Joe's Freezing Dander

It never took much to get me Grandpa Joe's dander up. Still, some things, believe it or not, got his dander up to stratospheric levels remarkably fast even by comparison to his normal, uh, standard.

Joe rented welding equipment, as I think I've well established in these pages. And while you likely couldn't do it now even if you wanted as most water lines are nonmetallic, at one time you could de-ice frozen pipes with a welding generator. 

What makes a welder weld is that you complete a circuit when you 'strike arc', that is, apply the welding electrode to the items you wish to fuse together. Don't fret this too much if you can't picture it. Suffice it to say that when you weld, you're completing an electric circuit. When you do that, you create heat. Heating a metal pipe will then melt the ice which has formed within it.

You also effectively create a short circuit when using a welder to de-ice pipes, causing it to overheat. This will eventually, very eventually in Joe's book, destroy his welder.

Grandpa would fly off the handle even faster than usual when he'd hear of some numbskull using one of his machines to thaw pipe. If you believe he had a quick temper anyway, use his equipment wrongly. You'll find out that nothing really is impossible, even shortening Joe's profusely short fuse.

Mal and Mae

Clarence Malachi Hutchins was me Grandpaw Hutchins. He was called Mal by me Grandmaw Hutchins, whom he called Mae, her middle name. You need to know that. Don't worry, there won't be a test. You just need to know.

One day as Mom and I were, she asked what we were shopping for. I told her coffee, among a few other things.

She brightened up as she told a story from her childhood. "Oh, Daddy used to give us kids coffee all the time, and it bothered Mom," my mother was explaining. 

She continued, "Mom used to yell, Mal, you can't be givin' them young 'uns coffee!"

"It ain't gonna hurt 'em, Mae, he'd answer quietly every time, a little smile on his face," Mom finished. 

"I still hear her say that. I still see him smiling."

"I think he did it just to tease her, but I think Mom liked it just the same," Mom ended with a wistful grin.

Okay, not much of a story. But it was nice to hear Mom talk about her parents and her childhood.

Amos's Turkey Day

The story may sound contrived, trite, or obvious. Yet it's a true story. I haven't even changed the names to protect the innocent.

Amos, you'll recall, was an old friend of me Grandpa Joe. You may remember also that he was considered tight. However true that might be, and I suspect that it's been a bit embellished by the myth-makers of family history, he didn't mind spending a few dimes on good causes. One such cause was St. Dominic's annual Fall Festival.

As should be expected at a large party celebrating autumn, among the games and spinning wheels was a turkey booth. You pick a number, you put your money or ticket on that number, the wheel is spun, and should that number come up, you have the entree for your Thanksgiving feast. Amos approached the booth, selected some number not 13 (he was also superstitious, remember?), and waited for the spin of the wheel. He anticipated nothing, but lo and behold, won a turkey on that first try.

Now, two things were at work that day. Amos was genuinely there to support the Church. But then, he also knew his reputation. He figured he couldn't just walk away with the bird. So he played a second time with a second number (still not 13). He won another turkey.

Then a third one.

And finally, a fourth one.

You may rest assured that Amos spread his largesse. He gave away three of the four turkeys. I've no doubt also that he made his way around the school gymnasium and spent his share of hard earned dollars to help old St. Dominic. But to hear me Pops tell it, the look on his face, the sheer mortification at winning four turkeys in a row at a charitable event, was priceless.

Old Days

Yesterday at the Shop a peculiar thing happened. We went back in time. Well, sort of anyway.

As I repaired a machine for a long time customer another voice from the past came in. He knew the guy who was already there. The three of us began talking about way back when.

Within a couple of minutes a third old hand joined us, and then a fourth. The five of us were soon talking about this and that, that guy and another whom we all knew, the advantages of this machine over a comparable one and before you knew it the old barn was once more the gathering place for local drain cleaners and plumbers which it had been, oh, in the 1970s, 80s, and 90s. One participant even remarked, "This is just like old times! This was where everyone used to gather."

It did feel like that. Sometimes you can go back.

Not All That

I voted today. Big deal. And I mean that. Big. Deal.

We're supposed to be all for democracy. Well, I am too. Yet only because we don't have a better, um, choice. Too often democracy is merely a code word, a dog whistle, for tyranny of the majority.

That's all it means, you know, that fifty percent plus one can make everyone else do their bidding. Knowing what I know about human nature, that is not a comfort. 

So yes, by all means vote. Just remember that your neighbor can be a petty tyrant in his own right. As can you.

Attracting Deer

All right, I've been enough of a curmudgeon this week. Let's get back to fun stories.

There was this fella who came in the Shop all the time who we called Beefy because, uh, well, it fit his stature. Like so many Michiganders, he looked forward to deer season. It begins November 15 every year, so as that's coming up soon I found myself thinking of him.

Beefy managed a plumbing company. There was one particular employee whom Beefy didn't like at all, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was an old friend of the company owner. Beefy didn't care for the guy because he was a slacker. Yet he couldn't do anything but deal with Cloyce because of the guy's friendship with the boss. That didn't keep Beefy from complaining about Cloyce every time he was in the old barn though.

One November years ago Beefy walked into the Shop with a couple small repairs. While tending to one I eventually asked a rather obvious question, just making conversation, "So you going out hunting next week Beef?"

"Yep," he kind of drawled. "Taking Cloyce with me too."

"What? You hate Cloyce, and you're going to spend a couple weeks with him in deer camp?" I couldn't believe my ears.

"Oh yeah, I even bought Cloyce some clothes for it. Nice brown suits. I'm going to tell him his job is to run out into the woods and scare up the deer for the rest of us," Beefy explained.

I don't think I stopped laughing for a half an hour.

Cash is King

For awhile there, I was debit-carding nearly everything. It was simply too easy. But I'm consciously using cash more and more again, at least on smaller or routine purchases. Why? As I become increasingly libertarian and realize that everything electronic is tracked and stored, I find myself thinking, admittedly with a bit of a chip on my shoulder, that it's nobody's business what type of coffee I chose this morning or what sales entice me. Also, I can figure things out for myself without being inundated by ads for something I bought once, thank you very much.

Still, I debit one thing nearly always: gas. That's partly because you never know exactly how much it'll take to fill the tank, but mostly because I don't want to deal with people. In particular, the people buying lottery tickets at the cash register. Or, worse, the folks who can't figure out which candy they want, or what flavor tiny cigar.

Yes, yes, yes, they have the right to be there and all that. If they happened to get in line in front me, that's their good luck. But, really now. You won't care what candy you had in twenty minutes, nor what smoke you had matter. And if you want to give away money, just give it to me. Why bother Lansing with extra lottery money which ain't helping the schools anyway, despite their claims?

All right, I'm becoming a curmudgeon and a libertarian. They kind of go together anyway.