Poll Cat

It is widely thought that I am a little strange. Not in a bad way, but in an amusing, friendly way. Let it never be said that I am not in touch with who I am.

Much has been made of the fact that the sense of smell is extremely powerful in its ability to evoke memory and emotion. That said, I hope you will read the entire piece before you dismiss me as completely nuts, especially in light of my next statement.

I am not averse to the occasional scent of skunk. You could even stretch it a little and say that I actually kind of like it. In small doses. Yeah, and now here I go, trying to justify my assertion.

When I was in fourth, fifth and sixth grades, our school building apparently attracted skunks when the weather would turn cool. They would get in under the building and either mark their territory a little bit, or get aggravated by the rats protecting their home. We would come to school in the morning, sometimes with a faint “bouquet d’Mustelidae” in the air. The school day would progress as usual, with no frantic calls to parents to evacuate because of a dangerous chemical release. Students and teachers alike would marinate all day in the perfume. There were no ill effects recorded. Olfactory fatigue was designed by our Creator for just such occasions.

Sometimes, a polecat would amble through the yard at our house, maybe startle and squirt a little, and then keep moving. One time my dad was forced to dispatch one with my .22 pellet gun, because it apparently got drunk and came in looking for trouble. I held the flashlight for the operation. We had a cat, and didn’t like the idea of her wearing eau de LePew for a week or more.

GranMommy’s house had her share of polecat visits as well. Most were only the passing odor of a shopper. But there was the implied excitement of the chance of Mike Barnett chasing it across the front yard with a broom. That only actually happened once, but the possibility of a repeat was always anticipated whenever we smelled that smell.

My cousin had a dog that would routinely challenge skunks, and would thus be banished for two weeks only to be able to return to the back porch pending a family review.

But overall, I suppose the scent of a skunk reminds me of the simpler times when it was possible for wildlife to interact with “civilized folks”, and when the worst thing that could happen was that you would forget some inconsequential factoid about Massachusetts on a Geography test.

So, true to the title, I am taking a poll. In the comments, please confess whether you are mortally offended by the smell of a skunk, or does it spark nostalgia. Those of you concerned with your credibility and “image” need not use your usual names…

If anyone else owns up, I’ll post an update.

Thanksgiving Play-by-Play

Sorry for the dearth of Thanksgiving posts at the height of the season. I didn’t want to have some half-baked standard post about Thanksgiving. I wanted to, ah, digest the whole experience.

Thursday dawned sometime at sunrise, and with it, the fevered preparation of “The Beans”. My wife always has “bean duty” at the major holidays. I am not sure if this was pre-determined or if she volunteers. But she does make some mean green beans. Usually more than fifteen people can reasonably eat, but she always thinks too much is still not quite enough.

There were three pies to bake; peach, cherry and pecan. No, not from scratch. But they still needed baking. There was also a ham that was to be heated and glazed. Sounds simple, and I can usually handle something like that. Usually. For some reason, I mis-read the timer and erroneously began the packaged glaze mix to boiling earlier than the instructions indicated. It worked up to a fine texture, but having started too soon, it rapidly took on the consistency of blown glass. Long brittle strings of it would trail from the spoon I was working it with, and before long it became a hard candy-like mass. It looked as though the only thing that was going to get glazed was the pan.

Finally, the ham reached the glazing point, and after a little bit of water and a frenzy of stirring, I broke loose a large percentage of the reconstituted glaze and drizzled it on the waiting spiral-cut ham.

After packing it all into the family hollowpoint bullet van, everyone was ready to go to the sister-in-law’s house for the family feast.

She had a gloriously baked turkey, signature sweet potatoes with gigantic-overflowing-toasty-melty marshmallows, macaroni casserole, and other enticing dishes all ready to be pounced upon by the waiting, drooling hordes. Well, I don’t know if anyone else was drooling, I certainly was. Her father-in-law and mother-in-law were there, along with her husband’s brother, his wife and daughter. Then my mother-in-law, my wife and trio of daughters. Then of course, the other residents of the house; Russell, her husband, the Aggie daughter and Junior-in-high-school son. I KNOW he was hungry. What seventeen year-old boy isn’t?

The meats, sides and salads were all excellent. As expected. The desserts were, as usual, a huge temptation. I was planning on stopping when I was satisfied, which I initially accomplished, to a certain extent. Then Russell’s dad goaded me into a contest involving lemon squares. We both won, just by playing, but since I ate more, I think I took Pops in the final count. Then the olives called me away from the inordinate amount of lemon-flavored sugar that I had just inhaled. I had scarcely recovered from that, when the pudding pie was unveiled. How could I let mere teenagers consume so elegant an offering?

I couldn’t.

Then the peach pie, after the “oh look, olives!” to battle the pudding pie. Ugh. I had been doing so well, and now I wished Walmart was open so I could go buy some BIG coveralls. Or elastic waistband sweatpants. Or a tarp.

I finally stopped somehow, and then the “girls” divided up the buffet for transport to other refrigerators. On one of the three trips to the van to load up the cargo bay, I realized that we were quite possibly bringing back more food than we brung.

UDATE: Swap Day

Swap Day was a resounding success. If you don't count my inablilty to convert fractions to decimals (Math) or my lack of singing prowess (GIRLS Choir). Language Arts was good. There were words involved, and I can use them with a fair amount of facility.

Athletics was the best, though. All the parents of the kids in athletics were in the gym, and after some perfunctory stretching the coaches announced that we were going to be playing "Doctor". After the puzzled looks of all the old-timers, they clarified...DODGEBALL! NOW you're talkin', Coach! Unfortunately, when the room got divided into teams, most of the guys were on the other side of the line. My side had three men and about 40 women.

When the whislte blew, I lumbered out to the center line to grab some ammunition, along with all the other members of the over 35 set. I was ready, though, the men on the "bad guys" team started whipping the projectiles like they were trying to impress Nolan Ryan. Mixed in with the balls fired from aging arms were the lobs that could easily bean you with a marshmallow "pouf". Didn't matter, you were just as out.

I did get to sting one of the fellow geezers from "across the center line", and I caught one of the younger dads' offering. However, after being out with one clean hit from an old guy, I got out again when I tried to catch a soft-lobbed fluff ball launched by an older woman. I bobbled it. Dang, the indignity.

Overall though, the Swap day was a good thing. All of my daughter's teachers recognized the Swedish last name and instantly knew whose Dad I was. Every one of them commented on what a good student and a nice person my little gal is, and she is a joy to have in class. I just hope her math skills aren't as abysmal as mine, nor her singing as mal-toned as my croaking!

Swap Day

Allright, Tuesday is "Swap Day" at Alvin Jr. High, and since I have a student there, and I'm off from work, I get to go to the school. And there are rumours of tests. And Choir. Heaven help us all.

And in return, my seventh grade daughter has written a post for the blog. Swap indeed.

Sick As A Dog
On a beautiful Friday afternoon I was supposed to be at school. Instead I was cooped up at home home with a fever and cough. Now, my idea of staying home sick is laying in your bed or on the living room couch, but it was different that day.

I had just awakened from a nap and I was kind of hungry, so I decided to make myself some Ramen noodles. I had made my noodles and settled myself with a blanket on our recliner, when suddenly I heard my dog make a funny noise, then slightly after I heard her start making a smacking noise, but I ignored it because when she does that, she's usually cleaning herself.

After I had finished my bowl of soup, I slowly stood up and started for the sink but I stopped in disgust to find that the smacking sound that my dog had been making was actually the sound of her eating her own puke! I frantically put my bowl in the sink, and while doing so, I was yelling at her to stop, although I knew she wouldn't, I still hollered and ran to grab my cell phone. Quickly dialing my mom's number, I tried to avoid looking at the yellowish oatmeal looking gag, splatted on the carpet, and I blurted out quickly to my mom what the dog had done.

My mom sat laughing at me, because every time I would look at the puke I gagged. I had been on the verge of throwing up myself, so the thought of cleaning it up just about sent me over the edge. So to try to avoid it for awhile I sent the dog outside, grabbed what seemed to be thirty paper towels and set them over the vomit.

A few hours later my older sister came home from school, and asked me why there were paper towels were lying on the ground, I told her the whole story and right after the story she went and let the dog in. Duchess pranced her fluffy little self into the house and as Katie and I started talking about how our day went, little Duchess went and cleaned up the rest of the mess up herself. Katie stood up and walked over to the spot where Duchess was, and picked up the paper towels and the remainder of the vomit, I threw up a little in my mouth and came to the conclusion that I would have rather gone to school that day!

Camp Coffee

I made coffee this afternoon, not because I like it, because I needed it. I went down the hall to the industrial coffee maker and was just getting ready to load up the basket with crushed coffee fruit, when one of my fellow employees happened in. She is a young little sprite, hardly bigger than a mayfly, and very quiet. True to my nature, I engaged her in a little playful banter.

I held up the coffee bin and asked her, “How many scoops do we put in here? Nine?” Her shocked expression was priceless, so I perpetuated the hoax, “I going to make strong camp coffee, you know, the kind you have to strain through your moustache to drink, you’ll need to grow one real quick if you want a cup!”

She sidled out as inconspicuously as she could; it’s a small room and she knew that I had seen her, since I spoke directly to her. “Ha ha…” was her wide-eyed, half-smiled reply.

I proceeded to make the coffee correctly, four scoops. Not the tar that one of the secretaries that retired recently used to make.

When the water finished running through the basket and the brew was complete, I poured some into my cup. I couldn’t help noticing the grounds immediately. They were floating where only coffee and sugar were supposed to be. In a furtive and embarrassed sneak, I stole a glance into the basket. There, I spied the problem; the filter had fainted down from the side and allowed the grounds to escape down the hole and into the waiting carafe.

So, I had unwittingly fulfilled my own “prophesy”. There was a full 12 cup pot of coffee that Gabby Hayes would be proud to serve the cowpunchers around the chuck wagon.

*NOTE*
This is NOT a picture of me. It's George "Gabby" Hayes, the crusty old camp cook from Roy Rogers movies.

I wear glasses.

Late For Work

I LIKE getting to work at least fifteen minutes before everything starts to spin up to speed. Back when it was just me, every day I was there a half hour early. But now that I take my daughter to school, I usually slide in at the last second, unless something goes wrong. Then my timetable is toast.

Nearly every day, it's one thing or another. One of the toughest jobs is to pry my daughter away from the flat iron to make her hair notoriously perfect in the morning. Not to mention how much explosive it takes prior to that just to roust her out of her overnight nest.

This morning was no different; we left the house after seven. Of course, the optimal time for leaving to get me to work a few minutes early is on or before 6:56 a.m. Almost never happens. Unless she has to go to tutoring or the early swim practice. Early swim practice commences at 0600. Tutoring at least by 0645. When she takes off for early class, I am free to get to work on time. It almost makes me giddy.

Today, being the garden variety c’mon-let’s-go-you’re-going-to-make-me-late-AGAIN-Daddy-leave-me
-alone-I’m-coming-are-you-ready-yet-we-gotta-go. The tensions eased a bit as we got on the road and looked at the beautiful fog and mist swirling along the fields and open spaces between the neighborhoods. The park beside the college looked like a watercolor.

All was well when, in a sudden blush of remembrance, she remembered that she left her orange wristband. Why was that a big deal? It was the “ticket” that allowed her to wear jeans this day and she was already dressed in denim. She got it for perfect attendance last week. It has her name on it and today’s date and everything.

Oh.

Right then, I resigned myself to going back home, retrieving the permit, bringing it back, and then slithering into the office a half-hour late.

All because I didn't happen to have a school uniform to fit her there in the car, shame on me for my lack of preparedness. The things we do for our kids. When I finally arrived with the wristband, my girl was contrite and thankful. That helped.

Thus is the lot of dads; you get the chicken necks and backs, burnt pancakes and the run-back-home-to-get-something task.

Second Hand Smoke

Autumn is full of smells and sounds that spark the memories of a geezer, and any one of them can come up and be gone in less time than it takes to describe the recollection.

This was exactly the case when that truck locked up its brakes stopping at Preston and the Beltway feeder the other morning. Sitting at the light, I was enveloped in the white smoke that came off his tires. A familiar, frightening smell. But I like it. But it scares me. Mostly. Partly.

Perhaps it's just coupled with the crescendo of the squall that indicates lost traction on dry pavement multiplied by eight giant tires. The fenders acted as megaphones projecting the sound forward to the intersection where I sat perpendicular to the direction of the truck.

The volume and particular frequency elicit a fear response that is likely hard-wired in people. Like the sound of a great beast bellowing its disapproval for some puny human activity such as breathing.

This particular truck was bearing down on the light that I was waiting for to turn green. He finally decided (thankfully) that he couldn’t make the stale yellow light. The inconsequential car in next lane was stopping too, but didn’t have the inertia of 100,000 pounds behind him.

I became aware of all the action when I heard the brakes first lock. Faint and then building to the panic-inducing volume quick enough to let you know that you could be in trouble. By the time I actually turned my head, the smoke was beginning to pour off of the tires and I watched as he slid for about fifty feet to a stop. JUST behind the line. As the smoke swirled past the cab, the other cars and eventually my vehicle, the driver wore an expression of mild boredom. Happens every day. For all I know, it may happen at every intersection with this driver.

The acrid smoke filled my car (I had been driving with the windows down to enjoy the cool fall air) and reminded me all at once of every dump truck and tanker in Texas City when I worked during the summers of my college years. Looking back, there were a LOT of trucks locking up their brakes in that town in the late 1970s! And while I cannot count or remember specific incidents, I do know that I relived them all in just a few moments.

So don’t ever let anyone tell you that second hand smoke can’t kill you. It all depends on what is smoking, I guess. A small shot of adrenaline is always better than a cup of coffee to wake you up at the start of the day.

WhataLunch

The first bite of a Whataburger is one of the unbeatable lunch sensations out there. Along with a big ol’ Dr Pepper, it is one of the simple pleasures that geezers have to savor and appreciate.

I experienced that today at lunch. The weather was very pleasant and I ate outside at the covered picnic table.

When I left the parking lot at the beginning of my lunch hour, I didn’t really know where I was going to end up. Nothing sounded good. You know how that goes. Then, somehow it came to me, “Go to Whataburger, it’s been a while…”. A fine idea.

The only down side to this trip was that the girl behind the counter sold me one of the “pun’kin” pies. It sounded good, and I heard the older voice-over fella in the ads in my head with his line about the “pun’kin pies…mmmmm, now there's that missin’ ‘m’ I was talkin’ about…”

So I ate my burger, as many fries as I could, and a big DP. I finished, mostly satisfied. Then, to my absolute horror, I happened a glance at the ticket taped to the outside of my bag. There, printed clearly “pumkin pie…¢99”. Dang it, there was nothing else in my bag. I was cheated out of a pun’kin pie.

You may have felt a “disturbance in the force”…probably sounded more like a stomach growl.

Thanks, Literate Readers

Well, it seems, after checking my SiteMeter, that yesterday was the hottest day in GeezerChronicles history. At least since I have had SiteMeter...

Thanks for reading. Heck, if this many people read, I don't much care if everybody comments or not. But that's not a license to "leave it to somebody else" to comment. Don't be a troll!

Also Spook Zarathustra

I saw it coming years ago. Halloween is a measured tightrope stretched between what we remember as fun and the risk of some sociopath killing us. There…I said it. Everybody else is thinking it, too.

The worst of it started in Deer Park in 1974 when that guy killed his son with cyanide in the giant pixie stix just to collect on the “giant” insurance policy he had taken out on him. Before then, we had heard of people putting razor blades in apples, but it was only urban legend cautionary tales to us. Up until that time it was a carefree night of safe (nearly), harmless (mostly) fun for kids (but not exclusively). We never used to have to tramp around with our parents riding drag, carrying four-cell flashlights and bottles of Gatorade.

Last night was the big night for all the children and would-been children. My youngest and her best friend decided to go as conjoined twins. Mine is blonde, slightly built, wears glasses, and her friend is brunette, slightly built, wears glasses. Mine wore dark slap sandals and the other twin wore white ones. Both sported gray capri sweats and they shared a single giant shirt that read “I’ve Got An Attitude”. Quite the creative solution. As a matter of fact, they got more comments last night than any other costume that we encountered in our foraging.

The other half of our little entourage consisted of my twin’s family; mother, father and year-old baby sister. The baby was in a tiny Dalmatian costume, and she was being pulled in her own custom wagon. She rode there about half of the time, the other half she was being carried by Dad, until the pain at the insertion of his bicep became unbearable. I know that pain well, as do any of the other dads who may be reading this. Sometimes it takes twenty minutes to be able to straighten your arm completely.

We waded through the tide of children dressed up like fairies and princesses and demons and storm troopers (Star Wars, not Nazi) and ninjas and werewolves and vampires and zombies and skeletons and Spiderman (men?),
regular and black, and pirates and witches and policewomen and firefighters and who-knows-what-else. As they all scrambled from one lighted and decorated porch to the next, phalanxes of parents inched their way down the streets and sidewalks clutching flashlights and younger children.

Of course, not all who were dressed up were in the pre-teen set. There were the ever-present adolescents dressed in slouchy cargo shorts and torn camo shirts stalking around looking for free treats. Of course, when they come to my house looking like that, I make them earn whatever treat they get. The doorbell rings, I open it, and slightly grinning teens simply shove their bags toward me. I just look at them, and finally ask, “What do you say…?”. “Uh, trickrtreet.” Very unconvincing. Then I make them say it with verve and pep, not like they are reading it off of a script in English class. When they comply, I give them candy.

We also encountered several “adults” who seemed to include Jack Daniels and Jim Beam in their Halloween entourage. One group of gypsies seemed pretty authentic, save for the bleached hair, cigarettes and Southeast Texas nasal twang. It appeared to me that there were some paper bags INSIDE their paper bags, if you know what I mean. They were older than me and I can only hope that they feel all right today.

The night ended fairly quickly, from my perspective. When I was little, we used to be out for HOURS, sometimes in good years, finding it necessary to make a stop at home to get a new Weingarten bag for more candy. And popcorn balls, caramel apples, oranges and yes, even raisins in the little boxes. Last night, I overheard one of the little spooks snort derisively, “Don’t go to THAT house, they’re trying to give away RAISINS!”. Greedy little candy elitists.

As we rolled toward home, I asked my co-dad what he thought Halloween would be like in twelve years, when his youngest is in junior high, like our twins are now. He replied, “She’ll probably be pulling ME in the wagon…”

Heck, I would’ve accepted a ride right then.

The Headless Horseman of Copperas Cove

The chilling wind blew straight through the cracks in the door and flimsy walls of the tiny cabin in the mountains. The four children huddled inside were waiting for the eldest to come in from his expedition. Fear gripped them, because they had heard someone gallop by, again and again.

OK, it wasn’t a cabin, it was a travel trailer. And it wasn’t cold, it was a warm summer night in Central Texas. But there were four of us waiting for my oldest cousin to come back in from the house. Only one was afraid, though. And this is his story.

We were visiting our cousins in Copperas Cove, a small community a short distance from Fort Hood in the heart of Texas. My uncle was a major in the U.S. Army, and they lived in the suburbs. The back yard held their travel trailer, in which we kids hung out to escape the adults. Mike, Shaun and Kevin, along with their then baby sister were the ones that were in and out of Germany over the course of several years. We were the homebodies from good ol’ Texas City. They usually came down to the coast, but something precluded the trek; perhaps their inherent disgust of Texas City water or the brutal humidity. Or possibly it was just that we all needed a change of venue. I don’t know. I was only about eleven or twelve. My sister is nearly three years older than I, Shaun, a year older than her and Mike was two years older than anyone. Kevin would have been eight or so at the time, and while I didn’t mind so much his being there (it kept ME from being the youngest), his brothers quickly became weary of his constant questions and remarks.

Mike had gone into the house to procure some of the Tunnel of Fudge cake that my mother had baked for this reunion. It was her signature baked good. And boy, was it good! Chocolate cake with a melty, gooey core of fudge running through the center of each slice, since it was baked in a bundt pan.

The other four of us waited in the trailer, listening to Shaun’s stories of their adventures in Germany. It was getting late, and as the stories waned, Kevin’s observations seemed to increase. We had the lights out, to preserve the mysterious and semi-private air of our adult-free zone. Shaun began drumming his fingers impatiently on the pillowcase on the front bed. Kevin was on the top bunk, and he became aware of the rhythmic drumming. He asked what it was. Shaun’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, and he said, with great drama, “It’s the Headless Horseman”.

That silenced the flow of inquiry and comment from the top bunk. Shaun varied the volume and speed of the “hoofbeats”, softening them to simulate the passing of a great steed. After a time, he would begin again, very softly. “Do you hear that?” “Yeah, I think it’s him...”, all the while, building quickly and to an astonishing volume (for fingers thumping on a pillow). Then they would slow and stop. Right next to the trailer. Shaun’s low voice intoned urgent instructions for the young boy to remain still and perfectly quiet. It worked. Like a spell.

As Kevin lay there petrified and barely breathing, my sister and I stifled laughter till we thought we would explode. I am not sure how we didn’t give away the prank, since the process went on for probably fifteen minutes.

At the height of suspense, Mike appeared at the door, ripping it open with a thunderous “RAAAAAARR!”. To underscore the effect, he had a mouthful of Tunnel of Fudge cake, blotting out most of his teeth, leaving only the impression of fangs or broken, scary daggers.

Immediately following Michael’s bellow, Kevin shrieked, then dove out of the top bunk and grabbed Mike by the neck and clung to him for dear life. “MIKE, YOU SCARED ME!” the normally fearless lad growled at his brother. Mike, on the receiving end of such an outburst, was bewildered and a little shocked himself.

Meanwhile, Shaun, my sister and I were blowing gales of pent up laughter, intoxicated by the serendipity of the cake-mouthed punchline to the headless horseman’s patrol outside.

YaY! Wordy Guy IV

You know the rules by now, they're simple: Guess which is the real definition, don't cheat, answer in the comments. A baby could do it.
"keet",


A) A rich dessert made of molasses or brown sugar sprinkled with a crumbly mixture of flour, sugar and butter.


B) A young guinea fowl.


C) Tiny fish found mainly in the Black Sea, often used as bait fish.


If you're in our office, please guess to yourself until at least a COUPLE of others have tried...you can brag later if you get it right. And that's a big IF.

The players expressed a range of fear, confidence and integrity...they are all correct, it's B, a young guinea fowl, which I have no problem with. When they get older, they are the most obnoxious, annoying and just plain wrong-looking of domestic fowl.

Thanks for playing, and there's more where this came from.

Eat at the Naked Rib

This last Friday, my youngest and I were the only ones in the family in close proximity to one another, and it was time to eat. She didn’t want Mexican food, I didn’t want Taco Bell (notice that they’re NOT the same thing) or Whataburger. We drove through downtown Alvin suggesting and dismissing, sometimes in unison (ex. Jack-In-the-Box). I turned on Highway 6 and we passed over several other establishments. The farther we got down 6, as anyone who has ever been there will know, the slimmer the possibilities became. We sailed through Manvel and I was just about to give up on what we wanted and settle for just not going to bed hungry. Give in to McDonald’s? Never.

It came to me in a flash, being so far out highway 6, that the Naked Rib was just down the road, only a couple of miles from 288. I offered the possibility to my passenger knowing that novelty and proximity would likely win her over.

It did. We rolled into the caliche parking lot with only a Manvel Police car and a couple of trucks, which were parked farther from the door. That indicated to me that they belonged to employees.

I was not put off by the lack of cars in the lot, Friday night is a funny night in restaurant terms, especially in towns that have a high stake in high school athletics. And this was right in the middle of game-time. We pretty much had the place to ourselves, except for the police officer and a female friend of his.

I walked in slowly, trying to take in the ambience of the place: the walls were screened, with the (thankfully) cool night air circulating with the help of ceiling fans and a large floor fan. There were many different icons, crafts and interesting items on the walls and ceiling, most of them having to do with pigs.

As we approached the counter, a friendly face, later introduced as Liz, greeted us from the door of the kitchen. We “Howdy-ed” in return and I asked what the procedure was, since there were numerous signs and a large blackboard filled with interesting and certainly delicious offerings. There was a dizzying plethora of choices. One sign in particular attracted my attention, and I inquired, “What IS a Brisket Pie?” Liz gladly recited the cast of characters; Fritos, chopped brisket, sour cream, cheese and a drink, all for only $6.50. At first I must admit, I didn’t know how to react. As I stood and ruminated on the ramifications of such a combination, my daughter chose the meat plate with two sides. The idea of a Frito pie with smoked brisket instead of chili began to intrigue me, and so I figured, “what the heck, I’ll be an adventurer”, and placed my order.

When we got our food and sat down, neither of us were disappointed. The brisket was perfect; tender, hickory smoky and delicious. Cole slaw and fried okra were her sides. The sauce was more tangy than sweet, which is a contrast to Joe’s, a welcome departure. My Brisket Pie was a delight, crunchy and smoky, a study in contrasts of flavor and texture. The coolness of the sour cream was a very refreshing addition.

After consuming my “pie”, I went up and talked to Liz for a bit about what I liked about the joint. She explained that the name “the Naked Rib” derived from the fact that the ribs were so good you could eat them naked…after which she paused, and added, “that means you can eat them without any sauce”. I was relieved to hear that. Up until that explanation, I wondered if that was why the police were there. “Uh, remind me NOT to order ribs when there are cop cars in the parking lot!”.

She also told me that she made the sauce from her Dad’s recipe, five gallons at a time, twice a week. More of her story was about how her Dad would collect and try as many different barbeque sauce recipes as he could. Wherever they were in the country, up North, out West, in South America or apparently many other places, he would educate the locals on the finer points of barbeque. And now, the smell of the sauce reminds her of him every time, too, and that’s right in line with the GeezerChron, as you well know. Liz proceeded to show me around a little: the giant Oyler Barbecue Pit, the Houston Chronicle restaurant review, and a little history of the Naked Rib, opened October 25, 2003.

I also got a bit of inside information, they have a special rub made up that they put on the ribs before they smoke them, and that the brisket goes in raw with no additional seasonings. The hickory works the magic on the meat. She said that when she goes home, she smells of hickory smoke. That’s not a bad scent to wear, and she didn’t seem to be complaining.

As we left, I promised myself that I would return and try the ribs sometime, fully clothed, or maybe just wearing a poncho made from napkins.

NOW it feels like October

Low humidity, cooler temps, a little mist in the ditches and on any bodies of water. This is what we've all been waiting for.

And as a photographer, my favorite time of the day is between 5:46 p.m. and 6:37 p.m. That's when the light takes on the gold tones that are so complimentary to peoples' faces and hair. Heck, even I'd look good in a photo at that time. A photo would be preferable to being in person, mostly because a photo doesn't make dumb jokes and bad, reaching puns.

Wordy Guy III

OK kids, you know the rules...let the play begin. Tomorrow 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.

“mendicant”

A. Ineffective

B. A beggar

C. Characterized by deception or dishonesty

RESULTS

So am I to believe that all three of you chose correctly without "research"? WELL, it's true, at least the part about choosing correctly. Congratulations to you smart people.

Salute To Travis Waldrep, 18

Travis is an austute and perceptive young man, possessing wisdom far beyond the mere 18 years his birth certificate indicates.

This story will prove it.

Roy and I had a contract to shoot a motorcycle gang one Saturday, and Travis went along to help. Now, it isn’t QUITE what it sounds like; we snagged a gig taking pictures of about 150 baby boomers and their motorcycles. Yeah, yeah, ANYHOW, as we were driving up to the “gang’s headquarters”, Roy and I proceeded into our usual banter, trying hard NOT to be funny, but it’s something we just can’t help.

Travis noted, totally unprompted, that “63% of what you guys say is funny…”. Now, coming from a teenager, that is pretty high praise, and the unusually high percentage he gave us (which is somewhat lower than OUR estimates of 76%) indicates a firm grasp of the English language and the clever subtleties and refined nuance that a couple of masters can inflict upon the spoken word. And we can write it even better.

So here’s to one of the 14 teenagers that I can stand for more than 3 minutes at a time: Travis Jamison Waldrep, Congratulations!

Night of the Six Foot Hot Dog

The weather is cooling off and we’re heading into what we all hope is autumn. It reminds me of the night of the six foot hot dog.

In our first year of marriage, we decided to move out of an apartment and move into a “cute” little rent house. It was very small. It also lacked air conditioning and adequate heat. It even lacked insulation. Of any kind. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter. October and November weren’t so bad, until what passes for winter around here decided to set in.

When the nights got cold, we broke out the dual control queen size electric blanket. What a wonderful device. Especially considering there were two different styles of sleeping in one bed.

We would huddle around the gas space heater in the living room until it was just about time to hit the hay. While I was brushing my teeth, I would go turn my side of the blanket on to about five or six, depending on the relative temperature. When the time came to bury ourselves under the covers, my side was toasty warm, and I turned the control down to a comfy two or three. My wife’s side was nothing. So she would turn the dial up to 10 and the little indicator light would throb in the dark, trying to warm the blanket and my spouse all at once.

One night, as we lay sleeping, I became aware of my shoulder starting to draw up and getting tighter. As I came more conscious, the sensation of uncomfortable heat became nearly unbearable. When I became fully awake, I noticed that from the middle of my head all the way down to my feet, half of the electric blanket was rolled neatly in a tube, and the control was still apparently pulsating on 10. The heat was cooking my back, and I am not sure if the heat was causing my muscles to spasm, or if the electromagnetic field generated by the blanket was interrupting my neural impulses. Whichever it was, I was very uncomfortable with all the twitching and sweating.

As I extracted myself from the giant bratwurst cooker, I stole a glance at my bride, sleeping quietly and contentedly with naught but a sheet and quilt on her, free of the throbbing mantle of heat. It looked as if she had rolled the electric blanket up neatly and placed it alongside me.

I thought new brides were supposed to derive pleasure from cooking
FOR their new husband.

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.