Hollow-een

Everybody has warm reminisces about the night that children gravitate to nearly as much as Christmas. No, I’m not talking about Father’s Day, good guess, though.

It’s Halloween. I suppose the title was a dead giveaway, so to spook. Sorry. I liked the sport of Halloween as well as any juvenile in town when I was a lot smaller and more mature.

Most geezers remember the days when you filled two brown grocery bags with candy from forays into far-flung neighborhoods. Of course, only the ones that you would be able to hoof it to; not the “imported trick-or-treaters” of today. Truckloads of kids from all over town clogging up the subdivision streets for the chance at a November full of free candy. Cheaters.

One particular Halloween, I decided I wanted to be a skeleton. I’m sure my mother took me down to Sparky’s Toys or Rock’s Five and Dime for a costume. Included was the black jumpsuit imprinted with bones in a semi-believable configuration along with a scary oversized skull mask, complete with giant skeletal teeth and cracks embossed in the surface.

I was thrilled. I nearly jumped into the jumpsuit, and couldn’t even wait to get it tied up in the back. I put on the mask, stared into the mirror and snarled, and nearly frightened myself. The only thing was, the mouth opening was very small, and when I exhaled, the moist breath filled the façade with condensation. It also had a little rough edge that irritated my mouth.

So my mother got the great shears from the drawer in the kitchen and proceeded to enlarge the opening. Try it on. Hmmm. Better, but now it bothers my upper lip, too. Trim some more. OW, my lip. Snip again. Now it bothers my chin. And my upper lip.

This continued until my skull mask and my fragile artistic sensibility were injured nearly beyond recognition. The whole mouth was carved into a mimed scream that extended from just millimeters below my nose to my chin and a little beyond. And all you could see of the teeth were a couple of molars. Finally it was comfortable, but I looked stupid.

I seem to vaguely remember the beginnings of some ugliness, but my parents explained that I could just as easily sit at home while the others gathered complimentary candy from far and wide. So I sucked it up, and went with my sister, who went as a Pocahontas or something in a burlap costume with a white felt antlerless moose appliqué on the front. And her “surprised woman” mask. We stepped next door and just prior to our first handful of candy, posed for the picture you see below right. One can see my feeble attempt at being a scary and convincing walking skeleton, but my face belies the lack of faith in my costume, mainly the mask.

The terrible thing, looking back, is while I was complaining about the double-edged sword of "fix the mask/don't mar the mask", my sister was most likely baking in her burlap squaw outfit.

Skeleton From the Closet

Not in MY closet mind you. But there are three guys, who shall remain nameless, who have this to live down. Heck, they probably have forgotten (read “suppressed”) the memory completely. My sister and I, however, have absolutely NOT forgotten.

The story begins long before the actual event, and will take a bit of set up, so please indulge me.

Like many boys in the 12 year-old age range, I used to read comic books. I wasn’t an avid collector, I mostly read MAD Magazine and an occasional superhero of some sort. As everyone knows, the ads in the back were always fascinating to me; the X-ray glasses, the BB machine gun and various other worthless junk. I knew that the X-ray glasses COULDN’T work, but I always wanted the BB machine gun. One day, I spied an offer for a five-foot tall jointed skeleton that glows in the dark. WOW!, I had to have it. So I sent in the money, five dollars or so, and waited.

When the package arrived, I made a mental note that the package was very thin, especially one that was purported to contain a whole five foot tall skeleton. My first notion was that perhaps it may require assembly, and since there were so many bones in a skeleton, the dark thought crossed my mind that I would have to put it together.

I tore open the box and stared at what I thought would be the anatomical framework of a glow-in-the-dark person. What I stared at was a cheap cardboard printed skeleton smiling up at me with his (her?) jointed-by-brads limbs folded neatly up under his head. I took it out with disgust, I paid five dollars plus shipping and handling for THIS? Trudging to my room, I decided to test the only other redeeming value that this black and white printed cheat scheme would have; the power to glow in the dark.

On entering my room, I went straight to my desk lamp. I held the bundle of faux bones aloft to save the precious light from the 60 watt bulb. After a time, I took it into the closet to test the “glow factor”. The second I closed the door, I know that I’d been snookered.

My sister and I painted the entire skeleton with Lightning Bug Glo Juice to at least salvage some of my money.

That said, I will proceed with the original ignoble story.

The three brothers were over at our house with their parents. It was a usual Saturday evening, and the adults were having their fun. For some reason, it seems that we were all bored, looking for something to do. My sister remembered the cheap, home glow skeleton, and we proceeded to “glow him up”. To test the amount of light he had absorbed, I shut the light off. I don’t know what inspired my sister to do what she did next, but it was the making of one of the funniest 20 minutes I had experienced up till then in my life, and ranks up there with the top five of all time.

While the light was off, she swooped the bare bones at the brothers, who were skittish anyway. With that move, they scattered to other side of my bed. In the dark. Their shrieks of fear and laughter were hilarious. My sibling was just getting started with her campaign of fright on the boys. She followed their pleas, laughs and screams to further chase and terrorize them. Then she got the idea to grab its wrist and REACH for the poor boys. I stayed out of their way as they flung their bodies in their attempts to escape the flying bones. Of course, the pilot of the bones was keen on their plan to flee. She headed them off at the pass every time. Had she been a real ghoul, they would have been done for.

When the dive-bombing skeleton relented and the lights came on, we found the brothers cowering in various parts of the room, trembling with adrenaline and subsiding laughter. The youngest had a wet spot on his pants that extended from the zipper to his knees, the middle boy had a dual damp stripe that went to the middle of his thighs. The oldest, who was my age, did not escape the embarrassment; he had a single silver dollar sized spot on his pants.

As the family left, our glee was renewed as the boys tried to cover their shame.

I Have on Two Black Socks

Big deal, right? Yes and no. When your lighting is as dim as ours and you are as pressed for time in the morning as I am, it is classed as one of the small victories.

Of course, if I chose my clothes (including socks) the night before (the way my wife suggests), I would have time to analyze the color composition of my socks at length. Or at least quickly under optimal illumination conditions.

The best lighting in our house is in the bathrooms. I suppose it’s because in the rest of the house, I look best in low light. The bathrooms support more visual activity, thus requiring more light. There is make-up to be applied (not by ME), teeth to be flossed, jaws that need to be shaved (this one is ONLY me…) and also only in my case, ear hairs to be removed.

So just now, on adjusting my socks, not only did I raise the sock, but my mood as well. And I have my phone, too.

addendum to "Rules..."

Just to clarify; this is written about all the native-born Americans who are SUPPOSED to know English.

Swedes and others who actually DECIDED to speak English are exempt. I have a lot of respect for anyone who learns a second language.

I have some experience with the Spanish language and, to steal a line from Steve Martin, they "have a different word for EVERYTHING!". And to conjugate a verb in Spanish is to admit that I don't know anything in the world about grammar "under the hood". I listen to Spanish better than I speak it, and that's not saying much. Actually, I know just enough to be dangerous to myself and my 15 year old daughter who is taking Spanish in high school.

I also have several Chinese friends and associates, and their comand of our language, spoken and written, is astounding. To listen to them speak to me in English and to someone else in Chinese puts me to shame.

So, Mikael, you are doing fine, and maybe you could even teach some Texans a thing or two about our language!

Rules Rules Rules

There is a growing trend that I find very disturbing these days; an apparent inability of normally literate persons to comply with what they should have learned in grade school.

The homonyms seem to be a source of consternation among today’s writers. The use of “there”, “their” and “they’re” interchangeably was once upon a time, a novelty and a purposeful method of feigning ignorance when corresponding with my close friends. Or trying to outfox spellcheck in word processing and email applications (this is a sport unto itself).

Now I receive emails that say, “it was good to here from you…” and “hear we are having sunshine…”, and, “there coming in this weekend…” all NOT intentional word play.

Another of the mistakes made is the arbitrary placement of the apostrophe on words that are merely plural, with no possessions anywhere nearby. I even have seen signage, no lie, “Hair Design’s”…how can this be? I used to be mildly amused by the odd appearance of the “false possessive”, but now with business cards and posters and television ads and all sorts of other occurrences I am overwhelmed by the ignorance that is approaching epidemic proportions.

I am not a grammarian or composition whiz by any stretch of the imagination; just read this blog with any regularity and you will see that fairly clearly. But I DO know when to use apostrohy's and when knot two!

I don’t know who to charge for these gnu societal problems, but aisle find someplace to lei the blame!

Today...

...I shaved. But i got out of the house without my phone...but I remembered my giant sandwich...and took out the trash. But I forgot the pack of gum I'd bought to bring to work for my goodies drawer. But I remembered to take my daughter to school...but she forgot her phone, too.

It's noon now, and you can bet that I WON'T forget to eat. I didn't get this size by forgetting lunch. And I have this GiAnT sandwich to get started on...I only have an hour...

Departure...

…from The Routine. Apparently it is my downfall. This morning, I left the house without shaving. No big deal, right? But I think it’s a symptom of a larger problem. What that problem is, I’m not quite sure, but I AM quite sure there may or may not be a problem.

I think it started when I went out to the van this morning before I shaved; yes, that’s when it happened. It’s funny, but little things like that, when you’re not fully functional which throw you for a loop. It’s as if your brain has a hidden ticker for tasks in the morning, or in sub-operational situations, that it relies on to make you feel like you are doing your best. If your normal routine includes 37 tasks before you turn the key in the ignition, and if you complete 37 or more in that amount of time, your brain gives up. So, if you don’t normally plug your phone in after you iron your shirt, then you’re likely to forget something. Either important or unimportant. Doesn’t matter.

Now, if you leave BEFORE you complete the requisite 37 tasks, you either leave with that nagging feeling that you’ve forgotten something, or you catch it when your youngest child asks where your belt is. The point is, you have missed something. Either important or unimportant. You may have left your wallet, your phone, failed to zip your fly. Or you forgot to shave.

I don’t feel so bad now that I got to work. It seems one of my co-workers changed her routine (got out of her truck and went around to the passenger side) and left something she needed in the parking lot. She had to make the long trek back to retrieve it.

Lucky I keep a dull razor in my desk drawer.

Birthday Blue Corn

You thought I was going to write "Birthday Blues", didn't you? Well, not a chance of that with this bunch I work with. They know me all too well. They summoned me to the conference room, and along with the requisite card and cake, they had a sack of office supplies: Bread, peanut butter, jelly, blue corn chips (hence the title), salsa, 6 pack of Pepsi, and some Tuxedos cookies.

What more could a geezer/miser/chowhound like me want? Toys are fine, but you can't eat them.

This birthday, middle of October, like so many through the years, was bitterly warm and muggy, as opposed to the smattering of "autumn" birthdays I have savored through the years. After 47 birthdays, only a few are really memorable. Like the ones spent on Bolivar Peninsula or the odd college one when friends actually cooked dinner for me. Today was an experience, not for the wild and/or crazy antics that ensued, there were none. It was memorable for the obvious thought by my co-workers that know me (apparently too well) put into the choices of their gift.

Someone else may be offended by a sack of groceries for their birthday, but not this geezer. It is a genuinely off-beat manifestation of a truly attentive giving spirit.

I thank all of you who contributed to the surprise. Is it any wonder that I come to work every day with you yahoos?

Dart, Dr Pepper & DeSoto

Dr Pepper is a popular soft drink in Texas. I don’t know if it is because it was invented here or if the inventor hit upon the ideal formulation for Texas tastes. It doesn’t matter to me. I have always liked it.

For me, it started back in the early 1960’s. When my sister and I were little, we stayed with my grandparents while my mother worked. We always had a good time, playing in or out doors. The old house didn’t have any air conditioner, so we were usually outside in the summer.

Every day, usually around 8:30 or 9:00 a.m., my grandfather would get in the Dodge Dart and drive down to the Texas City Dike. This structure, the Dike, is billed as “10 miles of Fun”…Five miles out and five miles back with granite squares on the South side and usually broken up scrap concrete on the North side. This long jetty was paved with a two-lane road. People always fished from both sides (hence “10 Miles of Fun”) and the deeper South side was home to the Texas City Shrimp Fleet. None of this is what would draw GranDaddy to the Dike. It was the visits with his brother.

Some days my sister and I would accompany him on his mission. We would clamber to the back seat and ride with the silent man driving with a silent purpose. Sometimes on the way to the meeting point, he would stop at one of the bait camps and buy each of us a six ounce bottle of Dr Pepper. Since we didn’t often get carbonated drinks, or cokes as we called them, any one was a treat. But one of the best and most favored “cokes” was the Dr Pepper.

After receiving our treasure, we would proceed down the road to the real reason we were there. My sister and I would look out the window of the Dart for the lone black car parked on the North side of the road. Usually about halfway down, we would spot it. A huge, hulking black and chrome dinosaur. That would be Uncle Curtis in his DeSoto.


On arrival, we would get out of the Dart and climb into the DeSoto’s cavernous back seat to drink our DP. The two old men would sit quietly. And sit. Light a cigar. And sit. Finally, one would open with news of an old acquaintance in the hospital or funeral home. Or remember something from the days of brown toned photos when they were both young and strong.

We heard so many great stories, and I am not sure if we were supposed to hear some of them. But as they spoke in short sentences punctuated with draws on their El Productos, the bond that the brothers shared since the turn of the 20th century stayed young and strong.

And as the conversation came to a close, the 60-year sentence drew not to a period, but to a 24 hour semicolon. Same time tomorrow. Maybe my sister and I would be there with a Dr Pepper, maybe we wouldn’t . But the Dart and the DeSoto would sit side by side for a while, suspended in time. While the brothers...smoked. Talked. Bonded.

Token Post

I am so excited! We have a new guy in the office, he uses a Nikon D 70 extensively, and unlike me, he has read the manual on how to use it AND his Speedlite 600, the flash unit. That alone has put him WAY out of my league.
And the fact that he remembers the techniques just blows me away!

The revelation that has me so profoundly excited is a "remote flash" feature with these two pieces of equipment that is so "Houdini", that I can't stand it. I am aching to use it myself.

Pictured here is the author holding the SB600 at big-fat-belly-level. Note the "faux-scary" effect produced by the combination of low angle light/large nose/beetle brow. Stunning. At least. At best, this opens up a whole world of possibility in the realm of portrait photography. Not lugging 85 pounds
of lighting equipment and looking for an outlet in range is the priceless
part of this equation as well.

Thanks to Rob for reading instructions and sharing information. Looking forward to picking your brain!

OK, So WEEKLY Should be the Goal

Not daily. There, I feel a little better now. Although it ain’t like I have been getting clamors for updates on this thing! A novelty, that’s what it is. Just a novelty. A handful of people looked at it briefly, some of whom actually commented (thank you so much) and then everyone promptly forgot about it. I’ll be willing to wager that nobody even has a bookmark on this page. Or at least they don’t click it.

That’s OK, I ain’t no Hemmingway or Twain. Someday, you people will say, “Yeah, I almost followed his writing in the early days...”

A WHOLE Week, already!

Yeah, it's been a week since I put anything up on the GeezerChron...I feel so bad. But that's the way it goes. Please re-read and post comments. I am flying blind here.

Blind as a bat. Like all the ones in the schools lately. Alvin High had some bats in the old subterranean cafeteria...sounds like a likely place for them. Or maybe they were just trying to learn something. Or if we could only fit them with glasses, maybe they wouldn't get lost. Or maybe the school is just where they WANT to be. Maybe all these bats want to do is learn, to
grow as bats. To be something besides a prop for Halloween, or Dracula movies. Or news hooks.

Think about it. But stay away from any bat that looks confused or ill, such as one poring over an algebra book.

Photoshop Trickery?

Nope, surprisingly, no Photoshop! This is the new breed of animal, the Clydachshundale that they developed for foreign tourists to come over to Texas and pretend to be cowboys, but retain the multi-seat capacity of the F-250 limousines they like so much! 7 passengers and one driver (the passengers get foam rubber spurs to keep them from accidental acceleration).

Freedom From WalMart

Hooray! This weekend (starting at 9:07 p.m. Friday) I did not venture to
WalMart at all! Not for milk, bread, tortillas, cheese, lunch meat or an
iPod Nano.

There is such a sense of freedom knowing that I stayed away from the Mother Ship for the entire weekend. That's not to say that I didn't shop at all Saturday or Sunday. We needed some things after church on Sunday, but it was HEB that got my dollars instead of the Bentonville Giant.

And with the encouragement offered by my two consecutive days of being AWOL from a major discount outlet, I may even be able to extend the run to
Monday, and perhaps, who knows, even TUESDAY! What a feat, what an
accomplishment. It ranks right up there with buying the last package of
disposable diapers!

Ah, the liberation, the ecstasy, the...

Dang. We need cat food. The clock starts over.

Back to School Chopping

This year, school shopping was done a little earlier, and with a little less stress than usual. I can say that, I assume, since I was not involved with it that much. I did however manage to get to drive 60 miles to buy a pair of volleyball shoes, then another three hours to try to find street shoes. But that wasn’t too ghastly, except for the price. Apparently, the huge profit margin on athletic shoes must persist in rising year by year. I just hope the little Thai children who make them get vacation and sick days now.


Now, from a wide observation, it appears that when there are school supplies to be purchased, cheaper is NEVER better. This is true for shoes, pants, shirts, backpacks, socks, more shoes, skirts, skorts, shorts and any incidental shoes. And quality of construction has nothing to do with it.


My experience, however, usually involves the SECOND DAY of SCHOOL shopping. Which is arguably worse. Mainly argued by me, since my wife takes herself out of the equation at this point.


One can (partially) forgive the superiority of wearables, when it comes to peer pressure. Girls are (I assume) far more susceptible than boys in regard to the importance of the origins of school clothes. Of course, not having a boy to buy for, I realize that this is probably an obtuse statement. In these days of image and mass media, the male is just as likely to be caught up in the dangerous storm of “have” and “have not”.


When I was a kid, guys wore Levi’s, and if you came to school with Roebucks or JCPenney Plain Pockets, you were looked at askance. Today, no doubt, you would be vilified in the gossip columns and celebrity tabloids and TV entertainment “news” shows if you don’t have the right gear.


OK, so the wearables get a “snooty pass”. I can live with that. I had owned a couple of pairs of Plain Pockets in my day. The most dire problem I have with the process is the preoccupation with “high quality” consumables. Yes, the filler paper from the Dollar Store is unacceptable because everyone will know from whence it came. The same goes for the erasers, pencils, colored pencils, index cards, rulers and the plastic compass. At least my kids aren’t so worried about the little things. But there are some things Dollar Tree just doesn’t carry.


In the crowded aisle of the local discount hangar, I moored myself by the endcap just out of the way of the school supplies row. My youngest had already gotten the required items, except for perhaps the odd folder or book cover (now you have to BUY them, nobody would be caught DEAD with the paper ones they give away at the school!). The supplies gauntlet was peopled by desperate teens mainly, since high school classes give their supplies list on the first day. So there they were, the mostly moms, dazed dads and vacant-eyed teenagers, pressed in a swamp of folders, binders, book covers, pencils, glue sticks, tape, composition books and filler paper. Of course, certain teachers require certain items that are not QUITE the same as what is in stock. But usually by 8:47 p.m., the pickings are a little slim anyhow.


So, with the wiser parents hanging at the passes of the aisles, and the students picking over the picked over supplies, I observed some universal reactions. FIRST, everyone is nearly exhausted by a full day of work or school. Everyone wants to be finished and leave. Which leads me to SECOND; the kids are willing to stay just a little longer to find the right products. THIRD, all the students have a unconscious “sneer” reflex when it comes to the admonition of the parents to “get one and let’s go”, usually after proffering one of the least expensive binders. If the house brand costs 97 cents, there is usually a more expensive and slightly cooler version for two or three times the cost. The suggestion that the bargain brand be chosen is met with a blank stare with head cocked to the side in an irritated snap of the neck. Hmm, snap the neck; what an intriguing idea at that point...


“NObody USES thoOose...”, or a variation thereof is the top response by 93% of students.


So now, in my estimation, the Christmas season is in danger of being supplanted by the Back to School season as the most lucrative time in retail, especially for the giant discount chain stores. I mean, with the criminalization of the “Christ” in “Christmas” these days, it’s easy to imagine the cooling of the giving spirit.


But everybody HAS to go to school...

Brand New Word

OK, a fiend of mine and I were talking nonsense, which is not unusual, when I came up with a nice, new word. Now THAT is unusual, because he's the smart one, I am the one who does pratfalls.

The word is "SPONTENACITY", defined as "committed to having no plan". He added, "an assiduous lack of focus".

Not much, but you should be seeing this word working its way into the vernacular.

Please, if you have any other words that are hybrids, and that actually
work, I implore you, add them in the comments.

Pluto's Demotion

Well, now that Pluto has been demoted to "non-planet" status, Starbuck's is
going to have to put their newest store on a real "classical planet". Since
the atmosphere is poisonous on Neptune, they are re-tooling the budget for
building the store. The plans must now include an oxygen supply, CO2
scrubbers and an airlock. This is going to raise the cost of Starbuck's
coffee, however, it is widely known that that does not matter.

Demotion is always a source of frustration, especially if the position held
was for more than a hundred years. Pluto should join a support group to get
the feelings out, lest it be reduced to an asteroid.

As long as it poses no danger to Earth, Pluto's plight is not really
relevant to us. But it can serve as an example to us all. I'll think of that
later, but believe me, it will be highly instructive.

The Hunting Knife

Gleaming in the display case of the Gibson’s discount store, was the object of the lad’s desire. More than candy, more than a new BB gun, more than even a new bike, there lay the most beautiful hunting knife ever made. It was a Kabar, chrome steel blade, about 7 inches in length, a straight guard and a handle of laminated leather the color of a saddle. The sheath matched the handle and had a snap at the top, to hold the handsome beast safely until summoned.



What he could do with that knife. He knew that eventually he would have the chance to go deer hunting, and this would be the perfect instrument for eviscerating a deer. He would be the awe of the camp. He could also cut some of those bamboo canes around the hideout and lash them into walls and doors and stuff. And in case a wild animal; cougar, bear, armadillo, possum, mouse or crazed sea gull crashed in, he could defend himself and anyone in the vicinity. What an awesome tool.


It was somewhere over $12, so on his meager allowance of a dollar or so a week, it was a long-term commitment. So for weeks he did his chores, saving it all, giving a small percentage at Sunday School, and gazing lovingly at the grail behind the glass. What a hunter he would be with is Daisy Model ’94 in his hand and the Kabar at his side…



His birthday was in October, and while he netted some long forgotten gifts from well intentioned relatives and friends, none of them was the Kabar and sheath. He didn’t blame them, the knife was expensive, he knew, and besides, he wanted to have the honor of releasing the prize himself. To take delivery by his own hand with his own money was his goal.



Lucky for him, he got a total of about $15 for his birthday. The gleam in his eye could only be matched by the glint of fluorescent light off of that beautiful blade. He got his dad to drive him the .5 miles to Gibson’s with the cold cash in his hot little hand. With a singularity of purpose he bee-lined straight back to the Sporting Goods department. With what could be described only as grunts and squeaks of suppressed elation, he somehow got the clerk to understand that he wanted the Kabar in the case and hurry.



His dad drove the .5 miles back home with the boy and his knife. A happy couple. Made for each other.



When he got home, the boy went straight to the back yard to challenge every wild and dangerous animal imaginable, he stabbed the bears and cut the lions and generally frightened the elephants and killer whales. He ached to grasp the cool shiny blade and throw it to stick it into a tree, but resisted the temptation; he had broken the tip off of two knives previously that way, he could never tempt fate with this instrument.



For days he hacked tirelessly through the jungle underbrush and the desert cactus and the giant redwoods. He whittled proudly on the tough green wood of the backyard forest. The clear October air fueled the adventure of young imagination, and cemented the deep, emotional bond of boy and knife. The flash of sunlight on the flawless blade was intoxicating, the smell of the leather of the sheath was like ambrosia.



One afternoon while in his room, he and his blade were sparring with an unseen villain. The miscreant was lying across the neatly made bed, and needed finishing off. The boy menacingly raised the knife above the evildoer, and slowly dragged the point across his midsection, ridding the world of yet another bag of human scum. Unfortunately, the boy misjudged his own strength and the sharpness of the blade. The bedspread was neatly sliced along the width of the bed, about two feet in length, precisely along the lines of the green plaid pattern. Of course, he didn’t see the damage until later that evening, while sitting on the bed, putting his clean socks away in his drawer.



The panic was evidenced by the blush that started at his knees and rushed to his hair in increasingly powerful waves, forcing the moisture from the inside of his skin to the surface. He had to hide the deed, but how? Thinking quickly, he seized the pillows that his mom had chosen to make the bed a nice composition. He distributed the furry black pillow and another pillow horizontally across the center of the bed. There, no one would know. Maybe it would heal up…



His mother was placing the folded supply of shirts, socks and underwear at the traditional place at the foot of his bed, when she noticed the peculiar placement of the pillows. Thinking it odd, she decided to move them to their usual spot up at the head of the bed. That was when she saw the gaping gash and the white sheet shimmering from beneath. When she summoned her son to the crime scene, he was appalled that the wound had not healed and had been discovered. Then, to his ultimate disappointment, shame and chagrin, his mother imposed the most harsh but fair penalty that could be devised: she took away his knife for a month.

Happy Trails

Today is the last day for a friend of mine at this job. Now, many people
have left this college, and I have varying degrees of joy/sadness for any
number of them. This one is different.

Donna Urban is one of the sweetest, friendliest and hard-working people I have had the pleasure to know in my whole working life. Her faith is strong and contagious. Practical and down-to-earth, Donna also has the sense of fun that makes even the most rotten day at work seem bearable. She is smart-alecky and quick witted, but is also very compassionate and caring.

I feel responsible, however, for dulling that sense of compassion in my own
silly way.

Donna's desk is the first one in from the front door of the office, and so she sees everyone coming or going. Unfortunately for her, many times when I enter or leave the office, I do the old schtick where you stop the door with
your foot and jerk your head back violently and immediately grab your nose.
I usually add in the "weak kneed back-pedal" to add authenticity. Donna fell for it a number of times.

After MONTHS of this, she eventually got jaded to the "door-ram" trick.
However, one day, the smallest, sweetest and most-liked girl in our office
ran into the door and really did get jolted. For real. And normally, Donna
would be the first to offer aid or at least a caring inquiry of the physical
state, "OH, are you all right?"

My conditioning had worked an evil transformation in our "office Mom"...she just looked at poor Rosie with a blank expression! When she realized that "this is no drill", she immediately burst forth with pent-up compassion and guilty apology for not reacting sooner.

So Donna, thus ends our face-to-face fun times, we will be reduced to typing silly things back and forth. Vaya con Dios, my friend. And have-a a good-a time-a in-a Pearland-a!

The Bank Robbery

The lad and his sister were excited that their older cousins were in town. They had been in Germany and were always full of great stories and general smart aleck good fun. This evening turned out to be in keeping with the anticipated good time.

After a couple of hours swapping stories and remembering the last time they were together, the group got a little restless. A scenario was scripted that the cousins were going to rob the bank in the old West; the young boy was slated to appear as the teller, his sister was cast as a patron of the bank, and the world traveling brothers were the bank robbers. The casting done, the next phase was to dress the set. Since there was no budget for authentic bank teller bars, wooden porch, horse rail and dirt street, the decision was made to make do with a small table at the door of the boy’s room and the long hall just outside the door was to be the street.

The robbers were equipped with the requisite Peacemaker replica cap guns, a small bag was used to carry off the “loot”, and the teller was equipped with some authentic-looking paper money and was armed with a “hidden” cap derringer in a wrist strap.

Now, this was a special derringer in that it came with spring-loaded cartridges that had actual projectiles that would fly out when fired with a round stick-on cap applied where normally a primer would reside on real ammunition. This made the ordnance very deadly and thus important to the conscientious teller back while the West was being won. And since it was the pride of the boy, and since he was the youngest of the group, he was allowed to thus arm himself. And just for good measure, he placed two round caps at the primer position of each of the bullets his gun held.

The bank was quiet, as expected. The young teller sat at his post, counting the stacks of real-looking money, the benign young woman milled about the bank lobby. Suddenly, two rough cowboys burst in, brandishing chrome plastic pistols. They meant business. The young woman screamed (and then laughed). The robbers turned their attention to the teller. His life threatened, he moved quickly to put all the folding money into the bag. Then, as quickly as they had come, the miscreants were out the door, and on their way down the dusty street.

The second they turned their cowardly backs, the brave and ever-ready young teller retrieved his derringer and yelled a warning to the thieves to stop. The blonde one spun around, ready to shoot his cap pistol. He was a split second too late on the trigger. The teller let fly the double-capped derringer and sent the plastic projectile flying to its mark.

In the very same (or the very next) second, the blonde bandit’s right hand came up to his right eye, a shocked “aargh” escaped his lips, his body flung to the carpet of the street. His partner froze…and laughed. Hard. Even the wounded cowboy was laughing. The teller, on seeing the outlaw fall, then laugh, began to follow suit. When the poor woman from inside the bank (who had been away from the door, thereby missing the action) realized what had indeed happened, she immediately began to cackle as well.

The production halted, the shooting victim began to recount his last memory of what had taken place over the last few seconds. It seems that as he wheeled to shoot the audacious teller, he saw the derringer barrel, and a flash of gunpowder at the muzzle. The next thing he knew, his eye hurt and he fell, stunned.

There was never a dull moment when their cousins came to town.