Lessons in a Hurricane

I learned a valuable lesson about preparing for hurricanes from my grandparents. It was in August 1983 and I was done with college and back home in Texas City pursuing a freelance career. I often visited GranMommy and GranDaddy during the day when I wasn’t showing my portfolio or doing an illustration.

I had always heard a number of stories from each one of them about hurricanes that they had endured. Hurricanes where the neighbors came to their house to ride out the storm, or when GranDaddy had to drive his wrecker through the storm to rescue someone, and they usually ended up at the house. I am still impressed with the intrepid spirit that they displayed on the old days.

In August 1983, my parents and sister had gone on vacation up to the Hill Country for a couple of weeks, and I stayed in Texas City because I had to get my freelance business off the ground.

This August was a little different, mainly because a serious hurricane appeared in the Gulf, and from what I remember, it steamed in to eventually hit the Texas coast between Freeport and Galveston pretty quickly. Too quick for my parents to come in from Wimberley and too quick to try to convince two old hurricane veterans that they should perhaps take their leave and watch from a safe distance. After all, GranMommy had practically built that old house herself, filling in the gaps where the drunk contractor left things undone. The exterior siding that the asbestos shingles were nailed to was put up on an angle for strength in a hurricane. I couldn’t have gotten them out of there with dynamite.

That is how I came to face the fury of Hurricane Alicia in the house that was over 50 years old at the time. GranDaddy had taken up his usual post at the southeast corner of the living room two feet from one big window and three feet from the other. He was listening to the radio and we had the television tuned to the news. GranMommy and I sat on the pullout couch, focusing on the television and aware as well of the rising wind and slashing rain outside. As the night wore on, we heard the rain battering the house, and the water ran down the chimney like sluice, making us more and more uneasy. In the increasing gusts, the siding started buzzing like a clarinet reed. Occasionally we would see the flashing lights of a fire truck as it patrolled the streets. I don’t know if it even crossed anyone’s mind to go catch a ride with them to a reinforced building that didn’t have a fireplace pouring water inside. We just sat and watched.

About 11:30 or so, an earsplitting bolt of lightning popped outside, and instantly the interior of our sanctuary went dark. We all sat still for a moment, and I asked GranDaddy if he had a flashlight. He reached wordlessly into his cabinet by his chair and produced one. He flipped the switch and a weak yellow glow lasted for a few seconds, then failed in fear of the storm. I asked if he had batteries for the flashlight or the radio. He just started to laugh. A hearty, sort of embarrassed laugh, that spread to me, and I think even GranMommy chuckled a little.

Fortunately, they had an oil lamp for decoration on the mantel, and it was in working order. The rest of the night, we sat there in the pale light and listened to the extreme weather out there, getting wilder every ten or fifteen minutes.

At least five times that long night, we heard the freight trains pass by. Apparently, big, long, loud trains that, strangely enough, never did use their whistle. Their roaring roared above the normal roar of the storm, they produced extra sounds that were a little more unfamiliar that the other unfamiliar sounds we had grown accustomed to made us more uncomfortable. The most disturbing thought that I know we were all thinking, was that the nearest train tracks were about three or four miles south of there.

At about two or three a.m., the rain and wind stopped. Completely. The false calm of the eye descended like a great wet blanket. GranDaddy and I went out front and looked around a little. There was an eerie silence, not a breath of wind. We did see evidence that one of the trains had come down their street; the tops of several trees were twisted out and deposited upside down some distance from their home trunks. The train was definitely a tornado, as were all the others.

As the night wore on, we never spoke of what to do if Alicia, not content with howling outside, decided to come inside for coffee. It was a good thing she didn’t, in all the excitement, we had forgotten to make any.

New Technology

Never let it be said that this geezer doesn't try to keep up with the newest things. Well, sort of new things. You may have noticed that I changed the header to this esteemed blog, and changed the "recent posts" section. Just an effort to adapt to this changing internet thing.

So here is a look at something from Photobucket, a big, free (of course, if I'm using it) service to keep a mess of photos on.

So check out this slideshow. I just hope it doesn't mess with the dial-up contingent. Which I'm still a part of at home. Surprise surprise.

Muu Muu

Yes, I saw a muu muu yesterday. I didn't think that they even made them anymore. I was appalled. But strangely fascinated.

In a local pharmacy, the one where the goobers work, I was waiting to be acknowledged by the vapid, slow-moving girl behind the counter. As I looked past her at the efficient frenzy of activity of the pharmacists and two other techs filling and dispensing prescriptions, I couldn't help wondering if this girl was in the right store. She was waiting on a woman with a gravelly whiskey tenor voice who was hiding at the corner of the customer side of the counter. I hadn't seen her till she spoke with the smoky growl that identified her as a smoker of multiple thousands of cigarettes over a majority of her life. The voice and the stench of stale tobacco smoke seeped across the four feet separating us.

When I looked her direction, I had to force myself not to stare. At least while she was looking up. She was replete in her turquoise and sea-green muu muu, and the effect was capped off, so to speak, by a blue Hang Ten ball cap, turned backward. The cap had a Hawaiian print that sort of matched the garment. Sort of.

I didn't get to sneak a peek at her footwear, the slow-mover finally made it to the counter with the medications that the veterinarian had prescribed.

SO, I was left in dumbfoundment for a short time while processing what I had just witnessed; a fashion gaffe that should never be repeated. Or imagined. Oops, sorry.

Just try put it outta your mind.

Wordy Guy II

OK kids, you know the rules...let the play begin. Monday I'll post the answer and the winner. Heck, I know, you'll all have checked the dictionary by then, but I'll make it official.

Hachure

(STUDENTS: ABSOLUTELY NO PEEKING IN THE DICTIONARY. IF I SEE YOU REACH FOR A DICTIONARY, I WILL WHACK YOUR HAND WITH A RULER).


A. A clasp that is part of a yoke used with draft animals, such as oxen or mules.


B. A small bone that enables some animals to turn their ears in many directions.


C. A short line used for shading and denoting surfaces in relief and drawn in the direction of slope.



THE ANSWER IS...

C. "Sis" is the winner! First correct answer.

Thanks for playing Wordy Guy, and hope you will join us for the next challenge.

Cheap Shots

As promised, a month ago, I am posting some "Cheap Shots" from comments on Cheap Defined. This is from Dr. Blogger, a sometimes reader and poster on even rarer occasions. I try to encourage him to start his ownblog, but he either resists or just ignores me. But he has some great stories, and here is one:

My Grandfather was cheap, . . . intelligent, loving, caring, responsible, but still cheap. He saved old pencils from his work as a school principal. He sharpened them carefully down to the point that even as a small child, I found them hard to hold. In fact, the lead in some of those pencils had been around so long, that the graphite had begun to break up to the extent that one simply could not write with it.
Then he saved rubber bands. He carefully wrapped them around his wallet. This actually served two functions: it saved the rubber bands and it kept the sacred contents of his wallet encased. And, as you might expect, when called into service, the rubber bands invariably broke when stretched the least amount.
Also, he would clip every grocery store advertisement from all local newspapers, compare and contrast them, and then on shopping day, drive his car to each store and pay the lowest regional price for the various items. My guess is he spent dollars in gas in order to save pennies on carrots and tomatoes.
His miserly and Calvinist ways would also lead him to pinch pennies on his alcohol consumption. He liked having family at Christmas because he could justify buying a quart of eggnog and a half pint of bourbon. Then he would make himself literally a half serving of weakly-spiked eggnog on Christmas Eve and that would be it. He would not drink another drop. The family would easily consume the remainder so that nothing was wasted. Several uncles accepted a serving only because one should not waste the resource. His one other "bout" of drinking would be on a very rare Saturday in August, when after a lawn mowing session he would visit a neighbor and accept a small glass of beer, after being reassured that it was indeed good for him "in this weather" and that the remainder of the beer would be taken care of by the neighbor.
Clearly, having lived through the Great Depression led him to believe that if you take care of the pennies, the dollars will take care of themselves.

Wordy Guy

Wordy Guy is Rob V., a frequent commenter here at GeezerChron, and he has been emailing several of us in the office with these words accompanied by definitions ranging from true to false to better than true. Your mission is to either fall for one of Rob's superb "imaginifitions" or know (guess) at the real word. Please answer in the comments, I will eventually post the correct word in an update.

Thanks for playing "Wordy Guy"!

mensch

A. A large drawer with compartments once used in the printing trade

B. A game similar to hide-and-seek that is popular among children in the Middle East

C. A person of integrity and honor

UPDATE

I would like to thank our four contestants, 75% of whom got the word right, 25% pulled the Barbra Streisand movie from somewhere else (Yentl), but still had the Yiddish angle correct.

The word "mensch" is Yiddish for "man", literally, but in reference to being a good man of integrity and honor, yadda yadda yadda.

The speediest winner was the Aggie, so when she visits she can have an extra piece of gum or something.

Thanks again for playing "Wordy Guy", and look for the next installment. I expect ALL of you to play next time.

Something Unexpected Came Up

Yes, something unexpected did come up at Chinese School today; William's lunch. The second class had just gotten in and eveyone was settling in to their chairs. I looked away for just a second when I heard something like a can of soda being opened. I looked at the kid closest to me, William, and he was holding both hands up to his mouth with liquid streaming through his fingers. He had a shocked and embarrassed look on his poor little face, and I raced for the trash can, which was unfortunately across the room. As the can came to a landing at his feet, he leaned over and spit out what he had held in his mouth. I picked up the wastebasket and ushered little William out the door and down the hall. He reflexively shook the residue hanging from his hands, and I quickly instructed, "Don't fling..." a couple of times on our trip down the hall.

The other kids were in shock...for a few seconds. Then the expected chorus of "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWs" began. As I hustled our little fountain into the restroom, they sat quietly. Meanwhile, as I had William wash his hands in the sink, and questioned him if he was finished, he began vomiting again, this time in the sink. An endless stream kept issuing forth from the helpless lad, while I stood like 248 pounds of lard staring at his little face frozen in the mirror, heaving over and over, filling the sink beneath his small hands.

When he finally stopped hurling, he commented that he had eaten at Ryan's for lunch, and that some bacteria must have gotten mixed up with his food (this is an eight-year-old talking, these are his words). I asked him if he wanted us to call his mom or anything, but he said he would go back to class.

I left him for a second to wash up, and hopefully not spew into the sink again, while I went in to clean up the evidence in the class. As I wrestled reams of paper towels from the roll, the other kids began to fully comprehend what had happened. One of the spokespersons for the class said, in a loud and clear voice, "GOSH, I think I'M gonna throw up NOW...". I hoped she wasn't speaking prophetically, since there were eight other kids in the class most likely thinking the same thing. Heck, I was thinking the same thing. The same little girl asked how I could stand cleaning that up. I replied, "I'm a dad, I've had to do this a million times". In truth, that was the only thing that kept my Whataburger in its place.

As I went back to check on the unfortunate kid, I steeled myself to what I may possibly wade into. Fortunately he was washed up, mostly (except for a little piece of corn on his cheek *shudder*) and ready to come back to class. All the while he was muttering about what it might have been that didn't agree with him at lunch. He was using those words, too. I think he will work as a doctor or CSI eventually.

I am happy to report that William survived the rest of the class, in a different chair, without further incident. And all other lunches kept their places as well.

'urricane 'umberto

So what's up with this thing that popped up and pushed in through here yesterday? In all my years of living on the Gulf Coast of Texas (although only a few of those I was actually paying attention to the weather, granted), I have never seen something come up so fast and so hard.

Apparently, the meteorologists were caught flat-footed, too. But that didn't keep them from hyping and inflaming everyone. I am surprised that an evacuation wasn't called for. Not that anyone would have actually gotten on the road, but still, they could shame everyone for not caring about safety and the lives of all the innocent children and pets.

Where I work, the crisis turned out to be a drill to see how everyone would work within all the departments in the event of a real hurricane, tsunami, earthquake or nuclear holocaust. We seem to be fairly satisfied that the dry run came off smoothly. And actually stayed dry!

The weather people did get a chance, albeit short notice, to dash down to High Island and Bolivar to cash in on the slashing winds and pelting, horizontal rain. It was almost worth it to see Wayne Dolcefino buffeted by the wind. And believe me, it takes quite a bit of wind to buffet Wayne, IF you know what I mean. Good Morning America's Sam Champion (made-up name if I ever heard one) was "riding out the storm" in League City. He had a phone-in to the show, and they ran footage of Wayne in the middle of filing a near-unintelligible report through the howling wind and stinging rain. At one point, he just gave up and stumbled off camera. But Sam sat in a motel room eating Cinnabons and drinking cappuccino acting like he was braving the storm. And Diane Sawyer was complicit in ignorance, lapping up his story like a typical newshound.

'umberto was really a strange animal, though. To develop and charge ahead so quickly, I think even the old-timers (me) were surprised. But we weren't surprised by the media feeding frenzy.

Memorial for Darryl Ferguson

My Father-in-Law, Darryl Ferguson, passed away and we said goodbye to him on Saturday, August 25. It was among the saddest things I ever had to do. Growing older stinks if this is the kind of thing that starts happening.

I remember the first time I saw him; a large man lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows reading the Chronicle. The television was on, and he barely spoke. Then he stood up. At about six foot one, around 240 pounds, OP shorts and a faded t-shirt, he was imposing. This is the look he called “Bumzilla”.

As I started coming over there more and more and more and more, I got to know this man, also known as “Fergie”, or if he felt so inclined, “Fergenstein”. He loved telling stories of when he was a kid, or as a young man hunting in the wilds of the Almeda area, when there was nothing nearby but jackrabbits.

Some of my favorite stories were about the store he owned and operated for years, Ferguson Food Center. The would-be robbers, troublemakers and crazy people provided enough material for a book. He used to sit at the counter reading the paper, and when a suspicious-looking character would enter, Fergie would reach under the counter for his .45 automatic, and casually point it at the possible trouble spot, follow him around the store, all the while concealing the weapon in the Twinkie rack and continuing to read the paper. He never had to do anything from there, but he would just say that he was ready, and the “Twinkies would get real hot, real fast!”

Ferguson Food Center was also the site of many other actions that weren’t funny, but that showed the real man, The store is in a really tough part of town, Wayside and Navigation for those of you familiar with Houston. Many times, some homeless person would wander in wanting to panhandle for some money to buy some demon rum. Some would even offer to sweep the parking lot or some other menial task for a little money. Darryl never gave them money, but more often than not would give them food, a burrito, a sandwich, or some other real food. They would say “Thanks,man...” and start out the door. He would tell them, “Have a seat, you have to eat it here.” He didn’t want them to go out and sell the food for Ripple.

Many times he provided food for people that he knew were down on their luck. The gruff exterior concealed the heart that was caring and compassionate and generous. I don’t think anyone will ever know how many people he helped and touched.

Another thing about Darryl, he always had impeccably shiny shoes. Most of what he wore day to day were black Justin ropers. They shone like a military man’s shoes, and although he never served in the armed forces, his footwear could be mistaken for a career Marine officer’s shoes. He routinely shined those boots every night. EVERY night. There must have been fifty coats of parade gloss black Kiwi shoe polish on them.

After he got finished with the store proprietor business, he became a bailiff in the Harris County Family Law Center, 308th District Court. Every night on arriving home, he turned on the television, but not the news. Instead his viewing of choice was the Three Stooges. He said that he had seen enough bad news and sadness for the day, and he just wanted to laugh. He had a dry sense of humor, but also had an affinity for slapstick. As my beloved would get ready for a date, Darryl and I would watch Stooges videos, or old dumb monster movies or just reminisce about our favorite Tex Avery cartoon gags. He also related stories from the courthouse. The most enduring line he used was the ever-popular, “Button your shirt and button your lip…”

I will miss Fergie for many years, and I thank him for the 25 years of laughter, advice and relaxed good times I enjoyed in his company.

Update: I am still here

OK, so it's been a while since I posted anything. I know, you all (both) wonder where I have been hiding.

Last week, my Father-in-law passed away. I am working on a memorial posting for him. It's tough for me, but he's worth it.

Whether Report

Now that there’s a tropical weather system or two in the Gulf, the weather people on TV have come alive. Well, to clarify, one is in the Gulf, the other will peek its head in the door by the end of the weekend for a look around.

In July when all the rain was falling, the weather reporters started to look optimistic. But after limited flooding, minimal wind damage and all around simple soggy yards, they all looked like they were beat.

Then the heat came on and they sparked up a little bit again. “The temperatures are really climbing now, has summer finally arrived? Tune in at 10...” and “We’re in for a scorching weekend, will you survive?."

Some elderly folks had some real difficulties, no air conditioning, no refrigerator or sometimes no electricity at all. Someone usually steps in when they see dire need on the news to help these people. This action alone justifies the news reports.

But it doesn’t provide the excitement that they CRAVE. The heat index can only get you so giddy, even when you start spouting 106, 108 and even 110 degrees. A drought can be as exciting as watching paint dry and literally blow away. Where’s the promise of quick destruction?

But Tuesday, the Gulf yielded up the beginnings of a potential treasure; the seeds of a hurricane, The Tropical Wave. Because a Tropical Wave can turn into a Tropical Depression and a Tropical Depression turns into a Tropical Storm and a Tropical STORM can possibly turn into a Hurricane, and a Hurricane has the potential to be a Category 6 killer, wreaking untold devastation, death and destruction on humans and animals and property. No malice, no mercy. Cold. Unfeeling. Pure meteorologist gold.

To watch Dr. Neill Frank in a promo for tonight’s weather, it would be easy to get caught up in his fervor. The look in his eyes, his serious but thrilled expression, even the rhythm of his movements, it all looks like a dance performance. His near ecstatic notification of the possibilities no doubt leaves him lightheaded with the potential.

So prepare for wind, water and broadcast hyperbole, it looks like the hurricane season has arrived.

Year Two Begins

Just wondering if anyone noticed that on Monday, the first anniversary of my first blog entry passed without fanfare? No post, no comment, nothing.

But this particular post, right now, is the beginning of my second year of blogging. I hope this year will be as fun as the first one. There were some good posts, great comments and lots of fun.

Thank you to my loyal readers, though I can count you on one hand, I appreciate you all. Both of you, really!

HA!

Cheap Defined

OK, so you hear the word "geezer" and you immediately think "miser". That is not necessarily the correct assumption. Not even with me.

Though I am very, ah, frugal, I don't believe that I deserve the harsher term. My wife hates to go shopping with me, since I am the one that makes a face or rolls my eyes whenever something else gets submitted for purchase approval. I'm the fun-killer.

But I'm not the cheapest person I have heard tell of. I know a guy who went to New Jersey to visit relatives. He went into the bathroom and noticed the shower curtain rod had about 4 or 5 little strings draped over it, drying. When he asked his brother-in-law, the guy said with a straight face, "That's dental floss, you know you can re-use that stuff..."

Now that's cheap.

Please relate your tales of cheapness in the comments.
I'll post them in an update. Just to make myself feel better, really.

The New Aggie Dispatch

Well, on Friday I left off my freshly-turned-twenty, first born daughter in her new life as an Aggie. She worked hard, applied, got the student loan and everything.

I am proud of her.

I took Thursday off to help break camp in her room, where she has been for 11 years. It was tough for her to take it all apart without stopping to remember little things. She began to get misty along about three in the afternoon, as she got down to some of the final things to pack away. Some things stayed, some were destined for College Station but as the end neared, the emotions ran higher. I did my best to cheer, rationalize and otherwise console her, and on occasion, it did work. Sort of.

On Friday, we (my wife, youngest daughter, the Aggie-ette and her boyfriend and I) set out for College Station. The ride up there passed fairly quickly; I am used to “college” being at least four hours away, and we got to College Station in about half of that time. We arrived at the office for the apartment complex without incident, and she got her key and directions to her apartment. Our small caravan trailed over to the correct building and parked. The anticipation was high, at least for me and I’m sure for the new tenant.

I want to preface this next part by saying that since she was going to be moving in early, we all thought that she would be alone for a couple of weeks. And there was some trepidation on that point.

As she entered the apartment, she found a girl and guy asleep on the couch. The girl got up (fully clothed, thank GOD!) and welcomed my daughter and her boyfriend. My wife was hot on their heels, but couldn’t bring herself to enter at that point. She REALLY got nervous then.

The story is that roomie dearest had thrown a party the night before (celebrating her last night of total freedom, no doubt) and they had been cleaning up since early in the morning. Since we got there at about 2:30 p.m., they had apparently pooped out by then and had taken a short nap on the couch, which was made up like a bed with a sheet, blanket and a pillow.

As we began to move her stuff in, my daughter began to look more and more whipped, shocked and dismayed. She was tired and sad as it was, but the new twist was almost too much.

I have talked with her on the phone and texted her several times already since we left Friday night at about 10:30 p.m. She wants to come home and live her life exactly as it was before. But that opportunity has passed. She has worked too hard and too many things have been done in this direction to turn back now.

She knows that, and things will even out soon. The roommate is moving out August 10.

UPDATE
Roomie is reported to have been arrested for an outstanding traffic ticket; one of her "friends" bailed her out, how nice...besides, only 6 more days of occupation...

Wrap Artists

Yes, it seems there is a first time for everything. And last night was the first time in our family's history (and my history, too, as a matter of factoid) to have our yard decorated with toilet paper.

I text-messaged my daughters this morning, "Congratulations, unwrap the house before it rains, EVERYBODY!"

My oldest text-replied at 08:45:12 confirming that they cleaned up. I called to confirm that the action was complete, and she said it was, except for the uppermost tree branches. I asked her if she got the message with the fresh garbage bags I left on the living room floor. She said yes, that and the text message.

The twelve-year-old sent a text message back commenting on the quality of the job, or lack thereof. My impression was similar; it lacked the commitment and verve that a real wrap artist would have expressed. There were only four rolls utilized with rather unimaginative composition.

I suppose I'm lucky, what with having three daughters, one of which is on the way to Aggieland in a couple of weeks, to have only just now been hit by the TP banditos. And add to that, the uninspired execution of the deed, the cleanup was apparently easy on the girls.

That's plenty, now. We're fine, thanks. No more.

Fishing Report (sort of)

This morning at 06:15, I was on the water at my favorite fishing spot. The winds were calm, the sky was edging toward sunny and the water was clear. Clear-ish.

As I edged into the smooth water, I noticed a few turns of mullet, but still held out hope that the reds would begin to show up to my little party. The tide was coming in, but was still fairly shallow in the mud flats that I fish, on average calf-deep.

As I planned my attack, the bait shrimp were jumping and skipping ahead of me. The entire time I was casting to unseen quarry, my eyes were scanning for bird activity...nothing.

The mullet and other baitfish were moving, and as a matter of fact, there was more mullet action than a NASCAR reunion event. I think a herd of about 80 mullet of various sizes followed me all around the flats (well, followed just ahead of me). They took great pleasure in twitching and splashing, upsetting smaller baitfish along the margins of the grass.

I will even go so far as to say that it was a concerted effort to throw me off. A mullet conspiracy.

Oh, in spite of all the silly fish exploits, a lone, non-conformist greenhorn redfish took the offered soft plastic lure. From the second I set the hook, it was obvious that he was smallish, but he put up a valiant fight...the only proof I have of my encounter with this brave eighteen inch fish is the tooth marks he left on my thumb.

But as always, a bad day fishing is better than a good day working. No offense, San Jacinto College.

I'm on to their "Game"

Walmart in Alvin is undergoing a major “face-lift”. I prefer to call it a “wallet lift”. Oh sure, there are rumors that every five years, the stores must go through a makeover. That’s the cover story. I know what’s really going on.

The “upgrade” entails moving EVERYTHING from it’s original position to a completely DIFFERENT location in the store. The ploy here is to get you to walk all over the store to find what you need.

The evil scheme: which I repeat, I am on to, is to force you to browse and peruse every item on every shelf, thereby increasing the likelihood of your finding something ELSE you needed, but were unaware of until the moment you spot it. It’s either that or ask one of the worn-out looking employees, most of whom have only a slightly more of a clue than you do.

This evening, while checking out with only the things I came in for (allright, I did pick up two things that weren’t on the list, but I needed them anyhow), the nice checkout lady greeted me at the register.

Malissa: “Did you find everything OK?”

Me: “When? Tonight? In THIS store? No...but I’m quitting anyhow...”

She gave a nervous, knowing laugh.

She is in on the scheme, too.

Almost Newsworthy

The middle of the summer reminds me of when I was in the blue collar work force. Strike that; make it the NO collar work force.

I had taken a job as a rock mason in Wimberley with my cousin Mike. A rock mason is a person who wears cutoffs and rock dust, steel-toed boots with crew socks and a dirty gimme cap. They break rocks all day and get paid by the square footage of limestone that they turn into a wall. They only put on a shirt (usually a tee shirt; torn, dirty and smelly) when going inside convenience stores, people’s homes, weddings, that kind of thing.

We were working on a spec house in New Braunfels being built by a local contractor. There were four masons; my cousin Mike, John, Mark and myself, and our laborer, Kevin, Mike’s youngest brother. Each day for lunch, we chose an unlucky restaurant whose mission it was to attempt to conquer our hunger. The establishment was usually peopled with tourists and locals, unsuspecting innocents with no idea that they would be subjected to this group of honyocks. We weren’t boorish or overly annoying, but likely had a definite “bouquet” about us. The entire crew was uniformly dressed in cut off Levis, steel-toed boots and stiff rock-dust-and-salt-encrusted tee shirts. Our hands and unshaven faces were clean and brown, but the margin where the water stopped on our forearms and necks was delineated by the white rock dust and sweat rivulets.

This is all to paint a picture of the rather unsavory appearance that we portrayed individually and as a group. It is not clear how we could be mistaken for anything but a gaggle of construction workers, but that’s exactly what happened.

Church’s Chicken in New Braunfels had drawn the short straw that fine day. As we all stepped out of John’s Land Cruiser in a cloud of dust, we noticed a tour bus pulling into the parking lot. We also noticed a news van from a television station in San Antonio. On our approach to the door, a vision of beauty with russet hair rushed to greet us with a microphone in her hand and a dazzling smile on her perfect face. As she leaned on the handle of the glass door and swept through, looking right at us, each of us wondered why fortune was gracing the likes of us with such a dream. All of us looked at one another hoping not to be embarrassed by the rest of this band of goobers. Surely, we had inspired her to interview these diamonds in the rough. But truly, what could she REALLY want with US?

She bore down on us expectantly, staring straight at us. We even mimed the universal “Me?... Really, ME? US?” inquiries, yet there she came at us swiftly with a singular purpose, drawing a deep breath to utter the words to us that we all longed to hear, “Could you go back out and come back in again so we can videotape you...?”

“WHAT? HuH?...” was our unanimous reply.

“You’re the German exchange students...” and then she repeated the introduction in her musical voice, and while we were enraptured by the sound and vision of it all, we couldn’t help but wonder how we could be German exchange students, especially considering only 10 minutes before we were hosing the dust and concrete off of our hands. I, for one, half-wished I was German at that moment.

Within the next two seconds, a subsequent, equally lovely blonde woman with a clipboard and an irritated expression caught up to the first reporter and said, “Not these guys, THEM!”...pointing about thirty feet behind us to a group of approximately twenty teenagers speaking something besides Hill Country English. THEY were the exchange students, apparently.

As the glow of our brush with the media spotlight faded from our eyes, the two women and their camera guy charged past us to get to the REAL story. We couldn’t help feeling at least a little relief, intermingled with the pang of rejection.

That evening, on arrival back at the house, Mike instructed all televisions to be tuned to the particular station that made our lunch hour so interesting. Sure enough, there was the attractive reporter, relating the story of the German teenagers who made the pilgrimage from Braunfels, Germany to their sister city in Texas. And as the camera panned the interior of the Church’s dining room where the foreign teens milled with their chicken, there we were, the pride of the Central Texas rock mason society. There appeared to be a force field around us, because even in the lunch crowd press, nobody stood closer than about 43 inches from us.

That was the extent of my broadcast debut: a brief moment in the harsh glare of the lights and camera (at that time, the 10 pounds the camera adds were welcome). And it’s very forgiving for rock dust and sweat crust. But for that one transitory instant, when a beautiful (but dim) journalist mistook me for a story, the thrill and confusion made me dizzy and disoriented.

Today, looking back, I am glad that a life of ducking paparazzi was narrowly averted that day. I guess hindsight truly is 50/50...

Hindsight is 50/50

That's my new expression.

First, it's sort of true; something either would have worked out or it wouldn't have.

Second, it is a great joke exhibiting the "Norm Crosby" malaprop angle. If someone knows me, they know that I said it specifically. They get the joke. If they DON'T get the joke, then I follow up with, "...Looking back, maybe I should have said 20/20..." thus getting a little more joke mileage out of the line.

I think I'm pretty funny. At least new words are. Or, as Dudley Moore said as Arthur in the movie by the same name, "...sometimes i just think funny things!"

iPhone Love

I had the occasion to drop by the AT&T storefront here in Alvin this evening. It seems my wife’s phone finally succumbed to the material fatigue that mine did several months ago; it broke in half.

She called and asked if I could maybe go to the phone store and check availability of new handsets, and to see if they were going to give us any trouble.

As I entered the store, I asked the pair of workers if they would be open tomorrow, and if so, what-time-to-what-time. I glanced in the direction of the display by the door. It was a pair of Apple iPhones with a spiffy flat panel display above them touting the features and desirability of the new geegaws. I suppressed the urge to grab-and-dash in favor of getting some other business out of the way with the worker bees first. On completion of the task, I wandered forward like a zombie, my eyes trained on the sleek, utterly cool devices standing at attention.

I am not an early adopter by any stretch of the imagination. If I were, I could not claim the envious title of “geezer”. Nor would I pay $400 or $600 for a phone.

But to touch and explore the wonder that is an iPhone, I was transfixed by the beauty, speed and elegance of the interface and the gadget itself. The simplicity of the workings of the interface is pure Apple. The photo gallery was just like shuffling through small but perfect prints. You simply drag your finger across the screen and the thumbnail-sized prints accelerate then slow to a stop. You scroll like that till you get to the one you want, at which time you tap it to zoom in.

I emailed myself from the iPhone, too. Simple note-taking by tapping a miniature keyboard on the screen, even my hammy fingers made few mistakes. I pressed another “button” and the email application appeared instantly, accepted my email address, and then “whoosh-ed” it off to my gmail account.

The music interface was slick, too. You scroll just like the commercials show, with the same swipe of your finger as the list zooms by, then decelerates to a stop. It shows the album artwork at the same time.

If you’re interested or even curious as to why over 730,000 of these puppies were sold in the first 24 hours, then go by the store and pretend to be interested. 30 were sold in Alvin yesterday.

You don’t even have to be an Apple nut to love this thing. Don’t believe the media attention, pick it up in your own hot little mitt and experience it.

My experience will be limited to the sample table, however, at least until the price drops by $500!