Observant Joe

Me Grandpa Joe had a way with words. In fact, Joe's ability to make the word hell declarative of many and varied emotions would find its modern equivalent in I am Groot, if that means anything to you. Trust me, the analogy fits.

Be that as it may, his use of language could actually be rather profound even in areas where mild expletives were not at all involved. I doubt that most of my cousins or other family members knew the pleasure of hearing Joe remark, when leading into a happy explanation or in demonstrating a welcome development, "Please observe."

Grandpa Joe said that whenever he had found a solution to a vexing problem at the Shop. We had our share of vexing problems at the old barn, believe me. But to cut through to the point here, if a particular issue had been tormenting us for many hours (or sometimes days) it sounded delightful to have Joe stop you and say those two simple words, please observe. It meant a problem was solved.

I thought of that a few minutes ago as I solved what had been a recent vexing problem involving a snake repair. Try as we might, neither me brother Phil nor I could get a piece of threaded pipe, the leg of a machine which sits as a tripod, out of the body of the unit. The leg had broken off flush so that there was nothing to grip it.

At a hardware Phil had discovered a tool to extract the broke piece yet we could not get it work. In desperation, as I didn't want to heat the body of the snake for fear of making things worse, worried that if I made it worse the ornery thing would need a body as well as a leg (and who knows how long that would take, our supply lines being disrupted by COVID) I heated it anyway, carefully. Within a few minutes, lo and behold, I used that tool that Phil found and walked that broken pipe right out of the body of that machine.

And now I cannot wait to tell Phil "Please observe," as soon as he gets back to the Shop. I'll have to channel my inner Joe Cosgriff for full effect.

I Don't Know

Hell, I don't know.

That was Joe's response. 'Hell, I don't know', he would exclaim. And I knew what he meant.

Every time.

At Risk

A few hours ago, in the wee hours of the day, I pulled up an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000. It turned out to be a classic, the one with Torgo the White appearing to take TV's Frank to second banana Heaven. Torgo promised Frank they would meet Joe Besser there. You know, Joe Besser, who was briefly a Stooge after Shemp died? No, not Curly Joe DeRita. He came after that.

Anyway, and naturally enough, commercials interrupted my viewing. One which did catch my eye concerned a medical condition which, if it developed in you, would increase your risk of death fourfold. And I thought, don't we all have the same risk of death though?

Just sayin'.

Grant Me Patience

I have found in the last year or so that I'm having trouble keeping my temper. Consequently, I have begun to pray for greater patience. In the two weeks since I began doing that, I find my patience tried almost every day, several times a day.

What is that, irony or something? Or is it that, if a fella truly wants to learn patience, he must have his patience tested? 

That second part makes sense. But it's really getting under my skin just the same.

Not So Bad

I've heard of painless dentistry but I didn't really believe in it. But now I think I do. 

I had a tooth extracted yesterday, and boy, was I dreading it. That my appointment was at five o'clock in the afternoon likely did not help. It gives you all day to think about it; anticipation is not a friend when getting a tooth pulled. The closer the time came the less fun Wednesday became.

However, it wasn't bad at all. Believe it or not, the numbing shot wasn't painful in the least. I didn't even feel it. Then he had the tooth out in maybe a half minute. I didn't believe him, didn't believe he was actually done that fast. But he was. The wound remaining hardly bled too.

All that worry and dread for nothing. Typical, isn't it?

Mister Son

Me son Frank and I had a nice, long phone talk this past Sunday, around three hours. Man, that boy can talk. Or, more truthfully, listen.

Somewhere along the line he and I began talking about the loss of courtesies such as honorifics. I feel that when introducing someone to someone else, they ought to be called by whatever title they might merit. "This is Mr. Smith," for example. Mr. Smith may then allow the person to call him by a familiar if he's fine with it.

Immediately after saying that I remarked, "Of course, for some reason I don't apply this rule with my children. If while out and about we run into a friend I'll say, "Hi, Cloyce! Oh, this is my son Frank."

"So the next time that happens, Frank, I'll say to Cloyce: "How are you? Oh, and this is my son, Mr. Cosgriff.'" I promised him. Then we each roared with laughter.

When that had died down Frank drolly added, "And the next time someone calls you Mr. Cosgriff, Dad, you can respond, 'Hey, I'm just Marty. Mr. Cosgriff is my son.'"

I don't know about you, but I find the entire concept hilarious.

Expensive At First

My Newark Kuerig, so monikered because I had purchased it in a second hand store in Newark, Ohio in 2017, went to coffeemaker Heaven late last year. Such is life. Uh, coffeemaker life I suppose. 

Be that as it may, I replaced it a few days ago with a new (if knock off) Kuerig from Walmart for forty bucks. I also bought 12 pods of hazelnut coffee for five dollars; with the sales tax, I had about $48 invested in the new unit. I set it up in the Shop yesterday morning as I went to work to get a few things done.

I must admit I was quite anxious to try my first cup. I plugged in the Farberware nonKuerig, filled the reservoir, clamped in a pod, and waited.

In a few minutes I was contentedly sipping on hot coffee. Then it occurred to me. Marty, occurrence opined, you're drinking a forty eight dollar cup of joe.

But it's just the first cup, right? The price goes down with every serving.