Braking Cloyce

An old buddy of mine, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, noticed one morning on his way to work that the brake lights were out on his car. I gotta get to work, I'll deal with them this evening, he thought. 

A stoplight caught him a few minutes later. A car pulled up behind him and, as luck would have it, a police cruiser right behind that dude. Ol' Cloyce prayed, if I can just get past the intersection maybe the cops will turn and there won't be a problem.

But the driver behind him decided to be a good Samaritan. He pulled to the right and came up next to Cloyce on the passenger side. "Hey! Hey man! Your brake lights are out! Both of them!"

"Yeah, thanks!" replied Cloyce. It was then the police flashers went on, and Cloyce was pulled over. Thanks for teĺling the police too, he thought to himself. He waited for his ticket.

Fortunately it was one of those 'fix it within 10 days and we'll tear it up' situations. But maybe it didn't have to be that; the guy's heart was in the right place I suppose.

What Not To Do

I mentioned yesterday that my doctor is concerned about my red blood cell count being slightly elevated. Not dangerously so, but higher than he'd like. Needless to say the first thing I did when I got back home was to look up what that condition might cause.

That, of course, is precisely what you should not do.

As it is, a high red count can lead to clotting, which might lead to strokes or heart attacks. It may signal a rare leukemia or other vicious underlying condition, all of which now have me worried because, of course, the worst is always going to happen. This is on top of me Pops having recurring blood issues (though not that) and now genetics are working against me too.

To be sure, it may simply be that my bone marrow has decided to kick a few more red cells into my system just because it wants to, something which can be covered through medication. But, again, the worst!

All of this comes from an elevated but not in itself dangerous condition. The Doc's precise instructions were to take a baby aspirin a day and stay hydrated, but to otherwise go about my routine. I was cautioned that if I developed a persistent headache, dizziness, or blurred vision I should go see him, or find an urgent care if necessary. In short, it's a borderline state which, though meriting a watch, is far from gloom, despair, and agony. Nothing particularly scary about that, is there?

So I'll do what he says and we'll do more blood work at my October checkup. If it's all right, problem solved. If not, I get referred to a hematologist, which itself is not reason for concern because he may well find nothing to worry about. 

But it feeds the paranoia, doesn't it?

Sunday Funny

My doctor is concerned that my red blood cell count is too high, so he wants me to take one low dose, 'baby' aspirin a day to thin my blood a bit. Yep, at my age, baby aspirin.

Now all I can think as I hold each little pill in hand before I take it are very childish things.

"No! I won't take it!"

"But it's good for you."

"Nuh-uh. That's baby aspirin. I'm a big boy now!"

"It's for your own good!"

Arms now crossed. "I won't do it."

You get the point: acting like a baby over baby aspirin. I'll stop now.

The Almost Robbery

Father Thomas Smith was one of the Dominican priests whom I remember and admire. 

Five or six blocks away from St. Dominic, where Fr. Smith was pastor in the Seventies, was St. Leo, at that time headed by Fr. John Morrell. Sadly one night, and thankfully he was not seriously hurt, two men broke into the St. Leo Rectory one evening and took what cash he had and a few other items. He called Fr. Smith about the incident right after it occurred.

In hearing the tale, Fr. Smith was properly sympathetic and asked what he might do to help. "Double bolt your doors," Fr. Morrell replied.

"Why?" Father Smith asked incredulously.

Fr. Morrell continued, "Because they demanded to know where the next nearest Church was, and I panicked and told them St. Dominic."

Thanks a lot, thought Fr. Smith. But fortunately nothing came of it.

Grandma Negotiates With Joe

I'm not sure exactly when it was, so I'll say 1970 because it fits the time frame. But me Grandma Cosgriff was in the market for a car. Her 1956 Dodge had conked out, and she needed wheels. 

Man, that old Dodge of hers was a car. It loomed huge in the parking spot in front of her and Joe's house. I remember many rides in that pale blue over white battleship, hard plastic coverings on the seats so as not to ruin the upholstery.

Anyway, all good things, and Grams was looking for a replacement. About that same time me Grandpa Joe, her husband if I haven't established that by now, had gotten a beautiful maroon 1967 Chevy Impala off his sister Ruth. It was a very nice car; I remember it well too. Joe bragged on that car constantly, how well it drove, how smooth the engine ran, how good it looked. He was really pleased with that vehicle.

Joe had went out one evening, and when he got back home he found Grandma sitting at their dining room table. "Sit down, Joe, we have to talk," she instructed her husband.

He took a chair. "What do we have to talk about?" he asked.

"Ruth's car."

"Ruth's car?" Joe demanded. "What about it?"

Grandma Cosgriff held out her right hand, palm up, and said simply, "Just give me the keys."

"I bragged on that car a bit too much," Joe ruefully lamented to me Pops the next day at the Shop. But that was how me Grams solved her car problem.

The Cutting Edge

One year, I don't remember exactly when, I bought me Grandpa Joe a carpet knife for Father's day or his birthday or something. He called it a hawkbill knife, because it looked like the beak of a hawk. He loved it, but my aunt living with him and me Grandma Cosgriff, hated it. "He opens everything with that knife," she lamented, "And leaves the trash all over."

Fast forward to yesterday. I bought myself a little snack at a truck stop, and dagnabbit, I could not get that thing open. It was some sort of vacuum sealed plastic and it would not tear despite having a notch of sorts which was intended to allow easy opening. I surely looked like an idiot, sitting in my van and pulling and yanking on that package, biting it trying to get it open, and trying to pierce it with an old key. And I recalled Joe and that hawkbill and thought, I want to get me one of those and keep it on me at all times.

You see, Joe had tired of trying to open things with brute force. So he used his knife to get around that. And by gosh, that's my plan for the future. Get a knife and cut things open.

I think my aunt hated it because of the debris trail Joe's package-opening typically left, and I get that. But after yesterday, I'd rather have more to clean up than fight with something. I may have burned all the calories I consumed simply in getting to my treat.

The Golf Talk

The golf league which I play in on Tuesday nights is filled with a good bunch of guys. Yet they are decidedly better golfers than I am. For nine holes the bulk of the scores are in the 40s. There's typically a couple high 30s, while an errant one or two cross 50. I hover around sixty, with a league high mandated handicap of 18, whatever that entails, because I don't actually understand handicaps either.

I can't putt and I can't chip. I can be okay off the tee and from the fairway. Occasionally I sniff mediocrity. On one 510 yard par 5 yesterday I scored six, a bogey. But I was on the green in four and the two putt gave me six. Given that my game, uh, lacks consistency, I'm okay with that result. 

With yesterday's round we've played 81 holes. I've won two. So you have a pretty solid idea of where I rank with the other players.

It wasn't without surprise when the man who runs the league, a truly nice fellow named Roger, took me aside in the clubhouse as I went to leave. "There's a consensus among the guys, Marty, that we need to make the league more fun for you. So we've decided it's okay if you want to start from the near tees when we play," he was saying. Then he quickly added, "Please don't take this the wrong way." The concern in his voice was readily evident.

The truth is, it was all I could do not to laugh out loud. I was also rather embarrassed for Roger being obviously embarrassed talking to me. But the fact is, I get it. They're trying to make rounds against me more competitive. What I found funny was this poor guy feeling badly enough that he was trying to dance around it. In an odd way, I appreciate his meaning and intent.

I assured Roger that I was having fun and that I was grateful the others welcomed me as they had because to an, ahem, tee, they've been kind and supportive both personally and golf-wise.

Of course, next week I will play from the near tees. I don't want to offend their goodwill.