Geezer Chronicles

Halloween Funny

2011-10-31T09:09:00.006-07:00

I 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.

Enjoy the little animation.

:)

Mosquitoes: The Return

2011-10-21T20:28:00.007-07:00

This summer was a relatively “mosquito-free” 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Upon arriving home, I found the fresh propane bottle and applied it to my intrepid fogger. 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.

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.

Hummingbirds Revealed

2011-10-08T06:27:00.006-07:00

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.

My middle daughter can attest to the astonishment of having a feathered projectile zip seven inches past your head.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

When my oldest daughter was two or three, she would correct anyone using the proper terminology, “hummingbird”, by saying sternly, “HONEYbird”…
She was wrong on a couple of different levels. DEVILbird would be more accurate.

Revisited: You Are What You Eat

2011-08-25T10:34:00.002-07:00

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...

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.

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...

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.

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.

Below is the entire poem, finally.

Methuselah

Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
And never, as people do now,
Did he note the amount of the calorie count;
He ate it because it was chow.

He wasn’t disturbed as at dinner he sat,
Devouring a roast or a pie,
To think it was lacking in granular fat,
Or a couple of vitamins shy.

He cheerfully chewed each species of food,
Unmindful of troubles or fears
Lest his health might be hurt
By some fancy dessert;
And he lived over nine hundred years.

--Unknown

The book carries a 1936 copyright, and my mother gave it to her father for Christmas, inscribed:
“Merry Christmas
To Daddyboy
From Lila” (with a little circle dotting the “I”)

My sister and I agreed to share the book back and forth to read all of those old poems again.

I'll likely eat some ice cream while doing so.

I am TRULY aAshamed!

2011-08-13T22:01:00.002-07:00

Yep. It's been since MAY 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.

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.

My apologies to you all haha.

Mystical Cat: Indeed

2011-05-02T11:24:00.004-07:00

Apparently this "mystical cat" has been misrepresenting himself. You decide.

OMG, the Geezer LIVES!

2011-04-20T08:01:00.012-07:00

Yes, it's true...Saints be praised!

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 webwide world. I was just sitting with my jaw hanging slack with a flatline brainwave.

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.

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 and his Dad in Heaven.

So forgive me, and rejoice that I have almost returned to the GeezerChron.

Snow Day Delivered

2011-02-04T08:11:00.006-08:00

Sort of.

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.

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 real winter.

Fine.

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.”

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.

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.

The super-trustworthy guardians 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.

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. 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.

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.

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”.

The Wedding of the Century

2011-01-27T22:39:00.016-08:00

Part the Third: The End of the Beginning and the Beginning of a New Experience, and Finally the End of this Story
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.

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.

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 Jonathan Edwards 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.

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. 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. 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 “You stink” 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. Sorry about your ribs, darlin’!

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!

At some point, I forget the exact chronology, the cakes were cut
and toasts were toasted 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.

After a few more hours of mingling and watching people dance, 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.

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.

And that’s what a geezer lives for.

The Wedding of the Century

2011-01-26T20:36:00.010-08:00

Part the Second: The Longest Aisle
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., 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. For some reason, my eyes stopped focusing clearly again for a little bit. I need to get these glasses checked.

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 Lone Star Photography. 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.

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. My brand new black belt was in the drawer in the hotel room, 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.

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.

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 thinkin’ about it…” as I slid sideways into the men’s room. The time was approximately 3:42:17 p.m..

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.

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.

I caught my breath. Oh. My. Gosh. This was it, and that was her. 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, “You stink.”

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. 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, “Her mother and 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.

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.

As the shots were being made, Roy asked if I had any ideas, since we have shot several weddings together. “Nope, you’re doing great!” was my reply. 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.

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. Just Dad. 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.

That was not on my list of things to do.

The Wedding of the Century

2011-01-25T22:21:00.006-08:00

Part the First: Ready, Set...,
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.

Let me back up for a bit. My girl met him at school a couple of years ago. 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.

A woman (women) with a wedding in her (their) 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 it is not to start an argument about what is important in a wedding.

We caravanned up to New Braunfels in the Silver Bullet from Hades and Katie’s Saturn 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.

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.

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.

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 my face was shaved, since once again, I was the only male in my clan.

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. Lots of nice woodwork, too.

The pastor gathered us all together in the sanctuary and began to instruct us in the finer points of getting through a wedding. 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…

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 second before the big moment…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. OH NO, she’s gonna cry! 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.

Great.

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.

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.

Back to the hotel to ready ourselves for the biggest day of our lives, so far.

Hold On, Kids!

2011-01-21T22:10:00.001-08:00

For the two of you who care, I have a post in the works about my oldest daughter's recent nuptials.

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.

So hang on, I promise it's coming.

Texas Preparation

2010-12-14T22:08:00.003-08:00

This is an email that I got from my Uncle Bob, whom I learnt some good geezerin' from.

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.

"Okay, Mr. Smith," the cop says, "I see your CHL permit. Are you carrying today?"

"Yes, I am."

"Well then, better tell me what you got."

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."

"Okay," the cop says. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, back in the trunk, there's an AR15 and a shotgun. That's about it."

"Mr. Smith, are you on your way to or from a gun range...?"

"Nope."

"Well then, what are you afraid of...?"

"Not a dang thing..."

Somewhat Scary Story

2010-10-30T21:01:00.004-07:00

Since 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.

It’s in the Bag

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.

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.

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.

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, who was the nut, now? 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.

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.

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.

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? WHAT’S WRONG!

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.

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.

“Melinda, what the heck was that?” he asked.

“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.”

“Tomorrow night”, he grinned. “And for the record, your bad dream was so bad, it scared the puddin’ out of me!”

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.

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.

As she drifted off to sleep, she heard a soft scratching sound. “Jeff, what’s that?” she said coming wide-awake.

“Aah, just a roach in that bag of pictures, go to sleep.”

You Can't Beat the Classics

2010-10-12T14:06:00.006-07:00

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 only just makes your nose run.

SO, what could be better than blending these two endearing entities?

Right. Nearly nothing.

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.

There was a tiny, spicy, cheesy Single Action Colt “Peacemaker”! See the similarity? I knew you would.

On second thought, it could also be mistaken for a Ruger Vaquero, but it’s my snack and I see what I want to see.

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!

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.

The Gift of Texas Music

2010-08-16T21:25:00.013-07:00

Saturday night I had the distinct pleasure to see a musician that I have followed for (rough calculation:) 28 years. Shake Russell 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 real people playing real music on real instruments with real lyrics they wrote their own selves. These guys did not disappoint.

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. She couldn’t have written that song. Turns out, I was right. I pried it out of her; some guy in Houston named Shake Russell.

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.

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, 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.

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.

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. 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 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; “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…”. This is an apt description of the prevailing spirit of the night.

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, 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.

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, “Two Silver Hearts”*. 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.

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”!

*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.

Yet Another Reason I Like Alvin

2010-08-14T14:49:00.002-07:00

In today’s world, people are in their own little world, not wanting to be bothered by anyone else’s problems. When they want to be bothered, they listen to the news and blame themselves for their success, or the “global climate change” or BP’s misfortune in the Gulf and the “evils” of using petroleum to power society.

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.

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.

Great.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Summer Has Arrived, Finally

2010-07-13T14:49:00.005-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s summertime, folks.

News From the Front

2010-07-09T08:31:00.012-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too Good Not to Share

2010-07-01T16:50:00.004-07:00

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

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

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

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

Fishing Report

2010-06-06T22:22:00.003-07:00

There is nothing to report.

I went to my especiale fishing spot Sunday afternoon. Hot, humid and windy. But not too 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?

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.

The rest of the evening was spent with me plying the waters for my quarry of choice, the venerable Sciaenops ocellatus; 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.

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, “Cast into the birds, get closer, cast to the birds, get closer…”, 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.

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.

Maybe the redfish were aware of the “DANGER” as posted on the sign. I certainly left them safe.

The picture is of the fish I never caught. These are from last year, but their relatives are not in the freezer right now.

New Post brewing in my brain

2010-05-29T11:11:00.002-07:00

This is just a "placeholder" for the future post about my eating the last few blackberries left on the vine yesterday.

Now I have committed, and risk internet shames if I don't follow through.

Stay tuned.

NOtice

2010-05-29T08:16:00.004-07:00

Yeah, everybody thought that I forgot how to do this, right? Sorry.

I have a notification, which, if my current rate of postings remains at status quo, will be irrelevant.

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.

Yes, it's an irritation. Yes, I resisted for several years, but when the only comments I get are for nothing, I must do something.

Again, I apologize for the inconvenience, and am really irritated at Al Gore right now for inventing the internet nerd.

Diner Bites Back

2010-05-02T19:32:00.004-07:00

I have always wondered about the origin of names of some of the restaurants that serve us our non-home food.

Like how is a taco associated with a bell? Who IS 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 didn’t visit the kitchen.

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?

Recently I got an impression of the origin of the nomenclature of Captain D’s and have narrowed it down to two possibilities.

Disappointing and Disgusting.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oh yeah, you can get a blog posting out of it, too.

Fresh Wordy Guy

2010-04-28T08:17:00.006-07:00

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 last 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?

Of course. And Mr. V is the Wordy Guy. So this is his latest.

Cloche
A. A woman's large handbag, popular during the late 1800s
B. A woman's close-fitting, bell-shaped hat
C. A woman's bell-shaped dress, popular during the late 1800s

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!)

As always, this is only for fun; no prizes will be awarded, and please, no wagering.

*UPDATE*

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.

Stepsistah can put a feather in her cap for being quick on the trigger, just not as quick as Cactus.

Innominatus filled the niche that geezers fill; being fiscally "responsible" (read: cheap) and full of punishment.

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!

Saturn: Out of This World, really.

2010-02-16T10:51:00.005-08:00

It was advertised as, “A new kind of car, a new kind of car company”, in the days of the launch of GM’s newest and now-defunct line of cars.

I'll say!

I think there are numerous reasons for the demise of this formerly-esteemed car company and their proffered products. Chief of these reasons is that in attempting to be innovative and different, they made “innovations” that made no “sense”.

The hallmark of this line is a confounding penchant for making things difficult or impossible to work on by the regular guy on the street.

Let me back up for a moment, if you will. Last January, we became the owners of a 2000 model Saturn LS whose primary driver would be our middle daughter. Seemed like a solid car, four-door, air conditioning, good tires and a CD player; the essentials for any young driver.

Not too long afterward, things started going wrong. Now, I know buying a used car, there is the inherent gamble that you are buying someone else’s problems and this was no different. Except that we soon found that Saturn means “special” when it comes to many of the parts and configurations. The engine, much like any other car maker’s offerings, is wedged in a space only an inch or two larger than the outside dimensions of the engine and associated exterior parts.

It started with an annoying habit of dying for no reason, leaving a 19 year-old girl stranded and scared. Tried the easiest approach first; took it to Uncle Russell. We were going to check the spark plug wires and all that stuff. Upon opening the hood, we found the plug wires leading into a vault of an engine cover with proprietary bolts and a maze of covering shrouds and shields preventing any entry by the unwashed masses. So we tried the ol’ fuel treatment, because the symptoms pointed to fuel supply, and because that was the cheapest test.

Purchased, poured, drove it, and it seemed like it was OK. For a day. I googled “Saturn troubles dying” in the meantime, and was met with an encyclopedic list of strange little problems that were apparently still unresolved with this car line. One thing that struck me in most of the comments posted in various places was the generally negative tone in which the company’s service departments were painted. Nobody would help.

Well, it turns out that it was some strange, expensive-but-simple sensor that registers transmission speed that apparently will not allow the car to run if the conditions are not precisely precise.

There were radiator problems and most lately the inevitable (105,000 miles) timing belt and associated kit of idlers and pulleys, which were compounded by the name “SATURN” stamped thereupon. At least the water pump was a regular Delco part.

Of course, there remains the suspense about when the next shoe is to drop.

The most recent example of Saturn’s nonsensical, unnecessarily complex design concept was evidenced when I had to remove a tire to repair a leak in the radial.

After removing the hubcap held in place by faux lug nuts, I found the real lug nuts. Fortunately (and surprisingly) they were not Torx or some other unusual interface; they were standard 19mm lug nuts. When I removed them, however, I saw the insanity perpetuated on the simple “holding-a-wheel-on-the-hub” model. These things were actual bolts that went through the wheel holes and threaded into the hub itself! Not the standard “nut-on-a-stud” system that has worked for a hundred years; these fools had designed a system where you have to hold the tire up, matching holes in the wheel to holes in the hub, and then you’re required to thread the lug/stud in through the one hole into the other. At night, this could easily be a two-man job; one to hold the light, and the other poor schmo that gets to lay on the deck and balance the whole thing up and juggle the luggle. I guess it could be expanded to a three-man job, if you include cussing the "designers" at GM.

I really don’t want my daughter to have to lay on the ground, inches from speeding traffic, to hold a full size tire up with one hand and fish for the proper hole alignment with the other, possibly in the dark, likely in the rain (when most flats happen for some reason).

This has me more worried than the next mechanical problem on the horizon, or outer space, which is where the Saturn belongs.

Wordy Guy!

2010-02-01T18:06:00.007-08:00

Yes, a new year, a new Wordy Guy! (...all the people said, "YaY!")

I think you'd know the rules by now, but I would be remiss if I were to not mention them: No cheating with your Wikipedia or your Google or your MrV Iconic Lexicon and Dictionary of Stumpers.

Also, no wagering; this is not a competition, it's only for fun. If there is any wagering, you will need to split winnings with Mr V and me.

Final answer

Umiak
A. a large boat made of skins
B. a large lodge used by Eskimos to conduct public meetings
C. a wild ox native to Nepal, close relative to a yak

Dammit Woman made the first correct guess, while Innominatus cared more about covering all bases in the most creative way. Both are winners in my book, and since it's my contest, I can say that. Congratulations to you both!

Vote Early, Vote Often

2010-01-20T15:30:00.004-08:00

Everyone knows that election time for any issue always means signs. Signs everywhere. Absolutely EVERYWHERE! The little bandit signs, some bigger plastic signs on wooden stakes, some others are big wooden ones on 4x4 pieces of lumber. So many signs, so worthless. And the worst part is that they have no commercial or entertainment value. It’s true; campaign signs are nowhere near the fun they were when I was in high school.

You may ask, “What made the signs so much fun in the 1970s?” To be more clear, the signs were not inherently fun. The fun came in the form of a large fellow we’ll call “Falcon” and a large Dodge in the form of a gold Polara.

My sister and I rode around with Falcon and his sister, in his 66 Falcon, in his dad’s ’69 GMC truck, and in the family 4-door Polara. Usually with him in the driver’s seat, me at shotgun, and my sister and his sister in the back barking instructions on which 8-track tape to insert next and which track to put it on. That was the arrangement in all of the vehicles, except for the truck. That was typically all of us crammed in the cab, with the one next to the driver ever vigilant of the driver’s elbow in motion shifting gears (3 on the tree).

Sometimes, it was just Falcon and me, flying down the road just behind the roaring Mopar powerplant, with his foot planted firmly on the accelerator. One night on the way to our house from one of our forays into the heart of Texas City, he took the exit to 25th Avenue where you can go right to 6th Street or left to our house on 25th. The intersection is “Y” shaped and a small gas station sat there in the center of the “Y”. On either side of the road, coming to a point, there was a small forest of cardboard signs on slender wooden stakes. They were about three feet apart and there were tons of them.

Falcon was inspired, I guess. He veered to the right just off the shell shoulder and started whacking the placards with the big, shiny chrome bumper of the Polara. The image of the signs appearing in the headlights, then instantly disappearing only to be replaced by fifteen others was hypnotic. The rhythm of those evenly spaced posters thumping on the car and the idea of what was happening to those eyesores was just so dang funny to us. He was laughing hysterically and I was looking backward through misty tears of uncontrollable mirth at the short stubs of pine.

This went on the entire election season, until it was unnecessary to replace the signs. They just kept springing up next the roads, and Falcon kept plowing them down, in an insane but hilarious cycle. Democracy and free speech in action.

In the area of election reform, Falcon has my vote.

Put a Lid On It

2010-01-18T09:41:00.008-08:00

The old saw about socks getting lost in the dryer seems to elicit universal laughs and nods of assent. Not from me, though.

Socks and dryers pose no problem for me, personally. I take precautions; I wash my own socks, thankyouverymuch. I know how many I put in, I take the same number out, and match them up as they exit the dryer. I don’t believe in the mythical “sixth dimension” that takes a sock from a pair into a parallel universe. Hokum and hogwash.

The problem I have found around our house is the one with storage containers, specifically the kind that we used to refer to as “Tupperware”. Of course, back in this geezer’s formative years, the procedure for the aforementioned socks: use it, wash it, store it, was the enforced standard for plastic storage containers. Tupperware was expensive stuff, and not to be treated casually; someone in the house had to go to a Tupperware Party and endure silly games and sales pitches to procure the gear. It wasn’t something you’d take to the back yard to wash the dog or dig a hole. Nope. The product was so good, so effective and so “everywhere”, the name has become synonymous with “resealable plastic containers”. Like Kleenex, Formica and Coke.

Which brings us to the present day. Now Glad and Ziploc, Rubbermaid and worthless knockoffs have three for three dollars in a pack, in just about any size you want. We have tons of them. Making salsa, dragging it to work, bringing extra food back from holiday feasts. Buying them specifically because we always need more. Heck, we also have the yogurt tubs, sour cream containers and sherbet receptacles.

And why would we need more? When nearly every lunchmeat package purchased has a free container around it? Of course, there is the inevitable explanation (that would never fly with real Tupperware) of leaving it at work after a successful lunch or two. Or that it just disappears somewhere. I have seen them with paint in them, out in the backyard with dirt in them, under beds in the girls’ rooms, and used as emergency travel food dishes for the puffy dogs.

Yet every time one of us ventures into the chamber of horrors that is the “tupperware” cabinet, there is a disparity between the number of containers and the number of lids. There are several brands and sizes, none of which are interchangeable. There are two brands, however, that are similar in size, and the lid from one can be forced upon the container of the other. Don’t try this at home, kids. The seal is unreliable at best, and dangerously flawed when bringing tortilla soup to a remote location. Chances are, the soup will end up on the floorboard of your car. I just know this stuff. Names and soups have been changed to protect the innocent.

No matter how many we have, the lid/box ratio is always unequal. When it is time to put the leftovers away, the unlucky person, usually me, gets to drop to their (my) knees, stand on their (my) head, and go through the process of dredging, matching and testing various vessels and lids for the magic combination. Usually the frustration and pain in their (my) knees drives them (me) to their (my) feet for another solution.

Fortunately, there is always a lid to be found for the resourceful. The ubiquitous roll of aluminum foil is the go-to hero of the food putter-upper. I like it because of the way you can roll it up really tight under the lip of the carton for a pretty good seal. And if you crimp it really tight, you can even stack them in the fridge. And when the enclosed food turns to fur, you can form the foil into interesting animal shapes to sell at garage sales.

Short of the old chain-the-pen-to-the-desk approach of attaching the lid to the container, I can only count on the classic “use, wash, store” line of attack to keep the equipment intact. But there are three other people in the house. And nobody has the commitment that the old Tupperware inspired for a geezer-in-training.

Love/Hate With the Shoes

2010-01-06T18:55:00.009-08:00

OK, I have on some shoes that are sock-eaters. I like the shoes, but the fact that they are drawing my socks down into their depths bothers me. New Balance 644. There, I said it. And most likely totally ruined any ad or endorsement deals for their otherwise fine footwear.

I have had New Balance shoes before, so this twist is new for the brand in my experience. It is by no means a new experience for me, who has been wearing shoes off and on for 50 years. There have been dress shoes (the blue ones)(so what, it was 1974, OK?), and some Converse knock offs, also from the 70s. There have been cowboy boots; I gave them to a Swiss guy over here as an exchange student, he was proud to have them. I had some motorcycle-type boots that were fine for a long time, but after a protracted time saturated with water, they developed and appetite. I theorize that the long term wetness and subsequent drying next to the water heater caused a mutation. I guess like boot-zombies. Come to think of it, that pair of moccasins that I wore outside in the rain turned hungry as well.

Top-siders get that way, too. While designed to be worn wet and sockless, my guess is that they have latent tendencies when pressed into duty as anything else.

The only thing more annoying, foot-wise, is the proverbial pebble in the shoe. After a short time walking, the sock is worked down toward the toe box of said shoe and balls up under the arch. The elastic is working down around the heel, stretching beyond what sock elastic was born to endure. Long enough exposure will reduce the socks to mere sacks that you put your feet in. Now these will pass on the curse to even your most well-behaved footwear. They head for the ball of your food without hesitation.

Anathema.

But I like these shoes, so I suppose I will either endure or resort to stapling my socks to my ankles. Cuz you know I'm too cheap to get new shoes.

First Geezer Act of 2010

2010-01-03T17:01:00.006-08:00

Since the beginning of this blog, I have been becoming aware of my geezer behaviors. Sometimes I can feel them coming on, sometimes they spring up from nowhere.

Yesterday, being the second day of the new year, I was eyewitness to my first official geezer activity of this 365 day period.

I was in K-Roger scamming the free wi-fi (in true geezer form, free wi-fi is the BEST), seated at one of the tiny bistro tables. There were about three other sets of surfers in the long, narrow venue, tending to their internet-based tasks. I noticed a group of three junior high-aged kids seated at the first table by the Starbuck’s storage cabinets. After I had logged in and well on my way to a good surf, I heard the unmistakable drumming of a pre-teen on the table to my left, the same kids by the cabinets, about ten feet away. Suppressing a strong urge to send a scowl their way, I calmed myself with the thought that perhaps he would tire of the drumming, as they usually do. Not so. The sound was pretty loud, too, I thought, loud enough to make me take my scowl off of “safety”. I was determined to wait the little nerd out.

The drumming continued with short respites in between which I began to pray for the short attention span to set in. He then began scraping his wooden chair backward on the terrazzo floor; “Skroooaawwwk, skroooaawwwk, skrawwk, skrawk…”, back toward the cabinets. Which he then began to drum upon. Same intensity as the table, except producing a different sound, which the astute young man noticed, “Hey it sounds different!” Genius. I was sure he was intentionally being annoying.

All this transpired with my eyes locked on to G-mail, my mind trying not to scream at my hands to throw a table at him. I happened a glance his way, because I could feel something about to happen; the drumming had ceased for a moment. I saw him open the cabinet and take a quick peek inside. The other little knotheads asked what was in there. “Raspberry flavoring, a lot of it!”, he said, grinning that goofy junior high I-just-found-something-interesting grin. He made a couple of quick looks back in and kinda laughed, “Ghyulk!”.

At this point, I had stopped pretending to work on the computer and just watched the little hammerhead. He proceeded.

“Hey, a bunch of little straws…” he snorked, pulling out a whole brick of the little stirring straws, thankfully wrapped in plastic. Putting them back, he found another doo-dad of interest. It was a little item, wrapped in a small plastic bag, and it was about the size of a key fob for your car remote. I have no idea what it was. He held it up with that same stupid grin, glancing back and forth between the thing and his little nerd buddies. Then he slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie.

At that moment, I ran through a couple of scenarios in my head. One involved me jumping up and grabbing his hoodie hood and dragging him to the Starbuck’s manager. My fear was that the manager would not back me up, to avoid trouble. Nix that one. The next one involved my boot on his little sunken chest with me screaming in his face about the dangers of shoplifting. Instantly dismissed that one, too. You can tell cuz this isn’t being posted from jail.

The third one is the one I used. I pointed right at the kid twelve-and-a-half feet from me and said in a loud, firm voice, “PUT THAT BACK.” The little noodlehead looked like he’d been taserd. Everyone in the area looked at me, then at the kid I was pointing at. He sheepishly put the item back in the cabinet and closed it. He then sat there, three feet from his table with a blank look on his face.

I went back to the computer, aware that he and his little goofball friends were looking at me. After a while, I noted that he was still sitting where he was, next to the cabinet. I stared him down and told him, “You need to move your chair back to your table, that would be best.”

He “skrooked” his chair back into its original position, and sat there with his little buddies, all giving furtive glances back at me every few seconds. I occasionally looked back at them, unflinching and direct.

My first official act as a geezer this year was very fulfilling; I got to call out a rotten little shoplifter, and hopefully he will remember the feeling for a long time. Who knows, I may have saved a kid from a life of petty crime, or worse. He may have been on the road to become a politician.

Christmas 09: The Clean Up

2009-12-28T22:33:00.005-08:00

Much like Hurricane Ike, Christmas came through and spread debris and leftovers all around. The main difference is that the weather was cool, and everybody had a nice time without any fear of the house blowing away. But like a hurricane cleanup, a unique set of precautions must be noted during the cleanup to ensure a successful disaster. Hurricanes have live power lines, snakes and looters. Christmas brings other hazards.

Not that there wasn’t any big wind; Christmas Eve brought a cold gale blowing 20 or 30 miles per hour. My youngest commented earlier in the day that it sounded like we were at the beach, with the constant drone of the wind rising and falling sounding like the relentless surf. My Mom was the first to allude to the hurricane similarities. On the way to the Soderberg Farm and Chicken Resort we saw a horse that had been facing the wrong way in the blow; he was turned inside out.

The wind was OK, because it had rained for a couple of days, and for several weeks earlier. Had all the rain come in the space of about 36 hours, it would have been Ike-level water. The steady breeze had dried everything off as much as possible, but it is still not advisable to walk across our front lawn if you weigh much more than about a hundred pounds.

The comparison continues to the hand-outs and their wrapping. When Christmas gifts are exchanged, the ratio of usable and valuable to worthless debris and packaging is high on the wreckage and garbage side. With small children, the danger is greater for losing something essential/expensive, and that number recedes only slightly as the audience age increases. There is a Walmart ad on television that ran Christmas morning showing two guys rifling through their garbage cans in the snow between their driveways. Surrounded by bright wrapping paper, one says to the other, “What are you looking for…?”. The other guy holds his gloved fingers about an inch apart and says with a resigned certainty, “The comb for Rapunzel Barbie.”

I haven’t ever had to dig in the trash for the missing pieces, but have at times feared that as the next step. My usual procedure is no doubt perceived as a buzzkill, but it consists of a roll-call for every gift and any essential parts. This includes any cash or gift cards that were produced. Then begins the paper/box removal detail. Since there is a good bit of jewelry involved in our Christmas gift exchanges, I like to think that the reason we have no MIA James Avery earrings is my “post-joy checklist”.

This comes in part from a story my Grandmother related (every single Christmas) about the time Grandaddy was cleaning up after the opening of gifts, and tossed an envelope from his boss into the fire, only to find later that it contained a $100 bill.

Another hazard is the leftover food, which is usually directly proportional to the amount prepared in anticipation of a huge feast. The problem is frequently an overestimation of consumption. If there are any teenagers or young men around, planning for 10 easily becomes planning for 15. A characteristic of females is usually a calculation of need per person, even factoring in teenagers and young men. So if there are a total of 10 humans to be fed, including three teenagers and one young man, the normal factor of 150% would actually be sufficient. But looking through the filter of a female food planner’s eyes, there is a perception of the 200% rule. After the meal, there is usually nearly 100% left over that needs to be dispersed and dispensed back to various refrigerators. This requires Ziploc bags and Tupperware-ish containers to be at the ready.

This year was really a little different, though. At my parents’ house, the provisions were pretty much correctly anticipated and we took nothing home in Ziploc bagz or any other container. Likewise, at my sister-in-law’s house, the amount of food was fairly close to the amount of appetite. Of course I am not complaining that there was leftover brisket and shrimp. And some of the cauliflower salad, along with some homemade mac and cheese. There was even a good amount of “good potatoes” left and we actually get to eat them ourselves! The teenage boy that was there was full a little early, and that threw off the average some.

So this year was more of a “tropical storm year”; nothing lost on the Christmas floor, no 10 pounds of dressing to tote home and throw away on Valentines Day. But there’s always next year.

Christmas Eve at Our House 09

2009-12-24T10:03:00.006-08:00

My oldest is home from Texas A&M for the rest of this week (gig 'em whoop howdy), so our house is back up to full capacity.

After they all finally rolled out of bed at about a quarter to ten, we were lounging around the living room watching the run-up to the Winter Olympics. My middle one remembered an assignment from the 8th grade where she had to re-write the "Night Before Christmas". She said that I oughta post it on the GeezerChron, and I said, "If you can dig it up, I'll post it today..."

Well, she did, it's pretty good, so here it is.

A Zoo Christmas

‘Twas the night before Chirstmas and all through the zoo
Not a creature was stirring, not even Shamu.

The bats were all hung in the cages with care
In hopes that Saint Nick would soon be there.

The snakes were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of mice ran around in their heads.

When outside the cages, there arose such a clatter,
The tigers sprung from their dens, to see what was the matter.

Away to the cage door they made a mad dash,
When they dove for the door, it made quite a crash.

The parrot sat on a branch and he laughes,
“Santa’s sled, hey, it is pulled by giraffes!”

Santa swings from the trees by his arms to the cages
It was like he’d been doing this stunt for ages.

Fruits and veggies, and seeds; bananas and steaks,
There were even some nice little mice for the snakes!

“On Longneck, on Spotty, on Too Tall, on Stretch,
You giraffes are too fast for even reindeer to catch!”

The giraffes pulled the sled as they started their flight
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

That is my wish for all of you! Uh, not the "...nice little mice..." part, the "Merry Christmas" part.

Christmas Makes Great Leap Toward Geezer

2009-12-18T20:24:00.010-08:00

Last night was the Alvin High School Choir Winter Concert. My youngest is a freshman, but is in the varsity choir: YaY for my kid!. The auditorium was decorated nicely, with some projected cutouts of conifer trees shining on the walls adjacent to the stage. On either side of the stage were a couple of Christmas trees decked out in lights, ornaments and ribbons. Behind the risers, there were lights and big ornaments hanging from the bottom of the top curtain.

The auditorium was packed and there was a sense of anticipation. As the lights came down right at 7:30, there was a pause as the choir directors took their places and the accompanist readied her piano. The music began, and from all corners of the room, the choir made a slow processional carrying candles singing “O Come, O Come Emanuel”. That was very impressive. It was also very refreshing to hear the singing of a Christian song, without references to Christ bleeped out. In a public school no less!

The rest of the program was filled with traditional and variations-on-traditional carols and songs. The highlight of the bill, however, was when one of the directors, Mr. J. Gallagher, took center stage and sang “O Holy Night”.

His rendition, from the beginning, was powerful. Everyone in my group later admitted to seeing a similarity to Josh Grobin, the young sensation that all parents, grandparents and refined young folks are enamored with. For good reason. Mr. Gallagher was very reminiscent in his style, vocal quality and power.

As he sang, I noticed that the entire audience was totally silent. Not a sound in the entire hall, save his voice and the piano. He sang the entire song, all verses. The words were like a cool drink of water. Nothing left out. The mention of the world “in sin and error pining”, and

“…His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.”

This song pulls no punches.

We sat there in the dark, a young, powerful baritone basically singing a sermon about the reason for Christmas as the redemption of the world, and I found my eyes welling up. The whole experience was deeply powerful.

At the moment the last chord of the piano was dying out, the crowd exploded in applause and shouts. I am quite sure the sound of hands clapping was amplified by the sound of all the chillbumps colliding on everyone’s spines collectively. I have never been moved so much at a school function, and judging by the thunderous ovation in that room, I suspect many others were moved as well.

Following that song, a couple more perfunctory carols were performed, but the glow that “O Holy Night” left carried the program to its conclusion and beyond.

So Christmas is a LOT closer than it was just a couple of days ago, at least in my mind. Thanks to Alvin High School choir and its excellent directors for that.

Merry Christmas everybody, and listen closely to that song next time you hear it.

New Post Warning

2009-12-17T21:17:00.000-08:00

There is a new post forthcoming, or fifthcoming, depending on the flow.

We went to the Alvin High School choir concert tonite, and was pleasantly greeted by harmonious tones and stuff.

Will try to have something by this time tomorrow.

No promises. Of course, you may consider this a threat.

Potatoes, potahtoes.

Christmas Arrives…

2009-12-06T18:32:00.005-08:00

…Or at least sends it’s RSVP.

It hasn’t felt a lot like Christmas lately. It could be the fact that I am still looking for a permanent job. Elf-ing is a pretty closed profession, and Santa Claus-ing is even more restricted.

I was in the local Kroger store, using the free wi-fi, and upon leaving I passed through the Christmas tree display. As I strolled through as cool as a big old guy toting a laptop in a bag can possibly stroll, I was overcome by a desire to start running in between the rows. I wanted to dart in and out between the trees and hide from the adults. The smell took me back 40 years and the only thing that prevented me from cavorting through the evergreens was the fear that the police would be called.

But I did enjoy the pine-scented air and that fleeting sense of being a kid again. Besides, my knees and back would've made me pay for a couple of days, and that's without falling on my patootie.

Snow Day

2009-12-05T09:35:00.003-08:00

“Pandilarium”. That’s the word that Jeff Foxworthy made up as a redneck describing a weather-related incident. He was speaking specifically of a tornado. What we experienced yesterday was a Snow Day. Not as devastating, but almost as disruptive.

The previous record for the earliest snowfall was that of December 10, I am too lazy to find out what year. Suffice to say, we don’t get much snow around here on the Texas Gulf Coast anyhow, so any time it does, it sets SOME sort of record. I remember that day (not the year, they all blend in together), since I was working in an office. The extent of the revelry was limited to adults shivering under the entrance awning , staring stupidly at the sky, grinning. When the low temperature got to be unbearable, after about 7 or 8 minutes, all of the aforementioned adults filed like cattle back to their pens. Yesterday I found that this low-key reaction is NOT universal by any stretch of the imagination.

As you may or may not know (or care), I have been substitute teachering until which time I can secure a full-time position that does not involve riding on the back of a garbage truck. It was in the venue of a local high school that the snow day came and blessed us with the blanket of beautiful white silence.

Well, it was silent and beautiful until the hordes of squealing teenagers bolted out of their classes and into the grass at the front of the school. One science teacher just down the cell block, er, HALL from me, ill-advisedly took her class out to “observe” the snowfall. As her excited students shoved their way to the stairs, I heard one kid say, “We’re going out to study the Global Warming!” Hilarious.

The actual snowing of the big, fluffy but wet snowflakes the size of a silver dollar only lasted about an hour and a half, but resulted in almost 2 inches on cars in the parking lot. But the off-the-reservation-AWOL shrieking and freaking out lasted until the riot police were called in. When the principal finally gained the upper hand, the halls were teeming with wet, panting, beaming teenagers not wanting to lose the magic of the moment.

There was a final negotiation over the school’s PA system that stated if everyone would stay in class the rest of the day and not run outside like a bunch of mental patients, the five days prior to the Christmas Break would be designated “jean days”.

I guess it worked, because by the end of the day, he came on the PA again to award the coveted semi-break from the dress code that nobody adheres to.

The rest of the area experienced similar disruptions to the point that snow and ice dominated the news for the last 36 hours.

I’ll bet you guys in the parts of the country that experience snow regularly are shaking your heads in wonder at us bumpkins down here in the semi-tropics. Just remember this when we scoff at your “95° heat waves” next summer. Till then, we’ll smile at nature’s cool, beautiful, albeit brief dusting of beauty.

UPDATE
Heck, it was just LAST YEAR when it snowed December 10 here! THIS IS HISTORIC! Two years in a row has never happened here, at least since the waning years of the Ice Age, which no doubt the dinosaurs caused with their chain saws and weed eaters.

Substitutions Allowed

2009-11-30T20:25:00.005-08:00

OK, so last week was my first week of substitute teachering, as I alluded to before. Having done children’s ministry since I was about 17, I have over 20 years cumulative experience with people younger than me. I am also the father of three daughters and have had extensive experience in observing the behaviors of all sorts and ages of girls and the occasional teenage boy. And, believe it or not, I too, was a teenager once. But that was way back in the 1970s.

Substitute teachering is an interesting choice of work; I know of no other job where one can have such a variety of “co-workers” in such a short space of time. Some of them are in the fourth grade, some have doctoral degrees, some are snarky teenagers. From my vast three days worth of experience though, I have seen that there is seldom a dull or predictable moment.

My first foray into this business was on a Monday morning. Luckily I got an Art class for half a day. Some of the kids were really talented but not motivated. Some were talented and motivated, some were untalented but motivated, and a lot of them were untalented and unmotivated. I was actually able to help some of them with their projects, which gave me some confidence in my new gig. They all commented on my size, and I think that may be an advantage, because when I walked over to see what they were doing, they mostly did what they were supposed to. Of course, I had no idea when classes began and ended, but I only had to survive until about 12:15, as I later found out.

Just before I left, I met some of the other teachers breaking for lunch. They asked how it went and I told them that it went OK. One gal told me that I ought to play the part of the “crazy sub”, the one that just might snap, maybe today, maybe now. It seemed a little early for that advice; I think she just wanted to say it to see if someone would actually pick up on that role. I assured her that although I wouldn’t implement that strategy right away, I would likely keep it in my lexicon.

The next day was filling in for the “Reading Teacher” at a nearby elementary school. I was met with vague instructions, a helper that knew little more than me, and the realization that these were the “troubled readers”. Without revealing too much, suffice to say I was exhausted by three o’clock. I had spent the entire day standing, prowling, nudging, reading, and at one time when a kid pretended to shoot a neighbor with his finger, I took his pretend gun and pretend bullets; eject pretend magazine, eject pretend round in pretend chamber, pick up pretend ejected bullet, lock back pretend slide. He just stared at me in amazement.

The last gig I filled in was on the Thursday before the Thanksgiving holiday, which was to be an entire week. It was at Alvin High School, and was a German language class. My initial reaction when I saw the opening was, “Can I do this?”. But then I realized that the students would probably be able to speak pretty good English. The kids were all pretty much typical high school muttonheads, a little smart aleck and funny, but also a little intimidated by my size and moustache. Every class had a comment about my size, and I always downplayed it. My first speech, which included my name on the board, was usually about cooperation and getting along. I told them, “I am a substitute, not an idiot”.

The second most asked question was if I was German myself, due to my last name. HA, NOPE, I’m of Swedish descent from Texas City. They asked if I spoke German, I answered nein. They asked how tall I was. To that, I would hold up my hand level with the top of my head, pause and say, “uh, THIS tall…”. A couple of times my answer was “five foot eight”, and when they expressed incredulity, I would reply, “I just talk bigger”.

In each class my very clear and spelled out instructions from the regular teacher instructed me to give the students worksheets and then show a DVD of a made-up German teen-soap with German subtitles. Tanja and Christian and Julia and Hasan had minor relationship drama, with cleverly inserted counting in German, directions, ordering orange juice or soft drinks or traveling to Amerika or even riding their bikes down the Strasser. The copyright was about 2003, so the clothing and music wasn’t so bad. At the beginning of the episode while the students were still talking and milling about, I encouraged them to be quiet, since I had grown to like the music, suggesting that I wanted to download it to my iPod. That got a laugh. Once I even encouraged them in my best Hank Hill voice, “Just watch the danged vid-ya…”. They got it. One kid allowed that, “It’s rare that we get a sub with a sense of humor”, to which I replied simply, “Yeah, same here…”.

If it weren’t for the fact that every day when you walk out of the school, you’re out of work again, I would say that sub-ing, as they call it, would be a pretty good way to make a living.

Except in the summertime, what the heck happens then?

A Stranger in the Bed

2009-11-23T09:27:00.000-08:00

A conversation the other night sparked this forgotten (some might suggest “suppressed”) memory.

There was this party at our house several years ago, our oldest was graduating from high school and we were celebrating that milestone. All went well; the teenagers left our house standing, albeit devoid of anything edible.

A couple came over that used to live down the street from us, and since we hadn’t seen each other in quite a while, we had a lot of catching up to do. Oh, they also brought the woman’s aging mother, who was even then exhibiting signs of Alzheimer’s. Well the late hour, about two a.m. was getting too much for Mom and she needed to lay down. My wife led her to our room and suggested she lay down on the bed and our friend could come get when they (finally) left.

Along about 2:30 a.m. our friend got a call from her daughter, who as a child spent many afternoons at our house. The suggestion was made by our friend that the girl “come on over” to the Soderbergs’ house, we’re having a great time. Yeah, between increasingly obvious glances at the clock, watch, sundial, hourglass, and insinuations about how exhausted we were from cleaning our home to look like nobody lived there. For two days.

Alas, to no avail. This gal was intent on catching up.

The evening eventually drew to a close, even for our guest. Relieved, my wife went in to wake up “Mom” and was greeted by the lady in our bed, covered up to her neck with the comforter, sound asleep. She gently shook her, “N----, it’s time to go home…” As the covers came off, it was revealed that she was lying there in our bed in just her blouse and her underwear.

My wife, in shock, came back into the den and retrieved our friend. She told her that her mom might need some help getting ready to go. Meaning, get-her-dressed and out-of-here-as-quick-as-you-can. That actually happened, eventually, and the second the door closed, I was instructed to change the sheets on the bed.

What? I was so tired, I literally couldn’t see straight. As I stripped the bed, my spouse gathered fresh sheets, which we quickly and sleepily re-made the place of repose. The whole time, she was going on and on about that lady being in HER bed in just her underwear. She couldn’t sleep like that! How could she?

As I drifted off to sleep that night, and maintain today, I was convinced that had it occurred on my side of the bed, I would have not heard a word about it.

embarrassment

2009-11-18T14:21:00.003-08:00

Yeah, I know my last post was about Halloween, and we've long since eaten all of the tiny Milky Way, Snickers and Twix bars. The cheap bubble gum remains intact, but other than that, the night is but a dim-ish memory. Oh yeah, I could read my last post and sorta remember it...but everybody wants something new.

And this is the apologetic, aw shucks-ing, you'll-see-something-soon post.

I have started substitute teachering, so there may be some stories soon!

Thanks for checking in!

HALLOWEEN 09

2009-11-04T12:11:00.004-08:00

This Halloween had a different vibe to it. In the weeks leading up to the event, I anticipated waves and waves of trick-or-treaters swarming for hours and hours through the streets in search of free candy and sartorial trickery.

The knowledge that the observance was to fall on a Saturday was instrumental in the assumptions that I and probably every seller of candy and/ or costumes held this year. How could it NOT be huge?

Well, the spooky economy might have had something to do with it. I know it did around our house, since my economy got involuntarily collapsed. But I think other people may have held back a little, too.

Saturday evening, as the sun began to set, a couple of little grandkids escaped their custodians and bolted to our door. They hollered the requisite "TRICKERTREET" and got the desired result.

My youngest and her little buddy from down the street awaited a call from some friends who were going to go "somewhere" to trickrtreet, with "somebody" and would be back "sometime". Not the kind or amount of information to make an informed decision about your high school freshman's night out. They decided to opt out after the concerned parents (us) conferred with one another about the situation.

Instead, I made the short, two-block loop with my girl, her friend, her parents and three year-old sister. The two older girls didn't even participate in the "gimme"; they just escorted the little cutie to her destinations. That got old after the spookhouse with live (chainless) chainsaws with their metallic whines and blue smoke filling the street. The little one was a bit put off by the hubbub and everyone agreed it was time to head back home. No protests from anyone, so back we trudged, relieved to be done before eight.

The night was beautiful though, clear and cool with a giant full moon, and I sat on my neighbor's tailgate with him and passed out his candy while my girl and her sidekick distributed our offerings. As us old guys (he's older than me, thankyouverymuch) analyzed the situation, the tides of beggars ebbed and flowed on our street.

There was the usual parade of little kids imported from other neighborhoods wearing store-bought transformer costumes, witches, fairies, ninja turtles and myriad other standard off the rack costumes. There were also some original assorted zombies and convicts and axe murderers. Nothing unusual, except for the odd collection of adults, completely un-costumed carrying pillow cases and tromping up unapologetically for a handout of free candy. I have seen one of them before, a (probably former) Walmart employee, along with a scruffy 20-something kid with a scraggly beard, and an old man, a real, live old man, looking to be in his late 60's at least sporting a fairly long, gray beard. He was a wizened little character and looked fairly hard-pressed to keep up with his companions (or captors). Maybe they were stepping up their efforts because there was a high number of houses with their porch lights off.

Most of the activity lasted only until about nine, at which time the Suburbans and Tahoes started collecting their cargo and blasting out of our subdivision at top speed. There still being a scattered few die-hard candy-addled children wandering the streets and I was compelled by my geezerness to step out into the street and yell at the speeding SUVs with scowling dads at the helm. I guess the sight of a large man glowering at them from the middle of the quiet suburban street, impeding their hasty exit ruined their evening. I can only hope the thought of killing a small goblin would have done more psychic damage than my visage, but who knows.

Between the episodes of two tons of roaring metal and "guests", my neighbor reminisced about a particular Halloween night many years ago and a trick he and some other ne'r-do-wells that he hung out with had perpetuated. Being country boys out in the country, he and his cohorts decided to dismantle an old guy's wagon and reassemble it up on said old guy's barn roof. With much effort, they accomplished the task, and upon their descent to terra firma, were surprised by the farmer sitting on his porch rocking chair, 12 gauge across his knees. He casually intoned, "OK boys, you've had your fun, now put it back, and don't break it." They obliged, and I suppose that all of the surviving members of that outing were relating it as well on this past Saturday night.

The strangest epilogue to this year's gimmefest came on Sunday morning as we were eating breakfast getting ready for church. The doorbell rang, and after exchanging puzzled glances with the family, I went to answer the call. When I opened the door, a small Spiderman stood with his hood off and upstretched to me as he said "trick or treat". The mask hung heavy with candy as his older sister, herself perhaps ten, stood nearby nonchalantly. I put the candy in his makeshift swag bag, and then handed some to the girl. She casually dropped it in his hood/bag and chirped, "Thankyou..." as they retreated to the next house. I am sure every door held the same looks of shock and stunnitude that I had exhibited.

This year beats all I ever seen on Halloween.

Don't Give Up on Me Just Yet

2009-11-03T16:05:00.002-08:00

Yes, I know it's been a while since I posted, thanks to all who commented and commended my actions on the fake watches. I haven't been back to see if they are still available. I'm sure that if they are as yet unclaimed, that I could easily be the proud owner of two new targets.

I have a post about the most recent observance of Halloween, in true geezer form, after which I'll ask for your favorite spooky memories. So think now and be ready. Maybe tomorrow.

Or the next day.

So sue me.

Time is Fleeting

2009-10-27T07:56:00.004-08:00

I was at Walmart the other day and as I was getting out of my car, I spotted two watches right on the yellow line of the empty space next to me. I got out of my car quickly to grab them before some crazed soccer mom on her Blackberry whipped in to the spot in a Yukon. I hurried over to the pair of timepieces that sat in tandem as though they were placed there intentionally.

I picked them up and noticed immediately that one was in the form of a lady’s watch and the other was perhaps a slim, smaller round-faced men’s watch or a slightly larger women’s watch. The decision was easy; take them to the lost-and-found. Someone was out there wondering where their tickers were.

As I walked in to the store, I looked closer at them; one appeared to be a Tommy Hilfiger with a “pearl” face and a prominent logo. It was ticking. The other, the smaller lady’s watch, was in the style of a Rolex in stainless steel with a diamond bezel. It was not in working mode, being about an hour and twenty minutes slow. On further inspection, I noted the famous name actually printed on the face, “Rolex” and with the words “Perpetual Day-Date” were in the proper location for the brand. However, as I waited in the line to turn in these watches, I looked at the “Rolex” carefully, and tried to pull out the stem to see if I could set the time. It was nigh on impossible and I nearly broke my thumbnail trying to pry the thing loose. I finally loosened it to a degree, but only by unscrewing it. That was when I re-read the face, wondering if perhaps the name may have been spelled “Rollecks”. The back didn’t bear the trademark crown on the stainless steel. The word “knock off” came immediately to mind.

For some reason, I stood in the Customer Service line for about ten minutes. There was a young couple returning some sort of electronical device with no receipt. I should have just tossed the wristwatches in the garbage, yet I stood there, time ticking away on the minutes of my life that I’ll never get back.

Finally I got to the counter and asked the lady if these “watches” would be safe in the lost and found. Dumb question. I think they’d be pretty safe there. Forever.

I think they’d have been just as safe in the parking lot on the yellow line in section C.

So, to the venerable Rolex company; I apologize for not taking the rank imitation completely out of circulation. Maybe I should have saved it and let my daughter “durability test” this thing with a teaspoon full of .40 caliber lead at 1100 fps.

Wordy Guy: Long Awaited

2009-10-21T20:24:00.006-07:00

The Wordy Guy has agreed to help me buy some time till I get a sufficiently great (mediocre) post up here on the Geezer Chronicles. The only thing is, he made me guess the answer before he completed the transaction. If you put your ear to the internets, you can hear him softly gloating; he made me guess the wrong one. He's good I tell ya.

So, no cheating, and everyone get your guesses in to the comments right away. Remember, this is for entertainment only, please, no wagering.

Lastage

A. Leather straps used to secure items, especially on a dog sled.

B. Room for stowing goods, as in a ship.

C. The edge of woven fabric finished so as to prevent raveling.

Now is the time for all of you dogsledders, sailors and seamstresses to use you knowledge to gain bragging rights here. If you are well-versed in all of the above, then this should be a snap.

Good Luck, and thanks for watching!

Yes, Rob is a tricky one, he fooled me. For all y'all who chose "C", that's the one that got me, too. Again, Innominatus supplied a definition all his own that cracked me up. I almost blew milk out of my nose when I read it...and that's rough, because I hadn't even had any milk in days!

shudder

My Brain Hurts

2009-10-20T21:17:00.002-07:00

Sorry for the dearth of posting here; I am having a Mr. DP Gumby moment. I have some things cooking between my ears, but nothing ever takes full-fledged form and I get distracted.

Some funny thoughts have been roiling in the gray matter, but I can't seem to remember it when I need to. And some of it really requires some serious thought, such as how to type in the sound that my youngest daughter makes now that she has her braces on and the evil-torture-device of an "expander" in the roof of her mouth. And the time to park and actually type it is just not available. As in "I don't have time to write all this funny stuff...and sit on my butt as much as I want to..."

I will try to congeal some of the jello upstairs and put it down for you humor-starved souls. I appreciate the plaintive cries I have received from two of you (actually the only two that are taller than me!) for new material. I'll try to do better.

"ooooooooooh, my brain huuurts"

Guest Post from My Kid

2009-10-05T09:19:00.004-07:00

Faithful readers of this blog (well, I guess the unfaithful ones that read here a lot would qualify, too) will know that my youngest has a talent for writing stuff, too. The other day, she was sick at school and since she is a freshman this year, the procedure is considerably different than in the past. Here is a short account of her experience:

Fresh from junior high, I am used to the nurse's offices being a small room with two, maybe three beds pressed against the walls, a desk for the nurse, and a hallway leading to the main office. High school is a whole ‘nother story. Today was my first visit and I couldn’t help but laugh with my daddy telling him about the mini-hospital they have running at my school.

When I walked into the dimly lit room, the first thing I noticed was a row of chairs lining the wall and a little glass window with a sign-in sheet. I walked on over to the window and was nicely greeted by a nurse's aide, and after I signed in, I walked over to a chair placed by the wall just for me. I waited for about two minutes and then was taken to a larger, brighter back room where I immediately took notice of the nice row of not two or three, but five numbered beds.

epilogue by Dad.
That was about the extent of her visit, the rest of the visit went pretty much as expected. She was just impressed at the lengths they went to to make it seem like a real doctor's office. As we discussed it, she hinted that she half-expected to see an MRI machine in there. Knowing Alvin ISD, I suggested that what they might have instead of an MRI unit would be perhaps the cardboard box from a water heater with a dump truck inner tube encircling the box, and the whole thing spray painted white. The MRI experience would consist of members of the band's drumline to provide the clicking and pounding sounds for the "test".

We laughed about that for awhile, then I encouraged her to write it down. Those are all her words, I didn't add a thing.

What a kid. I am kinda scared.

Tall Boy

2009-10-01T10:46:00.003-07:00

I have always liked to think that I am free of the deadly sin of vanity. Not that I walk around with my shirttail out and my hair unwashed, face not shaved and generally disheveled. I change my clothes every day and make sure that I look presentable, at least.

I have never been much of a prize to look at, as evidenced by my entire school career starting in second grade and my unrequited like of a certain girl. Happened a lot. I was always a lot better at bending an ear than turning heads.

And I am OK with that. No big deal.

In light of all these things, I determined that I was utterly devoid of narcissism. A fact that I was proud of.

One day, however, I was laid low. I was devastated to have a flaw pointed out shamelessly and unabashedly by the smallest person in the office. A mere lass just under five feet tall. Indignity.

The video guy for the college came in and said “howdy” to the Publications Office folks. He is a tall fellow, six feet, three inches or so. At least. He stood around and talked to us for a bit, then he bade us adieu and exited. Tiny little Diana, her real name, said casually, “You always stand up really straight when Keith comes in…and Kris and Mike, too, I’ve noticed.”

Thud. “WHAT? What are you talking about? No I don’t…” I knew in my heart of hearts that she was right. All of the guys she mentioned were at or above the 75 inch level, which is the exact height that I attained as a 15 year-old lad. Could it be that I was worried about someone being taller than me?

The answer came back, “Yes.” Since I reached my full adult height, I have liked the altitude that I carry around. People look up to me, whether they respect me or not. I am used to seeing over almost everybody’s head. I relish changing light bulbs without standing on anything. Being taller than 97% of the population puts you in a position that I happen to like. My cousin used to be the tallest in the family at six feet even. When I shot past him to my current 5 feet fifteen inches, his theory was that since I was from Texas City, the polluted air caused me to mutate and thus my overall height surplus. That’s OK, Mike, I’ll take the three inch mutation.

I also figured out that I am uncomfortable with someone being taller than myself. I have actually gone so far as saying that I don’t like people taller than me. That’s not really true; I am just not accustomed to looking up at someone. In reality I like hanging out with other tall guys; we can commiserate about small cars, low couches and ducking under ceiling fans the way people duck under helicopter blades.

So, I haven’t worried that my hair turns gray, or if my laugh lines show, or if my hairline recedes. Those of you who know me or have at least seen me are aware that I don’t really care that I have gained some weight in the past 24 or 25 years. I just don’t want to get shorter. Spinal compression is my enemy these days. And I don’t want to end up like this:

Twenty years ago, when I was an early employee at the college, there was an office party with everyone including the chancellor in attendance. He was the first basketball of the college and a tall old fella. He was over six feet tall, but had the older guy stoop to his shoulders and his neck was a little thrust forward. On greeting me, he asked me how tall I was, grinning. I answered that I was six feet, three inches tall. He replied, “Oh no, you’re taller than that! I’m six foot three…” I was smart enough to shut up and grin. I wanted to say, “No Dr. S—, you USED to be six foot three, spinal compression got ahold of you, and now you’re just shorter.”

I don’t wanna have to overestimate peoples’ height when I get old, I just want my stature quo.

La Cucaracha: an essay with passion

2009-09-27T13:54:00.003-07:00

La Cucaracha, La cucaracha;
Ya no quieres caminar…

That’s what the song says. It states that the cockroach does not want to continue on. I have never seen a cockroach that did not want to go on. They are survivors. They’re the ones that certain scientists think will survive a nuclear holocaust (like the one that Iran is gearing up for, no doubt). Now, don’t think that just because I admit that they are tough and adaptable and can live indefinitely on next to nothing that I have even a modicum of respect or even (shudder) admiration for these plagues. Nope.

They are nasty, evil, treacherous, and all of that times 10 when they fly at you. Big, high-walking, scratchy-legged scavengers that revel in surprising my daughters in the kitchen, or the bathroom, or outside the front door. They have a diabolical intellect, though simple and unadorned. Their intents are guided primarily by striking fear into humans, and only on the second tier, eating. When a roach flies at you, it is not to escape. It is a tactic reminiscent of the kamikazi pilots of Japan. Take wing directly to the enemy, though he be larger, he may just run screaming like a little girl. Didn’t really work in the Pacific in the early 1940s, but the intent was the same. Except I think that more of those pilots died than have the roaches who take the same approach.

I can’t tell how many times I have been lurched awake from a nap or solid nighttime slumber by the shrieks of my oldest daughter after a sighting. The middle one is better, but she is reluctant to enter a room where one has been seen without proof of extermination; she needs a habeas corpus. The littlest gal is a bit more intrepid; she’ll actually kill one herself with whatever is at hand, and since we don’t allow shooting in the house, it’s usually a sister’s flip flop conveniently left wherever.

It’s not like we’re infested, we have sprayed around the house at various times and supplemented with Bengal at the entrances and other possible entry points. So most of the shiny brown devils we see are at least ailing, if not on their last tour of duty. This aids us immensely in the killing of the intruders; normally a cockroach’s reflexes are so lightening-fast that they can smell the synapses fire in your arm just as your nerves cause your muscles to contract in the effort to smash them with a shoe. Unless you’re an experienced roach hunter, you don’t know to lead them by a sole width so that they run into the hammer of judgment.

But the experienced hunter also knows that it takes a deft touch to kill the quarry in the proper way. A well-timed, well-aimed monster slam will give the killer a satisfying recoil, but it will also provide the dreaded “pop/crackle” that indicates that you will have the unsavory job of cleaning up the roach innards that explode from the unfortunate target.

I watched my Grandmother play cat-and-mouse with a big roach one summer night a long time ago. We were watching TV and kept seeing the shiny dark form trekking back and forth in front of the old black and white Zenith. Each time GranMommy would spot him, the roach would skitter back across the floor to safety. After several near misses and frustrated attempts to send him to his eternal punishment, she just happened to be returning from a trip to the kitchen that coincided with his trek across the floor. There, in front of all of her grandchildren, GranMommy said, “Roach, you and me have done had it out!”, and with that declaration, she shot her bare foot out and crushed him. We were shocked at her brave, bare foot and admiring of her fearless protection of us.

Ya no quieres caminar, indeed!

A Lament

2009-09-19T20:22:00.002-07:00

Being on the forced active job search, I am under somewhat of a strain lately. To put it mildly. I thought it might be nice to slip out this afternoon and go down the grass path to the low water bridge and squeeze off a few rounds of my trusty pistola.

I gathered my .40 and magazines full of 42 rounds of Winchester ammunition, along with my trusty Daisy Powerline, two CO2 cartriges and a box of BBs.

Heading off toward the ditch, I was enjoying the Southeast breeze and the smell of all the grass. I saw a two foot long rat snake. We exchanged greetings and went our separate ways.

As I got closer to the ditch and the “road” that leads to our shooting spot, I noticed that there were new fenceposts and a strand of brand new bob wahr. To the rest of the country that’s “barbed wire”.

I was aghast. How could they do that? Staring in disbelief, I kept walking closer and closer, not wanting to believe my entry was being barred. Passively, yes, but barred nonetheless. There was a day not so long ago that I would have simply ducked under the fence, but in those days I wasn’t carrying a serious caliber pistol in my hip pocket. The thought of encountering someone and them calling the county mounties on me, all the while with a firearm (concealed) and a pile of ammo did not appeal to me. I am out of work, but I don’t think I want to spend that time in jail.

Crestfallen, I trudged back up the dirt track, half hoping to tell the snake my troubles. I crossed the dried up ditch and went up the other side of the tributary. This leads down to the main bayou/ditch where the low concrete bridge is where we used to stand and shoot.

Tromping down the open dirt road that runs parallel to the familiar road to the place I taught my youngest daughter to shoot, I began to really regret the advancement of civilization. Who would do that? Well, it’s just as well; the property I was walking alongside is rumored to have sold for development a while back, and the property behind that has turned into improved pasture for cattle. I looked out across the field to my right and even saw houses. I grew more nervous about seeing houses across the pasture. I made the decision to leave my big pistol holstered, so to speak.

But I just had to reach out and touch something! Good thing I brung my BB gun. I set up a lonesome Sam’s cola can and used up both CO2 cartridges, practicing my aim and trigger control, to the extent that one can on a Daisy Powerline.

So another page turns in my life; no more places to shoot for free. No more getting my nitrocellulose fix, not to mention my little gal and her Annie Oakley practice.

Dang civilization.

An Old Right for a New Generation

2009-09-11T10:54:00.004-07:00

The Second Amendment lives! I had a student of mine come up to me at the beginning of class last night and ask if he could have an excused absence. I looked slightly askance at him and said, "Go on..." and he proceeded to tell me that on Wednesday night, he had his home broken into and burgled. They kicked the back door off the hinges and took a lot of stuff.

He went on; when he arrived home and was assessing the loss and damage, the guy came back and was going for round 2. Michael, the student, heard the intruder and retrieved his 9 mm pistol. He approached the guy and basically told him, "You can stand still right there, or I will shoot you."

I guess the guy, though Michael said his eyes were switching and twitching like a thing that twitches and switches around a lot, was lucid enough to understand that the fella with the pistol wasn't fooling around. The police got there and cuffed the drugged-out burgular and took the report.

So needless to say, he had some things to take care of that night, which probably included buying a pizza for his 9 mm.

I let him off, shook his hand for exercising his right to keep and bear (and bare) arms to protect his life and property, and had a good class.

I hope he gets it all straightened out, the doors repaired and new hollow points for his weapon.

Cuz you never know.

Chivalry is Not Dead...

2009-09-09T10:28:00.004-07:00

...even when other things are.

Sometimes you just have to do the right thing. Like the time I went to my sister’s house to borrow the floating family edger. She was on vacation up in the Hill Country for a week or so, and it would still be several days before she arrived home again. My yard couldn’t wait.

I backed the ol’ Caravan into the driveway and lifted the back door for a quick-load-quick-getaway. As I approached the garage door, I heard some loud buzzing and saw a couple of big green-tailed flies that seemed anxious to get into the garage.

“Hmm, them’s some big flies.”

As I opened the door, I noticed a large number of other flies coming out to meet me. That’s odd. I ventured in past the cloud of insects toward the interior of the garage and on the first breath I drew, the unmistakable scent of decomposition met me like a sack of humid rotted cat, right in my sizeable nose. My eyes grew accustomed to the dimly lit tomb and sure enough, there was a very large decomposing orange tabby cat sitting there, well, decomposing. Now, when I see the CSI guys stroll into a crime scene with a five-day-old corpse decaying in the kitchen I know that it’s just a set with ersatz yuk on the floor. I don’t think anyone could keep a straight face in an atmosphere filled with putrefying flesh. Actors.

What I saw was a truly amazing composition that put me in mind of the famous painting; “the Death of Marat”, by Jacques Louis-David. That painting is of a man dying in his bathtub, fatally stabbed while writing, his quill pen still in his right hand, which had fallen limply to the floor, his head leaning on his right shoulder. The cat was a mirror image of this pose, save for the pen. He sat in repose, in a plastic baby tub with his legs out in front of him and his left paw outside the tub, and he was leaning heavily to his left. While I was amused by this similarity, the stench soon drove me outside amidst gags and chokes.

I briefly considered grabbing the edger and flying back home with nary a word to anyone. That option was short-lived; I couldn’t dream of having my sister come home from vacation to a ripe, dead feline ruining her babies’ bathtub. My path was clear; I had to dispose of this cat-tastrophy.

I wore a bandana around my head as a sweatband, and quickly decided to repurpose it to become a mask to protect me from the “eau de rotting kitty”. I took a couple of deep breaths and returned to the crime scene to assess what I could do. There was a large paper garbage bag provided by the city close at hand, and it looked as though I could slide the entire tub, cat and all into it and thus be rid of the entire thing at once. No way was I going to clean the tub out. There’s not enough bleach in Texas to disinfect that plastic tub.

About this time, I ran out of oxygen and had to bolt for the outside air once again. As I got clear of the stink zone, I again took a breath, this time through the bandana. Big mistake. The cloth held the molecules of stench in suspension until I could actually use them. Gag. Gag again, this time with the lunch I had consumed hours before nearly making an appearance.

I repeated that sequence about four more times as I readied the reeking tabby for his final journey to the landfill; breathe, run in, finagle tub/cat/bag until I run out of air, run outside. I finally secured him and his vehicle in the gigantic paper bag, rolled the top shut tightly and galloped to the curbside. Now it was someone else’s problem, most notably, the sanitation workers. Better them than me, since their olfactory fatigue has been keeping them alive since their second week on the job.

We never figured out how the unfortunate animal met his demise or how he ended up so conveniently in the tub, but I was thankful for whatever coincidences lined up to make my incredibly selfless act a little bit less, ah, pukish. I proudly say that I did not at any time of this ordeal actually hurl; but I gagged more than I ever had. Ever.

Still, when I think of it, I kinda want to spit.

Just Peachy

2009-09-05T15:30:00.005-07:00

I love a peach. Not just any peach, but a really good, sweet, juicy Freestone peach. The kind they grow in the Texas Hill Country.

Alas, they don’t build peaches the way they used to. I had a couple of peaches last week that looked an awful lot like a peach, same size as a peach, same fuzzy demeanor, even a faint whiff of peach.

My hopes, as always, rose, but after the first bite, they were dashed. Though disappointed, I was not surprised when each in turn ended up as mealy, dry, pale imitations of what I wanted. These were strip-mined peaches from California, with flavor and juice bred out of them and “shippability” bred in. They will travel for days in a truck from coast to coast and not have much more than a slight contusion on the stem end, or a mere scrape across the cheek.

Flavor? No. But durability in spades.

The peaches that I long for are the ones from Kerrville and Fredricksburg that are as big as my fist (a pretty big fist) and so sweet and juicy you need a pancho and an insulin shot when you eat them.

When I was a kid (here it comes, Geezer Alert), I remember hopping barefooted across the asphalt griddle that was the parking lot of the Weingarten’s grocery store and into the cool air-conditioned store. The chilled floor soothed my feet and from the produce aisle off to the right the unmistakable aroma of peaches overtook me from twenty feet away. The Hill Country peaches were in.

As a young tough in high school, I recall a certain teacher, Mr. Christian, who would come by my Mother’s workplace and take orders for Fredricksburg peaches, by the half–bushel box. We usually got at least four and sometimes more when he arrived back in town. Then as a kid at home during the summer, my job was to peel and slice as many as I could. The resulting bounty was subsequently frozen, preserved or just sliced and sugared to go in a plastic tub in the refrigerator. These were used for every day tasks such as corn flake duty, Blue Bell ice cream accompaniment or to put in the milkshakes we used to make.

It was a job that was never like a job; something I didn’t mind doing at all. I would start at the pointed end and peel downward to the stem end (the peel came right off that way) and then run the knife around longitudinally, then a final lateral double circumnavigation into the big bowl in my lap, tossing the stone in a bag. Time after time, peach after peach and I never tired of the scent or the fuzz or the juice running from my fingers to my hand to my elbow.

My aunt Winnie, Grandaddy’s sister, had a peach tree in her back yard in Galveston. I used to accompany my grandparents there to pick peaches and figs. The peaches were grand, and I distinctly remember a picture of peaches backlit by the morning sun on Heard’s Lane and as I touched the skin, the tiny hairs falling off into the breeze in a faint cascade of shimmering dust. I wish you all could see the picture I have in my head from that vantage point. The act of purchasing your fruit with your own physical exertion; climbing the tree, holding on to the bucket, reaching for the perfectly ripe fruit that come to you hand as willingly and as gently as a drop of water coming off of a leaf.

It’s been years since I had eaten a peach that lived up to all I have just described to you. Too many times I have sniffed, squeezed and bitten only to be disappointed or even repulsed. There are peaches that I won’t tolerate past my teeth.

We went to New Branufels last year, the final “full-blown-whole-family-we’re-having-a-great-time-aren’t-we vacation. On the way to Canyon Lake, we saw a roadside stand next to a sun-bleached F150 with little buckets of “FREDRICKSBURG PEACHES”, so the sign said. Following an afternoon at the lake, we had to stop and sample some of their wares.

The friendly feller said that they were $5 a bucket, and though they looked awful small to me, I succumbed and forked over my five. Walking back to the van, I felt a little cheated; these things were not even the size of a tennis ball. Oh, well.

On the way back to the hotel, my middle daughter couldn’t stand the thought of those peaches sitting untouched, so she snagged one. Upon tasting the flesh of it, she exclaimed loudly, attesting to what I had only hoped for. “These are SO GOOD!” etc.

I had her select one for me while the other girls eagerly grabbed one of their own to sample. When I bit into it, I felt like letting go of the wheel and flying off to heaven on my own. It was the peach that I have searched for over the last twenty years. The Hill Country Peach that I remembered was disappearing down my gullet. Memories flooded back and the Geezer rose up in his seat, looked into the rearview mirror and intoned the sacred words, “Girls, THAT’s what a peach should taste like”.

And it is true.

Fire on the Front (yard)

2009-08-29T17:21:00.006-07:00

The battle against the insects continues on another front. I am waging war on the army that has been massing these past few weeks. Through some unintentional reconnaissance, I discovered a large camp housing several battalions of my particular foe.

I found a big mess of fire ants on the side of the house. I was pulling up a tall weed, and as the grass parted, the mound became visible, and in half a second, a brown tide of angry ants came boiling out toward me, covering the adjacent fence boards and climbing the stalk toward my hand frozen on the stalk.

When I was a kid, we had two kinds of ants to contend with; little black ants and red ants. The black ants were innocuous little societies, running and gathering and burrowing all the time, and I was content to watch them for hours (cumulatively) over the kid years. They were even OK to gently pick up to traverse the acre of your hand.

Red ants were the ones to watch out for. They were aggressive and dealt a painful sting. Their hills were a bit higher and their pace was more deliberate and ominous. The only redeeming aspect of their existence was that they are the primary food of the Texas horned toad.

This was all before the advent of the fire ant invasion from South America. Google it if you want to know more about the origins of these murderous little devils. Back before they came to oppress us, a kid could lay in the shade of a tree right there on the grass. For a half hour or more at a time, with no idea of being overrun by ants. Nowadays (how’s THAT for a geezer expression) one would be hard pressed to stand still in a yard of any kind for more than a few minutes for fear of attracting a traveling scout party of fire ants ready to kill and drag anything smaller than a Brahma bull to the (most likely) nearby ant hill.

I have seen baby birds knocked from the nest by an evening storm suffering on the ground, covered with biting, stinging, dismembering little terrors. Evil creatures. Their sting is where their name is derived; it burns like fire almost immediately, and even after you mash the deliverer to butter, the fresh bite still feels exactly like it is still being stung. The wound takes an overnight break, then develops into the characteristic little blister surrounded by an itching ring of fire. I think this is what Johnny Cash may have been inspired by…

I suppose the most frightening thing about them besides their toxicity is their teamwork. What happens when you step on (or near) the hill, phalanxes of heartless little soldiers are dispatched to swarm your foot, climb your leg and bite at the same time. The victim is suddenly compelled to start the “ant dance” in a futile attempt to dislodge them from their post. Feet are slapped, ankles are rubbed, shins are skimmed, shoes come off, heck I have seen pants come off in an attempt to repel the stinging hordes.

My Dad’s remedy, though not completely effective, is more fun to watch. His method is to take a spade full from one mound, place it next to another mound, take a spade from the second mound, place it in the original hill and likewise with the first shovel full. This technique pits the innate aggression of both “families” to maximum effect, and if he’s lucky, a soldier ant gets in to the queen’s chamber and delivers a fatal “check mate”.

It’s often the little things that bring one pleasure in the battle for yard dominance. My Dad has found one.

Now where did I leave my shovel?

Driving the View*

2009-08-22T14:18:00.007-07:00

As some of you know, I am no longer employed where I was before. You also know my thoughts on it. ‘Nuf said. Now I drive to work in a different direction. These days, instead of driving into Pasadena, Texas, the largest small town in the country, I drive into Lake Jackson. It’s the complete opposite direction, in every way, and the traffic is not even an issue.

Normally, one would drive down State Highway 35 from Alvin, to FM 523 to FM 2004 and into Lake Jackson/Clute on Business 288. Now, I know that’s a lot of numbers, and to those of you on the left coast, it means absolutely nothing. Trust me when I tell you; it is some of the nicest driving on the Gulf Coast of Texas.

Naturally, I wanted to see if there were other routes to get me to my destination and home again. Since I knew that FM 2004 goes pretty much straight from Lake Jackson to Alvin with naught but a single traffic light in 25 miles, and that a road behind our neighborhood leads directly down to 2004 with naught but one light that more often than not remains green, I figured that would be the way to go.

On my way home the second day, I opted for the straight 2004 (referred to around here as “two double oh four”) to 2917 route home. Just a flat, mostly gun-barrel-straight road through undeveloped coastal prairie crossing several bayous and creeks. Then the “big bridge” over Chocolate Bayou, which is a steep, high structure over the largest waterway between Galveston and Freeport. The sky is wide and the Gulf breeze that blows across the Brazoria Wildlife Refuge is fresh and strong.

I made the mistake of driving 2917 to 2004 on the morning end of the commute one day. There are petrochemical plants down that direction. You’ll see why this is important in a couple of seconds.

Can you imagine being caught in the middle of the Long Beach Grand Prix while you're riding a tricycle? This is what it feels like trying to hold at a reasonable 60 miles an hour with F-250s, Ram 2500s, Silverados and battered Nissan Sentras running up your tailpipe at an average of about 75 miles per. There is a wide shoulder, but it’s often populated by dead possums or raccoons or some other obstacle. This precludes the normal courtesy of pulling to the right while the impatient plant workers blast by with scowls of disapproval. They whip out from behind you in a cloud of diesel smoke or gasoline-produced carbon monoxide in a huff and give no time for you to even try to move over.

Having survived that, I learned my lesson: 35 in the morning, 2004 in the afternoon. With that knowledge burned into my brain, I could now enjoy the commute that I needed to make every day. It’s easier to take pleasure in a nice drive when there isn’t a ton and a half of screaming metal and diesel fuel looming in your rearview mirror like the kiss of death.

*the title is a reference to the song by the same title by Son Volt, an "alt country" group outta Missouri. Good stuff.

Geezers Arise!

2009-08-16T23:59:00.001-07:00

(hnnnnnhh, UNHnhh!, stands to full height)
Dang, my foot's asleep.

WORDY GUY with NO ROMAN NuMERAL

2009-08-09T14:23:00.004-07:00

UPDATE

THE LONG AWAITED ANSWER: Is "B", Stingy or frugal.

Many thanks to you smart alecks whose penchant for making up your own definitions (Innominatus and Wollf) make the comments funnier than the whole blog on a normal basis. But SIS is the one who got it right. She played to win. And did.

I hope RobV's caffienated sinuses fully recover enough to provide us with another installment soon. This is fun!

I have lost track of the roman numeral associated with this installment of Wordy Guy. But that does not diminish it's fun or importance. Nay, if anything, it frees me to not worry about counting every one of these. And If Rob V stays on board with us here, we'll get more of this educational fun.

As always, do your best, dig deep in your brains, and NO CHEATING...

Parsimonious

A. Extremely self-righteous, to the point of being "holier than thou."

B. Stingy or frugal

C. Extremely bitter and resentful

Computers Have Taken Over

2009-08-07T20:41:00.000-07:00

I was drawing today, the old-fashioned way; paper and pencil. I am doing a couple of preliminary sketches for a guy gearing up to make a movie. My job will (hopefully) be to do the storyboard drawings to a) sell the idea to investors and b) show the progression of the shots to plan out the film being shot. Pretty cool.

It’s been a while since I have just sat and drawn pictures, and as I had been sitting there for half an hour or so, I decided to get up and get some water. Just before I stood up, my mind started to fire the synapses to my left hand to hit “command + S”; the Mac keyboard shortcut to “Save” a file.

I couldn’t believe that the action gotten that far. Totally inconceivable. Have I been creating art on a computer for so long that even a simple act that I have done virtually all my life been invaded by the requirements of the virtual world?

I had to laugh when I actually realized what had happened. I told my daughter about it, and she just grinned and rolled her eyes.

I just hope that my students read this and realize how deeply ingrained that the actions become.

Not Intended for the USPS

2009-08-03T22:52:00.003-07:00

I was at my parents’ house the other day, and a poor little gecko that had been smashed somewhere and dried out to an ashy, shadow of a husk turned up. It reminded my Mom of an anecdote that included, of all things, a similarly-fated lizard and the United States Postal Service.

It may be important to assert that the statute of limitations on minor postal transgressions is likely elapsed many times over in the intervening 27 years, so there is not too much danger of an arrest by an overzealous postal inspector.

Being in college in far-flung Commerce, Texas, any correspondence from anyone but the Dallas Morning News was welcome. OK, even sales pitches from The Dallas Morning News, the Fort Worth Star Telegram or even the Pecan Gap Citizen were welcome. REAL mail was almost too much to ask for.

But one day, I got an envelope from my sister. I was so excited. As I all but skipped back up the walkway to the porch, I wondered at the small greasy spot on the back of the envelope. And it was kinda thicker than a letter or card.

On opening the packet, I quickly realized that it was not actually a letter so much as a tomb. A tomb for a little greasy spot that slightly resembled a shrimp. Had my sister actually sent me a shrimp in the mail? And there was a smell. Kinda shrimpy.

After a little more careful inspection, notice I didn’t say “closer inspection”, there seemed to be more of a land-based creature; the partial skeleton and overly gaunt form made me think of perhaps a small lizard. HAD MY SISTER SENT ME A FORMERLY LIVE LIZARD THAT THE MAIL MAN KILLED?

Even though at that time, 1982 to be precise, long-distance telephone conversations were reserved for special occasions or really important news. This qualified. I called her and asked her what made her even think of this sick, sick, sick, funny, strange, sick, weird, awesome, sick little prank. She laughed and said that it was completely dessicated when she found it wherever it was and it came to her in a flash, “Send it to aAron” in the mail.

While she said that the tiny lizard was utterly mummified and should not have greased the envelope he came to me in, I do concede that it had been a bit rainy in Commerce for a few days. Maybe it had gotten a little time to “reconstitute” in the humidity of an East Texas post office.

Needless to say, I will never see a pressed lizard and not think of a certain winter day when I went to the mailbox and found a surprise. And also fear my sister, just a little.

Something Random...

2009-07-08T19:56:00.004-07:00

How many miles to the galleon did the Spanish Armada get?

UPDATE

I never got a definitive answer to this very real question. I only got invective for my use of a very tasteful pun. Offers to pummel me with pillows and the like.

Does knowbody no the answer? Just make something up, OK?

Fourth of July Waterworks Show

2009-07-07T20:44:00.002-07:00

Fridays, I get off early during the Summer. I think most of the regulars know this. This is a good thing.

I arrived at home at around one in the afternoon, just as the females in the house were readying themselves for a trip to the movies. I had eaten some sort of food for lunch and was just on the verge of zoning out in the chair. My youngest sat at the fireplace awaiting her ride to the movie. My wife was in our bathroom, making the final preparations for their outing.

As I was nearing the doze-point, I heard some sounds of urgency from the back of the house. “Wabba wabba weeba wabba, wabba water wanh wanh! Help wanh!” As I moved toward the sound, it became clear that something was amiss. I thought that perhaps she was hurt or possibly a roach or other abominable hazard.

I burst into our room and heard her harsh and assiduous tones joined by the sound of spraying water. Rounding the edge of the sink area, I saw my wife leaning over, clutching a towel with it jammed down on the cold water side of our faucet. Water was gushing from under the terry cloth relentlessly. I dove beneath the counter and reached through the waterfall to turn off the supply valve.

That done, the relieved spouse withdrew the towel and sure enough, the cold water faucet handle was just gone. I peered down the hole and sure enough, I saw all the way down the tube to the water treatment plant.

I analyzed the hardware and could see nothing obviously broken. Yet there we were, the countertop swimming in the city water supply. My wife describes the order of events as 1) turning on the hot water valve, 2) cold water valve blasting off like a Saturn V rocket to the ceiling. Or almost.

After they left, I sat in my chair for a while, dreading the trip to the Dome Hepot for a replacement faucet. The trick was going to be the drain stopper mechanism. In case you have never replaced a faucet, the box contains a stopper assembly that necessarily entails the removal of the silver ring that you spit your toothpaste at in the bottom of the sink. Not really hard, just not fun. And the opportunity to over or under-tighten something resulting in a leak. So I made the decision to go with the direct replacement. With the failure of the original after such a short time, the prospect of duplicating the initial mistake was cause for hesitation. But the prospect of replacing the drain was the tipping point.

I dragged myself up from the air-conditioned comfort of the living room and into the blazing heat of the afternoon, on a trek to find an American Standard Cadet faucet set.

I am glad to say that the procurement and installation went without a hitch, save for the one in my back from wadding myself up under the bathroom sink. Let me tell ya, removing a relatively new faucet is much easier than removing one that was twenty or so years in one place.

I think I would have like to seen the liftoff of the handle skyward, followed by the plume of water. And while my wife’s description was vivid, the thought of all that water in the face of such dry heat the last few weeks would have been refreshing, I think. And I guess my job afterward was that of the guys that prepare for the fireworks shows, only in reverse.

Hearty Laugh in the Produce Aisle...

2009-07-04T13:19:00.003-07:00

I got a laugh in HEB today. There I was, picking out jalapeño peppers for the salsa I was about to make. Fine, firm, green peppers.

I quickly got flanked by a couple preparing for some sort of wind-ding, shindig or hootenanny for the Fourth of July; the woman on the left with the basket and the man on hunter/gatherer duty bringing in the onions and other produce.

He saw me pawing through the jalapeños and asked his wife, across me, "We're grilling, right?"

She replied in the affirmative and he mentioned that he was going to go for some jalapeños. As he grabbed one or two, he said into the air, "I'm going to smoke up a few of these and see what happens..."

Again, the smart aleck was at the ready, and I said to him, "They're hard to keep lit...", accompanied by the exaggerated cigar-puff-mouth-action and my fingers holding a big, fat mock-stogie.

He chuckled, but as I walked away, I heard him laugh some more.That was when he saw the visual in his head, trying to light a pepper with a grilling lighter, puffing like mad on it, then sitting back in his chair. Then his wife mumbled,"Huh..." from her shopping list , and he repeated it as I disappeared down the aisle. As he related the gag to her, I heard him laugh some more. There was that visual again.

I felt good to have played to a small but apparently appreciative audience. Just about made my Fourth.

Rain, Rain, Come Again, Go Away Some OTHER Day!

2009-06-25T19:36:00.005-07:00

It rained here today.

So you say, "Big deal, you're on the Texas Gulf Coast, it's positively tropical!" Ah, not lately, Dear Reader, not lately. It has been very dry for something like 39 days, with no appreciable rain. Burn bans are in effect and many municipalities are calling for water conservation measures.

People are putting stamps on letters with paper clips. The Baptists are sprinkling, the Methodists are using a wet handkerchief and the Lutherans are issuing rain checks. We have catfish in the pond a year old that don't know how to swim yet.

To say it has been dry is an understatement. I got out of my car the other evening and smelled the aroma of hay. Fresh, dry hay. Since there were no hay bales or rolls nearby, I looked over at my lawn and saw the brown, withered grass doing it's best imitation of Coastal Bermuda.

The high pressure "bubble", as the weather people refer to it as, has maybe slipped a little. "Bubble" is a little misleading; it sounds like Lawrence Welk is playing a polka in the clouds, with happy people dancing in the streets to "champagne music". We're all sweating like pigs in the heat. It's been over 100º for, like ten days in a row, so there's not much of the implied "kicking-up-of-the-heels" going on around here.

I think they should describe it as a looming, apocalyptic dragon slowly cooking us in our own humid shirts.

But it rained today. For about 30 minutes in Pasadena (where I work) and maybe about the same amount of time in my home town. Of course, the pavement was about 120º F and the entire parking lot was nearly dry half an hour later.

Maybe our weather is getting back to normal.

HMS Titanic, Highland Bayou Style

2009-06-20T10:31:00.002-07:00

The captain of the Titanic was confident of a smooth, productive maiden voyage of his ship, no doubt. I was mostly confident that today was going to be a good day on the water with my youngest daughter for our first fishing/boating adventure.

Mostly.

We drove down to Highland Bayou in my neighbor’s truck with a borrowed pirot. I had never used a pirot. Have heard about them all of my life; a shallow flat bottomed boat with the bow and stern interchangeable. This one is fiberglass and has two seats molded in. During the drive down, I mentioned that if we were to go over due to wind or other wave action, that she should not panic. The water is warm and shallow, and we’ll just be wet, no big deal.

I found a place on the Southern side of the bayou, a place fairly unfamiliar to me. It was either that or park where I usually do, and carry the sixty pound watercraft for 300 yards, OVER the levee and to the water. No thanks.

We had a bucket, an ice chest (I don’t really know why, now that I think about it), my tackle box and the rods. I got in the boat myself, then encouraged my offspring into the back of the boat to find a seat. I knelt in the middle to paddle the craft to our destination.

I had decided on the way down that this was going to be an adventure rather than strictly a fishing trip. My young protégé is a casting neophyte, the pirot is a new kind of vessel for me to pilot. I wasn’t planning on trying to bring in a couple of limits of fish, we were just out to have some fun.

So back to the water; the pirot is kinda twitchy when it’s loaded. As I shoved off, the quick action made some extra side-to-side motion, and we took on a couple of quarts of the bayou. My daughter tensed up, but didn’t panic, and I told her that we were OK, just stay low and don’t move too radically. Me, on the other hand, had to paddle the whole cruise liner out into the watercourse necessarily shifting my prodigious weight as I propelled and steered the boat.

As we progressed, my girl wondered how deep the water was. I had brought along a five foot piece of pvc pipe as a nod to my Grandaddy with his “calcutta depthfinder” (a cane pole). I invited her to poke it down into the water as we were gliding along and see how deep it was. She was pleasantly surprised with the two and a half foot depth of the seas. She was less pleasantly surprised with the amount of water that was in the boat with us; up to her ankles. I was informed later that each time I paddled, the water was within an inch of so of the gunwales.

We had progressed about 150 yards out to the channel, and I was notified of some more water invading our sanctuary. That was it. I decided to come about and steam back to our berth. In the middle of the turn, my first mate announced, “Daddy, Daddy, we’re sinking!”… and it was true. The stern sank quickly with her bailing out vertically as the hull slid beneath the surface. The water made rapid progress in my direction as well; past my feet, up my calves, then inundating my back pockets and finally my chest. The last bit of “dry” was the bow as it looked to heaven one last time.

By this time we were laughing in surprise and shock. The bucket with my cast net went down, down to Davey Jones’ locker; really only about three feet. But the mud was pretty deep. I grabbed my (luckily) floating tacklebox and put the rods on top. The crew was confused about the depth of the water, since the mud was so soft in that particular spot, she thought it was deeper. She seized the sunscreen and tried for the paddle. I retrieved that after getting the ice chest.

After gathering all of our floating cargo, laughing, I made sure to hem it all in for my fellow castaway to hold while I salvaged the ship. I turned it on its side, then lifted it over my head, then plopped it back on the surface. No big deal. We then tossed our flotsam and jetsam in, and I let my crew climb my leg and flop back in the boat giggling.

When I made sure that we had everything, I allowed myself a time to laugh at the ridiculous outing we were in the middle of. My thoughts of earlier came back to me; this was not solely a fishing trip, but was to be an exploration. Well, that it was! My girl asked if I were disappointed, and I replied, “How could I be? We had an adventure!”

While making our way back to where we put in with me towing the boat (which was riding nicely in the water minus the 255 extra pounds), I took the time to have the wee lass practice casting my Shimano Calisto reel. Suffice to say, she will continue to practice.

The epilogue to this escapade is that my gal got to skipper the pirot around a little bit while I learned her how to paddle a boat around. She made several large circles in the channel, paddling, switching, back paddling, digging deep and using the paddle as a rudder. She did really well, and was excited to be the captain of such a fine, albeit low capacity, craft.

The moral to this story is to always be ready for something different. Don’t be content to follow plans every time, and a good hint is to leave your cell phone in the car like we did.

The Missus Takes the Family for an Evening Stroll

2009-06-18T21:19:00.005-07:00

Yes, the little dogs have been worrying a place at the end of the deck for several days now, culminating in an irritating yapfest earlier this evening. I figured it was a possum or something. Couldn’t be a cat, it was too quiet over there when the dogs were racing around sniffing and barking. I well remember the hiss that the stupid little black cat could utter.

Sure enough, as I was locking the back door for the night, I flicked on the porchlight just to see what I could see. What I saw was Mrs. O. Possum and the entire clan of little possum-lings clutching her fur, out for their evening constitutional.

Her expression, if possums can have expression, was one of slight bewilderment and mild confusion. Not that there is anything unusual about that kind of expression for a possum, but she looked as if she hadn’t any clue how she got on my back porch with no fewer than nine ugly little carbon copies of her gripping her pelt. She was panting a little, maybe because she sensed the air conditioning inside in defiance of the high humidity and heat of the Gulf Coast night. Perhaps she was plotting on how to buy a minivan to tote her brood rather than doing it the old-fashioned way. Who knows what goings-on are going on in the mind of a possum. If anything.

I will need a larger trap than I have to relocate the entire family to the Soderberg Marsupial Trade School and Re-education camp. I’ll have to see if they have a “loaner”.

Until then, I’ll have to staple my dogs to the tree in back.

Sounds Like...

2009-06-18T11:03:00.002-07:00

The mind of a smart aleck is a terrible thing to have trapped in your skull. You who know me have heard what comes out of my mouth when the muse inspires.

On Thursdays in the office, we have a “snack day”, mostly just to feel better about the work week. We have half days Friday throughout the summer, so it’s a nice distraction to have food within easy reach to get ready for the slightly longer weekend.

My friend Sparky brought in some fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, olive oil, salt and pepper. We had some fresh basil as well, so the salad was a big hit. She decided to leave the olive oil up at the office for other snack days.

So much for the setup.

On Friday, our office manager strolled past the table we had the food products on the Thursgraze Snack Day. As she notice the olive oil bottle, she inquired about the owner.

Now, the way she worded it was crucial to my response, otherwise, I wouldn’t have said anything, or it just wouldn’t be funny.

Her exact words were, “Whose olive oil?” to which I replied instantly, “She’s Popeye’s girlfriend…why?”

She laughed heartily, and a couple of others moaned. I think that they were just jealous. You see, they’re smart alecks, too, and to get beaten to a perfectly laid out straight line was too much for their egos.

Reminds me of the “electric cat” episode of a couple of years ago.

The Big Night

2009-06-07T20:16:00.008-07:00

Summer evenings on the Coastal Plains of Texas can often mean muggy, sticky, mosquito ridden hours that go on forever. This evening however was different for a couple of reasons.

First, a mild “cool” front came through. All that means is that the pressure is high and the humidity is low. Weather reports had it at around 39% today; normally it’s 90% or higher. High temp was in the low 90’s. The evening turned off really nice, just a few small clouds, a soft South breeze. Mosquitoes were hunting in the cow pastures.

They missed a bonanza, because there was a stadium full of warm-blooded family and friends making ready to witness the graduating class of 2009. I was there because my middle daughter was one of the 496 eager grads just outside the stadium. They were all wearing their orange caps and gowns, the girls’ hair all straightened and/or curled, the boys’ necks all crammed into buttoned collars and ties. No doubt most of them were visited by butterflies and flop sweat.

As the stands filled up with interested and obligated spectators and the sun edged down, the breeze was refreshing and made the hard bleachers a little less offensive. The only thing we were concerned with was saving space for my parents, who were to be a little late. Even that assignment was made bearable by the parade of humanity in a variety of forms that issued past us.

This being Alvin, the Alvin ISD police were checking bags on the way in; they banned the air horns and cowbells and all manner of obnoxious noisemakers that had plagued previous graduations. The reason being, enthusiastic family cheering for one graduate virtually obliterated the names of the next three or four kids. So much for the dignity of the ceremony.

The graduates filed into the stadium single file down the track on each side. I was told that we should be on the South side. Sure enough, of the four hundred ninety-something high school seniors mine was there way back in the back with the “S’s”.

As I watched her in her orange cap and gown, I had that strange feeling that amounts to wonder at the speed of life. *Cliché alert*; It seems like such a short time ago that she was just a little kid running around the house with a busted piñata on her head. No, really. She has grown up so much. She is over five feet nine inches tall, and with the shoes she wore, she was nearly six feet even. Taller than nearly all of the girls and a great percentage of the guys. She looked like royalty, striding along the padded track with her wide, bright smile and her long blonde hair. Like Graduate Barbie.

Now she was in a group of kids that had gone through 12 years of school together, and were about to hit the streets as real people. They filed onto the new field of artificial turf filled with an army of chairs in a long, neat rectangle.

The crowd settled down and the color guard came out, the national anthem was played by the band, minus the seniors. The introductions of the officials were made and the speeches were speeched by the student class president and the smart kids. The top 10% was introduced, honors made and the long list of graduates’ names was read.

We sat through the lengthy list, waiting for the nineteenth letter of the alphabet that would signal Katie’s moment. We watched as her row stand up and walk to the staging area to be called up to receive their “diploma”.

Hearing her name, our entire group stood up and yelled, “Yay Katie!”. I texted her later during her time of Project Graduation all-night-soirée and asked if she had heard our exclamation. Her reply was, “LOL yah! ☺”. It made me feel good to have been noticed from that far away.

I am proud of my girl. She took the Math classes that I didn’t even know existed. As a matter of fact, I don’t think anyone in my immediate family has even touched that level of ciphering unscathed.

She is one of the reasons that I have to go on, and I love her so much. Congratulations Katie-Belle.

Wordy Guy X!

2009-06-06T10:35:00.005-07:00

Yes, the ever-sensational Wordy Guy has bestowed another puzzle gift on us. On you, I mean, I already knowed what this one means.

As always, do your best, dig deep in your brains, and NO CHEATING...

Lugubrious

A. Extremely ridiculous

B. Extremely mournful

C. Extremely humorous

And remember, last time Innominatus got the actual Wordy Guy to chork on his java with the dandy usage guess.

I'll have the answer and winners on Monday nite!

UPDATE
Well, here it is Monday night, and as promised I am announcing the winner of the Wordy Guy XI, or "X!" as I have in the title (on purpose)(really, I did it on purpose).

This is going to be difficult, since Innominatus came in first with an answer that very well could indicate that he knew the meaning of "lugubrious". But I can't let him drift through on his lightning-quick smart aleck answers forever. So this week's bragging rights goes to Falcon. His "process of elimination" educated guess was right on the money.

While Joe Biden's hair could be described as "extremely mournful", it wasn't decisive enough for the win.

And I mention "money" just as an expression, as you know there are no monetary prizes issued here.

Just a warm feeling of questionable accomplishment. So Falcon, revel in your moment. Thanks for playing!

I Think I Just Made Them Mad

2009-05-31T14:48:00.003-07:00

The skeeters have been getting a little “uppity” lately. The evenings have been fairly windy, so they have been getting not fogged the past week and a half.

Bad move on my part.

I have been thinking about it, but couldn’t quite get out there and smite them properly. It happened kinda suddenly I guess. However it happened, it happened quickly. Just this moment as I am typing, a mosquito flew close past my face and one bit me on the nape of my neck. I have killed them in the shower and the kitchen. I killed another only moments ago on my arm and another on the back of my neck.

I Black Flagged them last evening, and they weren’t swarming me. I thought I was in pretty good shape, catching them a little early.

Turns out they were just in someone else’s yard at the time, and came home to roost this morning. I should have known that they were back en force when I saw the horse on the front lawn, completely drained of blood.

I am going to get out there again just before nightfall; I am tired of going to bed with mosquito repellent on my ears.

This Almost Didn't Happen

2009-05-23T20:38:00.005-07:00

I almost didn’t go. I had set the alarm for 5:30 a.m. I hadn’t slept well last night, and that time of the morning is awful early, and today would have been an ideal day to sleep in. But the sound of the little crack of dawn kept me awake, and the stillness of the past few mornings called me toward the bayou.

So I dragged my carcass out of the bed and got dressed. I grabbed a couple of Cutie Pies and a couple of bottles of water. Loaded everything into the car and hit the road to Highla—er, my “secret fishing spot”. In the growing daylight, I constantly monitored the breeze; I watched the grass at the sides of Highway 6 for the sign of increasing wind, the tops of the trees were eyeballed for any extra movement. All seemed calm for the time being.

When I arrived at the appointed spot, there was only a breath of a breeze with a slight Northerly component. I walked up the gravel road and over the levee to survey and choose my line for the day. On a whim and a bit of experienced impression, I decided to head West, into the corner. I know that the redfish tend to congregate in that spot up there, and so I set out to get into the water to wade to my destination.

At this point, I must confess that I had made the trip down to the water on Wednesday morning, which was the first time since last August. I wasn’t sure about what Ike did to my favorite spot. Would there be a lot of debris in the water? Did it change the shoreline any? Were there any dead animals in the water that I would (shudder) snag on? Worse?

I wore my long pants to protect my legs in the event of lawn furniture or a fence or something just under the surface of the water. Wednesday I chickened out. I wasn’t sure of the bottom, or anything, and when I saw a furry form in the grass at the edge of the shallow water, I froze. On closer inspection, it was small chunk of carpet rolled up. That did it, I decided to hike around to the road and fished a little on either side of the railroad track. Then I went home. The wind was strong out of the East, and the old rhyme came into my head, “Wind from the West, fishing’s the best; wind from the East, fishing’s the least.” That, coupled with the mullet playing around in the water was an indication to me that they were unconcerned with any local predators. I was unwilling to get into the high tide, up to my back pockets in the water and have to drive home in wet pants with no fish.

Today was a different story. I charged into the water on a mission. I made some casts in my trek to the corner, but had the feeling that they were in vain. I waded through the mud and the rising tide, water that was usually knee deep on me, was now at my mid-to upper thigh. Maybe Ike had something to do with that, I didn’t know. What I did know was that the regular sneakers I wore on my feet were NOT the wading shoes that I usually wore. They were neoprene with a zipper up the side and they came up past the ankle. I write of them in the past tense, for alas, they are no more. They only lasted about twelve years.

About halfway to the corner, I was pleasantly surprised by a strike on my line. I use soft plastic lures on a lead head jig. The strike was not a big “WHAM” like a redfish usually makes, yet it wasn’t a flounder, either. Turned out to be a 17 inch redfish. Under Texas law, the red drum must be between 20 and 28 inches for a fisherman to keep it. So I let it go, as prescribed by law. But my heart was light since that is what I had come for.

After nearly losing a shoe in mud up to the middle of my calf, I arrived within casting range of my target area. I sent a cast just past an old post standing in the water. My retrieve was medium speed and with a couple of yanks on the rod. In just a few seconds, the whole tone of the morning took an exciting (for me, not necessarily for you) turn.

My lure paused for a split second, then took off in a different direction. I yanked on the line hard, and the fight was on. The big fish ran like a torpedo (not actually “running” since it lacked legs) and I did my best to turn and reel him in. The fight was spectacular, with me grinning and laughing like a big idiot. At times when trying to slow his progress, my line started to sing from stretching so hard. I am impressed that it held together, but for a few seconds I was in doubt.

I finally got the fish into my net, removed from the line and put on the stringer. He was a hefty, strong and by now, tired 26 inch red drum. During the fight with the behemoth, I saw other reds take off out of the vicinity; so they WERE there!

I fished for another hour and a half, and in total, hooked 12 fish; three that I kept, five that were undersized (but very strong and vigorous fighters) and four that broke my line in several creative ways.

I have to say, fish breaking the line is not too uncommon, but I have never had four of them in one fishing trip. The first ran up on a partly submerged fencepost and broke the line. Next, one of my hook eyes broke the line that went through it (the knot was still intact when the slack line flew back in my face). The third one used his brothers on the stringer to break the line by diving beneath them at three-quarter speed. The most ingenious was the last one.

After a fierce fight, line singing, rod bent in a big “C”, me laughing and straining to keep my foe away from that fencepost (yes, that one again) the creature made a run at me. At the last second, he dodged left and ran to the fish on the stringer. I was smart enough not to let that happen again, but the angle was nearly impossible to turn a fish this strong. He ran under my stringer, turned right and circled my right leg. I felt the line through my Wranglers and eventually it gave way with a muffled “ping”.

I was only a little aggravated, it was a sizeable fish and I would have liked to put the tape measure on him before I let him go. I already had my limit of three reds on the stringer, and another big one would have just been illegal.

My Dad later asked how big that last fish was, and since he broke off, I told him it was as big as I wanted it to be. I’ll say it was 32, no 52 inches long.

The epilogue to this “best day of saltwater fishing ever” is that I cooked the big one for dinner this evening.

Twelve hundred and fifty words to say, “I had a great day and a great meal today”.

Berry Good Times

2009-05-17T16:58:00.005-07:00

Blackberries are among my favorite forms of produce. Especially the extra large Brazos blackberries that my parents grow. They are juicy and tart, and this year there is a higher proportion of really sweet ones. Many are the size of a pigeon egg. No lie.

They are coming to the peak of their season now; a couple of gallon buckets every couple of days. I went to the Soderberg Farm and Chicken Resort and picked on Saturday after our fishing trip. My mother and Dad and I went back there with our little one-gallon buckets ready to harvest some of the easy picks. It was around noon, and the shade was gone by that time. Though it makes the berries easier to see and pick, the bright sun drains the impetus from the picker.

As the picking progressed, there were some just too full of juice to allow them to be crushed by their own family. These I had to eat immediately. I checked each one destined for the gullet, having learned my lesson too well a while back. And not one berry passes my lips without the thought of something unseen that may be in there haunting me. You see, there are bugs that lay eggs in a berry to ensure that their offspring has a great first meal. There is always the danger (read “probability”) that I am eating some insect’s progeny, but I usually justify it by allowing that the extra protein would be beneficial. And you can’t taste them. Mostly I try not to think about it.

I never even knew about the worms, and thus never worried about it with all of the dewberries that we picked when GranMommy and GranDaddy took us to the wild berry patches when we were kids. The short version is that in the spring, they would take us to San Leon near the railroad tracks and pick berries till our fingers were purple and there were gallons of dewberries ready for use. We had our little Coke case stools, buckets, hats and a snake stick, all issued by the ramrod of the operation. I remember once when I was taking a break; drinking water out of the bleach bottle under the seat of the Dart and then laying on the back seat. When I shut my eyes, I saw berry vines. And berries. Just an image burned into my retinas. And I learned that some of the berries just needed to get eaten right away. We were never scolded or admonished for this; part of the reward for stooping, crouching and kneeling in the sticker, ant and mythical snake-infested berry patch was the joy of popping in a nice, fat, perfectly ripe dewberry.

I’m sure there were larval passengers in them as well, but I never was a witness to them. These days my parents soak their berries in the buckets for ten or fifteen minutes when they bring them into the kitchen to evict the interloping worms. With a few minutes under water, the poor little guys begin to wriggle and float to the surface for a breath of air. That’s when they’re nabbed. Either plucked out and squished or simply washed (warshed) down the drain.

So we always soak the berries. When I got my parcel of about five pounds of them home Saturday, I soaked them dutifully. After the required amount of time, I checked to see how many bug children were present. My mother’s statement from a few days back, “We didn’t have hardly any when we soaked them the other day…” rang in my ears as I watched probably ten or twelve of the little buggers float to the surface. Some were small; less than an eighth of an inch. Others, however looked as though they were outside the slot limit for length governing the harvest of black bass in some Texas lakes! Writhing eels, anacondas, mostly not the pearly white of their smaller cousins, nay, these were long purple colored streamers with a heft and ominous look overall.

They weren’t really all THAT big, only about a quarter of an inch long, but still I was glad there were no game wardens in the area. You never can be too sure.

I made a great cobbler out of three cups of our little purple friends, and there are others refrigerated for eating on cereal in the morning, or just to snack on.

And I am secure in the knowledge that the rest of the big Brazos blackberries that are harvested at the Soderberg Farm are destined for delicious, worm-free blackberry jelly. This goes well on PawPaw’s angel biscuits.

Are you hungry yet?

You Call THAT Music?

2009-05-16T17:07:00.007-07:00

What passes for music these days.
NOW I know what the geezers from my past were talking about. The music that kids listen to today barely qualifies as music.

Don’t get me wrong; there are plenty of artists out there on the popular music scene who can actually make music. John Mayer, Jason Mraz, Grace Potter, and a few others are first-rate musicians and songwriters. These guys are not the focus of this rant.

And I guess that’s what it is that bothers me so badly. A new band may actually have a decent song; tolerable lyrics, lead singer that’s not too annoyingly “urgent” and some musicians who can actually play their instruments. The most maddening detail is the drummer, pounding incessantly on the cymbal with each and every beat with no variation or sense of rhythmic patterns. Just banging on the cymbal. Sometimes through the chorus or even the verse. I hate it. I have even unwittingly ruined a band or two for my oldest daughter. Sorry. But this is a widespread problem, a disturbing trend, and the stuff of geezer chronicle.

Apparently the only requirement to be a drummer these days is to have a drum kit and a pair of sticks. Oh, and enough brain power to carry a beat. But that’s where it ends.

No more Neal Peart, Richie Hayward, Mick Fleetwood or the other greats who could play complex patterns of interesting rhythms, and keep a steady beat at the same time.

These guys were back in the day when guitar players actually played the whole way through the song, not just little breaks at the appropriate places, then a fifteen second bridge. Paul Barrere of Little Feat (a band that many have not heard of, but who were very cutting-edge and influential in the 70s) was a phenomenal guitarist whether playing lead or rhythm. Most of the songs, he is just playing behind the vocals, not just chords, but complex rhythms that are hard to hear unless you are listening with headphones or at volumes to make the neighbors a little angry.

My point is, that musicianship is getting passed over for a decent hook, over-produced music and a cute face/fancy dance moves. The old guys, and I’m going way back to Tommy Dorsey and Bob Wills, the 1930’s and 40’s, were definitely not lookers, nor did they even have singing voices that were beautiful, but they could play their respective instruments and assemble others who could technically and creatively complement them.

Now all you need is an aggressive manager and a good producer.

*Note*
I don't know the band in the picture, I just wanted to show the young, vapid musicians prowling around these days. They look like they would play the kind of tripe that I described above. For all I know, they could be the next band of geniuseses that make the Moody Blues look like a bar band. Just judging the book by the cover. Geezer stuff.

I am a Victim.

2009-05-13T20:17:00.007-07:00

A victim of Warner Brothers cartoons, specifically Bugs Bunny. I enter into evidence the fact that Monday, while dutifully working on workish work, I was listening to Rossini’s Barber of Seville. There was a concrete job being done in the parking lot by a guy using a jackhammer.

The problem is, that even while working on workish work, my mind conjured the image of the unseen worker in the parking lot, manically wielding a giant jackhammer, with his feet coming off the ground, bouncing all around, in time to the music. Purely unintentional, but some of the pauses in his hammering coincided with the pace of the music. I was watching a cartoon in my head.

I also saw Bugs Bunny abusing poor Elmer Fudd with the mud pack on his face in the barber chair, cracking it with the chisel and hammer. Which progressed to the scalp massage, fertilizer and flowers sprouting from Elmer’s head. The chase scene in the barber chairs. And “You’re so next”…

This is my life. Fully 25% of my observations are easily relatable or reminiscent of some Warner Brothers animated situation. A quote, a picture, anything.

Everybody has a burden to bear. If mine is to be a giant 11 year-old that likes a 75 year-old rabbit, then so be it. I guess there are worse things I could be.

Like Daffy Duck. Now there’s a jerk…

Wordy Guy X

2009-05-06T09:51:00.006-07:00

That's "X" as in "Ten", not something naughty. You guys know me better than that...

Yes, looking back, it was back in June '08 since last we heard from our Wordy Guy. Here is his latest puzzle-ette.

Answer in the comments, first correct answer in order gets bragging rights and not really much else. As if "bragging rights" for this blog is not an oxymoron. Anyhow, no cheating.

Pinnace
A. A sleeveless garment worn as an apron or a dress

B. A light sailing ship

C. A thin, light-weight saber

FINAL RESULTS
Well, knowing the author and readers of this blog, I suppose a straight answer would be outside the realm of possibility.
Innominatus seems to be the unclear winner, he confessed to looking up the answer, but his mini-narrative was hilarious. I almost prefer it to the real answer, which up until the time I read the first entry was a simple B, a light sailing ship. In fact, I am contemplating changing the rules. The entries should/might/could be accompanied by a sentence putting the word in question to good use, made up or not.

The Epic Battle

2009-05-03T14:22:00.005-07:00

Saturday was the first day of battle. The enemy troops have been massing since a couple of days after the kittens tried to invade. There was an inch of water in out back yard for a few days; the flower beds have gotten out of hand. The gerber daisies are nearly three feet tall, the ornamental boxwood is more like an ornamental crate, the trumpet vine could open its own jazz club.

The mosquito queens did their job well. Laying thousands of eggs that hatch into millions of larvae, that metamorphose into billions of sinlge-minded bloodsuckers that waited to descend on the human population at once.

May 2 was the day of the beginning of the epic summer struggle; man vs mosquito. The mosquitoes had numbers, a hollow proboscis and an unquenchable hunger for hemoglobin.

I have a Black Flag fogger. It took a try or two to find the ammunition for it. Walmart sold out yesterday. Dang it. I went to Stanton’s and found what I was after. I got two jugs of it.

I got home and devised my battle plans. I would wait a little until the blasting South wind died down a little. My trigger finger got itchy. I needed to test the amount of propane in my weapon. It was still a bit early, and since my foe is mentally unsophisticated, I decided to chance a test fire. I filled the reservoir with my toxic ammo, opened the propane valve and heard the hollow hiss. Yes! I touched the igniter and after a quick “pop-poof”, my instrument of war was warming up. After another minute for the fogger to be fully ready, according to the directions that I read and understood, I was ready for the test firing.

The wind was still a bit strong, and knowing that the most intelligent and resourceful of my quarry liked to stay in the garage, I fogged in there first.

Great, it worked. Worked really well, as a matter of fact. So I loaded the agave plant with smoke. I just rounded the corner and fogged along the side in front of the gate. The wind was lower over there, lets just see what will happen along the side of the house. The mosquitoes rose in clouds to meet me in combat. I squeezed the trigger and sent forth a beautiful plume of poison. I could see the silhouettes of my enemy against the white haze.

None of them dropped immediately, that would have been very rewarding, and I should not have gone after individual fliers since they don’t immediately succumb. A couple of the bravest got a puff to themselves anyhow. The back yard, with all the vegetation and shielded from the as yet strong breeze beckoned me forward. I sprayed the daisies, the caladiums, the trumpet vine. I even sprayed the cracks in the deck.

I continued around the house, and then to the front yard, and the neighbors’ yards. The sense of purpose that drove me around was very fulfilling. So fulfilling, in fact, I repeated the entire exercise when the wind did die down. And I plan on repeating it this evening as well.

Our little winged enemy, small though it may be, comes in innumerable throngs. Culicidae is the army, the divisions are many; Aedes, Culex, Anopheles. Some are small and aggressive, others are large and frightening. They all must die.

To paraphrase Winston Churchill, “I will fight them in the front yard, I will fight them in the backyard, I will fog under the deck and under the shed, I will never surrender, I will never give up.”

Yet ANOTHER Swine Flu Alert, Really.

2009-04-29T20:05:00.002-07:00

Yes, you have all no doubt heard about the swine flu and the attending symptoms and panic warnings. The news media is constantly mining the scientific journals and secret medical networks for any other information that will protect the public from this insidious and frightening illness.

The indications are similar to and include the normal flu symptoms of fever, lethargy, lack of appetite, coughing, runny nose, and sore throat, the porcine version may also incorporate nausea, vomiting and diarrhea.

Yuck. You only thought you didn't want this stuff. It gets worse.

Further medical sleuthing by yours truly has unearthed yet other warning signs that the swine flu has been contracted. Some indicators the alert patient may notice are:
• in game situations, hogging the ball increases
• in social situations, hogging attention and even hogging the camera intensifies
• melancholy at the smell of bacon or pork chops cooking
• aching in the ribs when hickory smoke is detected
• Snorting/oinking when coughing/sneezing

Please be aware of these symptoms in addition to the regular discomforts. While serious and certainly nasty, for the most part this illness is not fatal, but I hear that by the middle of the second day, you'll wish it was.

As an added precaution, please gargle after any display of affection from a pig, hog, boar or even javalina. (While the last is not technically a swine, it has a generally malevolent disposition and will likely bite your face off after it pretends to want to give you a nice peck on the cheek. Your nose will likely be running, but not from congestion. More like running for the border after being removed from your face.)

Just be careful out there. I can't afford to lose any more readers.

That is all...stay well.

Cat Update: Happy Ending!

2009-04-20T20:11:00.004-07:00

Well, the kitties did indeed get re-rescued by their biological mother. While she didn’t knock on the door she did come back for the kids. My girls are bummed, but I am relieved.

We left the kittens out in their box lid and let mama cat overcome her shyness; she did come and gather them back up. Every time we went out last evening to check on them, all I could see were a pair of eyes glowing from the bushes in the beam of my flashlight.

I went out this morning and got the puddin' scared out of me when the black mama cat jumped and hissed at me like some wild, evil spirit flying from the shadows. Lucky I didn't kick her over the fence. Of course, that's hard to do when you're jumping backward with chill-bumps colliding with each other all over your body! She had obviously secured her progeny and for some reason was returning to the scene, possibly to make sure the mittens were recovered as well.

Ms. Kitty had a home under our shed anyhow, I think. We had a frog-strangler rain on Saturday and I think that they just got displaced temporarily. My 13 year-old found them before the mom got back with her FEMA voucher.

I am, once again, a free man. No kittens in the house, no cat food to buy, and hopefully, the family will control the “abundant wildlife” that is in the neighborhood. Sometimes this wildlife finds its way into our attic or pantry. If these cats are going to illegally squat under my shed, they need to make themselves useful. Especially after the fright that mama gave me this morning.

Dang cat.

Dang Cats

2009-04-19T11:21:00.004-07:00

Driving home from church in my middle daughter’s car, her in the passenger seat, my youngest called with the news that she found two kitties in the back yard.

Great.

The youngest didn’t go to church this morning because she didn’t feel very good. Well, she apparently felt good enough just before noon to slosh around in our rain-soaked backyard to find these wayward little cats. Actually, the dogs found them.

They’re fat little things, not like they have been neglected and abandoned. Most likely the mom had a batch of them under our shed, and the rain drove them out.

The girls have already taken them in, made a box/bed for them and laid claim to each one. Oh. My. Gosh. They’re getting ready to go to WallyWorld, I think, to further celebrate the coming of the feline children.

I am hoping to see a mama cat come knocking at the door looking for her lost kittens. I imagine her showing tiny mittens that she had been knitting for just these-sized kittens to prove that she is indeed the parent.

Whether the mother cat comes to request the children from foster care or not, I feel like this won’t be the last you will read about these little animals.

The cats. I meant the cats.

Golden Memories

2009-04-17T20:26:00.004-07:00

Memory is a funny thing, especially for the geezer. For the important things; an onion, toilet paper, paper towels, angel hair pasta, butter and ummmm, what else was I supposed to get?, the memory is an unreliable sense at best.

But for the “unimportant” things; the smell of “vampire blood” that you got for Halloween, what that girl’s favorite headband looked like, the feeling of the sand eroding in fast motion from under your feet and hands as the Gulf waves recede from the beach, the memory is a beautiful, golden picture frame.

We all had great times when we were 16 or 17 when we were at our best. Those days stick in our heads more tenaciously than the grocery list or, in certain situations, the correct names of our children.

My old buddy Charley D. up in Oregon has a blog, Skippin’ Rocksand there resides a series of posts, four to be exact, that start to chronicle the beginnings of his love of playing music. I need all of you fellow geezers, and interested non-geezers, to go over in a couple of spare minutes and read Charley’s thoughts.

Cereal. It was cereal that I was supposed to get. Cap'n Crunch. Yeah.
UPDATE
Be sure to scroll all the way down to the very first section, or you'll miss the beginning of the story, and obviously that's pretty important!

The Cuban/Misses Crisis

2009-03-27T19:15:00.002-08:00

My mother is a great source of stories, since she was somewhat of a quiet rebel in her day. She was a bit like Lucy I guess, and her “Ethel” was usually her lifelong friend, we'll call her, ahhh, “Miss House”, to protect her identity. Sort of.

Back in Texas City in the early Fifties, there was a semi-pro baseball team. On this team was a catcher from Cuba who apparently caught Miss House’s eye, and vice versa. She asked her mother if she could go on a date with him; her mother said, “Only if Lila goes.”

My mom got the message and as was her nature, she didn’t “ask” her parents. She knew they would instantly say “no”. Grandaddy would likely not only say “no”; there would no doubt be some expletives accompanying the declaration, for emphasis.

This catcher had a cousin that they fixed my mother up with. The catcher was handsome, how much worse could his cousin be? Turns out, he could be pretty ugly. On reflection, my mom says he looked a lot like Hugo Chavez, the Venezuelan president who is so gracious to our country. Thick, inside-out lips and bad skin, Mr. Cousin was not what anyone would consider a prize by any standard.

The date did not involve a long ride to anywhere, but the catcher, being tired from his duties at home plate, asked if Miss H would like to drive his convertible. She jumped at the chance since she loved to drive, and my mom and Hugo took the back seat.

Miss H recalls the experience with fits of guilty laughter; glancing in the rearview mirror at my mother, the wind whipping the scarf covering her hairdo, one hand trying to control the thrashing silk, and the other hand fending off her date’s relentless octopus advances. All the while, the handsome catcher was snoring like a sawmill in the passenger seat.

There aren’t too many details about the rest of the night available, but it’s likely that not too much more time was expended on the fiasco. Judging from the fact that my mother never spent any time in prison, it is clear that she never got the chance to reward the Cuban cousin in a manner befitting his behaviour as I am sure she wanted to that evening. It is also clear that my grandfather never heard of the incident, judging from the fact that there was no ugly Cuban reported shot to death and dumped in Galveston Bay.

A Milestone: 80 Years? Already?

2009-01-28T10:54:00.009-08:00

In January 1929, the 28th day, in the small town of Del Rio, Texas, a little guy was born that changed my world. Without him, I would be nothing. Literally. He is my Dad. Or “Little Daddy” as I call him.

There is not enough room here to tell all about him, but the short version is that he started out in Del Rio, and soon the family moved to Austin, where he grew up. His first job was at the Capitol Saddlery Shop, cutting leather conchos for saddles. He was under ten years old. Then he drove a bread truck for Butterkrust Bakeries, the rural route. He was 14.

He skipped his first day of school; his mother took him to the school, but he never went in. Instead, he walked part of the way home, sat on a rock wall and ate his lunch. Then he went home and told his mother that school let out early.
That was the last dishonest thing he probably ever did.

He grew up, and while he was off in the Marine Corps, his mother and father moved to Texas City, and so that’s where he came home to. While hanging out with a couple of tough guys on the corner, a girl drove by in a big DeSoto Suburban, and he was smitten. His buddy flagged her and the gang of girls she was cruising with and hitched a ride for him and my dad-to-be. Alvin, my Dad, reached up with his pocket knife and cut off a little curl on the back of her neck. He was sure he’d marry this girl. He did.

He was in the Marine Corps Reserves, so he got called up to go put down the trouble in Korea. He did, and brought home some metal from a Russian mortar that tried to kill him. It’s still in his left leg.

As a Dad, he was the best. He knew when to play, and he knew when to discipline. I remember nights after grueling tickle-fests in the living room, trying to settle down to go to sleep. Just as my pulse would return to normal, and my breathing evened out, I spied a form creeping in the door on its hands and knees, then springing up to my bed, standing over me on the blanket roaring and laughing before descending to pretend to eat my neck. I get chills even now thinking about it. I should be scarred for life, but instead, my children are. I also remember my mother saying, “Alvin stop it, let him go to sleep!”

He scratched my back with his whiskers on Saturdays when he refused to shave. Did all the normal things that a guy teaches his son how to do; throw a football, skip rocks on the river, catch minnows in a bedsheet, fly fishing, bass fishing, how to shoot a pistol and a rifle. How to drive (“More brake, MORE BRAKE!!”), how to trim trees with a bow saw and a rope (without falling to your death), and how to treat people.

More about that last one, because it’s important. Everywhere we went, I saw the way my Dad treated everyone; like they were his equal or better. The bus boys, waitresses and gas-pumping kid at the service station. The high school kids that scooped our ice cream at Baskin Robbins after Sunday night service always heard, “make it like you were makin’ if for yourself…” with a big smile from my Dad. Sure enough, they looked at him, and as the realization of what he said dawned on them, a huge smile spread on their faces. They would then bend to the task of giving the man that engaged them more ice cream than anyone else in the store.

There is nothing false or phony about this man. Everybody knows who he is and where he stands. As a machinist and later a maintenance supervisor at Monsanto Chemical Company for 31 years, he showed everybody there what it meant to be a Christian. Not a “Sunday Christian”, but a real, every day believer and follower of Jesus. For some of those guys, my Dad was their only exposure to God’s love and compassion.

I remember one guy in particular who had an alcohol problem that always would call my Dad for prayer and counseling late at night, or in the afternoon, or whenever he needed help. We took him to church and now, that man after thirty years, still stays in touch with my Dad.

If you have ever tasted an example of the produce or preserves from the Soderberg Farm and Chicken Resort; the bread and butter pickles, the red pepper relish and jelly, blackberry jelly, cabbage, carrots, broccoli, spinach, chard or tomatoes, you have participated in what he likes to do. That is, running around at a trot for hours a day tending to the garden and chickens. He can still out-work me.

So Happy Birthday, Little Daddy. From your Baby Huey!

PS: I have adopted the “Make It Like You Were Makin’ It For Yourself” ploy with ice cream dippers and the like. It works, just look at me!

Caramel and the Past

2009-01-25T19:45:00.003-08:00

When was the last time you had Sugar Babies? The last time I had any was Sunday, January 25, 2009. I bought a box of them at Dollar General on a whim and on the way home, had to break into them.

Driving up Mustang Road, I popped a couple of them in my mouth. In the cool afternoon air, the flavor brought me back to the cool days spent while camping when I was a kid. The specific feeling that hit me was from Huntsville State Park. It was in late October or early in November. The smell of coolness in the air, along with the scent of grass and trees was very strong. At that moment, I was ten again, tramping through the trees along the Botany Trail.

You may wonder why smells are so important to me. Science has shown that the most powerful memory stimulator is the sense of smell. And if you ever saw me, or even a picture of me, you’ll notice that my receptor of smells is very capable. Let’s just say, it can handle a lot of air at once.

Since the sense of taste is a subset of the sense of smell, the Sugar Babies and the open fields of Alvin were able to transport a geezer back in time to a simpler day.

I wonder if the secret scientists working on a time machine (and you know they are) have thought about using candy as a catalyst or fuel for their device.

New Year. New Post

2009-01-23T11:05:00.011-08:00

Gung Hei Fat Choy!

Happy Chinese New Year! It’s the Year of the Ox, a time of hard work and eventual prosperity unless it all falls apart. And I figured that since I didn’t post anything on or even remotely around our new year, I should at least make some sort of statement about new beginnings and such. Being born in the Year of the Fried Pie, I decided to lay some sweet truth on you, my loyal readers.

This will be my “New Year’s Predictions of What Ought To Be” edition.
I’ll start by reminding you that I am a geezer. Have been since age 19. And geezers, as a rule, offer a lot of advice about the way things USED to be, or SHOULD be. So standby for my “projections” for year 4707, the Year of the Ox, in the Chinese calendar:

RAP MUSIC ENDS
After years of assault on our ears, senses and cultural high ground, rap’s popularity expires in early March when collectively the entire continent snaps back into the groove and recognizes all forms of this “musical” abomination for what it is. What it is, exactly, nobody is sure, but an epiphany occurs and everyone just pulls up their pants, puts their hats on straight and changes outta those big, baggy shirts. The world of music will revert to the major food groups once again; Classical, Classic Rock, Old Timey Country, Texas Swing and Big Band. And these only.

TATTOOS ARE OUT OF VOGUE
Believe it or not, the tattoo craze will peak in June, leading to a crash in the strip center storefront rentals. Strangely, this effect will raise property values on these affected commercial real estate holdings. There will be a corresponding rise in tattoo removal technology and practitioners plying their trade in ever-increasing venues and at ever-decreasing costs. Soon there will be gift cards from Walmart for tattoo removal; you’ll be able to procure your cat food, canned tomatoes and diapers, plus while you wait for your oil change, they can remove the picture of the pit bull head with angel wings eating a human skull that’s on your left bicep. This will put 2009 on the map medically, socially and artistically.

CELL PHONES WILL BE TOTALLY OUTLAWED
OK, quit your whining. Sure they bring good news, on occasion. Yes, they keep a certain amount of boredom at bay, but dangit, they are such a distraction, annoyance and a downright hazard that they should be eliminated. Cold turkey. How many times has someone just dropped out of a face-to-face conversation like you were chopped liver when a call comes on their little device? Hmm? Thousands. And the drivers, especially under the age of 25, with one clamped to their ear and their right foot welded to the firewall with the accelerator pedal imprisoned between, blasting along the formerly (relatively) safe thoroughfares. I have been cut off, wedged in, tailgated and otherwise terrorized by these inconsiderate operators trying to multitask. Not to say that this activity is limited entirely to the younger set. Soccer moms abound with the Tahoe and Sequoia death machines. And salesmen checking their contact list from a laptop in the passenger seat have a fairly high occurrence. Ugh.

AL GORE CONCEDES THAT GLOBAL WARMING WAS HIS IDEA OF A BIG JOKE
It just got out of hand. Here’s how it happened; he wrote his book, then he read it, forgot he fabricated the entire theory after dreaming it all up following a particularly spicy pizza, and then he started believing it. So sad. When he gets the hypno-therapy in November to calm his nerves after being forgotten, his repressed memory of the hoax comes to light and he writes a short retraction on a sticky note. He then throws the crumpled note into one of his seven incinerators.

Now, don’t come crying to me if these don’t come true in the coming year. I in no way warranty these predictions as being certain and unavoidable. This is just stuff that really should happen, making the world a better place.

For us geezers.

Happy New Year.

How Was YOUR Christmas?

2008-12-29T08:02:00.008-08:00

The Christmas Holidays have been good. You may have surmised that by the lack of posting here at the GeezerChron. That’s because, to paraphrase my Aunt Orene, “I don’t have TIME to post on the blog…and sit on my butt as much as I want to.”

I was off the whole week of Christmas, and what with last minute shopping and wrapping and hiding and chasing after little yapping dogs, I just didn’t make it to the computer. My oldest daughter was home starting on Wednesday, and the preparations for the Soderfest were in full swing.

Since the only tradition with our bunch is the fact that we get together and eat/play games and open gifts, the meal was to have a Texican flavor. Enchilada casserole (rolling the individuals up was a little too tedious), tamales, picante sauce (supplied by yours truly), chicken fajitas, pico de gallo, and assorted desserts and other good stuff to eat, including a cheesecake my sister made. Truly good eats. And not a trace of turkey and dressing.

We sat around and played Scattergories, a really entertaining game. It requires the players to think vertically, horizontally, diagonally, every way but straight linear.

Christmas Day at our house was quiet and fun; we opened gifts and everyone was happy with the gifts chosen for them. New clothes, iPod, television, digital cameras, and the piece de résistance; a Wii game system! It was bought for our youngest, along with Guitar Hero, but we all know that EVERYONE will dig this for a long time. Already, the youngest is a Guitar Hero on the “easy” setting, besting the system in 35 out of 42 songs.

I played a little, and even kept up on a couple of songs, but long exposure to the not-really-like-playing-a-guitar game reduces my patience and concentration levels to the point of frustration. There are some recognizable songs on there, but I have played air guitar to “Black Magic Woman” and “La Grange” too many times to keep up with the artificial surrogate on screen. It’s for young folk.

The Wii Sports is much better suited to old geezers. There’s tennis, bowling, baseball, golf and even boxing. Time, space and attention span do not permit me to explain how all of these sports are simulated in a video game, but suffice to say, it’s more realistic than Guitar Hero. Even as I type this, my 18 year-old is playing some heavy metal song broken down to three buttons and a “strum bar”. I am listening to my iTunes on the computer with my new iPod earbuds, with Little Feat cranked up to “drown out all background”.

Christmas Day also includes another standard activity; going to my sister-in-law’s house. The menu there was also non-traditional. Texas BBQ brisket and ribs was the spread we partook in, with Mimi providing the brisket, Becky smoking ribs, and my wife supplied the “good potatoes”. Mimi’s famous cherry dump cake, Becky’s chocoholic pudding pie, and our razzleberry pie all vying for the attention of any and all local gluttons. Not wanting to repeat my failed attempt at professional grub-boating of this past Thanksgiving, I took up a position at the big people’s table this time, in hopes that my gastric region would not be compromised again. Unfortunately, early on it became clear that I am not the eater that I once was, and decided to stop when my plate was empty. That way I could partake of the desserts later and not explode. I also wanted one of those tender dinner rolls with some more of that tender brisket snuggled in there!

Turns out, I just barely made the dessert train, and completely missed the brisket & roll bus. I just couldn’t eat any more. Gifts were exchanged while quiet conversations and digestion went on all around the house. Well, the quiet was confined to the areas where the old people were; the younger set had reconvened to my niece’s room where they played Pictionary. There were eight teen and twenty-agers having fun with probably only half-full bellies. It seems like such a short time ago that it was me in that room, just waiting for another opportunity to inhale the great food still lurking in the kitchen/dining area.

By the time the final bell rang to send everyone home, I think the adults were all about festivitied out. After arriving back at the Soderberg Pomeranian Ranch, we all sort of veg-ed out until it was time to collapse in the bed.

Now for the New Year’s parades!

Reflections on the Cat

2008-12-21T21:55:00.007-08:00

The Egyptian word for “cool” is synonymous with “cat”. It has to be. “Suave”, “smooth”, “debonair”, all with an only slightly suppressed savagery that is just below the silky fur. And I think their reverence for the cat is evident in their art; everbody looks like cats, with the eyes and the long, lithe lines of the bodies and clothing.

While the ancients revered the cat, modern humans hold them in high regard for other reasons. Oh, the original reasons are there, they are so “cool”, but they can rub against an “owner” and show their unique brand of “affection”, that has been shown to reduce blood pressure and stress. Also, when they’re young, they exhibit such fun and youthful abandon when they play, and you can’t help but say “awww” when they fall asleep on the spot.

I am not a cat lover, really. Not a cat hater, mind you, but I just don’t LOVE them. They’re cool and cute and all, and I’ll even admit that they even have “personalities”, but I draw the line at believing that they talk. Cats can’t talk. They communicate on a basic level, but when people tell me that their cat talks to them…no. I guess I’m just a couple of notches up the scale from a “Cat Tolerator”. See here for our latest foray into the cat's world.

There is a site on the Web, “I Can Has Cheezeburger” has the “LOL Cats”; pictures of cats, mainly, in different poses with different expressions, captioned with intentionally misspelled and mispronounced snippets that are sometimes hilarious. Some of the pictures and captions indicate that the submitter is perhaps a cat lover with the “she said such-and-such” and “she looked at me and said, ‘That loooks like a great omlette, could you add some more mozerella, please’”. Sometimes it seems that the people who post the most unflattering pictuers of kittehs (the LOL Cats preferred spelling) may be in my camp.

My Dad has a cat, which may come as a surprise, especially if you know my Dad. In the past, if you asked him if he liked cats, his immediate reply would be, “Yeah, I like cats, I like ‘em FAST.” His favorite sport was catching uninvited tomcats in our back yard. He kept tennis balls by the back door, so when one came on the radar, he would creep out with ammo in hand to wing at the normally calm feline. When they realized they were under attack, they often sprang for the fence, and often underestimate the distance, crashing into the chain link with a satisfying “CHIINNGGG”.

His current status as a cat owner began when he got a black and white female Manx appropriately named Stump. The reason he liked the cat was the jacked-up hindquarters were reminiscent of a bobcat. Her disposition, while not mean, was also in line with that of the members of the lynx family. She was a killer. Of birds, and grasshoppers and lizards and rabbits. She was her own cat, but she respected PawPaw. Her replacement, Daisy, is a half-Persian, half-Manx orange predator equal to her predecessor. My Mom brushes her, when allowed, my Dad makes her eat all of her cat food in the dish before he gives her any more. He tells her when he spots a green lizard, and she knows the signal to attack. She has been known to kill and eat the most elegant of avian visitors to the property, including cardinals, hummingbirds and mockingbirds. A beautiful, fluffy cat, equally deadly under the fur.

Mark Twain penned “A Cat’s Tale” many years back for his daughters. It includes as many “cat-“ words as humanly possible, and still makes sense. “Catastrophy”, “cat calls”, “cat-pipe” and the main cat’s name, Catarauggus, are all used shamelessly. I don’t picture Twain as a cat lover who doted on his feline charges, but I think he liked them. No more, no less.

I like cats, too. When they are in kitten stage, they are sources of endless mirth with the antics displayed. As they grow, their feigned affection is soothing. My favorite trait of cats is their coolness. And my favorite activity is to crack the cool exterior, if even for a second. In neighborhoods, driving slowly, if a cat I spy, I wait until my car is right next to him to bark like a dog or honk the horn of my chariot and watch him come apart at the seams, albeit momentarily, only to regain the previously regal pose, but with a slightly irritated expression.

The only cat I can’t tolerate is the one that shies away or just won’t come to me. I mean, if you’re gonna have a cat around, you might as well enjoy it, right?

It’s REALLY beginning to look a REAL Lot Like…

2008-12-11T07:03:00.005-08:00

I’ll say it, “it really IS beginning to look a LOT like Christmas,” only it looks like somewhere else, not here.

On the Texas Gulf Coast, we don’t get too much snow. That’s an understatement. When I was one year old we had a pretty good snow. Then, when I was in eighth grade, we had a really good one, too. I remember Kelly Hutchinson made himself a “snowburger” from one of the cars in the teacher’s parking lot. I’ll bet it tasted a lot like Texas City road film. In 1988, just before Christmas we had a really nice one, very dry and squeaky. You couldn’t even pack it into a snowball.

Looking back only a few years to 2004, the BLIZZ ARD of ’04, was a real treat. For those of you not in this area, we had a veritable white-out on Christmas Eve. Children and adults alike were outside, shivering and grinning, watching the white stuff blow in from the North. The whole area looked like a fairyland. A real and true White Christmas.

This one was a total surprise. I knew it was going to get cold, but a winter wonderland was quite unexpected. At 5:47 a.m., my daughter at Texas A&M texted me that it was snowing. YAY! How cool is that. Never get down here; put it outta your mind.

At about 3:30 p.m., she called and reported that it was snowing again in College Station, Texas, a couple of hours North and West of us. Really neat.

On the drive home, I heard sleet hitting the car on the passenger side, and as the drive progressed, by the time I got to my hometown, the big flakes were floating down intermingled with the freezing rain. An old excitement began to build in my gut; I can’t wait to get out in this, I hope it sticks!

As I understand it, the people who live with this all the time aren’t so excited by the prospect of any kind of frozen precipitation, but this is the Gulf Coast, and it’s rare for this kind of occurrence.

On arriving home, the house was dark and empty; my Katiebelle had gone shopping with her boyfriend and his mom and sister, and my little one was at her grandmother’s waiting for Mom to pick her up. The little doggies were very excited, and I immediately let them out to run around. I don’t think they know what snow is, consciously, but they did realize that it was cold and that there were lots of little white things to chase. At that time, I noticed that the deck was beginning to show a little accumulation of the white stuff.

I know right about now in this post, Charley will be snorting contemptuously at the fascination and reverence I am reacting to the snow with, but he’s in Oregon and sees this stuff all of the time. He raises Huskies, and I don’t think you’re allowed to NOT have snow with those fine dogs. Bear with me, Charley!

So, I hurried back out front to watch the miracle (Gulf Coast, remember) falling from the sky. The road was empty except for me. Then Dennis across the street came out, grinning like a big goober. We “howdy-ed” and then began to revert back many years to a pure enjoyment of the magical moment. His sixth grade daughter bolted from the house all bundled up, followed shortly by his five year-old son. We stood under the streetlight and Tommy exclaimed loudly, “I WISHED for it to snow! And it DID!”

I thanked him, and went back to conversing with his grinning dad. It turns out that Dennis is a native Iowan, and he even used to be depressed at Christmas on first arriving on our Paradise on the Coast. He couldn’t get used to standing around in shorts and a t-shirt, swatting mosquitoes in celebration of the Yuletide.

The rest of the young people began to appear outside, bundled up in their multiple light jackets and socks on their hands. Remember, we don’t get too cold very often; around here, what passes for a snowsuit is a set of warm-ups stuffed with old underwear and free t-shirts from the blood drives!

Standing in the thoroughfare, we saw a silver Dodge ease up to the corner under the streetlamp and a slender form emerged and shuffled quickly across the lane to meet with her friends already playing out in the snow. My youngest had arrived home. The little shivering, giggling gang ran from house to house, scraping as much snow off of the cars and mailboxes as they could to form snowballs to lob at one another, and their dads.

I stayed out for perhaps an hour, then came in to thaw out. I couldn’t feel either pinky toe, and the melt had finally worked its way through the fleece jacket I was wearing. I used a blow dryer to try to get the feeling back in my toes.

Soon, cabin fever got the best of me; being cooped up in the house with the blizzard raging outside made me want to get out and make sure the food supplies were in, just in case we would be snowed in for a month or so. I also had to get the present for the gift exchange at work on Thursday and pick up the ingredients for the salsa I was scheduled to bring.

In the parking lot of the Christmas HeadquartersMart, the lights illuminated the steady blowing flakes, which had increased in size and intensity from earlier. It was like being somewhere besides Alvin, Texas. The few people inside seemed genuinely glad to be there, or at least the endorphins released by seeing snow down here were registering as seasonal elation on most every face I encountered.

The snow is all but melted, save for the patches still in the shade. The slush angels that my girl and her friends made are just memories and pixels in jpeg files by now.
But the surprise blizzard of 2008 will be fresh and cool in our hearts long after the feeling comes back to my toes.

NOW it feels like Christmas!

Eighteen Years, Just Like That!

2008-12-08T20:16:00.001-08:00

This weekend marked a milestone with my middle daughter. She turned eighteen.

That evening many years ago, I was young and dumb, although I was getting to be an old hand at the “Dad” thing. Still, when a child comes out from where there was only belly before, it is fairly amazing.

This child weighed in at the top end of our scale of kid production, nine pounds and one ounce. She was a serious child, although at only a week of age, sitting in the car seat, she said, “Elvis”. No joke. At least it sounded like “Elvis”. For months, she hardly smiled.

When she finally did, she exhibited a quick, mischievous sense of humor. Quick to laugh, quick to tease, Katie remains the one to watch, especially if you don’t want to get pranked. She is able to make up “facts” very believably, and tell the truth in such a way so that it seems like a lie. And vice versa.

While most children take their first independent steps tentatively around the age of one, Katie decided at nine months that she would stand up in the middle of the room, without holding on to anything. This was not a lean-over-hands-on-the-floor-then-stand-up-slowly first step. Nope, not her. She got up on her knees, put one foot out, then muscled her way to standing just like that. From then on, she displayed a superior sense of balance. She went on to soccer, volleyball, water polo and swimming.

Which brings me back to Saturday, her birthday. She was in Angleton at a swim meet involving 15 different schools. She was swimming on the “A” team in the 400 meter relay. They came in second and she was party to the silver medal that they won. She also swims the 500 meter freestyle. She came in first in her heat, but later another girl had a faster time. Dang. But she netted another silver for her swim.

I am proud of my little Belle. So proud, it makes me want to dance like an idiot to an iPod commercial. Just to embarrass her.

I love her THAT much!

It's Beginning to Look a LOT Like

2008-12-08T19:54:00.004-08:00

The Christmas Season and everything that it encompasses is commencing. The TV specials, the shopping, even the tree out front are all progressing to the culmination of the top commercial event of the fiscal year.

The stupid Rudolph special was on the other night. I have hated that show for over 40 years. I hate the voices, I hate the characters, I hate the sound effects, I hate the animation, I even hate the lighting.

The Grinch, the Jim Carrey version, was on this past week as well. I can take that one, but prefer the ancient Chuck Jones presentation with Boris Karloff as the narrator. That one is coming on soon, too. I feel it. There was some sort of Charlie Brown special on tonight, and Home Alone will be running on the UPN station probably 35 times between now and New Year’s Day. Frosty the Snowman, too (I’m rolling my eyes right now).

The biggest evidence that Yuletide is nearing is that I went to the local shopping maul. I spelled it that way on purpose, thankyouverymuch. The traffic reminded me of the last hurricane evacuation that we participated in, except for that time there were no red bows or wreaths or antlers on the front of the minivans.

The mall was exactly what I expected, from the last time I was there, about this time last year. There were a lot of baggy-pants-ed kids, along with various and sundry other temporary residents of this particular piece of real estate.

The masses were out en masse, so to speak…I was enjoying the tableau of humanity parading, shuffling, prancing and eventually dragging by on stone feet. I saw a guy that looked like Al Gore eating an apparently yummy cookie, which was so big that it had its own carbon footprint. There were young white guys with shaved heads looking like convicts with their faux-surly expressions. There was even a guy in the food court who was so cool! He had long, bushy blonde hair, a really full beard, and dark, dark Wayfarer sunglasses on inside the mall. He looked like a throwback to the 1970’s. A cool guy surfer or dissident or something.

The boys all had pants that were several sizes too big, and dumb gimme caps with the flat bill twisted to the side. If they only had a clue as to what the pants-falling-off fashion statement said about the wearer in prison, they’d likely wear a cumberbund or suspenders or something.

The young girls all had their pants too tight, with too much makeup. Of course there were the older women with too much makeup as well. There were two varieties of those. First, the ones looking like they were out on a day-pass from the Golden Acres Retirement home wearing their blouses with the tiny leopard print accented by the oversized amber beads.

The other variety was the group that acts like the ink on their birth certificate is still wet. The prime example of this one for Saturday was the lady who was 55 if she was a day, although her over-dyed, straightened, and styled hair, with the bangs cut off absolutely level with her eyebrows, belied the fact that she was trying WAY too hard to be young. The eyebrows looked drawn-on, too.

The one bright spot that I observed was a girl about twelve or thirteen, dressed conservatively, walking with her mom, holding lovingly onto her arm. She didn’t look fearful, or like a pitiful little momma’s girl. Nor did she appear to have any mental or emotional problems. It just seemed that she was enjoying a day at the mall with her mom, whom she loves. A ray of normal family interaction in a cloudy, turbulent storm of shoppers.

I had all of the holiday frenzy I could stand, and so headed home. The lights needed to be put up so our neighbors wouldn’t feel so ostentatious. We have several strings of big C-7 lights strung with matching colorful icicle lights. These go in the crepe myrtle tree in the front. The boxwoods would host the net lights, as they did last year.

I entered the garage with an expectant spring to my step, and strolled over to the shelf where the lights awaited. Except, apparently, the net lights had gotten impatient with the eleven months of waiting and had skipped to Mexico or something.

I “danged” my way out back to retrieve the ladder so I could put up the lights that I DID have. After planting the rickety ladder in the front flower bed under the crepe myrtle, I took a step on the first rung. It groaned. As I balanced a wad of lights in my left hand, my right hand clutched the graying wood. On the second step, I felt a give and heard a crack. That was it. I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I quickly did the math; 250 pounds, over three feet of boxwoods , carry the four, plus thirty-two feet per second squared from half the height of a six-foot ladder, equals a big pain in my shoulder (at least) and several crushed plants and a string of broken lights.

My alternative was to get a long piece of PVC pipe with a notch in the end. I had my smallest daughter hold the lights and I pushed them skyward to the branches. That did the trick.

So we now have a sparse showing of lights, not easing the neighbors’ feelings of superiority, and a glimmer of the Christmas spirit. I guess this coming weekend, I’ll get to the “hustle and muscle” of trimming the tree.

Wish me luck. And some anti-inflammatory meds…

Advent: Sunday #1

2008-11-30T12:52:00.003-08:00

This morning at church, everyone, including the weather, was decked out in fine Christmas fashion. The wind was cool out of the North so the people were wearing clothes that weren't fit for the beach house or cabana restaurant. There were sweaters and long sleeves. The sanctuary was decked out in "evergreen" boughs, poinsettias and gold stars and joyful banners.

As the associate pastor was giving the Morning Prayers, her little 3 year-old granddaughter started to wind up a little cry-tune. Linda, the consummate professional, was plowing right through the tiny voice raised in urgent protest. As she paused at one point to take a breath, thanking God for the beginning of the Christmas season, the child yelled out amidst her tirade, "...but I wanna see Baby Jesus!"

Everyone, with heads bowed, snickered in their hymnals and even Linda paused with the hint of a laugh modulating her normally smooth intonations. That made it even funnier. She went right on though, after the slight pause for mirth.

It seems the first Sunday of Advent started the Season of Adventure. I'm not sure how next week can top this one, but I'm in it for the long haul!

Thanksgiving and Taking

2008-11-27T21:41:00.002-08:00

Thanksgiving has come and gone like a bolt of gravy-flavored lightening. The build-up complete, preparations made, and pounds of food have been gobbled up, so to speak.

Preparations at our house, since the festivities are usually at my sister-in-law’s home, include the traditional construction of the 15-pound trough of dressing. My wife knows no other way to make this stuff besides the “cook for a hungry horde” method. I am not sure how much goes into it, I kinda don’t want to know really how much it costs, but the finished product is about 17 pounds to carry to the van for transport to the festival site.

The green beans are cooked, again in the “chuck wagon” quantity. Secret recipe, I wish I could share, suffice to say, the quality is high as well as the quantity. The sweet potatoes, though in a large amount, went through a short crisis of inadequacy this morning. The chef believed, erroneously, that half dozen cans of Sugary Sam sweet taters might not be sufficient. I was nearly dispatched to whichever grocer who was open to procure four more cans. We finally rested on the prepared amount being an ample supply for the crew being fed. We still brought some home.

Since the liftoff was scheduled for 1:00 sharp, that is the time we left the house to attend the fete. Finally, all participants arrived, and the final toasting of marshmallows-on-the-sweet-potatoes commenced, along with the rolls and appetizers arranged for their final presentation.

The spread was spectacular again this year. So much food posing the ever-present quandary involving where to start. The spinach salad, the home-made macaroni and cheese, ham, turkey, half-ton of dressing, green beans, cauliflower salad, corn, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, rolls, fruit salad, cherry dump cake, a spectacular chocolate cake, and the famed lemon bars. There was talk of a re-match from last year, but I wasn’t up for it. I am not sure Peepaw was, either. But we both perked up at the mention of them.

Some brave souls loaded their plates and headed outside to the table. It was a batch of teenagers, and as soon as the full weight of the near-eighty degree weather descended upon them, they “chickened-in” to the air-conditioned house.

The second set of brave souls included my youngest daughter, and me and we sat at the card table in lawn chairs. When I sat down, I realized that the position I was forced into compressed my stomach region. I thought that perhaps it would impair my ability to eat a massive amount of food.

I was right. The plate with the turkey and ham and everything else stared me down, and I blinked.

This is a milestone. A record, a landmark. Never have I been NOT able to finish a plate of food. Especially on the great glutton celebration. I did, however, partake in a trio of lemon bars, against my better judgment. They were good, surprisingly, in moderation. I am not used to that.

Hours of zoned-out watching of television and pitching washers later, we packed the remaining 12 pounds of dressing and our other allotment of the cache and we were on our way home.

The holiday that celebrates the bounty enjoyed by the early settlers of this country has come and gone again in the flurry of good food and family visits.

Maybe I’m growing up, maybe I should swear off sitting in lawn chairs to eat. There’s always tomorrow. Really, going to my parents’ house on Friday. I’ll let you know.

Impersonating a Plumber

2008-11-22T21:53:00.003-08:00

I have done a little plumbing and I know that it ain’t that hard. The faucets and garbage disposals and toilet workin’s are all really simple. So much simpler than the old days with lead pipe and copper tubing. PVC is really uncomplicated to work with. Saw it off, prime it, glue it and stick it together. Easy as pie.

I did a little plumbing this weekend. The faucet in our bathroom had been leaking pretty bad, and so I bopped down to the Hope Demot store and bought a replacement faucet and a toilet replacement part. More on that later.

The faucet was billed as “1/3 fewer parts, 2/3’s easier!” and had the “needed tools” list on the back, and it was just channel locks, a screwdriver and a crescent wrench. This was gonna be effortless. I looked casually at the supply lines they had in a little display near the faucets. I figured that the current supply lines would be dandy. I hadn’t crawled under the sink to check it out thoroughly, but knew it would be pretty easy. I have done this before. 45 minutes. Tops.

After everybody got out of the house, I got down to some serious plumbing action. I folded up under the sink cabinet to quickly undo the supply lines and loosen the basin nuts holding the old faucet on. Like I said. Easy.

Except for the fact that the basin nuts were really tough to loosen. Really, really tough. I tried to get the channel locks in there to get a grip and then twist it the right way. They put sinks in tight places and upside down, in case you’ve never been under one. After you break the things loose, you’d expect that the nuts are going to, at some point in time, be able to be taken off by hand. You’d think. For some reason, even after breaking the initial tight, the thing never got any looser.

The longer I laid on my big, fat back, arms elevated, the harder it was to handle two slip-joint pliers on each side of the stupid nylon nut, trying to coax it off of its home for the last 18 or so years. I nearly broke down and asked my neighbor if he had a basin wrench, but the bright idea of the Dremel came to mind, and the cut-off wheel became my hero of the moment.

I unfurled from the box I had furled myself into, and got my trusty rotary tool. In a short while, I was again contorted into the cabinet, but this time with a hope in my mind that I could actually make headway. Revving the ol’ Dremel, I bit into the black plastic and bore down until it bogged down, then backed off a little. The cut-off wheel did its work, and was soon spitting melted plastic in my face. I took a different angle on the other side and soon the slack was enough to release the cursed implement. I repeated the action on the hot water side and was soon in “bidness”.

After I removed the old supply lines, I realized that they would not do on the replacement faucet. For one thing, they were copper, with a two-inch section cut out and resected with clear nylon tubing and hose clamps. Not worthy.

So it was back to the home improvement center for the new hoses. Uneventful, but still annoying. I even took the new faucet and the old line in to make sure that I got the right one. Fortunately, that was a good move.

Back at the ranch, I wiggled my sore and cramping body into what seemed by now like a soup can and attached the supply lines to the faucet and in turn to the supply valves. Installed the new drain set and checked it; success!

With a victory under the sink, I turn my attention to the toilet that runs like the Brazos River. I swaggered in to the bathroom (limped, really, making old guy sounds) with the “Complete Toilet Repair Kit”. Upon opening the box, my lightening-quick mind discovered that the kit was lacking in the part that I needed. The float/filler mechanism. Great.

Off to Wildmart for the missing hardware. Upon finding the toilet kits, and the part that I needed, I noted that the same brand apparently has TWO “Complete Toilet Repair” Kits. One is obviously more complete, the one I didn’t purchase at first. No worries, I got the only thing that I came for, and headed to the checkout. Just moments from checking out, my daughter received a phone call from her mom; we needed to pick up stuff for dinner. Ugh, sometimes the cell phone is such a curse.

Finally, on arriving home, I rushed to the bathroom to finish the job begun. Another success. All that remained was to re-attach the water supply to the filler and flush. Due to the configuration of the bathroom, I had to literally hug the toilet to get the hose to the pipe. But I had to do it left-handed, without looking. And no matter how hard I tried, I could not get it threaded on there straight. I knew that I would have to actually look at the thing to accomplish my final task.

I laid down on the floor, put my feet in the tub, and with my left hand, again, threaded the coupling on to the finish line. The actual act of turning the fitting to completion was simple compared to getting myself upright from the position I had taken. There were nearly as many grunts and groans and involuntary sounds of exertion just achieving upright-ness as there was when I was under the sink. All tests made and tools picked up signaled the final chapter and a time to reflect on what went down in the course of the day.

I concluded that a plumber is not paid simply to install a faucet or fix a leaking toilet. It’s partly the knowledge and experience that enables him to cut the time by about three-quarters what you would expend in the completion of any given task. It’s also partly the possession of the tools that expedite the job in question.

Finally, it is the willingness to get into uncomfortable position in tight spaces or smelly places or a combination of the worst of both. My gimme cap is off to the plumbers who keep our society flowing freely.

Climb Every Mountain

2008-11-13T15:04:00.005-08:00

I ate a monumental burrito the other day from Chipotle Mexican Grill. For those of you familiar with the offerings there, you are probably just a little hungry right now, merely thinking about one of their monsters*.

For the uninitiated, I will describe it to you briefly. It is roughly the size of a ladies size 20 running shoe, or the top of a Justin Roper boot filled to overflowing with rice, beans, meat, salsa, guacamole, sour cream and don’t-forget-the-cheeze, please. Really, they use 12-inch tortillas, and sometimes the sides don’t even match up when they’re rolled around all of the fillings. So this beast is nearly a foot in circumference and about eight inches long.

If you smile at the ladies building your burrito, they may put a little more roasted corn and red chile salsa on it. The rice is flavored with lime and cilantro, you have a choice of pinto or black beans and of course the other dressings that I mentioned above. All of this is rolled up to the best of their ability and wrapped in foil. With a large drink, the tab comes to nearly $8, so it ain’t a Taco Bell snack. That’s it. No chips, no extra salsa, no salad. Just you and your burrito and a drink. But that’s a crowd, let me tell ya!

They also have the “burrito bol”; no tortilla, served in a bowl. For the ladies. And “guys” watching their “carb intake”. Sure, WHATEVER! If you eat one of these, you’re not watching anything.

Consuming a Chipotle burrito is akin to climbing a mountain. As I hunched over this pillar of food, I surveyed the safest route to the summit. Pick the wrong traverse and you could have a sour cream avalanche or a guacamole mudslide. The corner is where most seasoned mountaineers begin. The bites cannot be too ambitious, for a couple of reasons. First, the structural integrity must be constantly monitored to avoid a blowout. Second, the ingredients get in your beard and moustache, or the corners of your mouth. Can’t waste a drop. It becomes clear at this point why they serve the “bol”; eating one of these like a miner is not very ladylike.

After working steady for about 15 or 20 minutes, the end was in sight. As was the capacity of my stomach. I had retained three lemon wedges to squirt on as I went, but perhaps should have limited myself to only two.

I wasn’t too hungry for dinner that night. Too much residual Chipotle. But like Sir Edmund Hillary, the pride derived from conquering the peak is transcendent. Gimme another one as soon as I am ready!

*Those who favor Freebird’s burritos are likely scoffing at this statement, but we’re not in College Station. So eat your Freebird Full-Size burritos the size of a GI can. Gluttons.

Hollow Happyween

2008-10-31T08:54:00.004-08:00

Here is about the extent of my participation in the tradition of Hallow'een as we celebrated since I was a little guy. Some of the memories, I try to remember to forget, but most of them were good, running around the neighborhood with a Weingarten's bag gathering loot from nice people. We never got any cyanide or razor blades, as far as I know, like some other communities.

Part of the reason for my limited membership in this activity is that I have come to the OLD AGE phase of my life, and I have lost interest. The other part is that I am fairly uncomfortable celebrating the darkest traditions of such upstanding folks as the ancient Druids. Not good role models, that's all I'll say.

But since my girls picked out this ORANGE shirt for my birthday, I decided to reserve it for today. When I got to work, I wished out loud for some of the old black photographer's tape that all artists used to be required to carry with them at all times.

Well, my friend and colleague Nancy had a full roll of it in her desk drawer, and at that very moment I asked her to cut some triangles and decorate me. She did, and I am the belle of the ball. Or at least I feel like it.

All without glitter! Imagine that.

Planning is Overrated

2008-10-29T18:31:00.002-08:00

Part the Second: The Voyage

Paul jumped into his truck and had it hitched to the boat trailer in nothing flat; Andrew would ride with him, RJ drove his truck with me in it. With some simple instructions and directions, RJ took off to the bait camp with Paul were right behind. A quart of live shrimp, two pounds fresh dead. Then to Buccee’s for ice, then to the ramp for launch.

In no time, we were on the water with our gimme caps turned backward to avoid losing them in the mighty Brazos. Cap’n Paul navigated us to the Dow Chemical plant’s intake/discharge channel for our first attempt. The narrow strait was clogged with large rafts of wood debris floating in and out with the surge of the waves. The skipper placed us up against a tree trunk at the water’s edge, and I, being the bow man, tied us off.

By the time I got my rod rigged up for fishing live bait (I usually use soft plastic jigs and the new configuration was, well, new to me), RJ had dropped his shrimp in from the stern of the boat, and had pulled in a speckled trout in the 19 inch range! Indignity! Then Andrew pulled in a redfish and the race was on.

Well, Andrew and RJ raced, since I hung up on some submerged something-or-other after a croaker stole my shrimp. In the mean time, RJ pulled in what Paul identified as a Mangrove Snapper. They are related to Red Snapper that is found offshore, and are dang fine eating. This was a beautiful fish, with the body of a snapper, except with a deep maroon kind of color.
Undeterred, I kept working the crustaceans and eventually pulled up a small Mangrove of my own, but since it was under 10 inches long, we tossed it back to bite again later. No worries, it was a cool fish, and I was glad to set him free.

The action turned off after a little while, and Cap’n Paul was eager to get us on some fish. We cast off the main line and headed into the drift, which our leader skillfully guided us through with no damage to boat, motor or image. He ran us back down the river to a spot rumored to hold sand trout where we plied our best efforts to entice our quarry to bite our bait. It was not to be, so we weighed anchor and ran on down to the mouth of the river.

I want to pause in the play-by-play to describe the kind of conditions we were operating in. The sun was bright, the wind was light and a bit cool, and there were only twelve clouds in the entire sky the whole day. And they weren’t very big, I’ll tell ya. The normally chocolate brown Brazos even had an emerald tint to it as we ran down the stream, watching shoals of small mullet and other baitfish working the surface, making the water appear nervous. One of the most beautiful sights was when we ran under a power line that stretched across the river at about 50 feet of altitude, upon which were a row of birds. There were cormorants and seagulls and several large brown pelicans. As we passed under, the birds took flight in the same direction as us, and we watched them glide over us in formation for a few seconds until we outran them. The sun’s angle on the great birds made me wish for a camera. But I have it up here between my eyes!

We ran, as I said, down to within a few hundred yards of the mouth of the Brazos where the river meets the Gulf of Mexico. There was a long stretch of beach on both sides of the watercourse, and on the Freeport side, there was a long line of trucks and vans and SUVs among other types of vehicles stretching as far as you could see. Some had flags and mini-camps set up. Each of the means of transportation had a contingent of fishermen with their arsenal of rods bristling out of the sand. Some throwing cast nets, others cutting bait, some just sitting waiting for action.

We pulled up on the beach opposite the army of anglers and began to toss our offerings to the unseen schools of fish that were no doubt rushing past in the current. The other guys were throwing different baits; fresh dead shrimp, live mullet, and I was trying out my artificial baits. I had one strike that chomped my fake minnow in three pieces, but the clever fish missed the hook. Good for him, not for me. Andrew hooked a good speckled trout and that was about it. I did see a couple of guys paddling kayaks back to the river from a slough they had followed back to a small lake. They each had a limit of redfish, so they must have been doing something right.

Since the fish weren’t obliging us the same way they had flocked to the kayak boys, we figured we might oughta try a new location. Paul had been catching bait with the cast net (he really took care of us) and asked if we were ready for a change of venue. A unanimous “aye” was sounded and we shoved off the sand and headed back upstream to the ICW (Intracoastal Waterway, to the uninitiated). We took a right and headed to some oyster reefs that had produced fish a few days before.
We stayed there for an hour or so, there is only so much fun you can have losing terminal tackle on oyster reefs while only occasionally pulling in small black drum and undersized redfish. Cap’n Paul put us on the move again.

The destination this time was at the intersection of the Brazos and the ICW. Here, the likelihood of fish was very, uh, likely. We baited up, and brought in a sand trout or two, but the main excitement was the Captain hooking what appeared to be a small submarine. RJ and Andrew spoke as one in the question, “What do you think it is?” Paul is cagey, and he said between grunts of exertion, “Well I don’t know what it is, we’ll have to wait till it comes to the surface…” The excitement on deck was palpable.
I knew what it was. In fact, so confident was I in my prediction, I spoke up, “It’s an oversize redfish, that’s what it is, and I’ll even wager a cracker!” High stakes, I realize, but by the way it was fighting and running and pushing the limits of the rod and reel and pilot of said equipment, there were few other things it could be. Yeah, it could be a stingray, but those take off and don’t stop till you’re spooled or you just cut the line. Same for amberjack and them like ‘em. Nope. This was a big scienops ocellatus, red drum.

Paul ended up having to walk nearly clear around the boat to fight this beast, and when it surfaced, we all saw it was the bull red that I predicted. I yelled out “30 inches”, though likely nobody heard me. As he wore the big fish out, Paul was ready for the net-man, which I’m, and I picked the leviathan from the water and plunked him down in the boat. Everybody was wow-ing and gosh-ing and generally admiring Paul’s finesse and skill at landing this beast, especially when I went to remove the hook, and it was just caught in the corner of his mouth, rather than buried in the jaw. Had the Cap’n given any slack or played the fish carelessly, it would have been gone.

I hoisted the scaled marvel for everyone to see, and the oohs and ahhs repeated with renewed vigor. After Andrew snapped a pic of it with his Razr phone, I put the fish down on the ruler to get an official verdict on the overall length. 31.5 inches. For the non-fishermen in the audience, that’s eleven and a half inches longer than the minimum size for the species. What a great catch.

Since the big red probably frightened all the fish in a 200 yard diameter, we decided to weigh anchor again and head to a new spot. This time, we went down the ICW and parked just outside the main channel. We threw out our bait and almost immediately began to crank in sand trout. If you know anything about sandies (we hard-core fishermen like to call ‘em “sandies”), you’ll know that most of these little guys were in the 10.5 to 12 inch range. Not a lot of fish, but a lot of fight.
Andrew started bringing them in, then RJ, then me. Paul started cutting bait because that is what they were responding to. Andy caught one without the benefit of a hook at one point; a loop in the leader lassoed one of the unfortunate fishes. His dad topped even that; he caught two fish on the same hook. Paul was beside himself, and we required Andrew to snap a picture of the catch, because no one would believe the telling.

After pulling in sandies one after another, along about 5:30 we’d all had about enough. Once again, we raised the anchor and hoisted the sails (figuratively, of course; Paul just started the 90 hp Mercury) and headed to the ramp.

The sun was heading toward that low angle that produces such a golden, beautiful glow, and it bathed the Brazos riverbank with that liquid gold light that makes everything look so nostalgic. We were all sunburnt in spite of applying girly sunscreen (thanks Sis), tired and happy. We kept a total of 31 fish, and after the short drive back to the house, Paul graciously set up his cleaning table, brought out his knives and even his electric fillet knife. We washed and scaled the fish and he filleted them quickly and efficiently. Then we rinsed and bagged the meat. The assembly line method really has my “one man show” approach to fish cleaning beaten, hands down. We had all 31 fish done in less than 30 minutes.
When all was done, we thanked the generous and wise Cap’n Paul for his generosity and wisdom, and went inside to eat some of the redfish we had harvested.

While a camping trip would have been nice, in retrospect, being surprised by a fantastic day of fishing guided by an old hand has a slight edge over sleeping on the ground and eating while standing up for a day and a half, even if only by a little.

And I think we are going to “plan” another camping trip.

Maybe. We’ll see how it goes.

Planning is Overrated

2008-10-28T05:05:00.006-08:00

Part the First: The Original Plan

This past weekend I had planned to go camping with my nephew Andrew and his dad RJ. It was going to be a quiet guys only weekend. Pedernales Falls State Park. That was our destination. The weather guys said the climate was in the zone; we’d have a great time.

Couldn’t go, turns out. There were no available spaces to camp. Dang. We were disappointed, but undeterred. I called RJ to make sure that since we were already free that weekend, and it was in stone, we should take advantage of the schedule. Even if we didn’t get the venue of first choice, we should at least pick an alternative. You don’t often get second chances, since the system for weekends out is not based on credit.

Our standby was going to be a fishing trip. One day, or part of a day, but we were going to commit to doing whatever we wanted to, and there would be an attempt to capture fish involved. Spontenacity was our watchword!

After the decision was made to fish, we quickly assessed what we would need for this day-jaunt. I volunteered a case of water so we wouldn’t dehydrate. Nothing spoils a day like turning into a raisin and then fainting. I asked if we needed food, and RJ replied that we likely as not would just run into Freeport or even Lake Jackson to eat in the event that we began to waste away. Settled. It was clear that fish were only secondary players in this production.

The plan was hatched and solidified on our cell phones and it was determined that I would meet Andrew at my sister’s house (since he was coming in from San Marcos) at about seven a.m. and we would get to RJ’s, then blast off to the mouth of the Brazos river.

Saturday morning was almost dawning when I piled my gear into the car and headed to meet Andy. The transfer to his truck was made, and my sister came out in her robe to deliver the care package bag of Slim Jims, cheese crackers and Oreos.

As we sped along 288 to Lake Jackson, Andrew and I had a nice conversation, and we also anticipated a great day of fishing. Remember, a BAD day fishing is better than a GOOD day working, so our definition of “great day fishing” was fairly loose and the bar was set fairly low.

When we arrived at RJ’s house, he was standing in the yard, talking to his neighbor, an older man who seemed to be very nice and who also happened to be standing next to what appeared to be a boat of some kind.

We got out of the truck and ambled over to meet the neighbor, and RJ introduced us to him. This was the legendary Paul, of whom RJ had spoken before. Renowned as a great neighbor, he was offering some suggestions and even the use of some of his very own equipment to us. He had been fishing at least twice that week already, and was imparting some information to us that would likely be useful. He asked where we were going, and we told him that the Brazos beach would be our destination to throw out some lines and see what was going to happen. He offered some equipment again, and I indicated that we could probably use a couple of rod holders.

Paul said, more than once, “I wish I could take you guys…” to which our polite reply came back, “Oh, well, that’s cool, we’re just gonna see what happens…”

In his heart, Paul knew that we were destined to get skunked that day, and we could see the regret in his eyes at letting us go out unguided. Once again, he said, “Yeah, if I could, I’d take you guys, but I have something I gotta do this morning…” and as he trailed off, the inner smart aleck in me could no longer be stifled and I said, without thinking, “What, you ain’t got a phone?”

I immediately wanted to clamp my hands over my big mouth and recapture the words that floated on the cool early morning air. Fortunately, Paul laughed and went to go get the rod holders. As he rounded the gate of his house, holding the items, he paused and said, “Wait a minute guys,” and skipped into the house.

We figured that he was going to get some other vital equipment, but instead, emerged a minute or two later, clapping his hands like a coach, saying, “OK guys, I’m taking you, let’s load up!”

We were shocked and a little embarrassed, at least I was embarrassed for spouting off the “What, you ain’t go no fone…” comment. But Paul was serious, as he hopped up on his boat and started loading my ice chest and slapping rods in the on-board rod holders!

Falling backward into a guided fishing trip was the last thing our little troop had expected, but here we were, on the way to the Brazos River with our very own skipper!

Missed by "That Much"...

2008-10-21T08:35:00.002-07:00

Well, my superior sense of balance coupled with my cat-like reflexes kept me from falling in H.E.B. this morning after slipping on a wayward, semi-escaped red seedless grape.

Unfortunately, as he was cleaning up my evidence, the produce guy told me that they just paid someone $5000 for slipping on a grape in that store.

Dangit. Had I let my prodigious weight carry me to the floor, (in front of several witnesses) I may have limped out with a cool five grand!

Instead, I will bear the lingering soreness that older fellas carry when they move too quickly without proper notice.

Hanging by a Thread

2008-10-21T06:12:00.002-07:00

I have a certain pair of teeth that catch every piece of chicken, beef, celery, apple peel and pork that passes by them. The teeth are together up on my left side. I have a crown up there and I am beginning to think that my dentist created a little hook or something to catch passing food particles to force me to floss after every meal.

It works.

The use of the word “particle” may be a little misleading. When I use the waxed floss to remove part of my meal, I realize why I am often still hungry when I finish eating. Truth is, a good percentage of what I eat does not go into my stomach. Plenty of food gets stuck between my teeth and I end up flossing it out.

The major offender is pork. Or at least it seems that way. Chicken is very persistent but when I bite into a pork chop of a rib or even a burrito with carnitas, the pork fibers head straight for that gap and crowd in like clowns in a tiny car.

Sunday night, I grilled pork chops. We all sat around chewing our chops with alacrity, and afterward while rubbing our contented bellies, started sucking our teeth like a bunch of old men playing dominoes and whittling. My wife finally gave up and went to get the dental floss, and passed it around. We ended up with enough liberated meat to feed both dogs that night.

I am beginning to think that when H.E.B (a grocery store here in Texas) has one of their Meal Deals, they need to include dental floss in the group of products. “Two liters of H.E.B. soda, pork ribs, barbeque sauce, potato salad and dental floss for $9.95…”

UPDATE

2008-10-17T06:50:00.003-07:00

I am wearing a black shirt that was innocently hanging at least 20 feet from where I was sitting Sunday evening when i tried on the glittery headband.

I looked down this morning when I got to work, and lo and behold, I see constellations of beautiful golden stars across the expanse of my front "sky".

I tell ya, that stuff gets everywhere. It's insidious.

Not Everything is Better With Glitter!

2008-10-13T05:52:00.004-07:00

When my girls were little, they liked very pretty, shiny, golden glittery things. All the Barbies had glitter in their hair. They had glittery clothes and bathing suits. Shoes? Glittery.

As they grew up some more; my girls, not the Barbies, they would pick out shirts with glittery pictures or logos on the front. When the shirts got dirty, they would go in the wash. Usually with one of my shirts. Usually one (or more) of my office shirts. So when I would iron it the next day, the smooth pinpoint oxford shirt had a special look to it, even before it was ironed. As the wrinkles were soothed by the steam and starch, the beautiful glitter all over the shirt made the whole thing more lovely.

Lucky for me, all the people at work knew that I had three young daughters. They knew that it wasn’t just me getting “dolled up” for me. Although, sometimes a guy just needs to feel pretty.

After a few years, the glitter phase passes and almost all of my clothes are glitter-free.

This weekend, my high school senior went to a party for the swim team girls. They ate good stuff, gossiped and made spirit headbands. They took bandanas and rolled them up, painted “SENIORS ‘09” and a water polo ball on the front. Oh, and lest I forget, spray glitter. Gold.

As I type this, there is gold glitter on the keyboard. There is glitter on the screen. There is glitter all over my hands. There is even glitter on my face. I had tried on the headband to participate in the spirit of the moment. Did you know that glitter sticks very well to a greasy forehead? And nose?

With just a little more examination, I spy glitter across the broad expanse of orange shirt covering my belly, on my cargo shorts, the dog, the couch and the end table. My hands. Legs. The chair. My eye. The clean socks in the pile.

The old saying goes, “All that glitters is not gold” is quite true. Sometimes it’s a big, fat Geezer. And half of everything in the house.

Camp Coffee part II

2008-10-06T12:32:00.003-07:00

Went down the hall to the coffee nook to grab a cup of joe. Not that I was craving it, you that know me are aware of the my policy on a "need to joe basis". An I need it today.

Poured up a tall mug of it and was ready to pour the very last of the dregs when I noticed the the dregs looked like ground coffee. Sure enough, checking the filter basket I saw that the paper filter had fainted and allowed the grounds to exit with the rest of the brew.

Dang. Not only do I have to drink this coffee, I have to chew it, too!

Gabby Hayes would be proud. If only I'd had some eggshells to put in the pot to make the grounds settle out...

I DID say "Maybe"...

2008-10-06T05:53:00.003-07:00

Yeah, well, we did have a good time @ the homestead and yes, we did discuss old stories.

I got elected to tell one of the stories on myself. Since I didn't have time to type in any of the other ones that were told, I will link to this one, which is just humiliating enough to me to make it interesting to you.

Some of you old-timers might have seen this when I first posted it, but judging from the reception of it on Saturday, this one apparently never gets old. Or never dies from my perspective.

Enjoy it and comment on this one. If you dare.

Geezer Chronicles

Halloween Funny

Mosquitoes: The Return

Hummingbirds Revealed

Revisited: You Are What You Eat

I am TRULY aAshamed!

Mystical Cat: Indeed

OMG, the Geezer LIVES!

Snow Day Delivered

The Wedding of the Century

The Wedding of the Century

The Wedding of the Century

Hold On, Kids!

Texas Preparation

Somewhat Scary Story

You Can't Beat the Classics

The Gift of Texas Music

Yet Another Reason I Like Alvin

Summer Has Arrived, Finally

News From the Front

Too Good Not to Share

Fishing Report

New Post brewing in my brain

NOtice

Diner Bites Back

Fresh Wordy Guy

Saturn: Out of This World, really.

Wordy Guy!

Vote Early, Vote Often

Put a Lid On It

Love/Hate With the Shoes

First Geezer Act of 2010

Christmas 09: The Clean Up

Christmas Eve at Our House 09

Christmas Makes Great Leap Toward Geezer

New Post Warning

Christmas Arrives…

Snow Day

Substitutions Allowed

A Stranger in the Bed

*embarrassment*

HALLOWEEN 09

Don't Give Up on Me Just Yet

Time is Fleeting

Wordy Guy: Long Awaited

My Brain Hurts

Guest Post from My Kid

Tall Boy

La Cucaracha: an essay with passion

A Lament

An Old Right for a New Generation

Chivalry is Not Dead...

Just Peachy

Fire on the Front (yard)

Driving the View*

Geezers Arise!

WORDY GUY with NO ROMAN NuMERAL

Computers Have Taken Over

Not Intended for the USPS

Something Random...

Fourth of July Waterworks Show

Hearty Laugh in the Produce Aisle...

Rain, Rain, Come Again, Go Away Some OTHER Day!

HMS Titanic, Highland Bayou Style

The Missus Takes the Family for an Evening Stroll

Sounds Like...

The Big Night

Wordy Guy X!

I Think I Just Made Them Mad

This Almost Didn't Happen

Berry Good Times

You Call THAT Music?

I am a Victim.

Wordy Guy X

The Epic Battle

Yet ANOTHER Swine Flu Alert, Really.

Cat Update: Happy Ending!

Dang Cats

Golden Memories

The Cuban/Misses Crisis

embarrassment

UPDATE