Nerk

I'm not actually sure if that's how to spell it, but that's about how it sounds. But I've been told that the locals in Newark, Ohio say Nerk, Ohiya.

This isn't my first experience with pronunciation not matching spelling. Rutherford, North Carolina, near where a lot of my southern family live, often comes out as, roughly, Rofton or Rullaferd. George Kell, the former Detroit sportscaster who hailed from Arkansas, used to end Missouri with an A: Missoura.

I don't mean this as a criticism. We all have accents and that's just how things are. I remember about 30 years ago talking to a local in Toronto, Ontario, Canada who after a few minutes of conversation asked, "So you're from Detroit?" even though I hadn't told him. "How can you tell?" I asked in turn.

"By your accent."

I actually replied, with no ill intent and as though it were a perfectly reasonable answer, "I don't have an accent."

Of course I do. We all do. We just don't often think of it that way.

To Forgive, and to Seek Forgiveness

For Catholics, today's Gospel reading is the famous one about the Prodigal Son. If you think like me, most folks appear to concentrate on the obstinacy of the elder son in the story without much consideration of the actions of the errant sibling.

That's not all bad. There is a great lesson in forgiveness there, as the older son needed to accept and forgive his brother. It strikes me though that few people care to delve all that far into the importance of what the actual Prodigal did. And that was precisely that he admitted he was wrong and sought forgiveness.

The implications of that are strong and warrant attention. Would his father have been forgiving if the son had not sought forgiveness? Notice I am not speaking here about dad's willingness to forgive; we can safely assume he strongly wished to do that. But did he go to his youngest son and say he forgave him while the lad was actively involved in his debauchery? No. Did he go and forgive his son while the boy was still living his life of choice, even in tending pigs? No. Yet when the child came to his senses and accepted he had sinned, and came to beg forgiveness, his father forgave immediately. Quite literally on the spot in fact.

So it strikes me that part of the lesson is that God is willing to forgive, indeed will very readily forgive, if we ask. Yet if we consciously live in ways contrary to God's will, we will not seek forgiveness. In our arrogance and self importance, in the false knowledge that we are somehow right, we will not ask. Consequently, it seems, we should not then expect it.

There will be greater rejoicing, we are taught, over one repentant sinner entering Heaven than over a hundred of the righteous crossing through the Pearly Gates. That is very much to be expected. But notice that that former sinner, that now Glorious Soul, earned his glory through his humility. He earned his glory by recognizing he was not God.

Like A Kid Again

I've always liked my meals simple. Throw a couple of slices of bologna between a couple other slices of wheat bread and slather on some Duke's mayo and I'm set for lunch. For dinner, I'm content to toss microwaveable food on microwaveable plates and bowls and have at it in no time. Even breakfast can be very simple. Set the kettle on and boil water for instant oatmeal and I can be eating in minutes.

Yet I've discovered another easy breakfast, one designed especially for you chocolate lovers out there. Just get your favorite chocolate cereal, even the one featuring that annoying bird (all right, all right, you're cuckoo for them. We get it. Now shut up), fill a  bowl, but only put about half the milk in. Your reward is chocolate milk almost as thick a Hershey bar when you're done. All that glorious chocolate just sinks right down into the milk. 

Chocolate overload. It's not just for breakfast anymore. But it tastes best then.

Baseball is Back!

Man, it's good to watch baseball again. Even though my Detroit Tigers lost 5-4 in the opener last night, it's still a great feeling. I'm not even worried that they were 0 for 15 with runners in scoring position. The Detroits made it close. Yes, they might have won with as few as two hits with runners anxious to cross home plate. They did have two runners on with one out in the top of the Ninth who they couldn't move against a closer clearly struggling. But no need to panic. It's early.

How about that Spencer Torkelson? A home run in his only official at bat, but four walks in four other plate appearances. That makes his batting average 1.000 on the season, and his on base percentage 1.000 as well. That's a pace to hit one thousand on the year. I'm guessing that won't happen, though.

I think I'll just bask in the glow of the National Pastime this morning. Baseball for seven months; life is good. I won't worry about a thing.

It would be easier not to worry without going zero for fifteen with runners in scoring position. But I'm not panicking. No, I'm not.

Okay, maybe just a little. Yet it's early. It's early. Lot of baseball to be played yet. I'm staying calm.

Oh, but geez, we win with just a couple hits in those situations...

Zeke and Amos

I've talked about me Uncle John who we called Zeke. I talked about me Grandpa Joe's old friend Amos too. At times their paths crossed.

Zeke had once told me that Amos made the best fried chicken in the world. Uncle John loved it, and Amos apparently knew that. He would regularly offer some to me Uncle when he fixed it for dinner.

One day at the old barn Zeke reminisced about a time when he was a boy, maybe 9 or 10, where he really had a taste for that fried chicken. He tramped over Amos' apartment and quite literally begged the old man to fry it up. Amos dutifully did, not wanting to disappoint the boy. Uncle John sat there and ate ravenously, realizing about half way through that his personal chef wasn't having anything for himself.

"I was too young to realize it at the time, but it was a Sunday about Noon. Amos was hung over after Saturday night," Uncle John explained. He laughed at that. "How'd you like to have a kid bug you for food when you're sick? But he still fried it all up for me."

I think it's a cool story.

Michigan Baseball

Baseball brings people together; it bridges all gaps. 

Just yesterday as I entered the neighborhood supermarket (University Foods on Warren in Detroit; they're good folks) wearing my Lansing Lugnuts cap a voice said, "Hey! You're from Lansing?"

I told the young man, "No, I was at a game last year and bought the cap as a souvenir."

"Oh. Well, Lansing's my hometown. Go Lugnuts!" We did a fist bump at his instigation.

It was a cool moment, brought out by baseball. 

The Granite

We won last night's curling game at the Windsor Granite Club 6-4 when I made the very last shot, a relatively easy pick where I simply hit the opponent's scoring stone out of the rings, leaving us with two points and the win. The boys played well in front of me, we caught a couple breaks, and I felt I owed them that last shot after having cost the team two points earlier in the game with poor throws. We've now won three of our last four after a long stretch of mediocre to poor play; can we start the season over, please?

I've played in the Windsor Granite Club for most of the last thirty years. To my knowledge, it's the oldest continuous curling league in the Windsor-Detroit area. Yes, the Detroit Curling Club has been around longer yet had no facility for several years in the mid to late 1990s. The Granite has been in play unbroken since 1960. Somewhat ironically and interestingly, the Granite began at the old Detroit club at Forest and Sixth, just five blocks from when I've lived all my life, before transferring to Windsor when the city opened a rink in I think 1979.

But I fear for the league's future. We have seven teams, the least I've seen by far, and I worry that is unsustainable. We need more bodies, more folks to curl with us. There's history there, tradition, even if that only means something to a few of us. 

All good things and all that, and honestly requires I say that it would be no real tragedy if it ended. The world has and will suffer worse injury. Still, for guys like me, it's the Granite. It's my curling home. I don't really want to move.