Summer Has Arrived, Finally

I came down Highway 6 this afternoon and decided to check out the fruit stand I have been seeing for several months. Several hand-spray-painted signs touting mangos, coco frio, and freestone peaches lead up to the makeshift stand. The “freestone peaches” notice is the one that got my attention.

Actually, my oldest daughter got my attention with it when she was going back to Austin a couple of weeks ago. She called me and relayed the message that the spraypaint and plywood advertised. I just never had the time to stop.

This time, though, I did. This stand consists pretty much of some posts and joists with something nailed on the top. I’m not even sure what it is; either plywood or scrap tin. I think it’s the latter. I was locked on the “peaches” message too much to pay undue attention to the structure.

A skinny, sweaty thirtysomething guy was doing some busy work when I drove up. When I came under the rafters with not much clearance for the top of my head, I scanned the baskets and little piles of produce for the peaches. I was wearing my sunglasses, so tomatoes kinda looked like peaches for a second, but I finally made my way down to the sweet end of the display.

There they were, baskets heaped up in little maroon and gold hills according to ripeness. The quick-thinking salesman hurried over with a peach and a knife and as soon as the words, “Where were these peaches grown…” crossed my lips, he was at my side with a slice of one. He said, “Heck, I don’t know, maybe the moon. I had to cover these up over here so nobody would know they’re moon peaches”.

Kinda weird and smart alecky at the same time, which I am not averse to, and that coupled with the sweet nectar-y goodness of the sample he gave me, sold a bucket of them moon peaches.



So my lunch today consisted of several peaches at the peak of ripeness. The only thing that kept the golden juice from running down to my elbow was the fact that I cleverly ate it over the sink and slurped it loudly. The taste and aroma took me back many years to my younger days.

That’s summertime, folks.

News From the Front

We have a new breed of roaches visiting us lately. It’s not that we have a roach problem, mind you. I mean EVERYBODY on the Gulf Coast of Texas has an arthropod of the roach-ish persuasion cross their threshold at one time or another. Even if you spray the perimeter, set out bait and patrol with a vinegar squirt bottle, there is still an intrepid wanderer that comes in and checks your place out. If you have sprayed the boundary, they’re likely in bad shape. On one of their last six legs.

ANYhow, this new strain of visitors; they walk really high and they fly. They all seem to be young, strong braves, in really good health despite the poison I kindly leave for them.

Did I mention that they fly? Shudder. Yeah, they take wing with the alacrity of the flying monkeys of Oz. Anybody with any experience at all with La Cucaracha knows that the one who flies has the advantage.

So the other night, one flew in from the long hallway just like he had good sense and a flight plan, to land at the corner of the entry hall. Then he crossed back (flying) to the handle of the only-recently-used vacuum cleaner. That was pretty impressive, especially for an animal with the brain the size of a grain of sand.

Equally impressive was my answer to his crossing into my airspace. I grabbed the nearest flip flop that was lying on the floor (there are usually plenty of them to choose from) and gave him a precision swat. So mighty and accurate was the slinging of the slap-shoe, he was propelled at high velocity to the wall. After the satisfying slap and clatter of the roach on the wall, he fell dead as the proverbial doornail. He didn’t even have time to fold his wings before his death throes. There were no throes. Victory was mine.

A couple of more have invaded our space, just last evening. I spotted one of the high-walkers creeping along the baseboard behind the television stand. I approached with a shoe (just as plentiful as the flip flops), confident that I could deal death quickly during the commercial. Not so. He eluded when I was grabbing for my weapon, and I had to hunt him down and flush him out with vinegar spray. After he charged straight at me, coughing from the acetic acid mace I wielded, I clamped the life outta him with a Nike. My confidence shaken, I resolved to do better next time.

The next time came sooner than I had wanted. An hour later, my middle gal reported an incoming flying roach, and sure enough, he was in the entry hall next to the picture on the wall. Not wanting to just smash him into that black roach butter, I tried to delicately pop him without breaking the frame he was a half-inch from. Then the little devil flew at me, like an F-18! He landed on my Nike-hand, and I exclaimed (not screaming like a little girl, more of a “aaaAAGH!”), jumped back and accidentally lost the grip on the shoe. He hit the floor next to the vacuum cleaner (yes, it was out again) and went under it. I grabbed my shoe and the handle of the Dirt Devil to do a “move/swat” motion. It was not to be. So clever was this little beast, he kept running under the machine! I kept picking it up, flopping it down and winding up for the killing blow. This repeated no fewer than four times, in a left-hand circle, nearly exhausting me.

FINALLY the intruder tried to make a break for the hall closet door, and that’s when I clanked him. I raised my arms in victory to my daughter who was calmly watching from a safe distance. I grabbed the still-quivering carcass in my paper towel and slam-dunked him into the garbage.

So the fight continues; this battle won, the rest of my life to press on in the war on roaches.

Too Good Not to Share

I know I have not been posting lately, and many of you have stopped coming by. That makes me ashamed.

I have been thinking a lot lo these past weeks, alas, I just ain't been able to get enough of a handle on them thoughts to write them down.

But I found this accidentally, and it's a scream. I haven't seen it on TV yet, but can't wait to.

Sorry for the drought, but it has been raining all week here, and perhaps an idea will sprout.