JR Manning

I met him many years ago, when I was a just a teenager. Joe was a large man, tall, muscular and handsome with a pale complexion and jet black, curly hair. Now, I was actually rather intimidated and you can bet that I wasn’t introduced to him as Joe, nor did I have the audacity to call him that. His presence commanded the respect to call him Mister.

Out of respect for certain members of his family, I’m not using his last name here. Trust me, it was one of those names that instantly said, “I’m Irish” and not one of those Irish names that could also be English - like mine.

Joe was almost a stereotype. He was a rugged individual and reserved in such a way that could be incorrectly interpreted as shyness, but he was actually far from shy. He was a proud Irish Catholic with a large family. He was a proud, but not arrogant, man. The American flag flew on a flagpole in his yard, except on St. Patrick’s Day and special occasions, when the Irish tricolor flew in it’s place.

Now, if you haven’t figured it out, Joe was more than just an Irishman that I happened to meet. He was also the father of the young woman who had stolen my heart. Because of that fact alone, we had to learn to more about one another. Joe was opinionated but would listen tolerantly to an opposing viewpoint, before he told me all the reasons I was wrong. (Many years later, much of what he told me turned out to be correct, or at least, matching my own beliefs. Joe and I had far more things in common than we realized, and we were far more alike than we realized.)

He did have the gift of the Blarney, and he was a wonderful storyteller. I felt fortunate to be in his presence when he started to regale his family with stories of his boyhood in Baltimore, his years in Uncle Sam’s service or what happened at work this week. Some of the best stories were how he met a beautiful girl from Milwaukee. The charmer made him drop everything out East so he could move to Wisconsin to be with her.

He also had a Leprechaun’s sense of humor. He wasn’t a joke teller as much as a story teller, his audience doubled over in laughter while he’d just smile softly with a twinkle in his sparkling eyes. Oh, he had a hearty laugh, too, because he relished life, loved his family, and had a keen eye for the humor in any bad situation.

He also was a man of surprises - his teenage son was struggling with a yo-yo one day, and Joe watched with quiet amusement until his frustration got the best of him. “Gimme that!” he said as he took the yo-yo away and instantly began to do some of the most impressive yo-yo tricks I had ever seen! None of his children had any idea that their father had been a youthful yo-yo champion. He received an engraved, silver yo-yo for Christmas that year.

Joe made me feel like one of the family, and it was pretty well understood that there was likely to be a wedding in my future. I looked forward to having Joe as a father in law, but it was not to be. My darling Irish love found that her destiny lay elsewhere. One of the most sympathetic supporters that I had, while I recovered from my heartbreak, was Joe. Oh, he was reserved about the situation, he had to be after all. There was more than enough heartbreak and disappointment to go around.

I last spoke to Joe on St. Patrick’s Day about fifteen years later. It had been a day of celebration and I probably had one more glass of beer than I should have. On a whim, I easily dialed the phone number that had been burned into my teenage memory. He seemed politely embarrassed at first, but we chatted pleasantly and my heart was filled with warmth, just to hear his voice again. I have no idea what he really thought of my phone call out of the blue, or out of the green as it were, but the tone in his voice sounded like he was genuinely pleased to hear from an old friend.

Joe passed away not long after that, too young for a man as vibrant and alive as he was. As many years have passed since then, I’m sure his family misses him deeply but I know the world misses him, too. Not a single St. Patrick’s Day passes without a warm memory of Joe, my favorite Irishman. He had far more of an impact on the young man who took his daughter to prom, more than I think his family ever realized. I’m pretty sure Joe knew, though. God rest ye, Merry Gentleman.

Been to a gas station lately?

It’s gotten to a point that when you go to buy gasoline, you really need plastic money. If you want to carry cash to purchase gasoline, you need a Brinks truck and an armed guard.

Buying gasoline is one of the most annoying time wasters I know. I hate stopping to buy gas, I always have. Several years ago, the gasoline companies figured out that convenience was the key to earning our business. The old fashioned filling station became a one stop convenience center. The real breakthrough was when gas pumps were equipped with credit card readers so guys like me could gas up and leave without having to take the time to walk into the store.

I liked that.

But then crude oil hit a hundred bucks a barrel and the price of a gallon of gasoline reached the level of fine jewelry. Not too long ago, I pulled up to the pump, inserted my plastic money, then started to pump. Meanwhile, I checked the oil and washed the windows. When I got back to the pump, it shut off right at $50.00 on the penny. I shut off the pump, took my receipt, and climbed into the car to record the price and mileage in my little log book. It seemed like the mileage had dropped off considerably - strange - maybe there ’s a problem with the engine?

Of course, when I turned the key, the gas guage told the story.

My tank was far from full.

That’s when I saw the sticker on the pump. “CREDIT CARD TRANSACTIONS ARE LIMITED TO FIFTY DOLLARS. THIS RULE IS YOUR CREDIT CARD PROVIDER AND NOT STUPID AMERICA OIL COMPANY.”

Grrrrrr. From then on, when the *&^%$#! pump stopped at fifty bucks, I’d just insert the card and do another transaction. That worked for awhile, but not anymore. When you try that now, the pump will give you the message - CARD NOT AUTHORIZED - SEE CASHIER.

Now, most gas station cashiers are slightly smarter than the gas pump. They’ll tell you the credit card company limits trasactions to fifty bucks, and will not allow multiple gasoline transactions. This is to prevent fraud, because the first thing most credit card thieves will do is fill up their tanks, along with all their buddies.

Okay, I can buy that. I asked my credit card provider, “Is there is a fifty dollar limit on transactions?”

Nope.

Somebody is lying - I’m sure it’s this sticker!

So who put this artificial fifty dollar limit on gas transactions? The oil companies. They blame your credit card company so you won’t blame them and stop buying from them. (There are two chances of me ever buying anything at a gasoline convenience store again. I’m sure that will cause the failure of the entire oil industry so I’ll get my revenge.) But stop buying gasoline from them? Where are we going to go to get fuel? It sure as hell isn’t going to be the ethanol station.

Why does everyone feel the need to lie to us about gasoline? The government lies about gasoline taxes and they lie about ethanol. The oil companies lie about the fifty dollar transactions. Wouldn’t it be refreshing if once, just once, a politician or oil company executive would tell us the truth about what’s really going on?