid his debt. And willfully.

Patrick's Question

Yesterday  I spoke about the relationship between me Uncle John (who we call Zeke) and me brother Patrick. They would typically ask one another questions about this or that, and comment on the answers.

One of Patrick's favorite types of query was an either/or question. Would you prefer pizza to fried chicken, for example. One day he asked Uncle John, "If you had the choice between retire now or..."

Zeke interrupted him abruptly. Indeed, his tone was rather sharp. "Retire now."

"But you didn't hear the rest of it!" Patrick cried.

"It doesn't matter what the rest of it is. If one option is retire now I'm retiring now!" stated Uncle John emphatically.

A man after my own heart. I don't think Patrick ever got the rest of the question out.

Zeke and Patrick

Me Uncle John (often here called Zeke) and me brother Patrick are two of a kind. I honestly think Zeke sort of took Patrick under his wing at the old barn. I've wondered if he saw how me Grandpa Joe, God bless his soul, would grate on Pat a bit and thus sought to help him cope. Oh, he'd tease him and get a kick out of Pat's answers. But I really believe there was something of a fatherly spark toward him in Uncle John, who never had kids of his own. They made many deliveries together, which surely helped build their relationship.

Patrick has his eccentricities; Zeke like to jibe at them. When he asked Pat what his favorite food was Patrick answered, "Cheetos."

"What, Oreos not filling enough for you?" Uncle John responded.

In 1979 he asked Pat if he could live in any other time or any other year, which would it be? Patrick thought a second and answered, "1978."

Zeke laughed and said incredulously, "You'd go back to last year?" and shook his head. "A chance to go anywhere and any time or place and you'd go back one year?"

There's more, and these exchanges aren't the best. I'm saving the best one though. Keep reading and you might catch it someday.

By the Number

Math, a dear friend of mine who interestingly happens to be a math teacher, says, is life. I don't doubt it. When the numbers in the checkbook (does anyone use one of those anymore?) don't add up, it's a problem. But this is more about numbers than full on mathematics (does anyone use the complete word anymore?). 

A twice recurrent number in my life is 1104. When you pronounce it eleven-oh-four it rolls nicely off the tongue. It was the address of the house me Pops grew up in (on Putnam Street in Detroit) and the number of me son's scout troop. That is at least kind of serendipitous, isn't it?

Me Uncle John whom I call Zeke loved the old house. So did me Pops, as I'm quite sure did the rest of their siblings. Zeke used to say if he had the money he'd rebuilt it precisely to spec. 

Me Grandparents moved out of it in 1965. I remember being there as a small boy. As the second oldest grandchild there likely aren't many of us on my tier of the family that were in it. The place was huge. I recall being in the back yard playing with the dog they had at the time (Moochie? Does that sound like the dog's name?), and toddling around the basement with me Pops and his brothers as they shot pool. 

Then me son Frank ends up making Eagle Scout through Boy Scout Troop 1104. I don't know if Pops realized that, but I have to imagine he did. Some numbers just stick with us and I have the distinct impression 1104 did with him. 

There's other numbers which mean a lot to me but that's the only one which appears prominently in my life two times. I may play the lottery with it today. Third time's a charm?

 

Memorial Day 2024

Today is the day where we remember those who gave their lives for our country defending our nation in war. I think this year I want to especially remember those who died because of the wars and battles they fought while not having actually been killed facing the enemy.

I'm thinking specifically about me Pops youngest brother, me Uncle John. While he didn't die until 2005, I don't think he ever completely left Vietnam. Pops always said Zeke was different after the War. I believe there were others with similar trials who, even after they came home, were still fighting. They deserve our thoughts and prayers too. Give them a minute this Memorial Day.

Zeke and the Masters

I don't watch golf very often. But I always watch the Masters. Although I do find that I like the game more and more as I grow older, there's a part of me which still doesn't really see the allure. Hitting a small ball hundreds of yards into a cup maybe twice the size of that ball just doesn't seem a very entertaining way to spend an afternoon. Still, I find that golf and I have a history. Lately that's been played out through 'swing and sweeps', combined golf and curling tournaments. They're great fun, especially if, as a curler (as I am) it gets you two more curling games per season. I do look forward to them.

But more than that. My father's youngest brother, my Uncle John, who we sometimes called Zeke, liked to golf. He always bet something or other with a coworker on the outcome of the Masters. He and his boss would pick five guys alternately, and who had the winner won a sleeve of balls. I'm not sure who won most often. But I know my uncle was always proud of his picks.

I golfed with him many times years ago, when he was young and I was younger. We'd go out for nine holes after work many a summer's day. Those evenings were always good fun. If I could relive just one...we would joke and laugh, and simply enjoy the quiet and the game.

He was a lefty. That was fairly rare in golf at the time. His swing seemed unusual even to me, but for a duffer he was okay. I scored my only birdie to this date while golfing with him. The Eighth hole at Dearborn Hills, a 170 yard par 3, a Thursday night in an August which escapes my memory. I made the green off the tee with a four iron, and hit a 25 foot putt which ran hard left to right right into the cup. I made him sign the scorecard to attest that I had birdied. He remarked, "No one will believe us, because I'm family." It was lightly drizzling as he signed the card under the glare of my car's headlight after that round. I still see him doing it. Why do such things stay in our memories? But when he died, the first thing I did was dig up the scorecard and the ball that I birdied with.

When he had decided he was through with golf he gave me his left handed clubs. Several times I played rounds with them. If you have any idea how poorly I golf, you would realize that it hardly mattered from which side of the tee I would address the ball. Might as well play lefty.

I kept those clubs for years. Then I bought a better-than-mine set of used right handed clubs (used better than I ever will), and decided to sell Uncle John's clubs at a yard sale. Who needs two sets of clubs, especially opposite sided ones, right? A young left handed guy came by, practice swung a few of them, decided that he wanted to golf enough so that he ought to have his own clubs, and made his purchase.

I watched him walk away, dragging Uncle John's clubs behind on the cart which went with the deal. I felt a pang of remorse as the man disappeared with his new found treasure.

I sincerely hope that he has golfed well with them. And I wish I still had those clubs.

Stupid Mistakes

There are mistakes, me Uncle John who we call Zeke used to say, and there are stupid mistakes. While you want to avoid either the former are more forgivable than the latter.

Yesterday I almost made a stupid mistake. I noticed that a tire was low on my newer older van. Then, since I hadn't checked it in awhile, I saw that my spare was low too. "Ah, I'll take care of them tomorrow," I thought to myself.

No, take care of them today, another voice told me. You're going curling tonight in Canada. You really want to take a chance of having a flat at 10 PM, in the cold, in another country, with an almost flat spare too?

I aired up the tires yesterday, and all went well. I've made enough stupid mistakes before. I'm old enough I should stop that.

Uncle Jokes

Me Uncle John, me old golf buddy from back in the day, had his own special form of humor. When he got on a roll I would laugh until I cried.

He had this story where he and another driver for Grandpa Joe, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, were racing south on Interstate 75, each with a truckload of welding machines, weaving in and out of lanes trying to best each other, to get to their destination first, recklessly tearin' up jack, all the while being trailed by an undertaker in anticipation of business. That was one hilarious tale. I wish I could recreate me Uncle's style when he was on his game. But I can't, so I won't even attempt that. I will, however, tell you one of his favorite, more droll jokes.

There was at one time, there probably still is I would assume, a school in Florida ran by MLB which trained its on field baseball officials. Uncle John used to say that if he had the money he would open up a restaurant directly across the street from the school. It would specialize in beef entrees. He would name the restaurant...

...wait for it...

...the Umpire Steak Building.

I have always liked that quip. Thanks Zeke. 

Zeke's First Driving Rule

Me brother Phil and I had a road trip day yesterday. Six hundred plus miles through Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana, delivering drain snakes and parts orders. You can imagine that we saw quote a few cars and trucks. Drivers, I tell ya, some of them are bad, perhaps even in ways you don't consider.

Several times we saw vehicles just barely creeping by others. I remarked that it irritated me when some crawled by like that.  Phil responded, "Uncle John (the one we sometimes call Zeke) used to say that he hated slow passers more than tailgaters. If either of you had to swerve you were bound to hit the other guy."

That hadn't occurred to me before. But it makes sense.

Zeke's Eats

I've told you about how me Uncle John whom I call Zeke made his meals with as little effort as he could? I haven't? Well, let's right that wrong.

His goal was to get away with using as few utensils, pots and pans and whatnot, as possible when fixing dinner. Often he would get away with only using a fork. "I don't wash dishes. I wash dish," he was fond of bragging.

He managed that by eating whatever he could with no further preparation than straight from the can. Employ the opener, dispose of the lid, and eat the contents with a fork or spoon: hence, you only have to wash dish. 

Zeke learned what did and did not work that way through good old trial and error. Corned or roast beef hash were a-okay right out the can. Chili (no beans) wasn't too bad either. Beef stew was all right but better heated. Vegetable beef soup? Straight out of Campbell's. Chicken noodle, though, needed to be put through the microwave.

So far I've only tried hash right out of the can. The corned beef variety. And, you know what? I rather liked it.

In Between the Holidays

We are, in case you didn't notice, almost exactly in between Christmas and New Year's Day. They fall on Sundays this year. Well, Christmas falls on Sunday this year while New Year's falls on Sunday next year. But you knew what I meant.

Which day of the week is it best for these holidays to occur? It is nice having a long week in between the two, but I rather believe that Thursday is the best day. You effectively get consecutive four day weekends when that happens, which is nice. Technically you get that when they fall on Tuesdays too. But as Wednesday work days follow those Tuesdays, it isn't as fun.

Me Uncle John who I call Zeke liked it best when Christmas and New Year's were on Wednesdays, right smack in the middle of the week. It breaks up the weeks nicely, in his mind, and you do get that convenient weekend in between for more a relaxed holiday season. 

Fridays and Mondays aren't terrible. With Fridays you do get two three day weekends in a row, while Monday has the Tuesday problem of workdays immediately following.

What do you think is the best day for Christmas and New Year? And why am I asking? Because yes, Ron, this is a slow news day.

Masters Weekend

Editor's note: this is a reprint of a favorite article of mine. Uncle John liked the Masters and I liked golfing with him. Think we got time for a quick nine, Zeke?

The Masters and John Cosgriff

I don't watch golf very often. But I always watch the Masters. Although I do find that I like the game more and more as I grow older, there's a part of me which still doesn't really see the allure. Hitting a small ball hundreds of yards into a cup maybe twice the size of that ball just doesn't seem a very entertaining way to spend an afternoon. Still, I find that golf and I have a history. Lately that's been played out through 'swing and sweeps', combined golf and curling tournaments. They're great fun, especially if, as a curler (as I am) it gets you two more curling games per season. I do look forward to them.

But more than that. My father's youngest brother, my Uncle John, liked to golf. He always bet something or other with a coworker on the outcome of the Masters. He and his boss would pick five guys alternately, and whoever had the winner won a sleeve of balls. I'm not sure who won most often. But I know my uncle was always proud of his picks.

I golfed with him many times years ago, when he was young and I was younger. We'd go out for nine holes after work many a summer's day. Those evenings were always good fun. If I could relive just one...we would joke and laugh, and simply enjoy the quiet and the game.

He was a lefty. That was fairly rare in golf at the time. His swing seemed unusual even to me, but for a duffer he was okay. I scored my only birdie to this date while golfing with him. The Eighth hole at Dearborn Hills, a 170 yard par 3, a Thursday night in an August of days gone by. I made the green off the tee with a four iron, and hit a 25 foot putt which ran hard left to right right into the cup. I made him sign the scorecard to attest that I had birdied. He remarked, "No one will believe us, because I'm family". It was lightly drizzling as he signed the card under the glare of my car's headlight after that round. I still see him doing it. Why do such things stay in our memories? But when he died, that image popped into my head. I then dug up the scorecard and the ball that I birdied with, just to see his signature.

When he had decided he was through with golf he gave me his left handed clubs. Several times I played rounds with them. If you have any idea how poorly I golf, you would know that it hardly mattered from which side of the tee I would address the ball. Might as well play lefty sometimes just for kicks.

I kept those clubs for years. Then I bought a better-than-mine set of used right handed clubs (used better than I ever will), and decided to sell Uncle John's clubs at a yard sale. Who needs three sets of clubs, especially opposite sided ones, right? 

A young left handed guy came around and looked them over. He practiced swung a few of them, decided that he wanted to golf enough that he ought to have his own clubs, and paid for them.

I watched him walk away, dragging Uncle John's clubs behind him on the cart which went with the deal. I felt a deep pang of remorse as the fella disappeared with his new found treasure.

I sincerely hope he has golfed well with them. And I wish I still had those clubs.

Lucky Number?

Math, a dear friend of mine who interestingly happens to be a math teacher, says, is life. I don't doubt it. When the numbers in the checkbook (does anyone use one of those anymore?) don't add up, it's a problem. But this is more about numbers than full on mathematics (does anyone use the full word anymore?). 

A twice recurrent number in my life is 1104. When you pronounce it eleven-oh-four it rolls nicely off the tongue. It was the address of the house me Pops grew up in and the number of me son's scout troop. That is at least kind of serendipitous, isn't it?

Me Uncle John whom I call Zeke loved the old house. So did me Pops, as I'm quite sure did the rest of their siblings. Zeke used to say if he had the money he'd rebuilt it precisely to spec. 

Me Grandparents moved out of it in 1965. I remember being there as a small boy. As the second oldest grandchild there likely aren't many of us on my tier of the family that also remember it. It was huge. I recall being in the back yard playing with the dog they had at the time, and being in the basement with me Pops and his brothers as they shot pool. 

Then me son Frank ends up making Eagle Scout through Boy Scout Troop 1104. I don't know if Pops realized that, but I have to imagine he did. Some numbers just stick with us and I have the distinct impression 1104 did with him. 

There's other numbers which mean a lot to me but that's the only one which appears prominently in my life two times. I may play the lottery with it today. Third time's a charm?