You never know

In sales, you just never know what will happen. Chicken one day, feathers the next, me Pops used to say. There's a lot of truth to that.

I remember on June 1, 2015, I had 75 lengths of main drain cables in stock. That's a decent amount, an amount I typically direct sell (sell out of the Shop) in a month.

I didn't that time around. I didn't sell a single cable section in June. But July would be better, right?

Right. Didn't sell any of those cables then either. I was beginning to wonder if I was doing something wrong, if I had lost my touch.

August 4 was the first Tuesday of the month that year. Out of nowhere that day, spread over 7 or 8 customers, I sold all 75 of those cables in 90 minutes.

In sales, you just never know.

Eat your dinner

I would never, nor do I think anyone else would, accuse Joe Cosgriff of possessing tremendous social grace. He was on the whole a good man, simply rough around the edges. Maybe too rough, perhaps, but that didn't mean you couldn't learn a thing or two from him.

One thing he taught me which I believe is a very good protocol is that if someone invites over, say yes or no and be done with it. But if you accept the invitation, you afterward accept whatever kindnesses your host offers unless it would make you physically ill. If you've staying for dinner for example, eat whatever you're given unless it's liver. The bottom line, me Grandpa Joe thought, was to be a good guest.

I have to agree with that sentiment. You should never make demands on your host: he's your host after all. I will add as a corollary that a good host should be considerate of his guests: if he knows they can't stomach liver he should not make it the entree.

Me Grandpa Joe would never be able to write a column on etiquette. Miss Manners would rip it to shreds. Yet that doesn't mean he had no ideas on how to live rightly day to day.

Am I a bad man?

It's not unusual for a plumber to come over to my Shop from Windsor, Ontario to buy snake parts. It's also normally not an issue in any way, shape, or form. They either bring US dollars or use a credit or debit card. No problem.

Yet there's always that one guy who simply will not cooperate, isn't there? He typically brings nothing but Canadian currency and then I have the trouble of having to either exchange it or sit on it until my next trip across the border. It's kind of a nuisance. So I finally laid down the law and told him he must bring me US money or use a card. I didn't care which; I was just tired at the inconvenience. The imposition, really.

He came over about two months ago. As he had called first I reminded him to bring me the right currency. He did, but added on a bunch of things when he got to the old barn which put him $275 US beyond the amount of US currency he exchanged at the border. "If I have to take Canadian to make up the difference, I want $400," I demanded.

"It's only about $350 Canadian for that!" he protested. He added, "And I don't want to use my credit card."

I responded, "I don't care. I told you to bring US, and now I'll have the trouble of exchanging it."

As he didn't want to forgo anything he wanted, the man relented and gave me the difference with $400 Canadian dollars.

The most convenient way for me to exchange money, I've found, is at one of the Detroit casinos. I even suggested he might do that, but he didn't want to take the time. Uh-huh, but it's okay with him if I have to. So that evening I went to a casino.

They assume you're a Canadian there to play and give a decent rate. They gave me $325 United States dollars. I was $50 ahead. But my conscience bothered me a little, so I stopped and slipped a twenty into a video poker machine. I'm already ahead, I thought, even if I lose the whole twenty.

After two modest winning hands, I had won ten bucks. I cashed out; I had done my due diligence. And I was ahead on the whole deal $60.

Am I a bad man?

A review of an adventuresome but otherwise dull Friday

Yesterday, Friday, June 7, 2019, was a routine day in the life of Charles Martin Cosgriff. I know because I am he who lived it.

It began earnestly if early enough at a little after 1 o'clock in the morning. I woke before my alarm, ran through the shower, and was on my way to Electric Eel Manufacturing as is my wont once or twice per week. I drove about thirty miles and stopped for a coffee at a Love's Truck Stop simply because I had never had Love's coffee before. I was bitterly disappointed. I should have went to the next exit for the 24 hour Tim Horton's I knew very well was there.

Fog shrouded my journey, particularly after I had reached US Route 68 just south of Findlay, Ohio. One feels isolated and alone in the wee hours of the morning when it is pitch black and you are moving through a ground cloud. I sipped my coffee because I will not throw out even bad coffee paid for. It was still bitter.

Breakfast at Cracker Barrel was enjoyable as I sat with a good friend. Biscuits and gravy. Them's hard to beat. The coffee was hot, smooth. No bitterness. I was thankful for that.

I loaded my order at Eel with the help of the shipping clerk. On my way home I made without event deliveries at both Lima and Toledo, Ohio. Not one but two cars with Alaska plates shared the road with me. Though unusual, it was not earth shattering. I've seen Alaska plates before.

Back at the Shop I unloaded, and dealt with three customers, garnering a total of $235 from them. I've done better, much better, yet it still put me $235 ahead of where I have found myself on many a day. It helped dissipate the bitterness I still felt over Love's coffee.

I went home, and it occurred to me that a review of my day might make a mildly interesting if only time killing and space filling blog post. So I did so. Sometimes it is the best one can do. I excised the dull parts just the same.

Tarred and tarred again

The old barn, the shop I now have, was once me Grandpa Joe's. Like so many commercial buildings, it has a flat roof.

Years ago this young boy, I believe he was 8 or 9, decided that that roof was the ideal playground. He was climbing up onto it constantly, and no matter what Joe did the kid would always find his way back up there. He finally resorted to something he did not like to do, as for all his faults he hated ratting anyone out, even a brat. He went to speak to the kid's folks.

"He's going to get hurt running around on my roof," Joe explained. But the dad blew him off. "Boys will be boys," was all he said. Mom said, "I can't watch him all the time." Grandpa left them, unsure what to do.

Well, as the old barn had sprung a few leaks, him and me Pops went up one morning before work and spread a layer of thin tar across the roof. Then they opened for the day.

It wasn't long until Joe could hear the boy playing on the roof again. But this time he just went about his business.

A couple of hours later the boy's mother came around with a complaint. She was dragging along her kid, who covered head to toe in roofing tar. It was on his clothes, his skin; it was even in his hair. "And he's gotten tar all over the house. It's going to take forever to clean everything up," she emphatically explained.

"Sorry, lady, boys will be boys, I can't watch him all the time," was all Joe said. Then he went back to work.

The boy however never climbed back on the roof.

In search of

All I wanted today was a bologna sandwich. That's all. It's not such a big thing, is it? Not a bucket list sort of want anyway.

I like bologna. Maybe that puts me in a decided minority, but so what? It's just a humble sandwich meat. A slice of cheese and a spot of mayo and boom, easy lunch.

Yet my local supermarket had none this morning. I mean exactly that, too: zilch, zero, nada. No bologna.

How can a big neighborhood store not have bologna? I am totally mystified by that.

I could have run around to another store. But my time is worth something, and being self employed I have to really discipline myself not to abuse my lunch hour in search of what should be readily available, and what I do not have to have anyway. So I went home and had the ramen noodles which were already in the larder.

But still: no bologna? If it wasn't real I say it was unreal.

Did you not hear me?

Over the years of repairing drain snakes, I've had to replace a few motors. Having a bit of a lazy streak, I have allowed most of the bad motors to accumulate in a pile at the back the old barn. Eventually I'll take them to the junk yard, but for for now, they just sit there.

About a week ago a customer was looking them over and asked about one in particular. It was a fresh addition to my collection, one I had replaced only a day or so before. It looked fairly new in fact, although it was about ten years old. "What's wrong with this one?" he inquired.

"The windings are bad. It heats up and blows fuses," I explained.

He asked, "Can I have it? I'm good at fixing things."

I let him have it. "Sure. Knock yourself out." He wasn't going to be able to fix it, but whatever. It would be out of my hair.

Yesterday he returned to the Shop for a couple of things. At one point he proudly said, "You know that motor I got from you? I got it running."

Admittedly if only vaguely impressed, I responded, "Cool."

"But one thing: it heats up in about two minutes and cuts out my breaker. Why do you suppose is that?"

My response was an exasperated and obvious, "The windings are bad."

"Oh, okay. I'll play with is some more," he said.

Play with it all you want, buddy. But you won't be able fix it; the windings are bad. Just like I told you.