tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-325376182024-03-07T15:00:50.581-08:00Geezer ChroniclesSo bookmark it already!aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.comBlogger301125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-18923388259254604542011-10-31T09:09:00.006-07:002011-10-31T12:45:18.018-07:00Halloween FunnyI have been really lax lately on posting, as both of my readers can tell...but here is something I just saw from StumbleUpon that cracked me up. <br /><br />Enjoy the little animation.<br /><br />:)<br /><br /><iframe width="400" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ZaKxLJLj19E" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-20053730154424999672011-10-21T20:28:00.007-07:002011-10-22T11:16:49.471-07:00Mosquitoes: The Return<p>This summer was a relatively <a href="http://geezerchronicles.blogspot.com/2009/05/epic-battle.html">“mosquito-free”</a> one for us here on the Gulf Coast. By that I mean that they were not thick in your face from June through September. The drought has taken its toll on the population of mosquitoes for the year. This season has been pretty good for humans who wanted to go outside and still keep all of their blood inside their skin. Of course, the lack of rain has pummeled the lawns and trees and foundations mercilessly.<br /><br />But now, since we had four-and-a-half inches of rain a couple of weeks ago, the evil bloodsuckers have returned with a vengeance. They have a collective ingrained hatred for the mammals that mill aimlessly in the cities and towns here beside the Gulf of Mexico. They have no love for us but for the hemoglobin that flows through our veins and capillaries that come so close to the surface of our skin. And them with their evil little snoots that so easily pierce our thin skin and their toxic saliva that keeps our blood from clotting up in their straws and foiling their feeding time. The saliva that makes us itch so badly.<br /><br />There are several varieties of the little devils; some so small that they can weasel themselves through the screens that cover the windows. They can get in like smoke, any opening, any crevice, any thin spot in the solid brick. Some are big as mockingbirds, with a nasty streak a mile wide. The tiny ones, ironically, are the ones that produce the most itchy bites, and the big, hefty, muscular marsh ‘skeeters, while you can feel them light upon a parka with the daintiness of a mule deer, leave you itching for a much shorter time. Except for the two stitches or perhaps just a steri-strip to close the wound, you are usually not much the worse for wear.<br /><br />Today I stopped by the Soderberg Farm and Chicken Resort for a visit and to snitch a load of satsuma tangerines. There is a good crop of them this year, burdening the poor trees. Preparing for the harvest, I sprayed my arms, neck and face down with mosquito repellent. Just the exposed skin, no need to shower in the stuff.<br /><br />I rounded the green house, armed with the snippers and double HEB bags to take this weekend’s citrus, and as I neared the trees, I became aware of a hum rising from the grass and low-hanging limbs that sounded like an aircraft carrier full of idling P-40’s ready for an assault in the Battle for the Pacific. “I’m ‘skeeter-doped up and they won’t bite me through it...” I smugly thought. But as i edged in to grab some of the fruits, the demons rose to meet me in great black, buzzing clouds, and I felt their collective weight descend on my clothes as they tried to stake a claim on the acres of blood-rich real estate.<br /><br />They flew up, some lit on my hands, arms and neck, and as I was certain that it would only be momentary, and when they get a taste of the DEET, they’d fly away. Wrong. These beasts were hungry and not easily deterred. They bit through the DEET, spit, made a face and then went back to their meal. They flew to my hairline, behind my ears, up my nose, even my eyebrows. And had I known that they were going to try to suck blood out of my corneas, I would have sprayed the Deep Woods Off directly into my eyes!<br /><br />I picked as many tangerines as I could, braving the waves of biting and humming and jostling insects, trying to brush away several intrepid fliers that sneaked behind my glasses with my eyelashes. Every now and again I backed off to find another branch of likely candidates, and as I walked the ravenous hordes followed me; in my face on my shirt on the legs of my Wranglers and even my boots. They were not to be deterred. When the bag was full, or at least appeared full by weight, my vision obscured by flying vipers as it was, I made my way to where I thought I had parked my car. The door was locked. I fumbled my keys out of my pocket to unlock and stow my produce inside, but I instead plopped the fruit on top of the car, to return later when I was ready to blast off.<br /><br />When the time came to make a hasty exit after going back inside to retrieve some other items, I asked my Dad where the pump .22 was. He asked why and I told him to cover me as I ran to the car! I dashed out there, found the keys where I left them in the door, unlocked as quickly as I could and flopped in the driver’s seat, slamming the hatch behind me. I noticed that the cockpit was filled with mosquitoes, and they all had evil on their minds. As I drove down the road at a speed unbecoming an adult, I had the back windows open to blow out the invaders.<br /><br />Upon arriving home, I found the fresh propane bottle and applied it to my intrepid <a href="http://geezerchronicles.blogspot.com/2008/08/in-fog.html">fogger</a>. I went to the business of smoking out the crop of them that resides around my house, whirling around the front door in a hungry cyclone of wings and snouts. I walked around the house a couple of times with my smoke machine of death. I didn’t spend the same amount of time that I usually like to, since I’m low on poison. But the satisfaction was there, a hark back to the days of daily rain and standing water.<br /><br />The never-ending battle of Man vs. Mosquito, after a summer off, has returned for a (hopefully) final battle before the winter hiatus (such that it is around here) and maybe, just maybe, I’ll survive until I get more spray, granules and smoke juice for a renewed attack on the sly mosquito in the spring.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-63695337274067584892011-10-08T06:27:00.006-07:002011-10-08T06:58:39.015-07:00Hummingbirds Revealed<br><i>It's hummingbird season, the time of year when a large segment of the population of hummin'birds migrate to Mexico or other points South. I put a feeder up when I saw one in the backyard searching for fuel. Several days of a sugarwater way station has made my yard a destination for the tiny terrors. <br /><br />My middle daughter can attest to the astonishment of having a feathered projectile zip seven inches past your head.<br /><br />Since I have been lax in the GeezerChron department, but I did write one way back in '08, and that's what I'll post now! Reruns, awesome; now I'm like cable tv!</i><br /><br />Everyone is charmed and delighted by the delicate form, acrobatic flight and soft trilling song of the hummingbird. They are so tiny and cute, their wings beat so fast, they like pretty flowers…ad infinitum. <br /><br />I must admit, I too was always partial to hummingbirds as a child and yes, as an adult. When we went camping, my Dad always put up a hummingbird feeder so we could watch them drink the pretty red sugar-water. As they would wheel and spin, dive and dart, the hum generated by their wings was surprising as they would buzz past your head to wait their turn in line for the nectar provided. At times it looked like the Moscow Ballet with all the tiny forms whizzing around the stage, hovering, pirouetting, following each other in strings of three or four off stage right or stage left, with a few prima donnas seeming to get all the open space and sweet stuff. I guess I never paid that much attention to the real action. <br /><br />My folks have a hummingbird feeder at their house just outside the back window that overlooks the garden. When I go for a visit in the afternoons on Saturday or Sunday, we sit and talk, look at the garden, and watch the hummers. <br /><br />From my observation, these are the most self-centered, belligerent, pushy, greedy and ill-tempered birds that ever took wing. Ounce for ounce (I’d venture to say that it usually takes two to make a full ounce) they are the most aggressive bird out there. If they were fish, I would give a great white shark a two-to-one weight advantage over the hummingbird/fish and still put my money on the hummer. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoni7FebHvsQYIuaCaym6nlPGdqttVzVdujpxEqufbVNgeYYPTo3df8pMg4ln0YqMpihsj8SPUyHdeK1ko_lVuNlEvlcqMaNdqeITDTieXBDQQhjuBxczUeTU7UDojnvLeTas/s1600/HoneyBird.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 337px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoni7FebHvsQYIuaCaym6nlPGdqttVzVdujpxEqufbVNgeYYPTo3df8pMg4ln0YqMpihsj8SPUyHdeK1ko_lVuNlEvlcqMaNdqeITDTieXBDQQhjuBxczUeTU7UDojnvLeTas/s400/HoneyBird.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661117043219377810" /></a><br /><br />If they were as big as even a mockingbird, they would no doubt be deadly, and the government would likely put a bounty on them. Mean little things.<br /><br />I have watched a single bird expend the energy equivalent to a gallon of gasoline guarding a free source of food. He will sit on a branch six feet from the feeder, and dare any other creature, be it fowl or insect, to sip even a molecule of the nectar. He buzzes down on them like he was shot from a gun, diving and chasing like his tail is on fire. He even bullied a bumblebee away from the sacred feeder one day. When another hummingbird even flies by, he launches from his perch like a Sidewinder missile. Once the interloper has been dispensed with, the foul little fowl has to come check the level in the glass vial containing the precious red sugar water, flying all the way around, eyeballing the quantity. He then takes a long drink, occasionally pulling back to scan the area for bogeys. Another sip, then back to his perch to continue his bitter little vigil.<br /><br />When my oldest daughter was two or three, she would correct anyone using the proper terminology, “hummingbird”, by saying sternly, “HONEYbird”…<br />She was wrong on a couple of different levels. <i>DEVIL</i>bird would be more accurate.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-83045965211529360752011-08-25T10:34:00.002-07:002011-08-25T10:40:23.281-07:00Revisited: You Are What You Eat<i>This is a reprise of a post I put up on August 25 of 2008. Hey, I've picked up a couple of readers since then and JUST MAYBE they had never seen this one. Heck, I shoulda kept my mouth shut...maybe neither of you would have noticed...</i>
<br />
<br />In the past few weeks, the dietary habits of some Olympic athletes have been of interest; Michael Phelps with his 12,500 calories per day, Russian gymnasts eating only half a kernel of wheat and 3 gallons of water.
<br />
<br />It brought to mind a poem that I read years ago, but only bits and pieces could be brought to the front of my mind...
<br />
<br />But regular life marches on, and I was fogging for mosquitoes at my sister’s house on Sunday, and after I finished, she we stood around and talked for awhile.
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<br />As we talked my eyes fell upon an old volume of “Best Loved Poems of the American People”. I remembered that it was my grandfather’s book that I had read selections from many times. And there was that poem in there that I had remembered a couple of lines from. These few lines had haunted me for somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty five years.
<br />
<br />Below is the entire poem, finally.
<br />
<br />Methuselah
<br />
<br />Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
<br />And never, as people do now,
<br />Did he note the amount of the calorie count;
<br />He ate it because it was chow.<br>
<br />He wasn’t disturbed as at dinner he sat,
<br />Devouring a roast or a pie,
<br />To think it was lacking in granular fat,
<br />Or a couple of vitamins shy.<br>
<br />He cheerfully chewed each species of food,
<br />Unmindful of troubles or fears
<br />Lest his health might be hurt
<br />By some fancy dessert;
<br />And he lived over nine hundred years.
<br />
<br />--Unknown
<br />
<br />The book carries a 1936 copyright, and my mother gave it to her father for Christmas, inscribed:
<br />“Merry Christmas
<br />To Daddyboy
<br />From Lila” (with a little circle dotting the “I”)
<br />
<br />
<br />My sister and I agreed to share the book back and forth to read all of those old poems again.
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<br />I'll likely eat some ice cream while doing so.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-17477285364062549932011-08-13T22:01:00.002-07:002011-08-13T22:11:13.782-07:00I am TRULY aAshamed!Yep. It's been since <i>MAY</i> that I posted here. It's a crying shame. Well, it would be if it really mattered to anyone. But still, there is a hole in my heart that's shaped like a GeezerChron.
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<br />To my loyal fan; I feel some rants coming on, and I may even get them into a coherent form to post here at my favorite hangout. And there are one of you who have missed me. But your aim will improve, I am sure. And I will renew my habit of glopping down my thoughts here for your perusals.
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<br />My apologies to you all <i>haha</i>. aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-59597492296536888222011-05-02T11:24:00.004-07:002011-05-02T12:03:35.626-07:00Mystical Cat: Indeed<p>Apparently this "mystical cat" has been misrepresenting himself. You decide.<br /><br /><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="437" height="370" id="viddler"><param name="movie" value="http://www.viddler.com/player/7559f798/" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><param name="flashvars" value="fake=1"/><embed src="http://www.viddler.com/player/7559f798/" width="437" height="370" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowScriptAccess="always" allowFullScreen="true" flashvars="fake=1" name="viddler" ></embed></object>aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-17945310803939250602011-04-20T08:01:00.012-07:002011-04-20T08:28:15.758-07:00OMG, the Geezer LIVES!<br><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmy8U9vHi2-UF5NJTqDA9X4fZHstaliQmI-x736fHw10VGZedJhgRyiDg0s30satWw8cmQsQjfuWYjUoZv9jssw7maV9p3O9aJULS3Es8qXPRHmAYE8zu8I00BL6-yqCAjHoek/s1600/ADS_0591a.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmy8U9vHi2-UF5NJTqDA9X4fZHstaliQmI-x736fHw10VGZedJhgRyiDg0s30satWw8cmQsQjfuWYjUoZv9jssw7maV9p3O9aJULS3Es8qXPRHmAYE8zu8I00BL6-yqCAjHoek/s320/ADS_0591a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597683209991101170" /></a><br><br /><b>Yes, it's true...<i>Saints be praised!</i></b><br /><br />Unfortunately, I have absolutely nothing to say. I just wanted my faithful California Reader, my Faithful Oregon Reader and my three Faithful Texas Readers to know that I have not completely deserted my post here on the <i>webwide world</i>. I was just sitting with my jaw hanging slack with a flatline brainwave.<br /><br />Actually, in the first third of February, we lost my mother-in-law unexpectedly, and I am having a tough time putting together a coherent memory of her. She was unpredictable, mischievous and wildly funny and it's just hard to distill that and everything else she was into one post on a goofy blog.<br /><br />We also lost a good friend in '66 Falcon, a frequent reader and frequenter commenter (probably the "frequentest", 'sides Mr V) of the GeezerChron. I still smile when I think of him and our antics, and I am still sad with his passing. But I am relieved for him that his long fight against cancer was won with the last laugh; he is with his Father <i>and</i> his Dad in Heaven. <br /><br />So forgive me, and rejoice that I have almost returned to the GeezerChron.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-54437723148654497492011-02-04T08:11:00.006-08:002011-02-04T18:26:00.319-08:00Snow Day Delivered<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdS2Vy84AHDedSFsJkxROz91JWd5SIPawFXLqzO8j6pFEqnaS2gCdhbeGJMevrL3v0UgkraT2LgWjqncVSWuLHoDsFPWaU60KL_tc3HvVmEeFifNDDKstWntFZ6SCbr-q_HVD/s1600/Photo0693.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdS2Vy84AHDedSFsJkxROz91JWd5SIPawFXLqzO8j6pFEqnaS2gCdhbeGJMevrL3v0UgkraT2LgWjqncVSWuLHoDsFPWaU60KL_tc3HvVmEeFifNDDKstWntFZ6SCbr-q_HVD/s200/Photo0693.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569868398118622338" /></a><br /><br /><i>Sort of.</i> <br /><br />Here on the Texas Gulf Coast, we usually have pretty temperate winters. The past few years of global warming, though, has sullied our reputation. We’ve had some frost, which was a welcome treat when I was a kid. In 1973, we even had a real snow, which I vividly remember because Kelly Hutchinson made a “snow burger” scraped from a teacher’s car. And he ate it, road film and all.<br /><br />In 2004, we had the fabled “Christmas Eve Blizzard of ‘04” where we got up to 10 inches of the white stuff on the ground. There have been other instances of snow and ice storms throughout history down here. And the past couple of years have shown us some snow that actually accumulated. Even in 2009, we endured a spate of <a href=”http://geezerchronicles.blogspot.com/2009/12/snow-day.html”>real winter</a>.<br /><br />Fine. <br /><br />I think we’re jealous of all the snow and ice and blizzarding that is happening up in the Midwest and East, and the Newsmakers decided that we were going to clip off a bit of that for ourselves. Predictions were made, as were expensive preparations. Roads were sanded and preemptively de-iced. Schools and businesses sat on pins and needles trying to decide whether or not to close on Thursday night or Friday. All of my students were wondering if we were going to meet for Thursday night. I told them to check the web, but I think it ain’t gonna happen. “But the news said….” To which I gave my standard reply, “put it outta yer mind.”<br /><br />Even normally level-headed Alvin ISD was preparing; they cancelled after school extracurricular activities for Thursday. Later I found out that they closed for Friday.<br /><br />All the predictions were that Thursday was to bring icy winds, sleet, freezing rain and yes, snow! This was due to commence at noon. Then three. Then five. Then overnight. OK, I get the picture. <br /><br /><br />The <a href=”http://geezerchronicles.blogspot.com/2007/09/urricane-umberto.html”>super-trustworthy guardians</a> of the information that we rely on to live our lives safely have been proven again. You’ll notice I didn’t say that they’d been proven right or wrong. That’s not the point, really. They have been proven to be what they be: hyper-active Peter-and-the-Wolfers aching for a story, especially weather-driven. <br /><br />Sure enough, I woke up not to a winter wonderland, but to the hope that maybe the weeds in the yard will die form surprise. As you can see, we do have icicles and, uh, some possible damage to the important clover crop. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_YL5uPS2VetJ8beAVAR6E2ZX6QLmyuXn-uvLR83J5HIOEMfNpCHvoGdZ_WL4IEhPNdCJSJ2XBJz0N9c-0rBwAIJQXUsIuZ2tuoSg5Tp6Is9_PeWI9hX8vLISU2huSmWiVrL12/s1600/Photo0694.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_YL5uPS2VetJ8beAVAR6E2ZX6QLmyuXn-uvLR83J5HIOEMfNpCHvoGdZ_WL4IEhPNdCJSJ2XBJz0N9c-0rBwAIJQXUsIuZ2tuoSg5Tp6Is9_PeWI9hX8vLISU2huSmWiVrL12/s200/Photo0694.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569868670690694674" /></a>There was a thin glaze of ice on everything that was not made out of concrete. As I surveyed the “damage”, I nearly slipped on a root that was coated in ice. Oh, and the rain gauge was frozen over. And when I picked up the black plastic trash bag to put it out by the curb, it’s icy skin crunched and crackled. The cars looked like they are sculpted out of ice for a crappy car show. <br /><br />That’s about it. I haven’t surveyed the entire town, and reports from the Soderberg Farm are still outstanding. The computer says that it is now 29° outside, but there are some standing waters in a dog dish and some in the street that stubbornly cling to their liquid state. <br /><br />Hence the much-hyped and under-delivered “SNOW DAY” that we endured last night made “history”; if nothing more than to reinforce my distrust of the media. Even my 15 year-old, who spent the night at her friend’s down the street, texted me at about 8 this morning, “I’m glad I put it outta my mind”.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-67575024190651197222011-01-27T22:39:00.016-08:002011-01-29T17:14:52.044-08:00The Wedding of the Century<i><b>Part the Third: The End of the Beginning and the Beginning of a New Experience, and Finally the End of this Story</b></i><br />The sights were then set on the Elks Lodge, and the reception train headed downtown. Everybody else went in through the front door, but we, the wedding party got to come in through the stage door, and the DJ announced us. I haven’t been announced before, and let me tell you, it was a thrill. <br /><br />After everyone got in, the party started. There was a dinner of brisket and chicken along with green beans and a potato salad that had “more” written all over it. Family and friends broke bread with us on this momentous occasion. Although excited and full of emotion, surprisingly I still ate well. And at the very back was a big cake that we were not allowed to eat right away for some reason. The candy table was well-stocked, however, with Jelly Belly and blueberry sours. The blueberry candies were fairly popular, judging by the number of people walking around smiling with blue lips parted to show blue teeth. <br /><br />Soon, the time came for the big show; the Father Daughter dance. Not being much of a dancer since college (and not really that good at cutting a rug even then), I was a little apprehensive of my performance on the floor. I had prepared in advance for this moment however, but it had nothing to do with footwork. I had heard a <a href=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6vMpON2KJE”>Jonathan Edwards</a> song when Desiree was but 4 or 5 years old, and it was tattooed on my brain as such a powerful and beautiful song. It’s titled “Little Hands”, and it describes a man looking at his young daughter’s little hands, imagining what they would do in the future. Thanks to the internet, I found it, bought it and it was played at the biggest moment a dad can have. <br /><br />As the first notes flowed, my eyes, once again blurred over, and the emotion was just about too much for me. There I was, with a young woman in my arms that only a short time ago, I was holding for the very first time. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZu949BajoNcKFhuo9Nc43F-dFxWGTG4nFx-VReOfqyKr2Ne-vfcOsUBRrncN-HXzOs1R6DVyRjjpOd2oQWFU00w0GUu9-wjvke_N0UjA2myDiAnO9IxH9yUR_9ZTr7Y_qYA2E/s1600/Aa%2526Des-little.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:-5 6px 6px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZu949BajoNcKFhuo9Nc43F-dFxWGTG4nFx-VReOfqyKr2Ne-vfcOsUBRrncN-HXzOs1R6DVyRjjpOd2oQWFU00w0GUu9-wjvke_N0UjA2myDiAnO9IxH9yUR_9ZTr7Y_qYA2E/s320/Aa%2526Des-little.gif" border="-5" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567131215033017570" /></a>I recalled her little eyes looking around and my feelings of wonder at this little life. As we turned on the floor, I realized too late that I had forgotten to turn off my brain beforehand. Every word of that song brought a flood of memories to me and each of those memories pushed more water to my eyes. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6FQLfWjw2rOGy17TbbhQytyxENO1i5pp58DjKgoxKUEPqm7LSGPmRpmtuVYFCga9J_rYSQO7_E1HaWD9P-JHCkyTSJYIdqPOqeoRkX8CdSMX5hHGsGQrLf4xTgY6vKwKBomrq/s1600/DSCN0465.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6FQLfWjw2rOGy17TbbhQytyxENO1i5pp58DjKgoxKUEPqm7LSGPmRpmtuVYFCga9J_rYSQO7_E1HaWD9P-JHCkyTSJYIdqPOqeoRkX8CdSMX5hHGsGQrLf4xTgY6vKwKBomrq/s200/DSCN0465.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567125793815830978" /></a>At one point, in a failed attempt to stifle a sob, I snorted into my girl’s ear. She was crying a little, too, and I think she thought the snort was laughter. It elicited the same response as the well-placed <i>“You stink”</i> comment had done earlier. I am not sure how tightly I held that girl, but I know that she may have had trouble breathing. She didn’t complain, though, and as the song ended, my eyes dried and I handed her to her husband. As I sat down, I noticed my arms were kinda sore. <i>Sorry about your ribs, darlin’!</i> <br /><br />After a time, there was the Grand March dance, which I had never heard of before October. What I did hear was that the bride and groom were to be at the front of the line of as many guests as could be had on a dance floor. They would then be led around by an experienced Grand March couple, doing intricate moves, snaking the entire procession of participants all over the dance floor in a serpentine trail of fun. Little MiMi, my mother-in-law was even a participant. The dance got so wild, MiMi got separated from us when we turned a corner; she zigged and the rest of us zagged. Fortunately, an alert groomsman picked up on what happened and he took her with his group. Chaos is a strong word as a description of the Grand March, and it in no way conveys the absolute enjoyment that we had. At the end of the Grand March, the Chicken Dance was played, and following that, everyone formed a huge circle and the DJ played the Aggie War Hymn. If you aren’t from Texas, or if you are and just don’t like Aggies, I apologize for this part, but not really. There were some T-sippers there and they had as good a time as everyone else, so you can butch up for a sentence or two. A more rabid and loyal bunch of people were never put together. It puts chills on me every time I hear 10 or 10,000 Aggies singing the War Hymn in perfect unison. We all stood singing and sawing varsity’s horns off….SHORT!<br /><br />At some point, I forget the exact chronology, the cakes were cut <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-39aEs0KjRaljQ9zYYraX4DFh-6-L73yxFaFJPlI5_6KRK93W2KHVdnfFgydboYf5LGXRjPqGFudgQ6oA3dZnhWkDEd8llvVlvOVvQJD3jwL4k4SkcIC73f7RrJonMQlXJUN/s1600/DSCN0427.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-39aEs0KjRaljQ9zYYraX4DFh-6-L73yxFaFJPlI5_6KRK93W2KHVdnfFgydboYf5LGXRjPqGFudgQ6oA3dZnhWkDEd8llvVlvOVvQJD3jwL4k4SkcIC73f7RrJonMQlXJUN/s320/DSCN0427.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567126167025427538" /></a><br />and toasts were toasted <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4t_GnFtGXHplN8-vmPI1UZfDNwIO8bI5uYqzjJppXKA_Nn108sxpkqC2fIm1OKePGLU48Lfp9F66WdalWsNdRw6YTdCV-IB3uqpFdTkCp5aCw5ABQuChw7EkwzeTd7M3MvO-h/s1600/DSCN0425.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4t_GnFtGXHplN8-vmPI1UZfDNwIO8bI5uYqzjJppXKA_Nn108sxpkqC2fIm1OKePGLU48Lfp9F66WdalWsNdRw6YTdCV-IB3uqpFdTkCp5aCw5ABQuChw7EkwzeTd7M3MvO-h/s320/DSCN0425.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567126753438706098" /></a>to the newlyweds. The wedding cake was beautiful, and gotten for a good price (geezer plug); if you’re ever in New Braunfels and need a nice cake, my daughter can hook you up. One really cute thing was what my daughter did with the groom’s cake. Traditionally, the groom’s cake is chocolate or some variant, and this time it was German Chocolate. Baron thought that the decoration was going to be the seal of Texas A&M. Instead, his beloved tricked him by having a picture of John Wayne, Baron’s favorite actor, on top with the quote, “Whoa, Slow Down There, Pilgrim!” The expression on his face when he saw it was worth the deceit, according to my girl.<br /><br />After a few more hours of mingling and watching people dance,<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbR4yi0Vx85NHB0x3wuFZhgg23Kt55p-4UtTXDK5Mc6eWgV_CDDmuCOJJOUcmsMITYFuPqRUyqVmsOAl_UU-Ef_vcm6gE1Yknm4R07RswSzmK6ALplo6S2o3BguteRm-d_vtdI/s1600/DSCN0506.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbR4yi0Vx85NHB0x3wuFZhgg23Kt55p-4UtTXDK5Mc6eWgV_CDDmuCOJJOUcmsMITYFuPqRUyqVmsOAl_UU-Ef_vcm6gE1Yknm4R07RswSzmK6ALplo6S2o3BguteRm-d_vtdI/s200/DSCN0506.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567127091162812194" /></a> and eating cake, and looking at the people with the blue teeth, the evening wound down to the Bride and Groom’s exit. The remaining friends and family stood outside with the bubble bottles and showered the happy pair with little puffs of air surrounded by a shimmering skin of soap all the way to the waiting chariot. A big, dark F250 diesel idling to whisk them away to begin their journey as man and wife. <br /><br />Thus ended the day that I will never forget. I found that after the wedding and reception, I was totally exhausted. Mostly I think from holding my stomach in for 5 hours. Some aspects will grow more dim as time passes, but other memories will stick with me for my lifetime. From my “little hands” to the strong, beautiful bride, the time slips by so quickly so as to boggle the mind. <br /><br />And that’s what a geezer lives for.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-18931840531873621772011-01-26T20:36:00.010-08:002011-01-26T22:29:49.605-08:00The Wedding of the Century<b><i>Part the Second: The Longest Aisle</i></b><br />The next day dawned like nothing epic was due to happen that afternoon and we all ate breakfast, then the females took off for the obligatory hair/nail/whatever appointments, and I got my marching orders to go to Walmart for some last-minute items. The whirlwind that hit New Braunfels that clear December day had “Söderberg” written all over it. The wedding was at 4 p.m., <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl8cEvLqBQGYAfj95foQBPwM513n9IqXap4P-Iq20ERC2aEaT74o92EMfHOCnWVdeTYgStu9JmjgI7pAjAmrjAADQBgAWKQhC-UATep40kZrpphixZzDpvfibSeL2c-0cNucpo/s1600/KaitSummHair.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl8cEvLqBQGYAfj95foQBPwM513n9IqXap4P-Iq20ERC2aEaT74o92EMfHOCnWVdeTYgStu9JmjgI7pAjAmrjAADQBgAWKQhC-UATep40kZrpphixZzDpvfibSeL2c-0cNucpo/s200/KaitSummHair.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566742675951104274" /></a>and seeing the girls with all of their hair done was getting pretty real to me. Then I saw my firstborn, wearing a blue striped shirt, jeans, immaculate makeup and hair, with her wedding veil.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Nk0d0Aoxz0eAO4gPUwFvfDAsuH1VMWedxKkikZYQOXu2_lESbwS40elnCj8V1F4pSqXWwR_Dd-Au9btUCJLZapbMB7DSq_-k6fzm1zo-7lslrDPW1y3kJY-mmQW4wBIieYhq/s1600/DesVeil.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Nk0d0Aoxz0eAO4gPUwFvfDAsuH1VMWedxKkikZYQOXu2_lESbwS40elnCj8V1F4pSqXWwR_Dd-Au9btUCJLZapbMB7DSq_-k6fzm1zo-7lslrDPW1y3kJY-mmQW4wBIieYhq/s320/DesVeil.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566742994580513090"/></a> For some reason, my eyes stopped focusing clearly again for a little bit. <i>I need to get these glasses checked.</i><br /><br><br />Everybody got back to the hotel and showered, foofed and changed, and shaved again. We brought our nice clothes to change into, so we blasted off to Cross Lutheran Church in the Silver Bullet so we could be there an hour early. I went and greeted the photography crew, my friend Roy and his wife Lynette of <a href=” http://lonestarphotography.net/home.html”>Lone Star Photography</a>. They were ready for action, and I directed them to where the bride was getting ready, the girly inner sanctum. Lynette deployed in that location, and Roy was scoping out the sanctuary. Some more of the groomsmen arrived and were in the men’s room changing into their tuxedo apparel. I, on the other hand, was blessed with being able to wear my best black suit, my new ivory shirt and silver tie that my girl had given me for my birthday a couple of months previous. <br /><br />The guys were taking the tuxes out of their packaging, sorting out the various bits, and one exclaimed, “We have to wear these suspenders? Dang, that’s lame…” to which I smiled quietly to myself. I had my OWN suit, shirt, shiny black boots and a brand new black Nocona Texas Ranger style bel–… I went pale. <i>My brand new black belt was in the drawer in the hotel room</i>, where I had placed it the day before. So sly, I fooled myself. It was too late to borrow the hated suspenders from the groaning groomsmen, and I couldn’t wear the brown belt I had on. I had to race back to the hotel. <br /><br />I tried to hurry in the most nonchalant way I could, seeing that the panic level was increasing as every second passed. I saw my Dad on the way in as I was on the way out… “Hey, Dad, howzitgoingIgottagoIleftmybeltintheroomandI gotta get back fast!” He graciously sent me on my way and I leapt into the van and sped away, praying that no Comal County Protect and Servers were between the church and the hotel. <br /><br />To make a harrowing story of masterful driving and narrowly avoided traffic lights short, I made it there and back in a mere 21 minutes. I timed it. As I was walk/hop/running into the church, I nearly ran over my mother-in-law. “You’d better get dressed!” she said, incredulous that I was still in jeans. “Yeah, I’m <i>thinkin’</i> about it…” as I slid sideways into the men’s room. The time was approximately 3:42:17 p.m.. <br /><br />Fully decked out as I should be, I emerged with only a slight sweat going. The evening sun streaming in through the glass foyer was not much of a help to my temperature situation. I settled down enough to mingle with my Dad, Roy, the groom and the groomsmen and find an air conditioning vent to stand under. We horsed around a bit as people came in to the auditorium in a steady stream. It was nearing zero hour 4 p.m., and the grandmothers got seated. Of course the stream of people kept rising and falling, and so to keep the timing correct, the grandmothers got seated a couple more times to try to set the schedule for the ceremony and get everybody in the pews.<br /><br />Finally, the service was under way. The bridal party was neatly lined up in the foyer waiting for their cue. My middle daughter and youngest looked so beautiful in their dresses, hair done and cradling their flowers. As I got down to the end where my littlest girl was, she looked up at me with tears in her eyes, and asked me, “Daddy, are you going to cry?” She glanced over to her right where a vision of beauty was standing in the hallway awaiting her moment. <br /><br />I caught my breath. <i>Oh. My. Gosh.</i> This was <i>it</i>, and that was <i>her</i>. She stood so tall and graceful, like a wonderfully crafted porcelain doll in satin and pearls, holding flowers that paled in comparison to her perfection. That was all I could see before my chin quivered and she went blurry. I made my way to her side somehow, and looked into her bright blue eyes. They were welling up with tears of emotion, just over half-full, and as I leaned in to gently hug my baby, I said softly and lovingly, <i>“You stink.”</i><br /><br />The desired effect was attained and she smiled; the water returned from whence it came. The next few minutes, however, are not as clearly remembered as these. I recall that we chatted and laughed a little for the last time as a guy and his single daughter. Then I recall something about trailing a cute little girl with a basket of flower petals down a sloping floor leading to where a guy was standing.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6gtnvAS0BK25tuuZaS4CTC1IjPa8nKnHzn2eIYtLsUI_KB5tCCF80Drlz-YFvzoArHxNI2ZQz4kWt3_0K7V9aL8j8ss1eyQHktg5YyUu_vzQ9KphhH5n-w1KhGjHJYK9hlSdX/s1600/Dad+and+Des.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6gtnvAS0BK25tuuZaS4CTC1IjPa8nKnHzn2eIYtLsUI_KB5tCCF80Drlz-YFvzoArHxNI2ZQz4kWt3_0K7V9aL8j8ss1eyQHktg5YyUu_vzQ9KphhH5n-w1KhGjHJYK9hlSdX/s320/Dad+and+Des.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566743304977486818" /></a> There was some kind of vaguely familiar music playing, though I don’t consciously remember following the strains. I didn’t see anything to either side of me. We stopped and the guy on the top step said something to me and I think I said something like, <i>“Her mother and I…”</i> and I don’t think my voice cracked or anything. Then I stepped back a couple of steps and stood next to a crying woman in a silver dress. After that, I was fine.<br /><br />When the service was over, we had to take pictures, so everybody kept their seats. The pastor that performed the ceremony prohibited photos made during the service proper; he felt that it would detract from the serious spiritual nature of the event. I am with him on that. Also, as a photographer, it gives you a better chance to get great shots when the key parts are reenacted. So we did that and it did make for better shots; everyone was very relaxed-looking and the tears were all wiped away.<br /><br />As the shots were being made, Roy asked if I had any ideas, since we have shot several weddings together. <i>“Nope, you’re doing great!”</i> was my reply.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRXj93cNuLjBkTADFMTF8WLAmbSsqPqbNingtg2rBaLyUaf27Acn-Y3F4Vr6J2pAyZeN_H5ftmFcCcBWuy1D-pfRRfGSDXyEkPcl0NpmEmeUFuNwuShXqorbMZDhyimgPooP-/s1600/Baron%2526Des+aisle.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRXj93cNuLjBkTADFMTF8WLAmbSsqPqbNingtg2rBaLyUaf27Acn-Y3F4Vr6J2pAyZeN_H5ftmFcCcBWuy1D-pfRRfGSDXyEkPcl0NpmEmeUFuNwuShXqorbMZDhyimgPooP-/s320/Baron%2526Des+aisle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566748232969981746" /></a> As a matter of fact, at no time during the weekend did I officially wield any sort of recording device in an official documentary capacity. People that know me think that odd, but they don’t know the whole story.<br /><br />My reasoning is simple. I was the Father-of-the-Bride that weekend, not a photographer, not an art director, not a designer or stylist. <i>Just Dad</i>. I wasn’t looking for angles, compositions, perfect expressions and special lighting effects. If I had gone into any of the aforementioned modes, I would have missed an event that will never be repeated.<br /><br /><i>That</i> was not on my list of things to do.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-49182612281757655272011-01-25T22:21:00.006-08:002011-01-25T22:52:43.634-08:00The Wedding of the Century<i><b>Part the First: Ready, Set...</b>,</i><br />As of today, I have had a son for over a month and a half. He was born to me at a little after 4 p.m. on December 4, 2010. His name is Baron and at about 6’2” and about 240 pounds; he is a big one. He’s also 23 years old. Someone else had the job of raising him and feeding him up to this point, and now he is in the care of my daughter.<br /><br />Let me back up for a bit. My girl met him at school a couple of years ago. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QhaoUhWc_tWZItovehvZYb-OjFphuSbTpkNwYzhyNJrNX5pAYuMPushXDf26mFadhAXTUy3x1tCAcofgEERJwrHsw1cOhTQKV6-piqWAefPeVUBVzeLAru5kur1zuaNvTSTW/s1600/Baron%2526Des1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QhaoUhWc_tWZItovehvZYb-OjFphuSbTpkNwYzhyNJrNX5pAYuMPushXDf26mFadhAXTUy3x1tCAcofgEERJwrHsw1cOhTQKV6-piqWAefPeVUBVzeLAru5kur1zuaNvTSTW/s320/Baron%2526Des1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566379366537232306" /></a>They hit it off, and decided to get married. That decision set into motion a whole series of events that can only be compared to a force of nature.<br /><br />A woman (<i>women</i>) with a wedding in her (<i>their</i>) sights can be formidable. Intense. Frightening. If weddings were up to guys, they would be a lot different; quick, easy and not really a big visual or symbolical deal. I will just leave it at that. I have another reason for this piece, and <i>it is not to start an argument about what is important in a wedding.</i><br /><br />We caravanned up to New Braunfels in the <a href="http://geezerchronicles.blogspot.com/2007/06/daimler-chrysler.html">Silver Bullet</a> from Hades and <a href="http://geezerchronicles.blogspot.com/2010/02/saturn-out-of-this-world-really.html">Katie’s Saturn</a> and the trip was very nice that first Friday of December. We got to one of the most beautiful little towns in Central Texas and met up at a barbeque joint for lunch with the bride-and-groom-to-be, along with much of the bridal party and their dates.<br /><br />After a nice barbeque lunch, we adjourned to the Elks Lodge in downtown NB for a decoration party, readying the venue for the reception. That was when the tension became palpable. There was much to do in the hall; setting up and decorations for all the tables, the cake and candy and punch tables had to be made up, set up and decorated, and there were countless other tiny details that made everyone realize that we had one shot at this, and that the wedding of the year was happening in just about 26 hours. <br /><br />Still, being a guy, I took most of it in stride. Although the principal women involved were showing signs of stress, I was, as usual, going with the flow. I was charged with setting up the framed portrait of the happy couple, the lattice screens for the cake table, the cake stand and the sign-in table. Baron’s family, our family and the young people that came along with the wedding party were all pitching in and doing a fantastic job. The transformation from a 60 year-old small-town lodge for old German guys to wedding reception setting was complete.<br /><br />With that formidable task dispatched, it was time to retire to the hotel room and prepare everyone for the rehearsal. Showers were taken, hairs were foofed/straightened, and faces shaved. OK, just <i>my</i> face was shaved, since once again, I was the only male in my clan. <br /><br />Everyone dressed the second best that they would look that weekend, and all converged on Cross Lutheran Church. A beautiful new structure, this was the first wedding to be held therein. Open and airy, the limestone, glass and steel edifice was impressive. The sanctuary was a wide amphitheater with a sloping floor that led down to the raised altar. I’m not sure when construction was finished, but it can’t have been long. See, as a guy, I’m noticing the structure of the place where my very first child is about to marry a guy who will be her protector for the rest of her life. <i>Lots of nice woodwork, too.</i><br /><br />The pastor gathered us all together in the sanctuary and began to instruct us in the finer points of getting through a wedding. <i>Y’all stand there till this song then this will happen then the wedding party will start to commence down the aisle then you’ll be here and I’ll say this then he says that and then he sits down and then we come up here and I’ll say this then this song will play then you’ll kneel here then…</i><br /><br />So we all huddle up and head to the back of the church for the big dry run. The groomsmen and the girls sashayed down the aisle, and then it was time for the flower girl. GULP…this is the <i>second</i> before the <i>big moment</i>…When that music started for the Bridal March, the big, pretty room got a little blurry, and a little sound escaped the lips of my daughter. <i>OH NO, she’s gonna cry!</i> Why can’t I see the preacher in focus? Like he’s a mirage…My girl said under her breath, “Oh no, Mom is crying…” and that cranked up the waterworks on the bride-elect. I saw her mother over on the left and sure enough, her face was contorted in a vain attempt to stem the flow of tears. I lumbered down the aisle on half-blind auto-pilot. <br /><br />Great.<br /><br />Well, we got past all that without too many casualties, thankfully, and even did another dry run, which went all light-hearted and fun. Gone was the gravity of the situation. For now.<br /><br />The rehearsal dinner was held at the historic Forke Store at the New Braunfels Conservation Society plaza. Built in 1865, it had all sorts of great stuff from the days before the internet. And prior to electricity, for that matter. Our dinner was a generous fajita spread catered by the Adobe Café, and was excellent. The company was great, the food was good and we all had a grand time.<br /><br />Back to the hotel to ready ourselves for the biggest day of our lives, so far.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-46398001793108349422011-01-21T22:10:00.001-08:002011-01-21T22:12:29.213-08:00Hold On, Kids!For the two of you who care, I have a post in the works about my oldest daughter's recent nuptials. <br /><br />It has just taken an unusually long time to digest all of the events and distill them into a coherent (unusual for me, right) group of words.<br /><br />So hang on, I promise it's coming.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-49674197556652469832010-12-14T22:08:00.003-08:002010-12-14T22:10:48.554-08:00Texas Preparation<i>This is an email that I got from my Uncle Bob, whom I learnt some good geezerin' from.</i><br /><br /><br />Seems a guy cruises thru a stop sign, or whatever, and gets pulled over by a local policeman. Guy hands the cop his driver's license, insurance verification, plus his concealed carry permit.<br /><br />"Okay, Mr. Smith," the cop says, "I see your CHL permit. Are you carrying today?"<br /><br />"Yes, I am."<br /><br />"Well then, better tell me what you got."<br /><br />Smith says, "Well, I got a .357 revolver in my inside coat pocket. There's a 9mm semi-auto in the glove box. And, I've got a .22 magnum derringer in my right boot."<br /><br />"Okay," the cop says. "Anything else?"<br /><br />"Yeah, back in the trunk, there's an AR15 and a shotgun. That's about it."<br /><br />"Mr. Smith, are you on your way to or from a gun range...?"<br /><br />"Nope."<br /><br />"Well then, what are you afraid of...?"<br /><br />"Not a dang thing..."aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-5430437599089884572010-10-30T21:01:00.004-07:002010-10-30T21:22:07.230-07:00Somewhat Scary StorySince Hallooweeeen is upon us, and since another guy has dubbed October as "International Write Horrror-ish Stories Month", and since I haven't posted in awhile, I thought I'd put up my "horror-ish" story. I was going to do an illustration for it, but just ran outta steam. <br /><br /><b>It’s in the Bag</b><br /><br><br /><br />She lay there listening. Having been asleep for awhile, she was still foggy, but that faint scratching sound had started again. Her husband always asserted that it was a roach in the paper shopping bag where she kept the old pictures. The ones that she never got around to scrapbooking for her mom. This had happened before, and she dreaded waking him up only to have him grumble, complain, turn on all the lights and rummage around in the corner. Then he would announce that the sneaky little roach had moved along. In exasperation, he would scratch lightly on the side of the bag to show her how little it took to amplify the sound. He would flop back in the bed and make her get up and turn off the lights.<br /><br />Every time she thought about moving, it would stop. Every time she thought about going back to sleep, it would start back up. Should she wake him? No, not for the same old thing. There it was again, softly scratching. Ugh, would the night never end? It would be so easy for her to get up, retrieve the spray, flick on every light in the house and fumigate the whole room with him lying there like a worthless lump. That would show him. A smile grew on her lips and smoothed the furrows from her forehead.<br /><br />As she started to relinquish her grip on consciousness, there was a louder thump and scrape that seemed to come from inside the wall. Like someone had dropped a claw hammer from ten feet up. She started up off of the pillow, her heart racing. That was no roach. Not even a mouse. That was something else. She lay this time, not out of frustration, but petrified with fear. Then the sound of the scraping the inside of sheetrock began slowly, very slowly, as if it were trying to be quiet, but deliberate at the same time. Chills ran up her spine and down her arms. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing straight. Waves of goosebumps covered her entire body in growing tension. The sound stopped, but the feeling of terror didn't. She strained her ears for any other telltale signs that would allay her fears. Deafening silence was all that met her and the only sounds that registered were the high-pitched squeal of nothing in her ears. The thumping of her heart threatened to wake the neighbors. Or her husband. Which, on a second of reflection, should have been wide-awake now even without her knee in his backside. The reason he was not awake was that he was on a quail hunt, she remembered. This was Friday morning and he had left last night. He had packed his hunting clothes and two of the shotguns that he had in the gun safe. Of course that left the entire arsenal that he had amassed since he was about ten.<br /><br />Handguns, shotguns, rifles and assorted knives and pointed sticks hidden in various places throughout the house, so he could, as he put it, protect their castle no matter where the threat came from or when it chose to arrive. That was the price of living with a gun nut. And although he had offered many times to instruct and train her in the location and use of any and all of the weapons, she declined every time. "I'll never need those things", she told herself. Well, <i>who was the nut, now?</i> Dangit, why had she never listened? He even took his dog, Albert, which she was sure would be barking like mad right now. Dumb, hairy, licking beast; she missed even him at the moment.<br /><br />The seconds that had elapsed in silence came to an abrupt halt with the sound of sheetrock being ground to powder. Her breathing stopped for what seemed like minutes as the sound grew bolder and louder and more determined. Her skin was now so tight that the moisture in her body was being squeezed out to the surface. When the sound quit with a thud, it offered no comfort. It was the very next instant when she felt the presence behind her. It was the feeling of hot breath and a cold draft together that paralyzed her where she lay. Eyes wide, she could not move, breathe or even cry out. The sense of utter helplessness mixed with the sick feeling of total despair broke over her like a wave. She felt herself detach from her body and got the sense of being lifted up the face of a huge tsunami with only a child's pool toy around her waist.<br /><br />With the growing feeling of being swept to the crest of a gigantic wave of terror about to break, there came a sudden, steely grasp on her left ankle. She let out a tiny gasp, and the biting, crushing grip began pulling her to the foot of the bed. Only able to inhale, which was fortunate since she hadn’t drawn a breath in what seemed like hours, she gasped louder and louder as the traction increased her voyage to the end of the bed and the end of what would surely be her life.<br /><br />The certainty that she felt of impending doom flipped a switch in her gut. If she was to meet her demise tonight, this way, by whatever this was dragging her the length of the mattress, she would do it with a fight. She began to flail and grab at anything, first the pillow, then the blanket, the fitted sheet and finally a heavy form to her right. It felt like a big bag full of warm sand, and as she clawed for it, it reached out and took her by her shoulders with a firm grip. She heard her name, “Melinda, MELINDA, WHAT IS IT? <i>WHAT’S WRONG!</i><br /><br />The sound of her name was like a trumpet from heaven coming from down a long, cold tunnel. The grip on her ankle was loosed and the cold desperation turned to hope again. It was her husband, and he was gathering her trembling form into his arms. She was sweating and he was blinking the sleep from his head. All he knew was that she had given a little shriek and began to grasp and flail at him with a desperation that he had never witnessed. His right hand was already reaching for his tactical pistol with the laser sight and bright flashlight to repel the threat that had terrorized his wife so badly. As he scanned the room, he saw that all the doors were still closed, and that the sanctity of their space had not been disturbed. A dream. Heck, a nightmare from the way she was thrashing around.<br /><br />Her ragged breath and tremors gradually subsided and she relaxed into his chest. He could feel her heart pounding against his ribs and her breath was fogging up his collarbone.<br /><br />“Melinda, what the heck was that?” he asked.<br /><br />“I don’t really know, a nightmare I guess. But I am so glad you’re here! I thought you went to Uvalde to hunt.”<br /><br />“Tomorrow night”, he grinned. “And for the record, your bad dream was so bad, it scared the puddin’ out of me!”<br /><br />She finally allowed herself the luxury of a giggle and a deep breath. At that moment, a huge dark form leapt up on the bed between them and came right for her face. With a shriek, she threw her arms out in front of her in defense. She was met with a solid, furry, tongue-slinging Albert. When she cracked him on the side of the skull in the fray, he let out a little yelp, and she realized that she was not about to die. She and Jeff broke into nervous laughter.<br /><br />After a while, they settled back into the bed to try to finish the next few hours of sleep that they were allotted. As she heard Jeff sigh, she echoed the punctuation to the crazy episode.<br /><br />As she drifted off to sleep, she heard a soft scratching sound. “Jeff, what’s that?” she said coming wide-awake.<br /><br />“Aah, just a roach in that bag of pictures, go to sleep.”aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-77375991493765212892010-10-12T14:06:00.006-07:002010-10-12T14:21:33.907-07:00You Can't Beat the Classics<p>My youngest and I have a lot of things in common. We both like guns. Shooting them, looking at them, talking about them, etc. We also both have a liking for Jalapeño Cheddar Cheetos. They taste just like regular Cheetos, but with jalapeñoz in them. Like the real pepper. They taste green and everything. An exciting treat, with a cumulative heat that <i>only just</i> makes your nose run.<br /><br />SO, what could be better than blending these two endearing entities?<br /><br />Right. <i>Nearly nothing</i>. <br /><br />Imagine my joy and surprise when eating my lunch today, which included as a side Jalapeño Cheddar Cheetos, when the last remnant of the unnaturally orange snack was in the distinct shape of one of my favorite things. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal-Elkid_ukf0GRmjJ__VCFy0q1suoC8G-7wFk4i0sKoizw3Rg4nlhjtNxv6kqh_NcokIvvoZGjt_oQg6m45FDRFq1dg__vB2DpvYMZGjwvbcrBSRtY9QASSfj_tk4wAJV2D0/s1600/ADS_SAAColt.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 141px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal-Elkid_ukf0GRmjJ__VCFy0q1suoC8G-7wFk4i0sKoizw3Rg4nlhjtNxv6kqh_NcokIvvoZGjt_oQg6m45FDRFq1dg__vB2DpvYMZGjwvbcrBSRtY9QASSfj_tk4wAJV2D0/s320/ADS_SAAColt.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527271118459989682" /></a><br />There was a tiny, spicy, cheesy Single Action Colt “Peacemaker”! See the similarity? <i>I knew you would</i>. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdIKqNcASnETU8rFB-H_GRvnPTo17khZNBLayeZ2fW0jL-Ej4dizRnV6TE4D2fP46jGrRSgCb0qpkyd0rgisVUBmz84DwwEoMmops6wEqNex88r_eNU_QHFUq2h38aCcSkDUt2/s1600/ADS-SAA-real.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdIKqNcASnETU8rFB-H_GRvnPTo17khZNBLayeZ2fW0jL-Ej4dizRnV6TE4D2fP46jGrRSgCb0qpkyd0rgisVUBmz84DwwEoMmops6wEqNex88r_eNU_QHFUq2h38aCcSkDUt2/s320/ADS-SAA-real.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527271429040805442" /></a><br /><br />On second thought, it could also be mistaken for a Ruger Vaquero, but it’s <i>my</i> snack and I see what <i>I</i> want to see.<br /><br />When my little gal came in from school, I was eager to show her my new find. She has been kinda under the weather lately, and kinda aching to go shooting, and her little face brightened up like, well, like mine did!<br /><br />I don’t know yet how or where I’ll save it, but I am determined to pass it and my 1911 nearly-Government model .45 down to my grandchildren.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-53775943539356407012010-08-16T21:25:00.013-07:002010-08-16T22:45:33.818-07:00The Gift of Texas Music<br>Saturday night I had the distinct pleasure to see a musician that I have followed for (rough calculation:) 28 years. <a href="http://www.shakerussell.com/">Shake Russell</a> is his name and he is known as the Texas Troubadour. Listening to him in concert with his Huge Little Band; Doug Floyd and Mike Roberts, touched the yearning I have had for about five or six years to hear <i>real</i> people playing <i>real</i> music on <i>real</i> instruments with <i>real</i> lyrics they wrote their own selves. These guys did not disappoint.<br /><br />I’ll back up a bit and tell you the first time I was introduced to this brilliant songwriter’s work. I was in my second year of college, and a girl brought her guitar to an art class (why, I don’t know, perhaps just to show off) and while we were waiting to get into the drawing lab, she got out her guitar and sang a song, “Deep in the West”. Wow, there were profound lyrics, telling a sad story of a relationship that just isn’t working so well. <i>She couldn’t have written that song</i>. Turns out, I was right. I pried it out of her; some guy in Houston named Shake Russell.<br /><br />A couple of years later, a roommate from Kentucky of all places introduced me to Shake’s voice and other songs. Along with Dana Cooper, they made music that got me through the early eighties. So many great memories are brought up when I hear that familiar voice.<br /><br />Back to Saturday night; my sister and our friend picked me up and we made the trip to Galveston, anticipating the evening. They had both heard him before in Wimberley at the Cypress Creek Cafe. When we arrived at the venue, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpHYTtraYauWiMy67Y0OZp6_cZIN-UbPpJawx7yQdjzp5JC8tMZkWxboEd0PHeY_1ePn0IRlHfqd2AeB-Sq3rtZ-JIRatyrWW6jvEXtBAqXIOjrt8jKVIf4unMhGza5zDOAigN/s1600/TexFlagdoorSmall.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpHYTtraYauWiMy67Y0OZp6_cZIN-UbPpJawx7yQdjzp5JC8tMZkWxboEd0PHeY_1ePn0IRlHfqd2AeB-Sq3rtZ-JIRatyrWW6jvEXtBAqXIOjrt8jKVIf4unMhGza5zDOAigN/s400/TexFlagdoorSmall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506235750458774754" /></a>The Old Quarter Acoustic Café, we were transported back to 1974. The dimly lit, 1890’s circa building was a study in 70’s retro. Posters on the walls, exposed brick, high ceiling fans and a neon armadillo are but a few of the notable features of this classic throwback setting. There was a wall dedicated to the memory and music of Townes Van Zandt, the Texas songwriter. The entire scene was small, only enough room for a small stage, an antique bar and a few bistro tables along with about 50 to 75 spots for people. My sister said she was waiting for the Fire Marshall to pay a visit at any minute. Everywhere there was someplace to plug something in, there were several things plugged into it.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYTatIYhVjHdKCyBV-sKidUIfAnbUDG_sYLVMxj2m_CQ4HOX_81ElgurPajykaj0NnhV-Fdz0dJZe9JkgsPWpFs_uQNhnySyHxjqIzJFAuNWWgtrsJvgslg0p8XLLWxcRaYTZ/s1600/Shake_Joanna.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYTatIYhVjHdKCyBV-sKidUIfAnbUDG_sYLVMxj2m_CQ4HOX_81ElgurPajykaj0NnhV-Fdz0dJZe9JkgsPWpFs_uQNhnySyHxjqIzJFAuNWWgtrsJvgslg0p8XLLWxcRaYTZ/s320/Shake_Joanna.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506238394266334194" /></a><br />As the warm-up act, Joanna Gipson, sang, played harmonica and played her own music on her guitar, I began getting that old feeling of being in the presence of creativity and craftsmanship. Her personal anecdotes between songs, were delivered in a relaxed, semi-hippie style. <br /><br />When the Shake Russell Trio took the stage, not 15 feet away from me, the ache to hear great live music was quelled. Just three guys with the instruments they love. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghlJ0F4zlzhEjteJGpeVMmRqC7mSqXC47_0b1Y4d-tkjAeYfBjbwhxAkuHLCzjR6RHXyvqqrCSfhabYlc7PoTsJX8IrSbX7ZEJXgWBdHp75CBc4NKBmF6nC0JJNLTmkB8s4qkQ/s1600/ShakeRussellTrio.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghlJ0F4zlzhEjteJGpeVMmRqC7mSqXC47_0b1Y4d-tkjAeYfBjbwhxAkuHLCzjR6RHXyvqqrCSfhabYlc7PoTsJX8IrSbX7ZEJXgWBdHp75CBc4NKBmF6nC0JJNLTmkB8s4qkQ/s320/ShakeRussellTrio.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506238754568045954" /></a>The first song he did was “You’ve Got a Lover” which is the second song I had ever heard of his, the first one I heard him sing. The skill with which he played that black Ovation guitar, upside down, the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjvqJu1lwTCLlQxNLGtoM-GIwYmD2DeFxQg-hqx2dGtT7vdwOub3FN-WaFndt4bcJWKZh_8K9CHerptu4o9ueKVhyphenhyphenBCW5adUOazmZOJYjF6zQHOtQr7D3aC9QAc7nHBXkGs3E-/s1600/Shake+Russell+grins.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjvqJu1lwTCLlQxNLGtoM-GIwYmD2DeFxQg-hqx2dGtT7vdwOub3FN-WaFndt4bcJWKZh_8K9CHerptu4o9ueKVhyphenhyphenBCW5adUOazmZOJYjF6zQHOtQr7D3aC9QAc7nHBXkGs3E-/s320/Shake+Russell+grins.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506239341228815378" /></a>way Doug’s mandolin and Mike’s bass filled up the sound was just the medicine I needed. The whole night was so enjoyable. Shake’s thanks for our applause at the end of each song seemed genuine and heartfelt. As one reviewer, Bruce Bryant, an independent film producer in Houston put it; <i>“Shake’s music walks right up to you, says howdy and gives you a big hug. His tunes make you happy or sad or thoughtful, but above all - they make you feel. Nobody writes a better love song. I’ve been a huge fan for decades…”</i>. This is an apt description of the prevailing spirit of the night.<br /><br />At one point in the concert, toward the end of the first set, Shake was tuning his guitar for the 10th time, and he happened to look out the plate glass window at about three-quarters to the back of the stage. Outside on the sidewalk, he spied a ghost from the musical past. He motioned to the figure outside to come on in. It was an Elvis impersonator, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLD4DV1c1BlUCIsmvphPFw0zXH8t6vf3ta28B5eiMfbBqY5TMmJZKIAqUC1R8HwWxg99YzAHeC-4c1qNA381MHiJUY9s2MRP7BQgrH-LgxAeGwouPwamNKd1_X1TWPpCI56RRl/s1600/Shake+and+Elvis.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLD4DV1c1BlUCIsmvphPFw0zXH8t6vf3ta28B5eiMfbBqY5TMmJZKIAqUC1R8HwWxg99YzAHeC-4c1qNA381MHiJUY9s2MRP7BQgrH-LgxAeGwouPwamNKd1_X1TWPpCI56RRl/s320/Shake+and+Elvis.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506239609125312626" /></a>in full white jumpsuit, black wig and chrome sunglasses. Shake offered to do a duet of “Viva Las Vegas”, but the King just waved and yukked it up for a couple of seconds, then left as quickly as he had arrived. Of course, when the door closed, Shake lowered his voice into the mike and intoned, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis has left the building…” to an appreciative audience who recognized that it was a clean shot and he took it. Some straight lines you can wait your whole life for. <br /><br />His songs and stories touch all of his fans in a special way, his warm, friendly vocals lead the listener to hear and feel the lyrics. For my parents’ 50th anniversary, I did a little video with old pictures and a corny narrative, and at the end used Shake’s classic song, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sb-O0DnRJvA">“Two Silver Hearts”</a>*. Through the entire project, when the song came up, I was close to tears every time. The story he tells is one of enduring love and simple contentment. <br /><br />If ever you get a chance to see him live in concert, please capitalize on the opportunity, you will be delighted as I was, and who knows, you too may become a fan for the next “28 years”!<br /><br />*I have no idea what some of these images have to do with the song, but the recording is the original that I heard so many years ago.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-19838948918798367882010-08-14T14:49:00.002-07:002010-08-14T15:01:00.395-07:00Yet Another Reason I Like AlvinIn today’s world, people are in their own little world, not wanting to be bothered by anyone else’s problems. When they <i>want</i> to be bothered, they listen to the news and blame <i>themselves</i> for their success, or the “global climate change” or BP’s misfortune in the Gulf and the “evils” of using petroleum to power society. <br /><br />Today after a pilgrimage to WallyWorld for some new socks and stuff, I swung by the Dollar Tree store to see if they had anything I needed. Not really seeing anything I couldn’t do without, I made a cheerful exit.<br /><br />There was a Chrysler parked in the space right in front of the door, and there was a black woman in her mid-30’s with a daughter and they looked ready to go. The only problem was, there was only a lonesome “click” coming from under the hood. As I passed, she hailed me and asked if it sounded like her battery was dead. I told her to give the starter another whirl, and it clicked and turned over, anemically, and then nothing.<br /><br /><i>Great.</i><br /><br />I told her I didn’t have any jumper cables and inquired if there were anyone she could call. Her reply was that she had just moved here from Sweeny and had no one in the area. Dang. “Hang on, ma’am, I’ll see if there is anyone in the store that had cables.” “Oh, thank you!” she sang. I had noticed that there was an empty space next to her.<br /><br />I went in, scanning the aisles for a likely candidate to help. Down the birthday card aisle, I spied a guy that had pulled up in a truck about three minutes earlier. “’Scuse me, there’s a lady stranded out front here and I was wondering if you had any jumper cables…” “Yeah, I do.” He said, and immediately and without reservation put the card down he was looking at and proceeded to the parking lot.<br /><br />We went outside and there was a big Mercury parked in the space next to her. After asking him if we could use his battery to try and get her going on her way (to a birthday party for her daughter’s friend), we hooked ‘em up and waited for a bit. All the while, the original good Samaritan stood by and continued to assess and diagnose. The Merc had a loose terminal and we decided to try the original guy’s truck.<br /><br />After no less than 20 minutes, we concluded that the starter must be on vacation at the very least. We pushed her car out to the lot where our hero attached his truck to her Sebring and proceeded down the road to her nearby apartment, with his young step-grandson driving the disabled auto.<br /><br />To make a long, very hot and sweaty story short, I am impressed by the kindness and willingness to help a stranger in a new town, and I hope you guys are inspired as well. Watching the guy lay on the searing pavement to hook a tow chain to the disabled vehicle, and feeling the heat on my hands and knees as I searched for a tow hook as well, my belief was reinforced that small-town America is not gone forever. And our Alvin is still populated with enough country boys that will give of their own time and knowledge to help them that need it.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-25636896889435923352010-07-13T14:49:00.005-07:002010-07-13T15:31:27.392-07:00Summer Has Arrived, Finally<p><br />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 <i>“freestone peaches”</i> notice is the one that got my attention. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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, <i>maybe the moon</i>. I had to cover these up over here so nobody would know they’re moon peaches”. <br /><br />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. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjO4XByvMczz_uECbp6jOQ3xft5t0_05vg1NvJXDhdBTG5FUUS02V2LRdMjmb0AkU0q_-Wz9CM8hbtPA9dYOMb7gsbKu-bDscJBbQnnuzsThgKm-Bsa7y_hLs9U5MwoCOS3Rd/s1600/BestPeach.jpg"><img style="float:center; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjO4XByvMczz_uECbp6jOQ3xft5t0_05vg1NvJXDhdBTG5FUUS02V2LRdMjmb0AkU0q_-Wz9CM8hbtPA9dYOMb7gsbKu-bDscJBbQnnuzsThgKm-Bsa7y_hLs9U5MwoCOS3Rd/s400/BestPeach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493511618693622898" /></a><br /><br />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 <a href="http://geezerchronicles.blogspot.com/2009/09/just-peachy.html">taste and aroma</a> took me back many years to my younger days. <br /><br />That’s summertime, folks.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-26565450708433270292010-07-09T08:31:00.012-07:002010-07-10T07:35:15.832-07:00News From the Front<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGZTUkiLyv4YGv7H3egj5LJ54Zj1vTG_R0HtaEC568CQvDvwlKyWecc8Y5J8fgTKaAOMNkfgXZCP0UdYMd_YdyrgVFuU6z2xuXwGHOYjSixuGteCbQ7Xtbkzf4ySc40ePVngr/s1600/Evil-Flying-Roach.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 253px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGZTUkiLyv4YGv7H3egj5LJ54Zj1vTG_R0HtaEC568CQvDvwlKyWecc8Y5J8fgTKaAOMNkfgXZCP0UdYMd_YdyrgVFuU6z2xuXwGHOYjSixuGteCbQ7Xtbkzf4ySc40ePVngr/s400/Evil-Flying-Roach.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492115895883610498" /></a><br /><br />We have a new breed of <a href="http://geezerchronicles.blogspot.com/2009/09/la-cucaracha-essay-with-passion.html">roaches</a> visiting us lately. It’s not that we have a roach problem, mind you. I mean <i>EVERYBODY</i> 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 <i>have</i> sprayed the boundary, they’re likely in bad shape. On one of their last six legs. <br /><br />ANYhow, this new strain of visitors; they walk really high <i>and they fly</i>. They all seem to be young, strong braves, in really good health despite the poison I kindly leave for them. <br /><br /><i><b>Did I mention that they fly?</b></i> <i>Shudder</i>. 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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />So the fight continues; this battle won, the rest of my life to press on in the war on roaches.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-41636503941717829222010-07-01T16:50:00.004-07:002010-07-01T16:55:49.823-07:00Too Good Not to ShareI know I have not been posting lately, and many of you have stopped coming by. That makes me ashamed. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />But I found this accidentally, and it's a scream. I haven't seen it on TV yet, but can't wait to.<br /><br />Sorry for the drought, but it has been raining all week here, and perhaps an idea will sprout.<br /><br /><object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/APwfZYO1di4&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/APwfZYO1di4&hl=en_US&fs=1?rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object>aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-1666850014368667582010-06-06T22:22:00.003-07:002010-06-06T22:32:01.108-07:00Fishing ReportThere is nothing to report. <br /><br />I went to my <i>especiale</i> fishing spot Sunday afternoon. Hot, humid and windy. But not <i>too</i> windy, mind you. The first thing that I couldn’t help noticing was the bright yellow pipe gate with the “No trespassing…DANGER” sign posted in two places on it. I had seen the gate, but the sign was new. Had they added some tigers since last summer? Some nuclear waste? Unrepentant psychopathic fashion designers?<br /><br />Well, after I trespassed, I didn’t see any of the above hazards, so I proceeded up the road and over the levee. The time was around 5:30 p.m. and the wind was out of the South at approximately 6 miles per hour, but steady. One of the first things I noticed was that they (the ever-guilty “they”) had cut down all of the small trees at the edge of the water. I actually had to think about where to get in the water. Very disconcerting.<br /><br />The rest of the evening was spent with me plying the waters for my quarry of choice, the venerable <i>Sciaenops ocellatus</i>; the venerable red drum. Suffice to say, from the opening line, there was no danger of catching reds that evening. But I was outside, in very warm water up to my knees and at times to the middle of my thigh, and the birds and the sea breeze and sunset calmed my soul. <br /><br />As I trudged back to the car via the levee, I paused to scan the bayou yet again. I saw a group of seagulls working a small area about 250 yards away. From experience, I knew that there was a group of trout or redfish dining on baitfish or shrimp at that location, and the birds were there to clean up the table with a lot of noise. I also noticed a couple of guys in a jon boat just about 50 yards from where this was all happening. I stared in wonder as the pair just sat there, never moving any closer to the action. Incredulous, I sent them messages telepathically, <i>“Cast into the birds, get closer, cast to the birds, get closer…”</i>, yet there they sat. Had I had wings or a kayak, I would have moved over there so fast, the boat sitters would have been embarrassed. <br /><br />But I can neither fly or paddle a kayak that I don’t own, so I watched for a bit, then trudged back through the humid wind to my little car. <br /><br />Maybe the redfish were aware of the “DANGER” as posted on the sign. I certainly left them safe. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5JMhSACYrmXm7meQ4SjhSUMaKFKX6PbmNdi22UrAUgRAfKUZYMhZmyPC-Ezr13U9IXJeE5nwAUInfXnLVMa09Eb_vy1S7VE5FtP654erCSsZem6m7D17xpaPH-SSLpqx9xZ5/s1600/two+reds.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5JMhSACYrmXm7meQ4SjhSUMaKFKX6PbmNdi22UrAUgRAfKUZYMhZmyPC-Ezr13U9IXJeE5nwAUInfXnLVMa09Eb_vy1S7VE5FtP654erCSsZem6m7D17xpaPH-SSLpqx9xZ5/s320/two+reds.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479900031234684146" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The picture is of the fish I never caught. These are from last year, but their relatives are <i>not</i> in the freezer right now.</span>aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-42206235352165166772010-05-29T11:11:00.002-07:002010-05-29T11:13:51.246-07:00New Post brewing in my brainThis is just a "placeholder" for the future post about my eating the last few blackberries left on the vine yesterday.<br /><br />Now I have committed, and risk internet shames if I don't follow through.<br /><br />Stay tuned.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkhzeQ8u2Vzypv-hjI5NN0i6dXHkRY0gulH-LtJTott9e7Q63l71U0h92FjQ-Vcc1QdaLq_gpjpljHX-TefD1NvZV6GneZn8f0SdriH3EyOSxWIO7r_l3TJq_gY0tdY4hdM577/s1600/Blackberries.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 74px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkhzeQ8u2Vzypv-hjI5NN0i6dXHkRY0gulH-LtJTott9e7Q63l71U0h92FjQ-Vcc1QdaLq_gpjpljHX-TefD1NvZV6GneZn8f0SdriH3EyOSxWIO7r_l3TJq_gY0tdY4hdM577/s320/Blackberries.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476756818417522082" /></a>aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-85899177094259776702010-05-29T08:16:00.004-07:002010-05-29T08:46:40.697-07:00NOtice<br>Yeah, everybody thought that I forgot how to do this, right? Sorry.<br /><br />I have a notification, which, if my current rate of postings remains at <i>status quo</i>, will be irrelevant.<br /><br />Due to the steady and growing number of stupid "bots" posting comments for all manner of inappropriate links, I have instituted the "must type in nearly unintelligible word" feature/requirement on the "comments" section.<br /><br />Yes, it's an irritation. Yes, I resisted for several years, but when the only comments I get are for <i>nothing</i>, I must do something.<br /><br />Again, I apologize for the inconvenience, and am really irritated at Al Gore right now for inventing the internet nerd.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbBfcMMcWX5CYv8QRQDHGsUeFFD7cfhrNc75v3mvLuLyJaHG3GhocLCZhhJNNo6ATNlHELgOEsijBqYsGmeVevtisAA-BOVleW90y8-LG0blllPLGNKxS3AC1qczvqaT3HVcGO/s1600/Aggravated.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 142px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbBfcMMcWX5CYv8QRQDHGsUeFFD7cfhrNc75v3mvLuLyJaHG3GhocLCZhhJNNo6ATNlHELgOEsijBqYsGmeVevtisAA-BOVleW90y8-LG0blllPLGNKxS3AC1qczvqaT3HVcGO/s200/Aggravated.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476715333084264258" /></a>aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-16912271711212317502010-05-02T19:32:00.004-07:002010-05-02T19:39:44.261-07:00Diner Bites BackI have always wondered about the origin of names of some of the restaurants that serve us our non-home food. <br /><br />Like how is a taco associated with a bell? Who <i>IS</i> this Applebee? I have eaten at the Flying Dutchman restaurant, and it is nothing like the Pirates of the Caribbean portray; quite good actually, and not at all like a sailor’s purgatory. But then again, <i>I didn’t visit the kitchen.</i><br /><br />Then we have the restaurants with a name and a rank in the trademark. For example, “Captain D’s”. Not Long John Silver (he was a nasty character, but does seafood OK) or Colonel Sanders. What could the “D” stand for?<br /><br />Recently I got an impression of the origin of the nomenclature of Captain D’s and have narrowed it down to two possibilities.<br /><br />Disappointing and Disgusting. <br /><br />I was a bit put off when I went inside and smelled the old grease clinging to the thick enamel paint. That was my first opportunity to bolt. Then the guy behind the counter popped up with a long, LONG beard, and no hair net. I know he was just taking money and was separated from the food by about four feet and a partial wall, but it just looked unsanitary. So sue me. Second opportunity to flee.<br /><br />I ordered the crab cake and fish. Looked good on the menu sign, but then corporate always does a great job in getting appetizing photos of their offerings. The price was a bit on the steep side, I thought, but what the hey, it’s crab.<br /><br />After being assured that they would bring my food to me, I went into the stale dining quarters and tried to find a comfortable place to sit on the shop-project wood benches. The sparsely populated picnic area should have been my next clue. <br /><br />When the girl brought my food, my initial reaction was that there was an ample amount on the plate. Little did I know the pandora’s box that would open when I tried to take a bite. There were a couple of big pieces of fish, but on closer inspection, they all seemed to be fried a little too aggressively. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyScr7EDQY5NugPPogfw61bQ-jIfIrKO5qSSDUZNtr8X-d9G6dcXp0BEOwtd3R8E2SRBhNbPtn5_9OQv6Yu_0ePVPE1Ss-dzHqNLKCxXZQliriIEVmlTMDyR2gOKigQ_ctnp_A/s1600/fried-fish1+copy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 152px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyScr7EDQY5NugPPogfw61bQ-jIfIrKO5qSSDUZNtr8X-d9G6dcXp0BEOwtd3R8E2SRBhNbPtn5_9OQv6Yu_0ePVPE1Ss-dzHqNLKCxXZQliriIEVmlTMDyR2gOKigQ_ctnp_A/s200/fried-fish1+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466867615304858242" /></a><br />When I bit into one, the discovery was that the fish was just overcooked to death. Absolutely to death. Tough. Dry. Alligator is kinda what it reminded me of. And the outside was reminiscent of the outside of a gator. <br /><br />Aside from being overly dry, the fish looked to be double battered, with large “airspace” gaps in between, so as to give the overall volume a visual boost, without adding to the cost in actual fish. <br /><br />OK, the fish left something (substantial) to be desired, but there was a crab cake, too. Unfortunately, it was so overcooked and dark, it looked like an igneous rock. Kinda tasted like one, too. If you can imagine a rock with crab flavoring.<br /><br />So, for nearly ten dollars, you can go to Captain D’s and get the experience of a lifetime, hopefully not to be repeated. You can draw your own conclusions as to what the “D” stands for.<br /><br />Oh yeah, you can get a blog posting out of it, too.aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32537618.post-88775350264172181882010-04-28T08:17:00.006-07:002010-04-29T16:23:46.484-07:00Fresh Wordy Guy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwSCXJ2ueMX8-z8fhdC0jHwYTVuwDRzN3zncwWvT819nYhpufmOU4gokFJMO_p1gaf_prJioiGHQovGqwhyFv8zmpcOXjWntWt_vke8_53fBPdCUif8yToT36YwE4tf4cvGoa/s1600-h/Rob+Car.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwSCXJ2ueMX8-z8fhdC0jHwYTVuwDRzN3zncwWvT819nYhpufmOU4gokFJMO_p1gaf_prJioiGHQovGqwhyFv8zmpcOXjWntWt_vke8_53fBPdCUif8yToT36YwE4tf4cvGoa/s320/Rob+Car.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111962625620379826" border="0" /></a><br><br />Yes, I know it's been nearly 2 months since I posted anything on this rusty old blog. And I know that the last one before the <i>last</i> one was a Wordy Guy, but hey, what are wordy guys for but to give you a little vocabularial help when you need it, right? <br /><br />Of course. And Mr. V is <i>the</i> Wordy Guy. So this is his latest. <br /><br /><b>Cloche</b><br />A. A woman's large handbag, popular during the late 1800s<br /><b><i>B. A woman's close-fitting, bell-shaped hat</i></b><br />C. A woman's bell-shaped dress, popular during the late 1800s<br /><br />NO CHEATING. NO CONSULTING ANY BOOKS (ONLINE OR OTHERWISE). JUST MAN-UP AND TAKE A GUESS. (the all caps is directly from Mr. V himself, so watch it!)<br /><br />As always, this is only for fun; no prizes will be awarded, and please, no wagering.<br /><br /><b>*UPDATE*</b><br /><br />The show is over folks, WE HAVE A WINNER! Hats off to the coincidentally chapeau-centric CACTUS, for being full to the brim with a knowledge of millinery. Yes, she wins the crown for this round of Wordy Guy. It is the hat. <br /><br />Stepsistah can put a feather in her cap for being quick on the trigger, just not as quick as Cactus.<br /><br />Innominatus filled the niche that geezers fill; being fiscally "responsible" (read: cheap) and full of <i>pun</i>ishment. <br /><br />Thanks for the three of you playing Wordy Guy, and I hope that more of you readers cross the line from spectator to combatant soon!aAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02781609606261382365noreply@blogger.com3