The trouble with United

I see that a fella, a doctor no less, was dragged off a United Airlines flight because United needed seats for its employees. Today I'm hearing excuses as to why that was okay. You can read one man's thoughts on that here: http://viewfromthewing.boardingarea.com/2017/04/10/beating-doctor-united-flight-terrible-maybe-unavoidable/

Without getting into all the details (and I'll concede that I may not know all of them) one thing strikes me as the most salient point: if I pay for something (presuming that the something in question is not itself immoral) it is morally mine. I have moral power, moral control over it.

The arguments about the logistics of airline overbooking are bunk. I pay for a seat from Chicago to Louisville on a certain date at a certain time on a certain airline, that seat belongs to me. I control it. I own it for that period of time. To make me give it up involuntarily is a moral evil.

I sell drain snakes. If a man paid me up front for one with a promised delivery date, I must honor that commitment. I cannot unilaterally sell it to someone else or use it for some other purpose (especially selfish purposes) outside of extreme and compelling circumstance. Period. Simply to get your employees to a destination is not a good enough reason to delay others. No others, again outside of compelling reasons.

That's it in a nutshell.

Palm Sunday of the Lord's passion

Today is Palm Sunday. The day of the Long Gospel, to those of the Catholic faith. It is also the Sunday where I find myself most often moved to tears during the Mass.

Perhaps it is because today is the start of Holy Week. Yet I think it signifies something deeper. I wonder if maybe today we get to see the Lord, our brother Jesus Christ, at his most human, and we also get to see the great example of how He triumphed over human weakness.

Can anyone understand despair quite so well and so deeply as Christ did? He prayed that the cup be taken away. He didn't want to face what He knew he must face; He knew the horrors of what awaited Him. Still, He said: Thy will and not my will. This despite prayer so fervent that He would sweat blood. Can we really understand that?

He would not answer the Sanhedrin, nor Pilate. He knew the futility of it, so He stood mute. He had faith that that was pointless and even that no answer would speak more profoundly than anything He might utter. Pilate was amazed. One can almost taste the apprehension the Roman felt...and one can certainly sense the human fear which caused him to symbolically wash his hands of the affair.

Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? He cried. Many today believe it nothing but a cry of total despair. But it was not. It was the beginning of the 22nd Psalm, a prayer which ends hopefully and indeed gloriously. You may read it here: http://www.americancatholic.org/Messenger/Apr2004/Feature1.asp#F9

Christ more fully understood human suffering than any one of us. Yet He gave Himself up to it, to show that it was not futile. Let's not fail Him in facing our own despairs.

The road atlas, or, good things come

I have had a fascination with maps for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I used to sit with Grandpa Joe at his kitchen table and we'd pour over a road atlas, studying what new roads had been completed or proposed (the Eisenhower Interstate System was still in development), or how we might get somewhere, alternate routes and all. It was fun. It was sort of like daydreaming.

For years now, I've wanted a new road atlas. Yet whenever I was in a store thinking about buying one, I'd always talk myself out of it. They seemed so expensive; while it was one thing to buy a book which you might read over and over if you really liked it, buying a book of road maps seemed silly. I never bought one.

Until Wednesday. I was gassing up outside of Knightstown, Indiana and saw a rack with 2017 Rand McNally road atlases for $6.99. I picked one up, then put it down. What did I need an atlas for? Then I thought to myself, in true Joe Cosgriff form, aw Hell. I picked it up again, gave the cashier a fifty and said to give me the balance on pump five, and turned to go.

"Sir! Sir!" she called after I was a few feet away. "A coupon printed after your receipt. You get two dollars off your road map." I went back and took it. My atlas would only cost me $4.99. I guess good things do come to those who wait.

That night in my hotel room as I ate the fast food dinner I'd bought before check in, I sat at the desk and went page by page through my new book. I found that a few things have changed since 1970. Grandpa, did you see there's an Interstate 49 cutting through western Arkansas? Who'da thought they'd put a freeway there?

Experience and wisdom

So, last Friday I was replacing a light fixture in our upstairs hallway. Easy peasy, right? Only the ends of the electrical wires feeding into the fixture were badly frayed. So I thought I ought to peel them back a bit.
All went well until I was trying to shave off about a half-inch of insulation from each side of the power cord. I had just thought silently to tell myself that the knife I was using was sharp and that I should be careful. But Hell, I'll be done in a second, right?
I was done in a second. Done enough for my knife to slip and cut every bit of a quarter inch deep into the pointing finger of my left hand.
It hurt and it bled. Luckily I was five feet away from the basin in our upstairs bathroom. I jumped into it and ran my bleeding finger, bleeding like a stuck hog as the saying goes, under hot water for several minutes. Then I applied pressure, fixed gauze and white tape, and stopped the blood flow. I then finished the job.
A few minutes later I was explaining to my daughter the lesson I'd learned: cut away from yourself. I added, "Experience is when you learn from your mistakes. Wisdom is when you learn from the mistakes of others."
My darling daughter only smiled and said, "You just learned from experience. I just learned from wisdom."
Well, what could I say?

Small town America

This is Marty Cosgriff reporting from Corydon, Indiana.

Corydon is a quaint, small town indicative of middle America. There are many clues of course which let you know when you are in small town America.

First, there is a Waffle House. It is located conveniently across the road from the WalMart.

There is a gun shop. It has been advertised for miles along Interstate 64.

There are a ring of motels and fast food restaurants right on the exit to town. The motels and peasant eateries are here because there is something tourist trappy somewhere near Corydon. I believe that it is Corydon's proximity to a bridge across the Ohio River into Kentucky.

And, of course, there is a Tractor Supply. For all your John Deere needs.

This intrepid reporter found adequate sustenance at Arby's. The gyros were two for one. The one sits in his in-room refrigerator anticipating becoming breakfast.

This has been Marty Cosgriff reporting from Corydon, Indiana.

Opening Day 2017

Today is Opening Day. I don't think I have to say any more (though of course I will) as any red blooded American, when hearing the term Opening Day, knows that it means baseball.

Oh sure, get all technical if you like and point out that it was actually yesterday for a handful of teams. But baseball, being provincial (and that is a strength) takes little regard of that. Opening Day is when your team begins play, not someone else's.

So at 4:10 this afternoon, Monday, April 3, 2017, the Detroit Tigers will send Ian Kinsler to bat, and baseball will begin. We have a lineup which will do some damage. We have decent defense and good starting pitching. We will compete.

Yes, we. Because the local baseball team is our team. A good, solid summer awaits.

When Marty met Jimmy

I first met Jimmy about 25 years ago, a grand old Scotsman with many a fine tale, after a bonspiel (curling tournament) at the Detroit Curling Club. We were talking after a game. He noticed my name tag and he comments, "Cosgriff? Is Welsh is it?"

I replied, "I don't think so. My cousin Beth has traced our family to north Tipperary in Ireland."

Jimmy replies, "Ah, Irish, Scottish, Welsh. All Gaelic. We all have the one thing in common."

"What's that, Jimmy?" I asked in curious reply.

"We hate the English."

We have been good friends ever since.