Gasoline

This is not an editorial on the price of the stuff that makes our cars go. This is about gasoline specifically, the actual substance, and another power that it fuels.

This evening when I came home, I knew of the chore that awaited me. My wife’s chariot, the Grand Caravan, was in need (again) of new disc brakes. Not a particularly difficult job, since I have gotten so much practice with this machine and its penchant for eating brake pads.

I went to Auto Zona and obtained the needed supplies. I then came back, knocked on my best neighbor’s door and asked him if I could use his mechanic’s tools to do my brakes. Since I help him whenever I can and mostly since he’s an old school-type guy, he said, “Of course,” and proceeded out to gather the tools while I replaced his silver Grand Caravan with ours in his driveway.

It wasn’t long before I had made the swap with the disc brake pads and even one of the rotors, and began cleaning up. This is where ol’ Larry picked up one of his red shop rags, opened the hood of Black Beauty (his riding lawn mower that I mow our yards with) and dipped a corner in the gas tank for a good old-fashioned instant hand cleaner. At first there was a slight catch in my brain about using such a precious and dangerous commodity for cutting the stubborn brake dust from my hands. Immediately, the smell of gasoline permeated the garage as we stood around and talked, me wiping my hands of as much of the solid black dust as I could.

We hung out at his truck and spoke of many things that geezers talk about, actually for longer than it took me to change out the brakes.

When we finally adjourned to our respective dens, I was fairly hungry, since it was about eight o’clock by that time. I washed my hands about five times, each time removing a small amount more of the black brake soot that accentuated every line on my fingers and framed every fingernail with a near-indelible line of ebony. I would have made a fine engraving or pen drawing. Even now, as I type on this satin-smooth aluminum computer keyboard, I can see that I will be wearing the evidence for several days to come.

I ate my spaghetti, aware of the faint but unmistakable odor of “Eau De Refinery” emanating from my fingers. As I ate my peach for dessert, slurping and juggling the slippery globe, I even got a closer encounter with the 87 octane cologne I wore on my hands.

The smell was a comfort, though. The peach brought back many summer days, enjoying my favorite fruit in the shade of a mimosa tree in GranMommy’s back yard.

The petrol scent was what caught me, though. It immediately transported me back to GranDaddy’s garage, the cool, dark cavern that smelled of gasoline, dirt, grease and old wood. On a hot day, I often retreated into the relative cool of the garage to explore what he had in there. The usual things, the broken hammer, the small vise, the coffee cans full of bolts, screws, nails and whatnots. There was an old outboard motor clamped to the end of the workbench. In under the shelves, the ancient pickle crocks were nested. And at any time, there was a good chance that one of the local feline tramps had dropped her latest litter of kittens in there. Maybe I’d find an old, interesting relic from his days as the owner of a car dealership. Or an ancient fishing reel. It was possible.

Whether I found anything of interest or not, I was always satisfied to go in there to spend a few minutes or an hour. I was never disappointed.

All of that from some gas on my fingers. In much less time than it takes to read it. The nose and the brain are a fantastic team.

The Appetite of Youth

Today at lunch, I was a witness to something I had only heard allusions to on Whataburger commercials.

The young fella that's an intern here, a big strapping former offensive lineman, actually ate a triple-meat with bacon Whataburger, along with a bucket of fries and a big coke.

The older guys present, of which I am chronologically the eldest, were aghast at the thought of putting that much meat into one's stomach.

In my day, three patties was virtually un-thought-of. Double meat was the epitome of gluttony, and that's pretty much the standard of consumption for me way back in the 70's and 80's. The idea of putting on another quarter-pound of beef and three slices of bacon hadn't crossed anyone's minds yet. I wouldn't think. I "usta-could" eat a double meat cheeseburger, and did on many, many (many,many) occasions, but that was when I did something besides sit on my backside and click a mouse for 9 hours a day.

I checked in with him a little later in the afternoon to see how he was faring after his gastronomical gut-bomb. He affirmed that he was doing pretty well, although, he did admit that an hour or so earlier, he had a patty on each eyelid, pulling them toward the ground floor.

Those days are gone for me, however. One patty, one burger, a tomato slice, pickle, ketchup, cheese and mayo, on a good day. But that's only maintenance. If I actually DID anything, I'd probably take up less real estate.

Oh, well, that's a big "IF".

The Words DO Kinda Rhyme…

One night after a particularly spicy dinner, I found that I needed some help in the stomach acid department, as in a reduction thereof. I went to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen and began to rummage through the products kept there.

My middle gal was playing with the dog in the kitchen and saw me fumbling with the package of acid reducer tablets. They were housed in the nearly impenetrable blister pack; solid Plexiglas to view the tablet, the back encased in plastic covered by sixteen gauge stainless steel, and all of it as slick as possum gravy.

My ever-helpful lass noticed my struggle and asked what I was getting. “Heartburn medicine…” was my reply.

“Didn’t Mom do that earlier?”

“Huh?

“Never mind, I’ll get it for you…”

“Thanks!” I replied, drying my hands off.

I turned away for a second and when I turned back around, I saw my dear, sweet daughter about to feed my acid reducer to the dog! As a matter of fact, the little pink tongue of our Pomeranian was unfurling in slow motion to accept the treat from her beloved master.

A fraction of a second before the pup’s tongue touched my over-the-counter medication; I snatched it from my girl’s fingers.

“What are you!?...That’s my medicine!”

She burst out laughing, nearly uncontrollably, and I couldn’t help but join her, tentatively.

When she gained a measure of composure, she managed to choke out haltingly, “I thought you said ‘heartworm medicine’!”

Well, that was just it. We all laughed and laughed, and her cryptic statement from earlier about Mom blah blah blah made perfect sense.

So dear readers, please enunciate very, very clearly anytime the words “burn” and “worm” are used. You may get something you don’t want.

Or your dog might.

Helpful Link

This is the link to a handy site for checking your local beach for dangerous bacteria levels.

Click on the "Interactive Map Tool" for a view of the Texas Coastline (typed lefty while standing, facing East, with my right hand over my heart) and your favorite beach.

Hit this before you hit the beach. You are able to search by county and then by beach using the "Beachwatch Search" feature on the right side of the page. Shown here >


This is just one more reason to sort of rely on the GeezerChron.

I just need a link to find out if there is a jellyfish, man-o-war or shark report in force. I'll look.

Really.

The Best of Friday

My apologies for the dearth of postings, all you regulars (the three of you) are aware of why the postings have been so sparse. There has been found a remedy, albeit temporary, but a solution it is. I have Cactus to thank for it.

Thanks Cactus!

OK, so back to telling you how phenomenal last Friday was. At 0600, I arrived at my parents’ house to disembark on a fishing expedition with the elder Mr. Soderberg; my Dad.

We headed to the private lake (I REALLY can’t tell anybody else where it is, he blindfolded me at a crossroad as a security measure) where he reported in the neighborhood of 20 fish being caught last Monday. This lake is loaded with black bass.

The twisting, turning, convoluted double footpath on the other side of the locked gate ran us deep into the tallow and hackberry forest, with glimpses of lake and partial lake meadows in between. We finally arrived at the corner of a man-made lake with glassy water and some miniature islands, grasses and hydrilla along a channel not three feet deep. But the water was clear and in good shape.

We started out with worm fishing (Dad) and spinnerbait (me). He drew first blood, and while it’s nice to watch your dear old Dad catching fish and laughing, there is only so much you can stand while not duplicating the activities. After about three of the joyous outbursts, I had endured just about enough and abandoned the spinnerbait.

A Cocahoe minnow was my weapon of choice, red with a white tail. On the first cast, I hooked up with a small bass, and that was the way the day ran for several hours. The quarry ranged from about a pound-and-a-half to a beast that was over five pounds. Well, it was five pounds on Friday, but today I think it had grown to nearly six, and I am not sure how much she will weigh next week. I anticipate the growth to be a geometric progression. It was, in fact, the biggest black bass I had ever caught; just look at the unretouched telephone photo and where it comes on me. Good sized fish, brothers and sisters.

My Dad caught one nearly as big (operative word “nearly”) a little later, and you can see the scale in the next photo. The sizes ranged from my thirty-seven pounder and my Dad’s four-and-a-half pounder down to two pounds and the one to one-and-a-half pounders. All were athletic and well-marked, healthy and sparkly green.

As the morning progressed, the action eased up a bit, and we tried some different lures. The sun rose a little more over the trees, and a slight breeze came up. The cicadas began their raspy chainsaw chorus in the trees, immediately raising the temperature just by virtue of the relentless sound.

Changing to topwater seemed to be the strategy of the moment, so thus armed, we attacked the water with a renewed vigor. The first cast of the big treble-hooked topwater lure yielded the big fish that I so proudly display above. This continued for a time, and as expected, that action slowed as it inevitably does.

That indicated a change back to “the worm strategy”. My Dad used a Texas rig and I, dedicated as I am to saltwater soft plastics, used a sand eel in a pumpkinseed color with a yellow tail on an eighth-ounce jig head.

We both noticed an increasing number of tiger striped dragonfly couples darting up and down across the surface of the lake, and the bass of all sizes were cartwheeling after the (apparently) tasty insects. As a matter of fact, one of the fish I caught still had a half-swallowed pair of dragonflies in his throat, alongside my sand eel and hook.

The sand eel served me well, even up until a particularly savage strike removed half of the brave lure. The body was roughened by the rasp-like teeth of the bass and was barely recognizable. As a side-note, my left thumb was beginning to look the same. After removing the hook from the bass’ mouth, I decided to throw the truncated plastic bait a couple more times. To my surprise, the hungry largemouths kept relentlessly attacked my offering, until which time I retired it to my pocket, to show as a trophy.

The breeze kept blowing, the fish kept hitting and the sun began to beat down with a purpose and by eleven, I was beginning to show signs of wear. At one point, I sat down at the bank and cast to the grass across the channel. Sure enough, a fish hit the lure and I had to stand up to bring him in. That was when, jokingly, I exclaimed, “I’m just BORED!” with my hands on my hips, looking down on the fish with feigned disgust. My dad replied with a hearty laugh.

Shortly thereafter, HE caught another one, and then HE exclaimed, “Now I’m bored, TOO!”

My thirst began to build, and staring into the clear water, I nearly tempted myself into flopping into the lake to take a long drink. Of course, the proximity of the old landfill was also in my mind (the reason we didn’t keep the fish) and wondering what dangerous lead/mercury/arsenic/cocktail had maybe leached out into the water was deterrent enough.

Along about then, my Dad proffered a suggestion that whenever I was ready, we could go. I countered by asking him if he were anywhere near ready. After a couple of hems and haws by both of us, we finally admitted that we were just TIRED OF CATCHING BASS!

That’s a hard statement to make, that’s why it took another couple of casts to convince ourselves that we were still Texans.

On the drive out, we reveled in time spent together, the smell of fish slime, and the scars borne by our shredded thumbs.

SO much better than a good day working, I can’t even fully express!

Stay Tuned!

Yes, there is a good one (a purely objective opinion) is on the way!

Keep checking back!

Wordy Guy IX

After a couple of months to think of new brain twisters, Wordy Guy is back with Number 9 in the series.

Brush the dust off your Latin; here comes


Ipso Facto

A) A Latin term meaning “an established fact.”

B) A Latin term meaning “as an inevitable result.”

C) A legal term meaning “established by law.”


This one's tough if you know "just enough Latin to be dangerous". Take care my fiends!

**UPDATE**
The answer is
B
Although Cactus was the first, our lupine friend from way out West, Wollf, was the first correct answer. If you look at his comment, it is evident that he has some experience with Latin as a language.

Congratulations, Mr. Wollf, you now have bragging rights for Wordy Guy IX!

Wine & Cheeze Whiz

My youngest gal and I were traveling through the upscale village of Friendswood last Friday, and happened to stop at a Shell Stop and Rob store for a Dr Pepper. This particular store is only a few hundred yards from an elementary school, and is on the right side on the approach to the beginnings of neighborhoods.

As we pulled up to the curb and got out, I noticed through the glass door a wine rack filled with long, slender bottles. A big fluorescent splat hung off of the left side shouting “$9.99.”

I commented to my daughter, “Hmm, I wonder if they sell a lot of wine here…” We headed back to the coolers at the back, and to my surprise was another section of wines, with prices up to about $15 a bottle. And there were some in the cooler already, too!
I thought it strange to have wine above the “Ripple” level in a convenience store, and a pretty good variety, it looked like.

On arriving at the counter to check out, a little Chinese man popped up and asked if we found everything OK. I said yes, and as he scanned our chosen soft drinks, my little reporter asked him, “So do you sell much wine here?”

At first he didn’t seem to hear, so I repeated her question.

“Oh, yes, yes, we sell a lot of wine, yes!”
“Do you sell a lot to the elementary school students?” I asked.
“Huh? Oh, no, no, ha ha!”
“Mostly the teachers, I’ll bet, right?”
“Ha ha, oh yes, ha ha, no, ha ha!”

Driving away, I thought it odd that in the same place, you could buy your $15 bottle of wine, a bag of pork rinds and a jar of Cheeze Whiz. The trailer park version of the wine and cheese tasting party.

Geezers Summer Reminisce

This morning, my sister sent me one of those “forward to everyone in your age group” emails. There were the general references recognized by everyone in the geezer demographic. “Remember, back before cell phones and Nintendo and cable TV and 24 hour news coverage…staying out till the streetlights came on, your parents yelling for you to come home after dark…” , et al.

I responded with some of our personal experiences from pre-geezer days, and she evoked some really good memories. So what follows is my own little list that we assembled in about 10 minutes and four emails.

You are not obligated to send this to your friends. And there’s no Frankie Valle music in the background. Just our memories.

Your reminisces may vary.

It made me recall:
Campfires in the back yard, and giant four-foot-deep holes you got to dig, and dirt clod fights and making Greg, Kelvin and Timmy pee themselves with a cardboard skeleton...GranMommy eating two bananas (broken) for each one that I ate...”Whap whap whap what’d he do?”...frying ants and pillbugs with Grandaddy’s magnifying glass, the rectangular one with a long screw for a handle...carving up refrigerator boxes with GranDaddy’s pocket knife!

She replied:
GranMommy making hamburger forgetting to put meat on it...and popping popcorn in a skillet without a lid…the sound of the wind whistling through the screens upstairs...the smell of Monsanto's benzene whatever wafting thru the morning breeze...the sound of kitties meowing under the house…the smell of freshly cut grass and cape jasmine bush on the east side of the house.

Which set me to:
I don't care how hot it was wearing the coats, paddling a trailered boat across the burnt lawn! We were somewhere else, anyhow. How awesome was it to lie on that slick concrete of the breezeway to get cool? Oh, and the smell of old, OLD grease and dirt in the garage...the cannas and mimosa behind the garage, the oleanders as a hiding place (don’t put those in your mouth, they’re poison and they’ll kill you)...

And of course she HAD to add:
“And get yore finger stuck in the concrete!” This is a very NOT funny story that I will relate in a (much) later GeezerChron.

OK, back to work, but I’ll remember this stuff long after I forget what I had for breakfast or what I stood up and walked into the hallway for.

Thanks Sis, that was fun!

Bad Day Fishing...

...Is better than a good day working. That’s the old saying. It’s true. I went on a fishing expedition Sunday evening and confirmed it, even though I was not otherwise required to be at work. Partly because it was Sunday, but mainly because I have a week of vacation coming up.

I decided at about 5:30 p.m. that I was going, and by 6:30 I was on my way down Highway 6 to my super-secret fishing spot. Not that it’s all that secret; there are only about 4 people who go down there at all, my Dad being one of them. It is a great spot, but most people have boats and like to skipper them around, whereas I just like to wade and fish. I have no boat, save for the ones at the end of my ankles.

As I decided to make the trip, part of the decision was based on the lack of the strong wind we have been experiencing the past few weeks. At our house, there was a slight breath of a mostly North wind. With evening coming on, that would only die down and likely make for a glassy smooth bayou. The commute to the spot progressed and as I made my way down Highway 6, I noticed the trees along about Hitchcock began showing signs of a strong Southerly breeze. Undeterred, I stayed the course to my destination.

The evening was turning out beautiful, save for that wind which only increased as I neared the water. Typically, when the wind is up, the fish are down, but stranger things have happened. Once I caught a flounder in a wind so strong, that when I landed it, the wind had it turned inside out by the time I got it off of the hook. I pressed on, persistent as a cat hair on a grilled cheese sandwich.

I walked up over the levee from where I parked, and I noted the gale blowing out of the Southerly direction, with hardly a cloud in the sky. The waves were kicking up and in the bigger part of the flats, there were a couple of whitecaps. As I peered down from the top of the hill, I noticed among the waves, there were some birds working on the North side of the flats. That was a good sign.

I was watching the sun make the rapid slip down to the horizon. I could smell the water, and I got to watch a big brown pelican make some lazy circles over me, scanning the shallow water for a snack before going to roost. The pelican, not me. There were terns and black headed gulls hovering and diving for small mullet. As I walked through the water, shrimp skipped ahead of me. The setting sun made the colors so warm, and the breeze was so cool. I began to care less and less if a big redfish or flounder decided to take my offered bait or not.

Not that I didn’t WANT to catch a fish, it’s just that the overall experience was taking on a completely different purpose. There was a family across the bayou, approximately a half-mile away, were firing up the grill for dinner. Birds were flying overhead to their evening roosts. All of the shorebirds were headed for the islands and marshes. The blackbirds and starlings were headed to the trees over the levee toward I-45.

Being out on the water, with the wind blowing as it was, I was somewhat removed from the Gulf Freeway which was only about a mile and a half away. It reminded of its presence only when a Harley with straight pipes or a high powered Honda with a coffee can for an exhaust would pass, bound for Galveston under full steam. The occasional semi truck under a heavy load accelerating for the overpass sounded off to remind me of where I was on the map.

After one particularly difficult cast, I found the limits of the magnetic brake when casting across the wind. A birdnest the size of a hawk’s homestead appeared from the interior of the new reel. I worked for about 15 minutes to extricate the overrun. The sun slipped toward Highland Bayou Park and I whipped out the pocketknife. Even with the blade, I needed a couple of minutes to perform the surgery and re-fit the bait. Then, back to my quest to the corner where I have caught so many reds and flounder in the past.

At about ten minutes till eight, the wind laid down a bit. Now the magic was beginning to happen; all my casts were on target and the air was just right. I turned back to the East to check for “throwback fish” and saw a sight that surprised me enough to cause me to make a slight sound of alarm. It was the moon rising from Galveston.

It was glowing like a giant pearl on a lavender-to-pink-to-deep blue background. I was surprised because I had no idea where the moon was in its phase. The fact that it was just nearly full (mere hours, it seemed) caught me completely by surprise.

As the sun settled into the salt grass, I headed to the exit to go ahead and move back to the car. I made a couple of final casts and lo and behold, a tiny trout took my bait. It was not much of a fight, but a fish on the line is a fish on the line. I brought him to hand and removed the hook and got the obligatory haze of fish slime on my paw. After I released him, I sniffed the slime that was left behind. It was fresh and clean and fishy, the smell of success in the hunt.

Being near the “jumping off point” I waded through the reeds and deep shoreline mud. The smell of decaying plant matter bubbled up alongside my feet as I made my way to the broken concrete at the edge of the grass. Ascending the side of the levee, I secured my net and fishing rod, and reveled in the evening. The smell of the grass was comforting, as was the aroma of the water and saltgrass, the smelly mud I had just trudged through and the light scent of the grill from across the water.

I have a good friend who can’t fathom what hold the Gulf Coast has on me. He would flee to the Hill Country at the drop of a hat, and he would drop the hat. I tell him that this place is in my blood. The sights, the smells and the sounds of the coast have all come together and made the giant eleven-year-old that you have all come to know. Now you know the reason that the smell of skunk does not offend me; the olfactory assault of rotten mud does not repulse me. Fish slime is a reassurance.

Geezers are not born, they are made. Call me strange, call me weird, but that’s what makes me the best geezer I can be.

Oh, and just so you know, there is no "bad day fishing."

Don't Despair

...Yeah, like the lack of a GeezerChron would be cause for widespread depression...

Anyhow, I have a new one in the works. I just need to finish it and post it...that's just a step away from THINKING of it and writing it, right?

I DO have a lot of older stuff that a lot of you haven't seen as yet. So browse thru the archives and wait like good boyz and grills.

Thanks for your patience.

Leaf Us Alone

My GranDaddy was a taciturn man. When he spoke, he meant to be heard. He thought a lot, he read a lot, and only uttered words when they would have an impact. Subtle impact was acceptable in his book. As a matter of fact, his humor was subtle and dry. And very effective.

My Mother recently re-told me the tale of GranDaddy running the lady off from their camp. The story goes that they were camping at some lake quite a number of years ago. There was a gregarious woman at a nearby encampment who felt welcome at their site.

She apparently spent quite a bit of time there, and since too much empty talk (especially by an interloping stranger) tended to get on GranDaddy’s nerves, he went down to the lake to swim. After a time, he was ready to come back to camp, and saw that the friendly neighbor was there still.

His remedy for that was to go back down to the lake and pick one of the giant-sized water lily leaves. This he brought back up to the edge of the bivouac area, holding it in front of himself at waist level.
He raised his voice (a rare occurrence) and asked if someone could go bring him some pants, since he lost his swimsuit in the lake.

Their new “friend” looked and saw him standing there dripping, holding a giant leaf as a garment, as far as she knew. Her immediate reaction was to vacate the vicinity.

The family rolled with laughter following her departure when he finally dropped the leaf to reveal that he had not indeed lost his suit.

But he had succeeded in losing the uninvited guest.

Happy Birthday, Andy!

There is a young man in San Marcos right now who is celebrating his 21st birthday today. I have known him for every one of those years.

He is what people describe as a "miracle baby". When he was but a few days old, he contracted meningitis, rode in a Life Flight helicopter and spent some time in a hospital. It was touch-and-go for awhile, but as you can guess, he made it from being a tiny, helpless little baby, to a large, likable and intelligent young man. He's well over six feet tall and exhibits no evidence of his tentative beginning.

But it's not just his physical being that is imposing and strong, his spirit is perhaps bigger than his body. He's not one of those hammerheads that is going to go out and get drunk on his 21st birthday "WOO HOOOO!Cuz I finally can cuz I'm legal". He's smart.

He has worked his guts out at HEB and school work at Texas State University, and will no doubt make his family proud in his chosen profession.

But then, he already has!

Happy Birthday, Andrew!

Sad News

Big Toe put in an emergency call to me this weekend, with some sad and disturbing news: The Naked Rib is no more.

It is now called Sekula's BBQ, and that's all she knows. A slight face-lift was noticed from the road: red and white checkered table cloths on the outside tables.

Still to be determined is the bill of fare, specifically, do they still use that superior BBQ sauce, and is there still a brisket pie.

Of course, if the above items remain intact, I don't care if they call it Ali Baba's 40 Thieves Cafe.

There will be an update on this situation.

Red-Blooded Falcon

I hear that our Falcon is a little under the weather today from his chemo. Nasty stuff, that chemo. But if anybody can get through it in good spirits, Falcon can.
This is a memory from our high school days, way back in the mid-70’s. Our families were close, and we were always the last bunch to leave the church after every service. While many Sundays held interesting mini-adventures, this night was a little different. There was blood.

It was after the Sunday night service, and our parents were talking up a storm at the back of the church in the Fellowship Hall. Us kids were messing around at the front of the sanctuary. Falcon took up the position of the preacher at the pulpit and issued an invitation to the imaginary congregation to invite Jesus into their hearts, or else, punctuating the altar call with a switchblade. As expected, he got a huge laugh from the small contingent of teens sitting on the platform and in the first couple of rows of pews.

With the resounding laugh that ensued, he panicked a little, not wanting to draw parental attention, and he went to close the illegal dagger real quick-like.

With the swift and nearly sure move stopped midway, Falcon sliced the tiny vein in his class-ring finger, left hand. Blood spurted out of the digit across the pulpit in a thin, red arc. His surprised expression was funnier than his ultimatum of an altar call. I had seen the stream of crimson and his right hand immediately applying direct pressure to the wound, a good Boy Scout move.

He pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the dripping finger and held it tight. He then told Falconette to go tell our parents that we were ready to go and that he was going to drive us home in his car. We wiped the blood from the pulpit and made our exit through the office to the parking lot.

So our brave, bleeding pilot drove home with his finger being gripped by a bloody handkerchief and his right hand leaving me to shift the Falcon 3-on-the-tree.

“VrroooOOom-SECOND-vvrroooOOOom-THIRD-rmmmmmmmm-squeek, (stop sign).
FIRST-vrrrrooOOOOM-SECOND…” etc. I don’t remember much after that, the excitement having been spent on the gear-shift end of the 64 Ford Falcon “ambulance”.

Hope this makes you feel a little better, Falcon. Just be careful with sharp instruments and chemotherapy!

International Hug A Swede Day

Yes, I have on good authority (Mikael Hansson [a born-in-Sweden-Swede] to be exact) that today is International Hug A Swede Day.

This is long overdue, in light of all the Olle and Sven jokes out there and the Wally Walrus portrayals of Swedes. Ve need to rise up and be counted. And hugged, by golly! Yiminy Crickets, this is precisely the sort of thing that will show us as what we are; by and large a very huggable and lovable people with a proud heritage of hugging and such.

And who wouldn’t want to hug one or more of us? I know I like hugging Swedes. My girls are very huggy people, as is my Dad. However, since I outweigh and tower over nearly everyone on the immediately recognizable-as-a-Swede list, I am careful not to squash anyone. This could be an issue, believe me. If I were to lose my footing or carelessly grab and squeeze, somebody would get hurt. Crushing someone is less a display of affection and more of a display of aggression.

I am a Swede, by way of Texas City and Alvin, TX, but of Swedish lineage nonetheless. So if you see ME or my DAD, or any of my KIDS, give them a HUG.

And hurry. We’re running out of time for today. Of course, I may extend the celebration to a whole week, if necessary.

New Wordy Guy (IX)

I have been SUPER BIZZY at work and my iMac @ home is "on hiatus", hence the scarcity of blogging of late...So here's another Wordy Guy for your brain to ponder on.

REMEMBER — No consulting any kind of dictionary or reference material.

Eldritch

A) An official who served as a mediator of disputes in medieval England

B) Weird or eerie

C) A medicinal herb that grows wild in New Zealand

As always, put your guesses in the comments. I know that a lot of you are thinking about it, so just make your guess. You'll learn something either way!

*UPDATE*
Yes, one of the Cactus clan got the right answer, Miss Sus chose correctly; it's "B" Weird or eerie". As always, I appreciate the readers and the guessers playing my lame little game. Hey, it's either this or check your Facebook account all afternoon, right?

Of course.

Really Windy in Texas

Quick thought this morning: it's really, really windy today down here on the coast. They say that some nasty weather is brewing, with us in the sights.

North Texas has already dealt with "suspected tornados". What the heck is a "suspected tornado"? And why does it matter?

Are the authorities out there looking for these suspects? What are they going to do to them when they catch them? Seed them and make them rain out? I think that would be capital punishment. I suppose they would just be locked up (where?) and simply wait till they dissipate on their own. With no appeals.

Back here, the wind is so strong, I saw it peel an unripened plum. A horse standing in a field facing the wrong way was turned inside out.

I sent my petite 12 year old to school with a rock in her pocket. Just as a precaution.

Foto Test

So I am testing a file for a student of mine, a rocket scientist, literally! He did this in Photoshop after Van Gogh's Starry Night.

Checking for color rendition....

Wordy Guy VIII

OK, for you people craving a new GeezerChron, maybe a Wordy Guy isn't what you were hoping for, but hey, it will have to do for now.

So by now, you know the rules, and this time don't just start up an office pool or use it on your freinds, go ahead and comment with your choice. Take a chance, for cryin' out loud.

So here's the word:

Snurd

A) a stub of paper, as in the claim ticket from the dry cleaners
B) a hidden pocket in the pants of a military uniform
C) contracting to a shriveled form, as in a prune

Please comment. Please? Don't make me beg.

That will be next time.

**ANSWER TIME**
The answer is "C", contracting to a shriveled form.

Of course, there will be those who dispute the definition, but I urge you to trust me and not whine.

Don't make me pull this blog over, 'cuz I will!,

Wordy Guy VII

Yeah, so here's another Wordy Guy.

Suffice to say, it's April Fool's Day, perfectly appropriate for me, and I hope to fool you into guessing the wrong word.

Please enter in the comments, and no more lame excuses, all you have to do is "sign in as "other"".


Tsan tsa
A) an alcohol-soaked gauze for cleaning wounds
B) a primitive native ritual
C) a shrunken head

Play for fabulous prizes! No cheating!

**UPDATE**
The answer is C, a shrunken head.

RobV is the winner, the first with the correct answer. He will receive a hat full of nothing, minus the hat. That's the kind of hat I wear every day.

There is a dispute by a non-commenter; she maintains that the tsan tsa IS the ritual of MAKING a shrunken head, but I dismissed her. It's MY game. And specifically, the definition didn't specify any particular ritual, and since the ritual is named for the artifact created, the answer remains "C".

Saturday at the Grill

Imagine two beef cutlets, about four inches wide and five and a half inches long. Put them on a very hot grill for about seven minutes, each side.

Now imagine them on the tops of your feet. And there’s no beef. Instead, ‘tis YOUR hide burnt to a crisp, less the grill marks.

That’s my feet. I'll spare you the visual.

Saturday I accompanied my Aggie, two of her friends, my middle daughter, and my 12 year-old to Surfside beach for a Spring Break thingamajig. We brought a grill and some camp cookery equipment, eggs and Jimmy Dean Breakfast Starters. Tortillas, tuna fish and bread, chips, some cookies and a load of water rounded out the supply wagon. Except the tortillas didn’t make it aboard. No worries, we toasted bread on the griddle and topped it with scrambled eggs and sausage onion peppers potatoes mixture. Good stuff.

The wind was light and from the East, not blasting sand into your food as you would expect. The temp was around 70° and the sun was glorious. Salt air, sand, and salt grass filled the air with the scents that are a deep part of me.

Back to the feets. Swollen and red. The kind of sunburn that itches, like when you put shoes and socks on. Yeah, so much fun. The thought crossed my mind to bring some grandpa slippers to work for a little comfort.

My clodhoppers are not quite as distended as they were yesterday, or even this morning. And with my sneakers so loosely tied I nearly qualified as a rapper, my discomfort was minimal throughout the day, considering the doneness of the meat. But the whole thing was kinda worth it.

How? Let’s see: first, all three of my daughters asked me to go to the beach with them, nearly begged me; I got to go to Surfside for the first time this year, and the weather was perfect; I didn’t have to drive; I sat in the sun, threw my cast net, walked with my small one, and ate fresh-cooked breakfast on the beach.

If a little discomfort on my foot cutlets is the price I have to pay, then I think I got off cheap!

The Journey of the Tiny Spider

The tiny spider lived on the beach in Mexico. She spent her time spinning webs to catch the petite mayflies that hatched every morning as the dew was sparkling in the new sun. The days were warm and sunny, cool in the morning, hot in the afternoon, and beautiful starry skies all night. There were scores of gnats and miniature flies in the tropical climate, plenty to eat and plenty of time to perfect her many webs.

The silk she spun was so fine, most humans could never see it without the sun glinting off of it or unless it were strung with the smallest diamonds of dew in the early morning mist. She herself was so small she could stand comfortably on the head of a pin without crowding any of her legs.

Something was drawing her North, though. Every evening as she faced the setting sun, she found herself turning to her right to gaze into the vast azure canopy. Every evening she wondered what drew her Northward.

One evening, the wind changed and something compelled her to spin a long web, bunch it up and send it skyward. She lofted her parachute web high into the Southern wind, and to her surprise, she rose with it, higher and higher. Her little home web soon became invisible, as did her little spot on the beach where the stream came to the bay.

To her surprise, she was not afraid to be so high in the sky, and to her delight, she was exhilarated by all the new things she saw. She watched the sea fly by, the wind was so strong and she went faster and higher than she ever knew that she could. She even saw other spiders with web parachutes flying alongside.

In the evening, the wind died down and she floated softly to the surface of the Gulf and she touched the gentle swells with her tiny feet. She was so small she didn’t even disturb the surface of the water. She was so small that none of the locals even knew she was there, so she needn’t fear being eaten.

In the morning, she sent her silk to the dawn and the rising ocean breeze picked her up and sent her back on her way to the mysterious, drawing North.

Her journey lasted for six days and one day she saw land. It reminded her of her own beach so far away. As the shoreline drew closer and larger, she found the wind becoming less intense and her parachute began to let her descend. She had grown tired of spinning more silk to help her sail stay fresh and hold her aloft for days, so she was relieved to be coming down to a new home.

As she alighted on the highest point on the beach, she noticed it was a large man with a sun-hat sitting in a chair. Her silken web caught on the brim of his hat and let herself down. She then ran across his leg to see where it would lead.

It was MY leg she landed on and I smashed her into butter. I don’t like spiders.

The Sunny Shore

Galveston was the destination yesterday, Wednesday, smack in the middle of Spring Break 08. Just getting out of the house was easier said than done, but it didn’t have an effect on the rest of the day. I just thought I was going to need a come-along or a wrecker truck to get them going.

We stopped at Speedy Stop for some gas, drinks, and gum and were soon off to the coast. The weather was beautiful, save the wind from the Northwest. And except for the rude, impatient woman in the gray Camry who HAD to speed up to preclude my merge on to I-45, it was a pleasant drive in to Galveston. We went straight up 61st to the Seawall.

The first glimpse of the Gulf when I come up the ramp to the seawall has always been a special moment for me. The first blast of salt air or sand in your teeth; the wave report from the one who sights the water quickest are all parts of the experience. Yesterday the Northwest breeze (er, GALE) was keeping the salt spray out of my nose, but my eyes beheld a surprise for me; SURF’s UP! Yes, even with El Norte blowing, the waves were a giant blender down there. Usually when the wind comes from Dallas, the waves are flat or at best just gentle swells. I imagine the waves were on Spring Break as well. The water quality was not South Padre or Daytona quality; the sand was roiled up and suspended all the way out as far as they eye could see.

The wind NOT coming from the water afforded me the chance to have the driver’s side window all the way down without blowing my head off as we drove West down the island. Our plan was to play miniature golf at the Magic Carpet Putt Putt right there on the seawall.

We played a full 18 holes on the front course, watching the water sparkle and the golf balls evade the holes. Only a mild case of competition was in evidence as we chased the pretty balls around the whimsical decorations on the course. The giant ostrich that tries to peck your ball out of the hole, the totem pole with sharks and dolphins, the twenty five foot long conch shell, many of which I have seen since I was a kid.

As the frog in the giant fish retired our golf balls, we left to explore the island more. As we drove down the famed seawall, I pointed out in my best geezerly fashion all the things that “used to be”. We stopped on the seawall about halfway down and went out on one of the rock groins, or short granite jetties. The brown water surged and fell, churning like the prop wash of a big ship. I explained authoritatively how the current next to the granite was very dangerous and you’d get beat up good if you decided to go in there. As we picked our way out to the end, we passed small groups of tourists and spring breakers. The spring breakers wearing bathing suits were covered with chillbumps most of the time. Pretty funny.

The surfers were hanging about a hundred yards off the end of the granite, in a line, waiting for the next big wave. The next sandbar held only about three intrepid boarders, apparently unafraid of the gigantic sharks lurking nearby. Not that there WERE ACTUAL sharks out there at the third sandbar, but as far as I’m concerned, no wave is worth the idea of sitting with your legs dangling off your board looking like French fries to a sand or tiger shark. No thanks.
A few of them caught three or four-foot waves, rode for a little way, then kicked out. Not that these are fantastic swells for shredding, but we’re here in Galveston. Not a surf mecca. But the frequency and form of the swells was quite impressive for our geographical location. I was armchair quarterbacking the surfers, of course, since it looked like a lot of nice waves were getting passed over, only to turn perfect. They needed to be in a little closer. Dumb kids.

Down the boulevard we went in search of food. We ended up at Chili’s, mainly because we knew what we were going to get and about how much we were going to pay. The only alternatives were to blindly follow the yellow brick road in to one of the high-end places and blow our budget, or hit a joint with “local flavor” that cooks frozen shrimp in week-old grease and serves wilted lettuce in a “salad”. I’ve been there. Don’t want to repeat that.

Ater lunch, we headed down to the historical Strand. Fairly uneventful, but it was nice just walking up and down the streets watching people. There were tourists galore, with their white legs and sandals, sunburn and sunglasses. Some of the locals were out, as well. Like the lady sporting her fiddle and a milk jug with the top carved out so change could be thrown in to pay for a serenade.

My only disappointment, albeit temporary, was that Col. Bubbie’s was closed. The absolute BEST army surplus store in this hemisphere. Well organized but packed to the gills, this store has anything one could imagine, from military branches all over the world. And it was closed. I haven’t been in there in about fifteen years, but I know there must have been something in there I wanted.

The trip home was somewhat quiet, since we were all tired. The girls thanked me for a great day, and that was as warm to my Daddy soul as the setting sun on my face.

Spring Break PARTY!

Well, a tea party. My daughters were bored this lovely rainy, windy Spring Break. One suggested a tea party, and since I was chef-ing some pizza (OK, WARMing some frozen pizza), we decided to have a dinner/tea party.

The young one found and washed the tea set, I was fixing the pizza, and of course, the seventeen year old was impatiently rushing us along. Our youngest hostess set the table out in a fine spread, complete with the little folded football napkins and pudding with a tiny swirl of whipped cream on top.

We did our best to gather ‘round the coffee table to break bread. Truth be told, the girls did just fine, but I on the other hand had to try to fold up and fit my tree stump legs under the table. I only got up a couple of times, mainly to get more pizza and get some circulation back in my feet. After a few minutes, they felt like chunks of concrete wearing my shoes.



We had a great time. I suggest partying with the girls as much as possible.

Blue Moon

Life is uncertain without an alarm clock. Although despised, at the same time, being free of one means being tied to insecurity and wondering if you will ever be on time.

Our alarm clock decided to deceive us the past couple of months. Perhaps it was the strain of the constant brown-outs that our neighborhood is prone to. Or it could have been frustration with always being set fifteen minutes ahead so that our day begins when it should. Whatever the reason, the clock began to race ahead without notice or even a consistent amount of time.

The first day that I woke up to the alarm going off at nearly four o’clock in the morning, more than an hour ahead of time, I began to mistrust our old friend. I would re-set the time, and most of the time my efforts were thwarted by the errant timepiece. I took to using my cell phone as an alarm clock. Hitting snooze gives only five minutes at a time on the old Samsung. Even when it’s time to go ahead and get up, the delicate move of opening the phone and choosing the correct button to stop the alarm, unless done correctly, will get you a snooze and the sound will begin in another five minutes. Not the optimal way to wake up and start your day. Each morning I looked askance at the AWOL clock, now unbound by the constraints of time.

Traitor.

Sunday, the unfaithful clock went off the clock. My wife bought a new one. She said she wanted big numbers so she could see them in the middle of the night. So she chose one with numbers an inch and a quarter tall. In a lovely blue light.

At this juncture, I feel compelled to tell you all that the alarm clock has resided on my side of the bed for the last fifteen years or so. There is another story about the alternate arrangement that I will relate at another time.

When I plugged in the new clock, I noticed that the blue light was quite bright. It was late afternoon, and the glow was unmistakable. How nice. Blue. That will be restful.

When I came to bed, my wife had a wall built up between her eyes and the clock. It was reminiscent of neon at a jazz club. I went into the normally darkened room that is only illuminated by the backyard neighbor’s stupid porch light burning 24/7. I didn’t need to feel my way around or anything. I saw a dime on the floor by the sink. It was an ’84.

After my bedtime routine, I laid myself down in bed ready to sleep. I had already fallen asleep on the living room floor watching Globe Trekker, so there was a head start working in my favor. As I relaxed into the semi-curled-right-side sleep position that I normally take, I realized that the enormous numbers were but fourteen inches from my eyes. Surprisingly, the blue light still seeps through the eyelids quite easily. It was almost like having the moon rise right in my face all night long.

Onetwentyfour, onetwentyfive, onetwentysix...

There is no question about what time it is at any given moment of the night. Sometimes you don’t even need to open your eyes.

Crystal City Carrots

I went to my parents’ house for a visit this afternoon. It was just my twelve year old and I. We sat in the back room overlooking the garden. We talked about the birds that come to the feeder, and how many doves it would take for dinner.

After a time, it was determined that we needed to get out there and pull up some of the last of the carrots. They had loaded the Wimberley branch of the family just last week, and there were quite a few left. We reconvened at the back porch and into the “find your garden shoes” area. I squeezed my giant feet into some stretchy shoes and headed out to the garden.

I always enjoy going to their garden, the smell of the dirt and the flowers and the knowledge that their hands and planning are feeding my family the goodness and love that you can’t buy in the produce department. My Dad and I stooped to start picking the carrots from the rich ground where they had grown since autumn. My Mother and my daughter moved farther down the row.

I was quickly left in the dust, so to speak, by my Dad’s efficient carrot-pulling technique; soon he’d racked up about forty short little carrots, only slightly larger than the ones you pay a premium for at the supermarket. We gathered the riches into the big wash pan, and moved them to the wheelbarrow to be rinsed.

As my Dad rinsed them off with the pressure nozzle on the hose, he told me of a chapter in his life that I had never heard before. His mother’s niece was married to a guy who worked on the well-known King Ranch. One year in the early 40’s, my Dad was about eight and the whole family went from their Austin home to Crystal City to pick carrots. He said that it was about this time of year, and he remembers all the relatives riding a big stake truck out to the fields, picking carrots all day, and getting back on the truck to take the produce to the processor. He remembers the conveyor belt where the carrots got rinsed off with high-powered nozzles, then to where they got graded, etc.

I was fascinated by this short anecdote, a sidebar in his life. This is further proof that “everyone has a story”. You just have to listen. Especially if you think you already know everything.

Bluebird

Wow, what a day this was. A bluebird day of the first order. As Mark Twain once said, "the day was pretty enough to make a cat laugh." The sun was out and the cloud was skyless. The remnants of the cold front still held the temperature to comfortable levels, but the wind was from the South, with just enough hint of Spring to make one long for time off.

We do have next week off, Spring Break. One of the perks of working at a college. Sometimes though, the weather does not cooperate with the Spring Breakers. I am anticipating a good week off, whether the weather cooperates or not. I have two of my girls off at the same time, so I feel confident we will have a good time.

I just hope all my plumbing, cars, elbows, and everything else stays intact, at least for the week.

One Night in a Thousand

After the cold front came through during the day, the wind died down late and settled into one of those cold, clear evenings that really are rare in these parts. Especially in March.

I had been inside most of the night, as I usually am these days. Time was, I enjoyed the outdoors as much as possible. Hot and cold were only richer parts of the experience. In the last few years, the cold has affected me more acutely than in the old days. Now, the chill makes me shiver, my kneecaps dancing a jig like the Riverdance group. My arms quake and my shoulders ride just below my ears. Speaking of ears, when the cold wind blows, my ears complain like they never used to.

But last night, as I closed out my blogging at around 11:45 p.m., I heard a low moaning sound. At first, I thought it mght be my twelve year-old talking in her sleep. She does that a lot, usually telling one of her sisters to leave her “stuff” alone in the middle of slumber.

I turned down the television, and heard it again. I began to realize it was nothing less than a hoot owl. It has been years since I have heard one of those, and I can’t even remember ever hearing one while at this house.

I shut off the television set and listened. Sure enough, the hooting was coming from the back yard. I moved to the darkened back door, and listened again. I then opened the door as quietly as possible. I had my trusty Mini Maglite, but I wanted as much dark as possible. All was dark, save the back neighbor’s stupid porch light, which is usually on twenty-four hours a day.

The night was absolutely still.

Not a breath of wind. No dogs barking. No cats crying. No air conditioners kicking on and off.

Not.

A.

Sound.

Only sweet silence, interrupted just barely by the soft “who—who--hoo hoo”.

In between the hoots, I looked up into the sky and saw Ursa Major, Polaris and the millions of other jewels scattered across the small slice of space that I could see from my back patio. But it didn’t look that far away. This is my element.

I turned on and focused the beam of my flashlight, and scanned the trees to the north of me, the direction the owl’s call. The weak beam didn’t reveal the caller, but I could see him in my mind.

Usually I am able to hear some local coyotes caucusing in the near distance, but tonight they were silent in reverence to the clear, cold and still nighttime.

It wasn’t very long, however, that the temperature in the high 30’s made me realize that short sleeves, jeans and a worn out pair of socks does not invite long gazing skyward. I retired to bed, covering up to combat the chill I received being in the elements.

As I lay down, I tuned my ears to see if my owl would serenade me to sleep. Apparently my prowling around must have encouraged my friend to move on down the line, because the silence was back.

Really, What WAS I Thinking?

I mean really, Jack in The Box tacos, again? On purpose?

Yep, in a moment of weakness, fueled partly by guilt, partly by a gnawing hunger under my ribs, I succumbed to a twelve year-old's plea for off-brand tacos. She called while I was on my way home, and asked me what was for dinner. I looked at the ground and scuffed my foot, figuratively, of course (I was DRIVING at the time). I didn't know what we had, what was frozen and what was not, heck I didn't even know what in the refrigerator had gone south and what was holding fast.

"I just saw a commercial for Dairy Queen tacos," she intoned. Hmm, simple, sorta tasty, approved by everyboy at home. I told her I'd think about it.

Time went by, I stopped at the Credit Union to get the weekend cash and then see what happens. Well, the phone rang again with the same question, and since I don't know what I'm getting with Dairy Queen, I decided on Jack in the Box. The wee lass asked how many was I gonna get, and I countered with, "How many you gonna eat?" She said that the last time she ate four of them. Right.

I rolled up to JnB with the intent to purchase some tacos. Let's see, two for a dollar, I can eat about ten of them...four for the little one, that leaves, hmm, carry the one...let's get 18 of them, just cuz I don't want to break any more than a $10.

Without incident or surprise, I made the transaction and was soon on my way.

On arrival back at the Soderberg ranch, I instructed the hands to grab what they want, cuz I'm eating. My initial take was four, the small one took two at first, and the middle child sat on the internet. Ya shnooze, ya looze, sister.

I downed the first four, and went back for two more. #5 disappeared pretty quickly, and in the middle of it, I remembered what I thought of the last time; no matter how many you eat, you feel like you could eat some more.

After the next three (total of 8) I decided to stop. Immediately following that decision, I was fairly comfortable. No problem. I don't think I could eat anything else, but I'm pretty good.

Let me advise everyone literate enough to read this; don't eat more than seven Jack in the Box tacos at one sitting. Or in one week, whichever is the longest. Note the time of this post, and know that there is some (more) Arm and Hammer cocktail in the future prior to a (likely) fitful night of "sleep".

Eat warily, my friends. Don't fall prey to the wiles of twelve year-olds with access to televisions.

HydroPhobia: Part the Second

"Call Judy now, she just called me and said to tell you that there's water coming out of the (North) side of your house..."

The words didn’t really have an impact on me immediately. Instead, they floated around in front of my eyes like little Lawrence Welk bubbles for a few seconds. Then as the surface of each of the tiny bubbles succumbed to the air, one by one, the words registered in my left brain. As each one popped into my gray matter and formed the intended thought, they all got on an express elevator and pressed “Basement”.

I quickly composed myself and dialed the number. Larry, an old Waco native, the best neighbor I have, answered.

Me: Talk to me, Larry; Janna just called and said something about a lot of water at my house…
Larry: Ah seen a lot of water coming down ‘tween your and Dwight’s house, so Ah go over there and look, but there wadn’t no hose busted. Ah went an’ turned off your water at the house, by th’ air conditioner unit…
Me: Ulp.
Larry: Ah knocked on yore door, and there weren’t nobody home. Ah didn’t know what else to do…
Me: Gaaah, thanks so much for turning the water off, could you tell anything about where it was coming from?
Larry: Naw, Ah couldn’t tell nothin’ ‘bout where it was comin’ from, Ah just did what Ah could…
Me: Thanks so much, I am headed home now to see what the deal is.
Larry: OK, good luck, neighbor!

Thus began forty minutes of suspense that I do not care to repeat. The whole way, I was guessing and figuring what pipe must have burst. The first suspect, I don’t know why, was the outside faucet on the North side of the house. It’s the same one I broke off with my behind one evening trying to barbeque. If it’s that one, I just need some half inch PVC and some glue and primer, don’t I have some? I don’t know, anyhow, it’ll be twenty-thirty minutes to cut and glue up, wait an hour and it’s all but a memory.

But what if it’s the supply line under the sink in the kitchen? Ugh, how long did the water run before Larry got to the valve? Like the time I had to help Bernadette down the street when her supply line broke; it only ran for about fifteen minutes and there was an inch of water in the kitchen, laundry room and creeping into the living room. And SHE didn’t have carpeting in the living room…OK, shop vac the water out, call the insurance company, get the half inch PVC and a threaded coupling…blah blah blah, contort into impossible angles and try to cut the pipe off straight, then get it all back together. Great, I’ll be looking through the wrong hemisphere of my bifocals, my neck will cramp, my eyes won’t focus, I’ll be laying in water; this could be sorta nasty. Probably take about an hour or two. But we’ll have water.

Hmm, what if it’s the shower hot water supply line that I fixed a couple of years ago in the hall bathroom? Tear out the ceiling again, ugh….wait, what if the pipe in the attic busted? Then I’m up THERE fixing the accursed PVC while balanced on the rafters, these knees…no to mention the bedrooms and hall carpet, and sheetrock, and what about the computer table? Is my Mac OK?

As these scenarios howled in my head, my palms began to sweat and my heart began to race, so much so, that I wondered if I couldn’t join the French Foreign Legion real quick-like. And as I made the turn onto our street, sure enough, the water was running past the curb like the Colorado River. More perspiration. As I screeched to a stop in the driveway, I scanned the garage doors for Victoria Falls coming from beneath them.

Fortunately, nothing. The same report for the North side spigot. But there was a pool of water at the far end, although there was no water coming out of the weep holes of the brick. I mentally ran the plumbing schematic in my brain and determined that there were no pipes at that end of the house. I peeped over the seven foot fence and noticed the swamp in Dwight’s yard. My optimism began to grow, but then again, I hadn’t gotten inside yet.

I entered the house, still wondering what I would find. Coming in from the glorious sunshine of the day, the house was dark and mysterious. Well, “mysterious” may be a bit dramatic, but considering that I may be walking into an aquatic kitchen, the apprehension in my gut was fairly strong.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim-itude in the rooms, I warily eased into the kitchen. There was an amazing lack of water on the floor, and I was bordering on ecstatic. The fears that had followed and hounded me all the way from Pasadena were beginning to vanish. As the relief began to dawn on me, the curiosity rose as well. Where in the heck did all that water come from? Why was there three inches of water in Dwight’s back yard?

I decided to go straight to the source, or the nearest source I could think of. Dwight’s son stays at their house during the day with his aging Grandmother to care for her and run a consulting business. I strode down my driveway, stepped over the Tigris and walked the short distance down the street to the driveway next door. I knocked and Robert came to the door. I asked “Did you guys have a water leak or a busted pipe or something?”
“No,” he said, “the idiot behind us is emptying his above-ground pool, and every time he does it, it floods the back yard. What an idiot.”

Just for good measure, when I got home, I went straight to the back yard and geckoed up the fence in the corner. Sure enough, the siphon hose from Mr. Genius’ four foot deep above ground pool was but five feet from Dwight’s fence, dutifully draining the blue beast. What an inconsiderate loser. It seems that he should have had it drain out to his OWN street.
Well, the mystery was solved and I didn’t have water all in my house. It was four o’clock, the day was beautiful and I was not frantically sawing, gluing and sticking PVC pipe.

I spent some time with my vigilant neighbor, listening to his plans for his new shed and thanking him again and again for watching out for me yet one more time.

HydroPhobia, Part the First

Things have been going fairly smoothly around here the past week or two. Nothing has broken, blown out or gone flat. Even when I figured out I was going to have to take girl #2 in to the Dr.'s office, I wasn't too worried.

We got an appointment for 9:50 a.m. and in the time between dropping her off at school and time to pick her up for the appointment, I decided I was going to vote. That went smoothly, I used the electronic voting machine and since there was so few people in the polling place, they let me vote a couple more times. It was fun.

After getting my student at the front gate, we got down to the Dr.'s office without incident about 20 minutes early. I figured we were a little ahead of the game. I felt pretty good until we crossed the threshold and saw the crowd of ill and escorts-to-the-ill packed in the waiting room. The wait and appointment went without incident. It just took an hour and a half.

From there we went to the pharmacy to fill the prescribed prescription, and on the way, the patient ate the lunch I had made for her. She didn't want to go in when we got to CVS, so she sat in the car with a window partly down and the radio playing softly. It took about 20 minutes to get the medications, so I called my girl to see if everything was still OK there in the car. She answered sleepily, and when I got to the parking lot, my partner was lazing in the sun with the passenger seat laid all the way back and her eyes were at half-mast. Still no problem.

I got her back to school just as lunch was over with, so she marched off to class. I thought about calling my wife to let her know how the office visit went. There were too many good songs on the radio to turn the radio down; I figured I would call when I was on the road. It was nearing noon, and knowing that it takes a good 40 minutes to get to the office from the High School, I decided it was time to eat. I settled on McDonalds in Wal Mart. No incidents to report yet.

As I was strolling up to the McDonalds, I saw my Sister-in-law wandering around aimlessly. We greeted and she said she was getting her oil changed and was just killing time. After talking for a bit, we adjourned and I went to the burger joint. I was wearing a light fleece jacket, and I only note this because in the past I have taken a mental reminder that the pockets are less than secure. Anyhow, I ordered, sat and began to eat. My Sister-in-law came in and sat down and we talked, looking out the plate glass at the zombie shoppers that arrive without knowing why they even came.

A pleasant lunch conversation later, I cleaned up and went to get on the road to the office. On exiting the parking lot, I was going to call my spousal unit and let her know how the diagnosis went. Where's my phone? I patted myself down; pants-front pockets-back pockets, jacket, shirt (no pocket, check twice anyhow). I stopped the car, got out, patted myself down again, numerous times. Check passenger seat, driver's seat, behind each, down the side, overhead (why? I don’t know, I am starting to panic).

Got back in the car and started to drive, not knowing where I was going. Where was I the last time I KNEW I had it, CVS when I called my child and woke her up from her car-nap did I go anywhere since then no I just dropped her off then went to McD’s in WallyWorld OK I’ll go back to CVS to see if it’s there. Nope, they said nobody turned one in, they called the number anyhow and we heard nothing.

Next. Burger Joint. I’ll bet it fell out of this stupid jacket pocket while I was eating and talking. Dang.

Me: Did anybody turn in a black Samsung cell ph…
McDonald Girl: Oh, yes, here, is this it?
Me: YAY!

So I now get to go to work. I drove the 20x miles to Pasadena and arrived at work at nearly a quarter to two. Everyone welcomed me and said, “Cool, just in time for Kyle’s birthday celebration!” Which was fine with me. I sat down and answered a few emails, got my phone messages, and was then summoned to the KyleFest. We ate cake and cookies and laughed about how young he is, and after a little while, I moseyed back to my cube.

I had just gotten settled in for the rest of the day, when the phone rang. It was my neighbor’s friend.

She said, "Call Judy now, she just called me and said to tell you that there's water coming out of the (North) side of your house..."


Thus ends Part the First. Please tune in tomorrow to see the rest of the tale.

Wordy Guy VI ANSWER!

It warms my heart to see that I had 7 contestants in "Wordy Guy VI"...Four of you were wrong, but the same wrong as the others, which makes me wonder what YOU think is healthy.

The winner of this week's "Wordy Guy" is ARTBYRGF...she was the first to comment with the correct answer.
The correct, official, non-made up answer for salubrious is "B- Promoting health or well-being".

Thank you all for playing "Wordy Guy" and watch for the next installment. I have some good ones lined up and you will impress me if you get them right.

The prize of a family pack of tickets to the Houston Grand Prix was to be awarded, however the event was cancelled yesterday due to scheduling conflicts. We are sorry for dashed hopes.

Sneak

So my 17 year-old likes animals. Cats, rats, bats (none yet), birds, horses, bunnies, hamsters, the list is as long as Noah’s bill of lading. About five years ago, she whined, begged pleaded, negotiated and finally got a parakeet. The “new” eventually wore off of “Eddie”, and we had an ill-tempered budgie that flung birdseed all around the kitchen.

Then she lobbied for a rat, and finally we let her buy one with her money and the promise that A) she would not let it get out of the cage (short-lived) and B) she would keep the cage clean. We added the last caveat to the contract after she failed in that regard after acquiring a rare Russian teddy bear hamster from her cousin who grew weary of the chores involved with owning a small rodent.

Well, the rat “Cheezer” and “Eddie” were pawned off on some willing patsies, er, families who vowed to love, honor and obey the needs of their avian and rodent-ish charges, respectively.

Along about Thanksgiving last year, the same lass began a campaign for yet another hamster, that she would acquire with her then-boyfriend. She kept teasing that he was going to buy it for her. My reply was along the lines of “he can buy it for you, keep it at his house, and you can visit." We didn’t really want another repeat of the previous experiences when rodents crossed the threshold on purpose, invited even!

She continued her play that she had this hamster, sometimes it was in her custody, others it was at his place. She would also ask if, hypothetically, I would get mad if she had a hamster in her room, but she didn’t but she really did, but she didn’t…but she did, not really, she didn't.

Mind games. I didn’t know what to believe. She would occasionally ask what I’d do if there were a hamster, then quickly deny it, then act as though there were something hidden in the bathroom closet, then when I went to look, she made a giant faux dash to conceal the contraband.

THEN the twelve year-old began the ruse. There is only so much of this a dad can take.

I have even sneaked into the freshly cleaned out closet to try to spot some evidence. There was a little wad of what looked like paper towel or paper litter and it had a chewed look to it, and smelled of rodent. I didn’t tear apart the closet, but looked fairly quickly all over, with no apparent signs of animal life. Only the nagging gut feeling that there was something being concealed from me.

Friday night, I spied the original prankster filling a blue drip bottle at the bathroom sink; the kind of drip bottle that small rodents drink from while trapped in a cage. That was it.

“OK, where is it!”

“What? I don’t have anything” she giggled with indignity while shoving the watering device into her shirt.

“The hamster, “Butters”, I know you have it here, come on. Tell the truth. I am tired of being lied to.”

Clack, her door closed. She came out about three seconds later with her hands loosely clasped, laughing almost hysterically. As she opened her hands, what appeared to be a dust bunny was moving around, and I caught sight of an eye. As my zookeeper approached, I recognized that it was indeed a little gray hamster. So cute, so deceptive.

The girls couldn’t believe that I hadn’t found them out when I checked in the closet and begged me not to tell their mother-unit. I told them that they could have their little secret rat, but if I walk by the room and even catch the faintest whiff of rodent, Butters will have to find a new place to live.

With the information now in hand, something else began to become crystal clear. Nearly every night, I would hear the frantic barking of our Pomeranian, Duchess, from my daughter's room. My usual response was, "Make that little knucklehead shut UP!" Little did I know, it was the dog vying for attention. Perhaps she was just wanting to play with and perhaps taste the tiny thing that was cuter than her (matter of opinion), and at the very least garnering more attention than she was at any given second. While they were showing me the little beast, the dog was begging and barking and whining and staring a hole in the hamster. I wanted to strangle the little dear.

Well, last night, as my wife was looking in all the closets for spare coathangers, she saw the cage in the closet, and did a Muppet Show double take. Yes, she saw movement in there.

“aaAAHHH! OH—MY—GOSH!”

Busted.

She didn’t say to get rid of it, but we agree that if she kept it clean for 2 months, she may be able to keep it clean for longer. But then the adrenaline of secrecy would not be present to keep her level of commitment at its highest level.

We shall see.

Wordy Guy VI

You thought I'd forgotten about "Wordy Guy", didn't you. Well everybody knows the rules, so no cheating, answer in the comments, and San Jac folks, if you saw Rob's original email and already know the answer, you are not eligible for the sizable cash prize.

Salubrious

A. Displaying characteristics of being drunk


B. Promoting health or well-being


C. Friendly and cheerful, as in a “salubrious greeting”

OK, Bragging Rights are up for grabs.

Camp Coffee Revisited

Being a Coffee Ninny, it’s not too hard to get on my wrong side when you are a cup of Joe. Too much creamer, not enough sugar, bitter, weak, or one of the worst, crunchy.

I have made Camp Coffee before; one of those desperate afternoons when sleep sneaks up the back of your neck, pushes your head forward and clamps down over your eyes. Happens about twice a week these days. That’s when I trudge to the office down the hall for a nudge of java.

On arrival, I found that Nicole was brewing up a pot or two for a meeting that was impending. She told me that one cup wouldn’t hurt, so go ahead. Such a nice girl.

I already had my sugar and creamer in there, so I poured the coffee into the waiting cup. Even before I stirred the medication, I saw black dots swirling and dancing in the tawny pool, giving evidence that the filter had fainted in the basket, as it had done to me.

I notified the hostess, to which she replied with a shocked look, then an exasperated sigh. That was the second time today and the third time in a week that it had happened to her. I suggested that she drop some eggshells in the pot to settle the wayward grounds, the same way Gabby Hayes would have.

She considered it for a second, I think. Perhaps it was just a ruse to placate me, a geezer, reluctant as I am to see anything wasted. Her pause was short-lived though, and she poured it down the sink and swished out the carafe.

Exiting the kitchenette, I stirred my cup and tried to remind myself that I’ll either need to strain it through my moustache, or just not slam it down my throat.

All it took was about 15 minutes and what did I do? Yep, I drank deeply from the cup of life, and ended up spitting coffee nubs out for the next few minutes.

Mental Note: Read mental note you make for yourself or it is a waste of time to make a mental note.

Fantastic Day

It was a beautiful day today, after the rain last week, and the heat/humidity, today's weather was nothing short of spectacular. After church, my girls and I went and used up the last of my Starbucks gift card. Three drinks, two "tall" and one "grande"...$11 dollars and some-odd cents. They were "free" so that's not so bad. We sat outside and drank our expensive almost-coffee drinks.

My youngest went to a skate party; my middle girl drove us around. We went driving for awhile after the drop-off, the back roads were quiet and the air was sweet and cool.

When we drove back into the neighborhood, we saw some kids with a sprinkler in the driveway wearing their bathing suits running around in the water. In February.

If you are reading this from Minnesota or Ohio or somewhere in the Northeast; Sorry.

If you are reading from anywhere else on the Gulf Coast or Florida, you know what I'm talkin' about. I love winter here.