Willup or Philliam

Phil is Phil. Really. Yet me brother Phil seems to be a man without a name.

There's a guy Phil and I have known for years who always, without fail, in individual conversation with me brother, addresses Phil as Marty. Phil has quit trying to correct him as it simply has not worked and there appears no hope that it ever will. I realize that, as the most exalted older brother, my light shines before him. It surely obliterates his presence. Phil simply must learn to live in the glare of my notoriety; we all have our crosses. Yet he nevertheless deserves his own name.

He laments that when in high school having a class with our brother Ed, Sister Teacher when reading the roll always said, "Cosgriff, Edward and William," at their names.

"Phillip, Sister," he would correct.

"Yes, William," Sister would respond.

Phil thinks that, for the good Nun, it was only a cutesy running joke. At least, he's trying to believe that.

Grandpa Joe and Great Grandpa James

I've spoken often about Grandpa Joe, and occasionally about his father, Great Grandpa James. Readers should well understand by now that Joe seemed to always make his presence felt, quite emphatically and quite often. Only his own dad was able to influence that.

A tale me Pops told me may illustrate the fact. Great Grandpa James lived on the same farm in west central Illinois his whole 92 years. Grandpa Joe was born there. Naturally enough, every summer Joe would load the family into some old wreck of a car and they would head out to see the extended family. The trip made further sense because Grandma Cosgriff, me grams, was from the same area too, so they could visit both sets of relatives.

One year when Pops was still in high school, him and a brood of his cousins were out in a large field shagging flies. Grandpa James, 85 at the time, noticed them, and went out in the field to watch. Eventually he asked if he might try hitting the baseball a bit. Now, he had a hernia at the time, and the grandkids knew it. But they also didn't know how they could tell their grandfather no, so they dutifully let him hit.

He was hitting well by Pops' account, just another guy tossing a ball in the air and thwacking it with a bat as it came down towards earth. Indeed all them grandsons were impressed by the old man. But Pops noticed Joe watching from a ways off, by the house he was born in, as if deciding something but not sure how to proceed. Joe Cosgriff being uncertain about anything was very unusual.

Grandpa Joe finally muscled up his courage and strode out into the field where his father had yet to relinquish the bat. He walked up to Grandpa James and said timidly (Joe Cosgriff speaking timidly?), "Dad, do you think you should be doing that, with your hernia and all?"

His father paused a moment to reply plainly, "Joe, I believe I'm about old enough to do as I please." He then proceeded to hit another 15 minutes. Joe put up no argument. He simply drew on a cigarette and walked back to the house.

It was surprising, yes. But every man has his parameters. Joe's was what Great Grandpa James declared..

Mannix Alarm

Early yesterday morning something happened to me which, honestly, never did before. I was woken up by Joe Mannix, the old TV private detective played by Mike Connors.

I needed to leave on a sales trip at 2:30 in the wee hours of Tuesday. Also - you'll need to know this - I leave the television on overnight. My channel of choice lately has been METV, which offers a variety of older shows, most of which date to the early 1970s. I've become pretty aware of what's on when.

So I crawl into bed early Monday evening with the boob tube on and set an alarm for 1:30. Soon enough I've drifted off. Within in what felt like a few minutes I found myself in that half awake twilight I believe most of us experience from time to time. But I could hear the TV, and vaguely thought, 'That sounds like Mike Connors; Mannix must be on.' I fell back into a deeper sleep.

Then I woke with a shock. Mannix doesn't start until 2. I'd missed my alarm! Looking at my phone screen, it was 2:38. When I set the 1:30 alarm I neglected to save it. Consequently, of course, it didn't ring.

Fortunately I had no set appointments, so precise timing on my trip wasn't paramount. Still, uh, it pays to know your TV schedule?

Interim David Gideon

Here were go again! Some kind observations about my book The Interim Generation:

Writersive on Amazon says: I mistakenly got the third book first but to my surprise it reads well as a standalone. I really love the engaging concept and captivating storyline. I'm hooked! Definitely getting the earlier 2 books for sure!

Why thank you! I'm certainly okay with that approach, especially as I try to style my books as stand alones!

See more about The Interim Generation: Interim

Josh offers this about David Gideon: This book truly is a very entertaining literary book. The story really is quite creative and illustrates the life of a fictional character named David, who apparently had a wide arrange of professions over his lifetime. Overall the story highlights different elements of suspense, drama, intrigue, and even inspires leadership. Leadership is actually one of the big qualities that the main character begins to recognize in himself. Overall a very satisfying read!

Check out what others are saying: DG

I'm really, really happy with the progress of my writings. Thank you all!

Coming Or Going

This past Saturday the Detroit Tigers and Baltimore Orioles played a split doubleheader at Comerica Park, the Tigers' home stadium. Game One was at 12:15 in the afternoon. Afterwards the stadium was cleared for the next crowd, who were expected for Game Two around 5:15.

I watched the first contest from home. It ended just before three, which allowed me to make it to Four O'clock Mass and be home for the second game. Serendipity.

Among those at Church was a man wearing a Brooks Robinson baseball jersey. Robinson is the great Baltimore third baseman from the 1960s and 1970s. When I noticed the fella standing a few pews in front of me I immediately thought, well, I either know where you're going or I know where you've been.

Wanting Nothing

The other day I walked into a party store because I had thought I wanted a snack. But then the strangest thing happened.

The potato chips in all their myriad flavors did not appeal to me. The candy bars in all their grandeur, well, there were no such come hithers that day. There were no appeals from the hard candies or the gummies or even the chewing gums. I began to look over the beef jerky and other meat and cheese snacks and lo, I didn't really have a taste for any of them either. And that's when I remembered one of me Grandpa Joe's standards.

"If you don't know what you want, you don't want nuthin'." I actually heard his voice saying it as I thought it.

It struck me that is a great truth in that. So I made exit from the store and was quickly back on the road.

 

Gilligan Aggravates Me Pops

Color television (it sounds exotic to type out the entire word rather than just say TV) was relatively rare in the late 1960s. At a time when $100 a week was a decent income while color sets cost better than $300, they were something of a luxury. Still, parents then as now liked to treat themselves and their families to the newest technologies, and fads tended to spread quickly. In the Bill Cosgriff household circa 1969, as the color fad rolled on unstoppably, this meant that Pops had decided to buy a color TV for the family room.

I don't remember all the details of that old console. But it was big to a 9 year old, huge indeed, and took two hulking delivery men to carry it into the house and put it in place. Dad plugged it in and put on a channel, which happened to be showing an episode of Gilligan's Island. And the picture was black and white.

Pops began playing with the dials, the contrast button and what have you, and still no color. His frustration mounting and with nothing making a difference, as a last resort he went to the instruction manual, a thing real men don't do unless a last resort. No color, despite trying everything the manual said to try. He was ready to call the appliance store, the manufacturer, and perhaps even the President himself to rant about this travesty to a working man and his family. I don't blame him; I would have been upset. Anyone would have.

Then someone, I don't know who, produced the then current issue of TV Guide. It showed Pops clearly that yes, Gilligan's Island was on that channel at that time. It also showed that the particular episode was in black and white. Indeed the entire first season of Gilligan's Island had been filmed in black and white. The TV was fine.

As Dad slowly calmed down, laughing about it within a few minutes (I never thought to try another channel, he would soon joke about himself) we settled into a family night watching our new color television. And our new TV brought us many wonderful nights of entertainment for several years. Even, or perhaps especially, as we would knowingly tune into a black and white program.