That You, Joe?

I have posted for years about me Grandpa Joe's mulberry tree. You can read about it here:

Mulberry Season 2017

Alas, last year I found that the owner of the tree had trimmed it so high that I couldn't get mulberries off it. Whatcha gonna do? His yard, his tree. If he doesn't want it hanging over the fence, that's his right.

But a couple of nights ago in a heavy thunderstorm with high winds, the tree blew over. It's now held up by that fence. And there are already ripe mulberries on it from this season. So this morning I was able to pick some of the little fruits off for the first time in a couple of years. Happy happy, joy joy. It only leaves me with one question.

Was that you, Joe?

Not A Winner

At a spot where a traffic light caught us this past Sunday, I could see that Mom was somehow entranced by the Jeep in front of us. Finally she said excitedly, "Look at that license plate!"

It read EMC 0491. "Ella Mae Cosgriff, oh-four-nine-one!" she said proudly. 

"That's cool," I agreed.

After a thoughtful moment she opined, "We oughta play those numbers." Michigan has a daily lottery which has a four digit playing option. I dutifully found a gas station and played 0491.

4404 came in. But even if she would never have remembered, I'd have felt awful if her numbers had come in and I hadn't played. It was only a buck, and it gave her a minute's thrill regardless.

You Can Still Joke

Sunday, as many of you know, is my day with Mom. She loves to take rides, so we ride around, typically doing a bit of shopping as we go and always, always getting lunch. It's fun.

Mom insists that I take gas money and lunch money out of her funds. I never do, of course; none of us kids of Mrs. Cosgriff's would do such a thing when we entertain her. Yet she wants to do her part and be helpful too. She doesn't want to feel like she's draining our resources or being any kind of a burden. Moms, right? So a mantra of hers is to tell me to get money from me brother Phil, who oversees her finances. I assure her I do just that, because I don't want to offend her generosity or hurt her feelings.

Yet that doesn't mean I can't joke about it with Phil. Yesterday after I brought her home I told him, "Mom said to get our lunch money from you."

"Hmm," he grunted.

"You know, it cost $86.12 at Burger King today."

After taking a long sip on his cup of coffee Phil replied calmly, "You know, I don't believe you."

I should tell Mom on him.

True Story, Sort Of

We all, or at least I think we all, have bizarre dreams sometimes. Generally, they go unremembered. Yet sometimes they stick with you.

Last night I dreamed that I was in my front hall with a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Only it was a miniature one, about four and a half feet tall. I was still scared. But then a voice yelled to me, I don't know whose voice or wherefrom it came, "Put a chokehold around its snout before it breathes fire!" I didn't know T-Rexes could breathe fire but, dreams, right?

I got the mini-monster in a chokehold. "Now throw it out the door!" I looked over and the door was open, so I tossed it out the door bodily. The animal landed nose down in the hostas next to our sidewalk.

The T-Rex didn't like that. It fought its snout free and leaped back towards the house. I slammed the door shut, but the dinosaur busted through the stained glass window which made up the top half of it. By then it was mad but couldn't move, stuck among the shards of colored glass.

"I have an air cannon!" shouted another voice. And right at my feet was an air cannon. Whatever that is, anyway, for I don't know that such a thing exists. "It only fires air, but that will blow the thing back out into the yard," I was assured.

As we aimed the device, I realized the T-Rex was then stuck in the bottom of the door, which was impressive because that part of the door is oak. Hardwood like that I don't think even a miniature T-Rex could burst through. The stained glass was fine. How, I don't know. Dreams, right? 

It took four shots, but the fourth one blew the T-Rex back into the yard. Then it jumped up and began running down the street, yelping like a dog. It sounded pretty much like a beagle. The guy with the air cannon started after it with a crossbow. Every time he fired an arrow it would hit the T-Tex, which would leap up and yelp exactly like Yogi Bear would when he'd get hit in the butt with an arrow in the old cartoons. The animal would try to reach around to the wounds with its arm, but T-Rexes arms are short, right, so he couldn't get to the arrows.

They were quickly out of sight. Then I thought, I'd better fix the door. But it was fixed. How? I don't know. Dreams, right?

There you have it. A genuine dream. Let's see Sigmund figure that one out.

Lutheran Christmas

My friend Dave was at the Shop yesterday. He's as serious of a Lutheran as I am a Catholic, and we've had a few interesting discussions on religion over the years. But we've always been cool about it, which you should be. Oh, maybe the talks became pointed once or twice, but we were always all right with each other in the end. Which you should be.

Anyway, his visit reminded me of a little fun I had at his expense years ago. His son Curt was in the old barn, and it was December. I told him, "Hey, when you see your Dad, ask him if Lutherans celebrate Christmas."

About an hour later the Shop phone rang. As this was before cell phones, I didn't know who was calling. I simply answered, "Cosgriff, this is Marty."

There was initially dead silence. Then Dave's voice asked, "Do Lutherans celebrate Christmas?" in exactly the put-on incredulous voice I would have expected.

AND NOW, THE PUNCH LINE. Let's see how many readers get it.

I asked Dave yesterday if I could use the Lutheran Christmas joke in my blog. He said, "Only if you don't call me Cloyce."

You got it old pal.

Doggone It

As I was in the garage putting away the few tools I used for a table repair up in Hessel this past Saturday, I was abducted. You don't believe things like that can happen in little towns in da eastern U.P., but threats are everywhere these days. 

I was at Uncle Frank's old workbench getting the clamp and the screwdriver back in their proper spots, as I try to do with his stuff. I couldn't figure out where to put the Gorilla Glue which I had to purchase for the job. Gorilla Glue: it works on everything, even fingers, although I did not, I positively did not, glue my fingers together. Or my nostrils. That time. 

Anyway, I wanted to put the glue somewhere upright and safe. And then it happened. There was a flash of motion, I couldn't tell from where exactly, which caused me to turn about suddenly. Then it was upon me before I could react further. There was no time for grabbing a weapon, no opportunity for any kind of self defense. I was leapt on and almost knocked over.

The neighbor's dog, a friendly black white and brown shepherd of some sort, had its forepaws on my waist and was eyeing me, mouth agape and tongue hanging out, begging for attention. Of course I could not resist, even though he had just managed to scare the bejeezus out of me. He didn't mean nothing, and was only curious what I was doing and wanted a pet.

"Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?" I found myself asking the good boy who was clearly trespassing and did not care. I suppose I didn't mind either.

Christmas in June?

Today finds me back at the grindstone in Detroit after five days up north. Reality demands what it demands, and being slightly more disciplined than may be generally believed, back to work came I.

Immediately next to our place in Hessel in da U.P. is a pretty little Presbyterian church. I don't know for certain how long it's been there. But I've seen it in a picture dated 1905 at the local historical museum, so it's been around a minute.

For as long as I can remember - which is the forty plus years that I've been going to Hessel - they've played canned music from speakers in the stout tower of the Church. It's never failed to bring fond and poignant memories back to me whenever the music sounds. While I can't always make out the tunes, I generally can, most of them being common hymns and instrumental sounds of praise. Still, I had to listen closely to a song this past Sunday in figuring it out.

Initially I thought that I must be wrong. That cannot be the tune they're playing. Yet listening more closely, paying strict attention to the notes as they came, I grew certain of the hymn. On a warm and pleasant June Sunday as I hungrily waited for Italian Sausages to be finished on the grill, there was no doubt that I was hearing O Come All Ye Faithful.

It was all well and good, and interesting enough in its incongruity. I realize too that Christmas in July has become quite a thing. Still, Christmas in June was new to me. And I suppose I could easily become adjusted to Christmas in Hessel in June if I so desired.