A Buck Ten

Remember when I said that I no longer pay my work electric bill online? Well, if not, look here. Electric Company wanted a $9-dollar monthly fee to pay that way. I decided, forget that stuff (me Grandpa Joe used to say stuff rather than the obvious, cruder word), I'll send a check and make you process it. I further would kill every electric appliance or light whenever not absolutely needed, in order to deprive Electric Company of more than my nine bucks.

I suppose you don't actually have to click that link, now that I've summarized the tale after all.

Be that as it may, I decided to see how much my electric bill has dropped since my hissy fit. Lo and behold, in looking over the bills of the last three months, I've saved about two dollars each month since getting out the checkbook. As payments by mail cost me about 90 cents per month, I'm around a buck-ten ahead every time I pay by mail. I figured it would be a wash, but how about that, as my old friend Mel Allen would say.

Yeah, I know Electric Company doesn't care. Yet I'll still call it a win.

A sledgehammer and an ax

You can have fun with tools. You can have a lot of fun with heavy tools, such as a sledgehammer and an ax. Me and me Grandpa Joe proved that one day in dismantling a stove.

Joe had bought this house to fix up and either sell or use as a rental property. It had this monstrous iron stove in the kitchen; I believe the place used to be a social club of some sort which offered meals. Whatever the reason it was there, it was the biggest stove I'd ever seen outside of a restaurant. 

What was pretty clear was that it wasn't carried into that kitchen but assembled there. We had no idea how to dismantle it, so we approached the problem the Cosgriff way. We got a twenty pound sledge and a large ax and began hammering and hacking away at the behemoth.

It wasn't long before chunks and slivers of iron were flying all over the place. I was a teenager, a kid who didn't even consider basic safety equipment such as goggles, and God knows the thought never entered Joe's mind. We just had at it, striking at the dragon's maw until there were small enough bits and pieces to carry out of the house and to the scrap yard. Within about a half hour of attacking the thing it was vanquished. It was no more.

Damn, that was fun. One of me best times with me Grandpa Joe.

Old Oil

The things me Grandpa Joe used to have us do at the old barn make me shake my head these days. At the time I didn't think much about it, but looking back, I often wonder why.

The gasoline powered welding machines he had had long side panels which folded upwards to allow access to the engine and welding unit. These panels (which were as I recall where about four foot in length) had what amounted to long hinges. That they required occasional greasing I get. Joe did that with old oil.

We changed the oil in our own cars back then, and the engines on the welders needed changing too of course. Joe would save all the old oil and have teens like me at the time paint the gray, sticky goo across and into the hinges.

Suffice it to say, it left you smelling like oil. It got oil all over everything: your clothes, the entirety of the machine, and a lot on the cement. For days afterwards you would get a light spray of oil when opening a panel on the machine. It was simply one big, slick, greasy mess.

I understand his reasoning. He felt the oil penetrated well, that it worked itself more into the joints. But thinking back on it, I have to believe there were actual penetrating oils which might have been less hassle: WD-40 or something. But back then I was only a 14 year old doing as he was told. Thinking wasn't in my job description. Joe did that for me...for whatever that's worth.

Going by the Numbers

Did you know that in 1953, Joe Cosgriff Welding Machine rentals bought more new Hobart welders than anyone else in the country except Ford and Chrysler? Well, now you do. I'm not sure how many units that was, but it must have been a lot.

At its height I know me Grandpa had over 200 welders. In the 1970s, I remember them being numbered up to 210, the Shop number painted on the top with the prefix JC. That number, of course, does not include the total number of machines he ever owned. Things go bad; things get scrapped out or, horrors, stolen.

I'll tell what impressed me most, though: me Pops had every serial number memorized. If I asked him the 'Joe Cosgriff' number, say, JC-167, he'd rattle off the machine's factory assigned serial number. Right now kapow. I was awed by that when I was 10. I'm still awed by it. I mean, we're not talking simple little four or five digits with maybe a letter. We're talking number and letter combinations like 12CW5497 or 5DW68873. I remember the 5DW ones were 400 amp welders, so there was a code to it which could help memorization. But still, over 200 (likely closer to 300 counting machines out of use over time) committed to memory? Wow.

Now they're all gone. The last one we rented, fittingly enough, was the month Joe died, August 1991. The last ones we had we sold to a guy who shipped them to Nigeria. Yes, that sounds like a joke. But it's what the fella told the old man, and he paid cash. He could do whatever he wanted with them after that.

There. Now you're all set for when 'Cosgriff welders' is the Jeopardy category.

Lamenting the World

Everything, it seems, is a catastrophe these days. But is the modern world really that much different than the worlds left to history?

To be sure, there are superficial differences, and I don't mean superficial as unimportant. I mean it as not different in a substantial way. The atomic bomb is really only 'one more terrible way to die in a world filled with terrible ways to die' said the writer C. S. Lewis. I just finished a book about Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo and believe me, many of those soldiers died horrible, gruesome deaths. My point is that scale doesn't necessarily add to substance. Men have been horrible to other men pretty much forever.

It will continue. There is no antidote, no way to prevent abominations of any sort. That's not to say that we shouldn't try. But even if we could prevent evil in one area, it's going to happen in another. In no way might we anticipate where the next awful thing will appear. Quite bluntly and, I will add, obviously, we do not have the capability to see the future. We only have the evidence of human failure, which points to continuing failure.

I think the problem, and I do look at it as a problem, is the furious rush of bad things which inundate our world. We hear about everything that happens almost instantaneously. It makes the world appear worse. Most of the time it's bad news because that sells, another curse which always is with us. The spigot ought to be turned off, if for no other reason that it isn't good for our collective or individual mental health. 

There will always be, as me Grandpa Joe might say, the next catastastroke. I rather believe the best we can do is do right in our own lives, help others when we can, and not fret too much about the rest. You weren't born to save the world. You were born, if I might co-opt Jordan Peterson, to clean your room. Seeing to yourself might just be the best way to fix the world.

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.

The Old Ball Game

We, myself, me Pops, and me Grandpa Joe, all lived within two blocks of the Shop, the old barn where we worked when we weren't telling tall tales. It wasn't unusual for any one of us to head home for this or that reason during the work day.

Joe left for his house on some errand early one afternoon. About ten minutes later, the phone rang. "Bill, I think Joe's collapsed out on Hancock street," a worried neighbor told him.

Dad bolted from the Shop. He was quickly on Hancock, but could see from well back it wasn't his father laying along the curb. Still, whoever it was ought to be checked. Me Pops went up to him. 

The man on the ground was face up, staring into the clouds. "You okay, fella?" Dad asked him.

"Oh yeah. I'm just watching the ball game," the guy answered. 

"Ah. Well, who's winning?" Me Pops returned.

"I don't know. I just got to my seat." About then an ambulance pulled up. Apparently Anxious Neighbor had, rightly, already called one. Dad had done his duty, so he stepped back for the EMTs to do theirs.

If It Suited Joe

I do wonder sometimes whether we are fashion conscious enough. Yeah, I know. Sounds real weird coming from me. But still, I wonder.

When me Pops took me to my first baseball game at old Tiger Stadium in Detroit, he wore a suit and tie. One of the times I noticed me Grandpa Joe wear a suit coat was when he did his weekly banking. That's right, he cleaned up and put on a coat and tie to go to the bank. Meanwhile, although I wore a suit and tie to the funerals of both my parents, I didn't to the viewings the night before. I had my reasons; with Mom, there was one particular pullover shirt of mine which she without fail would compliment when I had it on. So I wore that to the funeral home.

What do we wear suits for these days? You don't see them at Church, or, at least, I don't. In offices, yes, although that doesn't appear as universal as it once was. News shows, yes. But by and large, men don't wear suitcoats. 

I'm no longer sure that such relaxation is an improvement in style. After all, when Joe Cosgriff would dress up just to put money in his bank account, I do wonder if he had a better idea of proper dress than we seem to have these days.

Bill Cosgriff, Tax Expert

Me Grandpa Joe, he had that welding rental business. He also had rooming houses. You might imagine that required a lot of accounting. Joe, then, had contracted with an accounting firm.

Me Pops was always good with numbers, and he worked with Joe, his dad. One year as tax season approached, Joe asked Pops (my dad) about what he thought his taxes might be.

Dad proceeded to look over Joe's books, scribbling numbers on a paper as he went along. He eventually gave his dad a number of what he might expect to pay the IRS.

It turns out dad was within about ten bucks of the actual total. "Why am I paying Jack Donahue (his accountant) when you can do my taxes for me? Why don't you do them from here on out?" Joe asked his son.

Me Pops flatly refused. "No way. Maybe my numbers are good, but Donahue knows where to put those numbers on the right lines on all those tax forms." 

So Pops got out of being Joe's accountant. It was surely best for both of them. All three, counting Mr. Donahue.

It's so easy to fix a snake

 No, Mungo! Never kill a customer! -from Monty Python's Dirty Fork sketch

Those are certainly words to live by. I have never come close to killing a customer. At least, so far as the police know. But I have snapped at a couple of them.

Several years ago during a period when we were extremely busy and running about one week to ten days behind in repairs (not unlike now quite honestly) a guy walked into the old barn. He had a machine which wasn't running and wanted me to take a look at it. I said I would, but that if it required anything serious he'd have to leave it and I'd get to it as soon as I could.

I followed him out to his van and he produced a little General Sewerooter Junior which had wires hanging out of the motor in a terrible jumble. A real bird's nest, me Pops used to say. It would have taken an hour simply to sort everything out, to get all the wiring back in place so that I might then start diagnosing the real problem. On top of that, his cable was tangled inside the drum. I shook my head and said to the man, "You're going to have to leave that with me."

He began, "Well all you have to do is..."

I cut him off right there. "Then you do it," I replied, admittedly rather harshly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Then you do it," I repeated. "If it's all that simple, why are you bringing it to me? Why don't you have it done already?"

"You don't have to get that way, man," he protested.

In me best Grandpa Joe voice I half yelled back, "Yes! Yes I do! Everybody thinks their mess is so easy to fix after they messed it up worse and then expect a miracle from me! I'm not putting you in front of anybody else for this!"

The man left. I didn't kill him, but I haven't seen him since either.

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. 

Pretend you're right here!

Me Grandpa Joe had a way about throwing himself into his work. Sometimes he literally threw himself into it. Or among it, between it; I'm not exactly sure how to describe what I'm about to describe.

I remember a day when I was just 16 and he decided I needed to learn how to back up a trailer. That was fair enough so far as it went. As I worked with him delivering welding equipment and we often delivered smaller machines with a two-wheeled trailer, it was a good idea. Yet his teaching methods left a few things to be desired.

Quiet and tact come immediately to mind. I love that old man and I miss him every day, but he truly subscribed to the concept that the louder he was the better you'd remember and the quicker you'd learn. Higher decibels equaled greater understanding.

The loudness of his screaming instructions did not seem to help me initially. Neither did his insistence on visual examples: I cannot tell you how many times he would jump right in between car and trailer as I vainly tried backing the trailer into place, each time yelling, "Pretend you're right here! Right here!" But you're right there Joe! Right where you're telling me to be!

As I recall, me Pops returned from wherever he was at that point and calmly took over. I soon mastered it, and I do mean mastered it. I could back up that old trailer perfectly into a space with four inches of clearance to each side. And I do wonder if maybe, just maybe, Joe's intensity actually helped.

I do know me Pops calm certainly didn't hurt.

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.

Perchance to Answer

Me Grandpa Joe had a welder rental business which me Pops by and large ran. Dad frequently spoke about two calls. One he refused on principle, the other he nearly refused on a different principle, but took. 

One large company would only call Joe Cosgriff Welding Machine Rentals on weekends, and I mean late on weekends. They'd call at, oh, 11 PM on a Saturday night, all in a dither over some presumed emergency. Joe would grumble, but dutifully take the order and fill it, delivering whatever in the wee hours of a Sunday.

He happened to be out of town one weekend. That company called, and me Pops answered. He refused the rental. "You call somebody else during regular hours but us at off hours. We're not doing business that way," Dad blithely explained to the company rep.

Pops worried a bit what Joe would think, but grandfather sided with his son. Say what you want about Joe, and much can and has been said, when he delegated authority to Pops he never questioned what Dad did. Joe figured, "I told him to run it, so I gotta let him run it."

Another time we were in a recession, and business was bad. That wouldn't stop Joe from taking his trips, so he decided one day to go off on an adventure. Dad, of course, took the reins of the Shop.

He took a call from a very large company (you would recognize it but I won't tell you, just for safety's sake, discretion being the better part of valor) who were notorious for being slow to pay. Me Pops did not like dealing with them. Yet they wanted ten machines asap and there wasn't much other work. Dad opted to take the chance and fill the order, which ballooned into almost every one of the welders Joe owned at the time. At the height of the job, they had 210 units rented.

And, they paid promptly. "I'm glad I took that call!" Dad would say in telling the story. I know Joe did not question his decision on that one.

And The Fight Was On

As I take my morning walks these days, I always pass Sam's house. When I do I always think of his relationship with me Grandpa Joe. It was, ah, an interesting friendship.

Sam would come by the old barn regularly. His mission seemed to be to needle Joe. It must be admitted, he was very good at that.

Once Joe had me younger brother painting a car of his with a sponge brush and a can of off the shelf paint. Now, I know that's not the best way to paint a car, but it was Grandpa's car and Patrick didn't mind to get paid to paint it however he was told. Sam happened by and exclaimed emphatically, "You can't paint a car like that!"

"The hell I can't!" Joe replied with an incredibly equal incredulity. And the fight was on.

Another time Sam was paying a visit and Joe was going on about something or other which concerned him. When he finished his rant Sam remarked sullenly, "Ah, I don't care, Joe".

Joe barked in response, an incredibly accurate and proper response, "Yeah, but I do!"

"I just said I don't care!" Sam yelled in reply. And the fight was on.

Similar events occurred countless times over the years. Sam would show up, a conversation would start, sometimes slowly, sometimes explosively, and those two old coots would end up arguing, howling at each other over some kind of nonsense.

The darn thing is, I think they both looked forward to it. I am inclined to think that the more modern term 'frenemies' would describe the situation well.

My Inner Joe Cosgriff

Me Grandpa Joe, I loved that man. Hoo boy, though, did his temper have a short fuse. I'm sure I've spoken of that. But you know, the older I grow the more I get his temper. And I'll you something further: the older I get, the harder it is to hold that genetic disposition in check. There are times where it's all I can do to keep my temper down. Even then, I still lose it, but that's for another blog.

I can't begin to tell you exactly how much I wanted to throw down on a customer call just yesterday. I didn't, but I sure wanted to.

He had an issue with a drain snake, and I of course work on such animals. He told me what it was doing and I told him what it likely needed. He asked me to ship the part. "Well, why don't you try this test first," I started to explain, because there's a simple way to test this particular item and it could save everyone time and effort if the guy would take a few minutes to try it.

I was cut off, quite rudely I will add, which will not help his case. "We've done all the testing. Send me the part." FYI by his own admission they had not looked inside the motor, and the test I had in mind requires opening the motor.

That's where I nearly lost it, because I know absolutely, beyond any doubt, he had not tried the test I intended to suggest. I know that because it's not something anyone without my knowledge of the problem would know. Not that I'm all that, but merely that it's a very specialized type of knowledge which only someone with experience could have. And you must open the motor to do it. 

I my mind I could actually hear myself yelling at the man (and in Joe's voice no less!) "No! You have not done all the testing; you don't know what the test is! You called me because you don't know what's wrong but now you don't wanna listen to my advice!" I wanted to hang up on him, I was so mad. I haven't missed a rotary phone in ages, but I wished we were on one simply for the grand finale slam of the earpiece onto the cradle.

Instead I'm going to send him the part, and it had best work, for his sake. Because I will go off on him if he calls later with a complaint. I guarantee that.

Amos's broom, or, a gift for Ella

I've spoken to you before about how superstitious me Grandpa Joe's friend Amos was, and that he was tight with a buck too. Well, if I recall correctly he had a girlfriend who was equally superstitious and equally Scottish. In fact, such qualities got my mother a nearly new broom.

Amos was moving one time and he enlisted me Pops and me Mom to help. As they had loaded just about everything into one of me Grandpa Joe's old welding delivery trucks, Amos's girlfriend (I believe her name was Eula) quietly took my mother over to the side.

"Here Ella," she said to Mom, "Take this broom home with you. I know it's wrong to move your broom when you move, but as this is a gift from me to you, it don't count."

You see, it's superstitious to move your broom when you move because it has within its fibers all the dust and bad things from your old home. All that you want to leave there, right? But as it was, Amos had only just bought the broom, and Eula couldn't stand the thought of leaving a perfectly good and virtually new item behind. Yet she knew Amos wouldn't stand hitch for having it moved. So she gifted it to Mom.

Who says superstition doesn't pay, at least for someone?

Reminiscing

This old boy turned 66 today. I suppose technically I'm not there until 4:30 this afternoon, the time I came into this world in 1960. A few more hours of 65 won't hurt.

I can't say that I've always been happy with my life choices. If in looking back you can't find at least some regrets you're probably not looking hard enough. Yet on the whole I'm all right with what I've done. 

Staying in the family business may have been the most critical decision in my life. Financially, I could have done better for myself and my family, and that does prick at my conscience a bit. But it's one of those choices which, overall, I think has been good.

Standing just inside the door of the old barn this morning, I could see Joe holding court, cigarette in hand, from his seat by the coffee table. There was Uncle John whom we call Zeke atop his perch of steel parts boxes, reading the morning Free Press. Me Pops was on the phone handling a customer while me brother Phil toiled at a bench vise, hitting a cable fitting a few too many times in showing it who was boss. Both my sons were there doing whatever as Uncle Patrick pushed a broom. And I haven't even gotten to all the other characters, welders and sewer cleaners and various employees who came and went. They all made the Shop memorable.

Not only did I get a lot of time with family, but so did my brothers and my sons. Would my boys have known Paw Paw as well if I had not stayed? Would I know Joe and Zeke and Craig and Price and old Arthur Williams and Stanley, Willie Deal and his boys and Chuck Bias, as well? I can't say enough about late Fridays at the Shop when Dad would decide to call it a day at 3 PM and we'd nurse coffees and simply talk to each other until the more formal quitting time arrived. I wouldn't get that in an office or classroom.

You can't prove a negative, so who knows what friendships and opportunities I may have missed. But you know what? Life was just fine as it was. I wouldn't do it different.

He's Just Joe

The term Grandpa Joe for my paternal grandfather came about as a compromise familiar. You can read about that here: Mom and Joe. Basically, Joe wanted his grandkids to call him Joe exactly as he taught his own children to call him by his name. When he confronted me Mom about it, seeing as me older brother and I are his oldest grandchildren, she'd have none of it. Grandpas were grandpa or pawpaw or poppop or grandpappy or something like that. The compromise became Grandpa Joe.

I get me Mom's point. I do believe that elder family members should be addressed by a traditional family moniker of some sort. Grandpa, Nana, Aunt, Uncle, as the case may be. Even people we just met ought to be called by some title, Mister, Missus, Ms, Sir, Ma'am, something, until we are familiar enough with them to call them by first names (or instructed to by the person in question). It's a respect we take too lightly in today's world.

However, I kind of understand Joe's wishes too. If he's okay with Joe, even from his progeny and their offspring, I don't see anything wrong with it. It's one of the reasons I consciously call him Joe many times in my blogs. It's what he wanted. As no real evil is involved, what's to debate?

So why did he want to be Joe rather than dad or pop or what have you? I really don't know. He simply preferred it that way, I guess, for whatever psychological reason. I never really questioned it. And the older I get, the less he's Grandpa Joe to me and more just Joe. That's simply who he was.

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.