Crystal City Carrots

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bluebird

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

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

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

One Night in a Thousand

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

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

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

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

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

The night was absolutely still.

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

Not.

A.

Sound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really, What WAS I Thinking?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HydroPhobia: Part the Second

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HydroPhobia, Part the First

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Wordy Guy VI ANSWER!

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

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

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

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

Sneak

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OK, where is it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“aaAAHHH! OH—MY—GOSH!”

Busted.

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

We shall see.

Wordy Guy VI

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

Salubrious

A. Displaying characteristics of being drunk


B. Promoting health or well-being


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

OK, Bragging Rights are up for grabs.

Camp Coffee Revisited

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantastic Day

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

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

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

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

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

Martha’s Birthday

It has been a whole year since I informed all of you about Martha’s birthday. Well, this morning marks another one. She deserves every gift she gets.

Except the first one I gave her this morning. It was a heart attack. Or at least the beginnings of one. I presented her with a REAL gift as soon as her pulse rate got back into the normal range.

This in no way gives her a pass for all the torture she put me through in church or other “quiet zone” activities through the years.

I spoke with my Dad this morning, and told him, “Happy Birthday to Your Daughter!” He laughed and said he was thinking about it yesterday. “It seems like just last month,” he said.

“I got to the hospital just as they were coming off the elevator and I just cried. The nurse asked what was wrong, and I told them, ‘That’s my baby’”.

Happy Birthday, Martha!

The Mournful Cry of a Chair

The waiting room at the doctor’s office is a great place to troll for Geezer stories, especially if you are waiting with a twelve year-old.

A week or so back, this was my situation. The room was filling fairly rapidly with feverish, miserable, coughing, hacking and generally sad-looking people. Pretty much what you would expect in the middle of February.

As we sat hopeful to hear my little patient’s name, a little round couple rolled in. He immediately came down our side of the corral as his wife checked in. When finished, she waddled down our aisle and took the only seat available; the one right next to my inquisitive child.

To preface what happened next, I will explain the construction of the chairs that are in stock at the office. They have a laminated wood frame, circa 1993 wearing a thin vinyl skin with a thin foam rubber pad under that. The chair frame itself is very sturdy. They definitely need to be, after watching many of the patients.

The lady passed by (like a stock trailer) and parked in front of her chosen perch. As she sat down, the requisite “poof” was escalated to a larger, more desperate “POOF”, followed by the normal sound of the air held by the foam escaping through the holes in the stitching. But this was a little more urgent, especially considering the load that was dropped on it.

Instead of the “pouf-sssssssss” that normally emanates from one of these utilitarian furniture items, the resulting sound was more of a “POPFF–WHEEEEEEEEEEZZZZE”. This mournful, distressed sound caught everyone by surprise. Not the least of which was my transparent, easily amused daughter.

She had cast a sidelong glance at me to see if I would react to the size of the lady walking past before the “seating incident” occurred, so she was still turned to me when the explosion and subsequent upholstery scream went up from the cushion. At the moment, or very next moment, her face turned full up to the side of my head, and I could see with my peripheral vision that this girl’s eyes were the size of silver dollars, and her face was in the process of detonating into a full fledged Church Laugh. I instantly tried to steel myself to avoid an outburst of my own.

I am usually very good at suppressing the atmospheric pressure that builds up when a sudden outbreak of laughter is not in the best interest of decorum. Many Sundays of practice while seated next to my sister in church have carried me to my present “true gentleman” status.

But my kid looking up at me with her mouth clamped shut and her lips quivering and her nostrils flaring in silent suppressed howling laughter was like tossing a road flare into a gasoline spill. She is a quick thinker though; she pretended to show some cute and/or funny picture on her phone. I made a show like I thought it funny as well, and then broke out MY phone and reciprocated.

During this tense, hilarious exchange, the man across the room with the too-tight coach’s shorts, polo shirt and a camo gimme cap crowning a gray mullet was eyeballing us silently, regarding us as a sleepy pit bull looks at the children playing at the end of the block.

The most redeeming aspect of the whole incident was that the lady that sat down so heavily and caused the whole commotion was also giggling insanely at what she had wrought. Her husband smiled quietly to himself, as if to say, “Better you than me, dearest.”

Sunday Zzzermon

This Sunday, my middle daughter and I visited the Methodist church in Alvin. We got there a little late, and since the service had already started, we were a bit self-conscious. I suggested that we steal away up to the balcony to keep from being the target of pious eyes.

On arrival at the balcony, we saw that there were no other residents in the whole area. I was fine with it, but my offspring was mortified and would not come to sit in the pew. She convinced me to come back to earth and we slunk in the main sanctuary at the “meet and greet your neighbors” time. A seasoned usher directed us to the back row on the left, apparently he knew that we were from the Baptist church, and thus being quite comfortable on the back row.

As we sat there with the service commencing, I noticed the people around us, or should I say the scarcity thereof. As I took stock of our geographical location, I perceived that though we sat on the last pew, there was a row of chairs set up behind us. On that row, there was a quiet young man, and he seemed pleasant enough. But as the course of the ceremony progressed to the prayer and reading of the scripture, I noticed that the young man’s breathing was very audible.

In a very few minutes, the rhythm of his respiration became deeper, and had a distinct flutter in the soft palate. The longer the prayer went on, more time was afforded for the sound to build. It also carried to at least a row ahead of us. I was beginning to think that perhaps the seating arrangement was not accidental. Perhaps the regulars had measured over time the distance required to keep their focus. There was about a ten-foot diameter “buffer zone” around our friend.

The “children’s time” and the beginning of the pastoral teaching were very interesting to me, but the glottal resonance of the back row snorer began to command more and more if my attention. He would occasionally wake up, and resume his normal respiration. But a short time would elapse until the sonorous concert would resume with a bit more gusto. Then he began to talk in his sleep.

“Mhfl-fl-fa-fl”...Repeat.

As distracted as I was by the snoring, the sleep talking was almost too much. There are gaps in my memory of the sermon, but I won’t soon forget the sleeping beauty behind us last Sunday.

Weather AlertSchool Closings

It has become evident by the reports from the National Weather Service, local newsreaders and smokers just in from lunch at the District Office that the extreme amount of sunshine and mild, mid-fifties temperatures are going to cause problems in keeping the college open.

Due to these severe weather-related conditions, it is advised that everyone from students to staff and especially administration at San Jacinto College should stay apprised of the situation by remaining glued to the television set in lieu of attending class, just to see if their campus is affected.

“Gaah, the sun is so, like BRIGHT, I could hardly drive to the Chik-Fil-A without squinting my eyes completely shut…” said one staffer.

Students are jamming the phone lines asking if classes will be cancelled today. The Executive Council is monitoring the situation and will make an announcement when the conditions warrant action.

While the weather is indeed extremely well-lit and temperate, many of the affected populations agree that no one should be expected to have to attend work or school under such extreme circumstances.

It has become apparent that the window for weather conditions has become even more narrow before the students call and ask to be relieved of class duties.

Happy New Year!

Yes, it’s that time again, New Years Day! The one we just finished is obviously not the subject of this post. That would be silly. When have I ever been silly? Nope, the Chinese New Year looms ahead of us with the promise of great prosperity and luck, marked by the celebrations of a LOT of people the world over.

Normally, the Chinese New Year wouldn’t concern me too much, but since I teach art classes at the Chinese School in Clear Lake on Saturdays, the New Year celebration means there will be no school on Saturday. So this holiday means something to me because it means something to my students. I decided to find out a little bit about the Chinese New Year.

This year is 4706 and it starts on February 7, and is denoted “Year of the Rat”…hmm, I know quite a few people who must have been born in this year… In actuality though, a number of famous and influential people were born in the “Year of the Rat” including Gwyneth Paltrow, Ben Affleck, Samuel L. Jackson, William Shakespeare, and Mozart. The attributes of the rat that supposedly show up in people born in the Year of the Rat are that they are quick-witted, smart, charming and persuasive. However, I don’t know of many rats that would welcome the association with the likes of Ben Affleck. But when you’re a rat, it’s hard to make your opinions heard, no matter how insulted you get. They just don’t get much respect. Now, I am sure public opinion about the rat will diminish even more despite the favorable press it gets with this holiday.

The Chinese New Year is apparently one of those floating holidays based on some ancient and inconvenient calendar that Americans are too lazy to follow. Like the most significant holidays observed the world over; Passover, Easter, Thanksgiving and Spring Break, the dates are governed by intricate ciphering and star/moon/planet gazing to determine where it falls on the Gregorian calendar. Last year, the Chinese New Year fell on February 18; next year, we celebrate on January 26. That could cause a good bit of confusion without access to the internet or an astute Chinese scholar.

All of this cultural talk and year-of-the-so-and-so has engendered a measure of curiosity on my part in reference to where I come down in this Chinese horoscope field of study. Every year has a characteristic associated therewith, and persons born in each year bear a resemblance or share characteristics with the year’s namesake. What trait do I share with my birth year, 1959? I delved into the vast collective cyber-brain to extract my untapped Chinese heritage and thanks to the venerable, all-knowing internet, I discovered that I was born in the year of the Fried Pie.

I never took much stock in horoscopes, but this seems to be pretty accurate.

Wordy Guy V

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

Orison
1. A small constellation near the larger Orion constellation

2. Prayer

3. Proper Latin name for an insect native to Australia, commonly called the Prickly Walking Stick

I'll post the answer on Monday.


**UPDATE***
OK, so it's Monday, and although the two early commentors raised the level of optimism I allowed myself, the voting/guessing is closed with BOTH entries with the correct definition.

"Cactus" is our bragging rights winner for this round of Wordy Guy, and I hope next time, more of you will actually venture a guess.

You're killing me, you know that, don't you?

The Scarf and The Tattoo

These days it is rare to see a woman protect her coiffure with a scarf. In the sixties, women commonly put fashionable scarves over their hairdos to keep the wind from negatively intervening in their appearance. I remember my mother had a number of decorative scarves; silky ones with patterns, nylon ones with simple polka dots, and filmy colored ones that looked like colored smoke.

I hadn’t thought of this in years, but this morning at Taco Bell in my preparations for Chinese School, the little bent lady put a scarf on her head before she headed outside.

Her scarf reminded me of the time when my dad was in charge of the Cub Scout banquet and awards ceremony.

An average sized man, my dad was an ex-Marine, had a wiry, athletic build and a haircut that bordered on a crew cut. This was when I was in second grade, so that would make me seven-ish. I am not sure where the plan came from, but it was decided that he would wear an American Indian costume. This consisted of his brown work jeans, a vest fashioned from a chamois skin, and a headband. With or without a feather, no one can remember that part. The reason for the lapse of memory on that minor point was the major point on his arm. There was the matter of the tattoo of the eagle with a banner in its beak bearing “TEXAS” and “USMC” above and below the regal bird. This was superimposed over a three and a half inch star. He was not particularly proud of the tattoo, but also felt that the effect of a Native American wearing a Texas star and eagle on his bicep would not appear authentic.

I suppose the thought to wrap a scarf around his upper arm came from old western movies where waves of the red man (in truth mostly Mexicans and Italians) ran to their cinematic deaths in the face of heroic Caucasians firing Model 94’s from behind wagon wheels. Those guys had scarves and bandanas and wampum all over the place.

The effect of the scarf really did add quite a bit to the overall look of the costume, but the filmy red one let the blue of the tattoo show a little too well. So they covered it with a yellow one. The proud eagle could still be seen through the colored smoke. A blue one, an orange one, a green one finally did the trick. Of course, it would look lop-sided not to have at least one or two on the other arm. But they didn't carry the same urgency, and thus were not as critically regarded. The most colorful Swedish Apache was ready for the banquet.

As he stood up there in front of all the Cubs and their parents, I was proud of my dad who was no longer a machinist from Monsanto Chemical Company; he was the tough, wild, wearing-a-chamois-vest-with-no-shirt warrior, passing on the honors to the young adventurers in the ancient light of fluorescent tubes in an elementary school cafeteria, back in the historic days of 1967.

And I tell you, the effect of the colorful cloth strips around his arms made him look downright brave.

Adios Cinder

Adios, Mi Amiga

Well, in our office, the double-edged sword of luck has made its return pass. Two and a half years ago, good fortune smiled on us and Our Cindy got here as a web writer. We were privileged to acquire such a clever, intelligent and dynamic addition to our team. Now she is leaving. Dang it.

Cindy had reluctantly ascended to the bullseye that is the Director of Publications. An impossible job with impossible demands and no real authority to get things the way they are supposed to work. She has done as well as anyone could do in that position. And all the while, we still like her. THAT’s an accomplishment.

Cindy is mischief incarnate. She can’t be trusted in situations where decorum and conventional wisdom dictate straight faces. Ever-ready to instant message me with a comment that makes me either nearly spew my water/coffee in the direction of my monitor or suppress a laugh until it makes me koff-out-loud, the infamous KOL. I even snorted once. Once. JUST ONCE! pretty much.

With impeccable taste in music and great trivia and pun skills, CinderGonz will likely liven up her new place of employment before she takes over and makes them all Cindy converts who would never trade her for anything.

Here, we will be sad, and although she doesn’t take up hardly any space physically, she fills the office with amusement, a quick smile and contagious laugh.

Oh yeah, and she’s a good writer, too. I guess that’s how she escaped.

We will sorely miss you, Cindy, but stay tuned for bulletins and updates as they occur. We could never replace you, because if we tried, you just wouldn’t come back!

What the HECK?

I fear I am revealing too much of myself to you, my “readers”. I hope the high esteem you hold me in does not suffer from the revelation of more of my peculiarities. Let’s see, you already know that I (sort of) like the smell of skunk, I eat Jack in the Box tacos, and I feed my daughter at Taco Bell, no matter how impaired her food handling skills.

I now reveal yet another unexpected bit of information; I like Circus Peanuts. Nothing like a real peanut, the only thing that the Circus Peanut has in common with a real peanut is the overall shape and the pattern of slight indentations on the surface. The bright fluorescent orange color is pretty far from an actual peanut. They are a little on the large size in the realm of peanuts, and the taste has no resemblance to peanuts here on earth.

The overall experience of eating even one or two of these freaks of candydom comes together in a remembrance of a simpler time before serving sizes and nutrition information on packages. The thing that I like about them is the compression that I get when I put tooth to peanut. It’s like you’re getting something accomplished.

I got a package the other day at CVS when I paid for a prescription and got my big winner CVS reward of a dollar. The peanuts caught my eye on my way out and at 99¢ fit nicely into the budget of the coupon.

When I got to the car, I tore into the bag to experience the age-old sensation of the first bite. It had been a long time, days really, since I had acquired a bag of them, so the payoff did not disappoint.

I realize that the provided photo looks a lot like something from a CSI show. One can see the clean shear on the peanut (along with the semi-flattened pattern) showing that it was a little al dente. But that didn’t stop me. They’re usually pretty soft, and that’s good, too. I don’t think there is any way to mess up the experience of something so messed up to begin with, there are only subtle shadings of guilty pleasure. And it’s not like I could eat these things more than once or twice a year (yes, the above reference was a joke). It’s just that sometimes, the thought or memory of something so weird catches your eye.

You hate me now, don’t you?

OMG, Funny stuff

OK, I have this Sitemeter that I can log on to and see where the visitors come from, what url referred them and if there was a Google search or whatever led them to the venerable GeezerChron.

SOooOOoo, awhile back, you may remember that I reviewed a quaint little BBQ joint by the name of The Naked Rib in Manvel. I have been getting a lot of hits on that particular archive from October, and they are coming from all parts of the country, continent, and even Europe! I am truly international, it seems. The only thing is, Sitemeter shows the duration of the visit, and a great number of them (usually not from around here) come for less than a second.

Then it dawned on me; Mr. Google picks up words that are Googled, and apparently, my title seems to show up in, ah, unSEEMLY searches. When the clicker sees that my review is for food and there is a coy little pink pig on a welcome mat, they go someplace else.

This cracks me up. I am thinking of slyly naming some of my other posts to frustrate the obviously already frustrated web sufers out there across this sick, nasty globe of ours.

The Washing Machine post comes up about the same amount, indicating to me that there must be a lot of dirty people out there!

It's fun to get our fun in funny ways!

What Was I Thinking

This afternoon, my wife called me. She asked if I had any money. That’s never a good sign. Especially when my answer was, “Seven dollars”. I knew the context of the conversation was going to be centered around dinner.

Apparently, she had done some preliminary work, because my spouse noted that for seven dollars, I could acquire 14 tacos at Jack in the Box. This I knew because the name of my youngest was invoked followed by the information that she was ready for the aforementioned delicacy.
Great. I am not a huge fan of the Box; in 30 weeks of Chinese school, I only resorted to J-n-the-B twice. So to receive the mission to actually go there to procure eats was somewhat disappointing. But the thought of the Jack in the Box Taco began to intrigue me.

This I must admit; though repulsive to look at, that wallet of leathery corn tortilla and greasy meat plus who-knows-what carries a certain allure.

I remember my first Jack in the Box taco. We were on the way home from our neighbor’s little league game and for reasons I still don’t understand, we stopped in at the Box for a quick dinner/snack. I remember standing in the store, at the corner of Palmer and 21st street. The cold fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and the paper-hatted staff leaping to our order like a cheery little army. The taste of the taco was so different, as was the entire experience. I wasn’t the taco connoisseur then that I am today, but that was a singular event in my development.

I got to the Alvin restaurant this evening and ordered the fourteen tacos. The vapid staff oozed over to the taco station and fulfilled my order. Shuffling to the front, the girl limply put the two bags on the counter. I counted the order and found that she had satisfied it correctly. I congratulated her for her excellent work, and I got a smile in return. That shocked me. I wasn’t aware that anyone in that establishment knew how.

On my return to the car, I plopped the bags in the floorboard of the passenger side, well aware of the grease content of the cargo. Surely, had the bags of tacos sat on the seat the entire ten-minute trip home, I would have smelled the entrée for several days. However, the aroma that filled the car on the way home was intoxicating. I could barely control my salivary glands. They threatened to drown me. Waves of taco scent washed over me as I struggled to control the vehicle on the way back to my starving family.

On arriving home, the banquet was poured out on the kitchen counter. One of the tacos slipped the bonds of its paper envelope and I pounced on it like a duck on a junebug. I didn’t even get a plate. A napkin sufficed as I tore into the treat. I crouched at the corner of the coffee table and informed the girls that the tacos were here.

I ate five of them and by the time the dust and tortilla shards had settled, I could have eaten five more. As good as they taste though, I find they lack substance. I can’t identify one or more of the internal workings of these creatures either, but I maintain that there is a secret ingredient that makes the eater want more. And more. Yes, and more.

My hope is that you, gentle reader, have not altered your opinion of me, knowing the weakness I have for something as far from a real taco as one can get. I mean, a food reviewer with my credentials (weight, mainly) can’t eschew certain cuisine just because of where it came from. Please forgive me my apparent lapse.

It could be Secret Sauce. You think?

Vindication and The Grace Period

YaY ME!

I was driving along, minding my own business this lovely overcast evening, on my second trip to The Discount Warehouse Hangar, when a police cruiser behind me lit up his lights. I was just about to pull into the parking lot anyhow, and so I went ahead and drove in and snagged an open space. The police car was close in behind me, and he turned on his spotlight to make the inside of my little car like high noon. I remembered a police sergeant friend of mine telling me that the best way to avoid getting shot, beat up or tazered is to sit still and wait for the officer to ASK for license and proof of insurance; don’t immediately dive for the glove box or grab for your wallet. Just wait until they can see every move you are making. Especially at night. Everyone feels better about the situation.

So, officer Green nonchalantly strolled up and asked for my license, since my proof of liability card was in the visor. He had his 4 cell light handy and casually checked my stickers. He did a double, threeple, fourple-take and said, “Did you just get this?”

“Yeah, December 30...” grinning. I was beginning to feel pretty sly at this point.

“Hmm, well, the computer says that you’re expired. I guess you’re not in the system yet. If you get stopped again, that’ll be why,” he said, grinning.

Before I could stop it, the triumphant “HAH!” escaped my foolishly grinning mug. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had put the tazer up my nose. But he must be a generous soul, and I thank him for that.

Just for your information, the Grace Period is over. Get your tags and inspections up to date.

Dining Hints For the Casted

If you decide to eat at Taco Bell, be sure you can bend both elbows sufficiently. For some menu items, this is not an issue. But if you are twelve years old (right arm in a cast) and can't hold a Crunchwrap Supreme with both hands, get something smaller.

My daughter was lunching with me today, and she is a sad reminder that you need full mobility and/or hands the size of a catcher's mitt to wrestle one of these into submission. It was akin to watching a dog chase its tail; an exercise in frustration. Except in the dog's case, nacho cheese and sour cream don't get everywhere.

So unless you have help, a plate and a lot of time, choose carefully!

Cold Start to 2008

Yes, this morning was the coldest of this entire winter, which started yesterday. The newspeople were clamoring about the lows being bitterly cool, as opposed to the normal "tepid" for this time of year on the Texas Gulf Coast.

There were, however, reports of just barely sub-freezing temps all up and down the coast and inland, mainly. There was even a report of 17 degrees at the windshield factory in Conroe.

In Alvin this morning there was no ice in sight, save for the frost-ish sheen on the roof of my car. But the dawn was really beautiful, before it turned gray. Glad I was up.

Christmas Dinners

Ah, the uber-traditional spread at Christmas; turkey and dressing, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, mashed potatoes, various and sundry salads, and maybe some ham thrown in for good measure. Like the Whos in Whoville, the roast beast is the centerpiece of the vision of the proper Christmas dinner.

Well, if you know anything about the bunch I run with, you'll catch on that it isn't quite what we ate this most recent holiday celebration(s). It's not that we eschew the "normal" reveries on holidays, it's just that we aren't necessarily bound to the traditional fare.

At my parents' house, our Christmas Eve celebration was crowned with the preparation of the Christmas Flounder. Four of them, to be precise. One was slathered with basil pesto, while the others were adorned more simply in lemon and inordinant amounts of real butter. My sister had hauled in two of the four on her first fishing trip in a number of years (I'll tell you the approximate number later). There was some of the traditional food available as well, lest you think we are total barbarians. Cole slaw and mash taters and green bean casserole (with french fried onions from Joe's BBQ crushed on top), fruit salad and the like.

We also didn't sit down as one and pass the beans pass the slaw pass the punch pass the cheesecake. Comestibles were in the kitchen/dining room and everbody milled past and grabbed what they wanted of homemade pickles, homemade salsa, stuffed celery, olives, pickled okra and other goodies. For afters, there was a cheesecake, cherry dump cake, various cookies and stuffed dates. If I have forgotten any aspects of the spread, the originators must forgive my memory lapse. I blame it on the deliciosity of the food.

Christmas Day Lunch was at my sister-in-law's house, for yet chapter two of a not-quite-what-you'd-expect celebratory feast. There were reprises of some of what had been offered (and well-recieved) dishes from the Thanksgiving menu (traditional); home-grown macaroni and cheese, "good potatoes", cole slaw and peach and apple pies, fantasy fudge and cookies . That is about where the similarities ended. Uncle Russell was presiding over two pits; one with hot doggies, regular and plump-when-you-cook-em's, the other bore large, juicy cheeseburgers. When the meats came off the grills, we rushed inside, blessed the food and dug in like a pack of dingoes. My choice was a double-meat cheeseburger, with buttercrunch lettuce, tomato and ketchup. I don't know what everybody else piled on their plates, nor do I care. Everyone ate heartily and if you looked from the chin up, amazingly, everybody appeared to be eating what the rest of the country was eating, namely Christmas turkey and dressing.

We all ate too much and enjoyed the food and company just as much as any of the more time-honored dishes that one would think. Both unconventional feasts were a success by any standard.

Closer to the expected dinner, Wedesday when my Aunt and Uncle came in from Wimberley, was the smoked turkey that my Dad prepared. The main difference was that the meal was buffet serve yourself style. Bread for turkey sandwiches and the rest as the night before, if you want to eat, eat, where you want to perch, go ahead. Again, there were plenty of choices to consume, with some college students there to clean up the leftover food, just in case.

As traditionalists at the holiday season, we really stink. Sure, we wrap presents and hang lights on our multi-year trees, but when it comes to food, a mercurial and unpredictable bunch we are. It's not like we go to McDonald's for a couple of family packs of chicken nuggets. We're just very flexible with regard to holiday ceremonial dinners.

And that's the way I like it. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everybody!

INTERESTING-ISH FACT
I have gotten several visits by people googling "Christmas Flounder">. Please click the link to see where this allegedly comes from. Apparently North Carolina is a hotbed of Yuletide Floundering, historically.

Having Been Tagged...

...By a certain Wollf-type person, I feel the compulsion to comply with the outrageous instruction to pass this along.

So here is (are) my response(s) to the request to play along. I will be tagging a new dad and photographer over at The Photosmith to see if he has any time to go out on a limb. I just wonder if he has learned to type on his MacBook with a baby in his arms at 3:39 a.m. CST...

1. Wrapping or gift bags?
I can wrap. I can bag. I have no aversion/attraction to either. I am a manly man and I can do anything. Even if the box is too big for a whole roll of paper. As of Thursday, I know this for a fact.

2. Real Tree or artificial?
Artist-ficial tree. We had real trees forever, but found out that a full 60% of the household is allergic. This reminds me of the time I climbed a local cedar tree to "get my own tree from the wild". What I got was a sparse, allergen-filled monstrosity and a nasty case of poison sumac on my wrists...funny now, but not then!

3. When do you put up your Christmas tree?
We used to have to wait until the middle gal's birthday on Dec. 6 was over, THEN put it up. The last couple of years, we do it at various times, somewhere at the beginning of December. Whenever the temperature drops below 70°, hopefully, so the trek up the attic stairs does not strain a "bustle".

4. When do you take your tree down?
Take the tree down by New Year's Day. Going back to work on 2 January sorta kills the Christmas spirit, and I want to put it away.

5. Do you like eggnog?
I like eggnog, but not the kind with alcohol in it. Not a drinker. But the half-gallon of thick, sweet spicy cream is SO good. Only now, being a solidly established geezer, I find it hard to shell out $4 for such a small amount of anything. Dang me.

6. What was your favorite Christmas gift?
Favorite gift was likely the M-16 replica that blasted caps (if loaded properly). A fine replica; it had heft and working parts. Heck, I probably could have robbed a liquor store with it, the look was so authentic. Another favorite was the plaster bramah bull coin bank. I called it Wooly Bully.

7. Do you have a nativity scene?
We had a nativity scene, but the rats ate it. It was an antique, and belonged to my wife's family for years. Stupit rats!

8. Worst Christmas gift you ever received?
This category is still up for grabs. I have never recieved anthing that was horribly inappropriate or just so cheap I wanted to crush it to powder. There is always room for something really bad.

9. Mail or e-mail Christmas cards?
Uh, we're really bad about sending out cards or written correspondence of any form. When they DO get sent out, they're real, by golly.

10. Favorite Christmas movie?
"A Christmas Story". That is one funny movie, "You'll shoot your eye out, kid!"

11. When do you start shopping for Christmas?
After the December paycheck, after the middle daughter's birthday. And after the Chinese School pays up.

12. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas?
Tough one, at 250+, there is not much that I don't like to eat at any time. Top things at Christmastime are; fudge, gingerbread, my mother-in-law's chocolate pie, any kind of cheesecake my sister makes (hers can send me into a coma, and they're always big!)

13. Clear lights or colored on the tree?
Colored. 6 strings on a 7 foot tree.

14. Favorite Christmas song?
Silent Night can give me chills when done right.

Christmas Draws Near...

I was in WallyWorld this evening, and the feelings of panic and holiday tension are nearly palpable. Let me say that I was at the mall yesterday during the day and didn’t get the same feeling. There were a lot of people, but the impression of dread was at such a low frequency, it was nearly inaudible.

But tonight at the discount hangar, the feeling was there. I passed scores of people with stunned, half-lidded stares, trudging along behind their shopping carts. I felt it in my knees as I did the same thing.

Occasionally I would blink my stinging eyes, only to hear a sound akin to frying bacon as my corneas rebelled against the fluorescent lighting that floods the entire barn. The low-level hum generated by the fixtures works on a deep psycho-emotional level. I think if the studies were made public, people would be shocked to the extent that the Bentonville Giant is manipulating our minds in their quest for world domination. I would like to see the facts.

I saw several people that we know, so I felt nearly human, interacting with other humans. It was, in a strange, new millennial way, the essence of the Christmas season. Connecting with people we haven’t seen in a long time, meeting in a crowded place with music playing, it is almost like a party. Except that everyone is expected to buy something from the host, and refreshments are not served, but sold as well. And you’d better not eat them while in attendance.

And those cursed lights glaring down with those cold, pulsing beams.

Just In Case...

Yeah, just in case any of you fair readers want to know, or care, I am in need of a new iMac for Christmas. No, the other one ain't broke, it's just that I need a little more horsepower.

I am in the Apple Store at Baybrook Mall, and I am putting a sticky note on the one I want. So if you are feeling generous this holiday season, come in and look for the yellow slip of paper on the biggest iMac.

Thanks!

Wood Smoke

I went across the street to see my neighbor a while ago, and he was getting ready to smoke some sort of meat. He and his wife were tending the fire, and during our conversation, the smoke enveloped us. I was standing in the sun and the cool wind was blowing. It reminded me of camping many years ago.

Later, my daughter (broken elbow) made a trip to my parents' house for some sewing work that needed to be done on a choir dress. Not mine.

My jacket smelled of smoke, and I asked my Dad to smell it, and then I asked him to smell it and tell me what it reminded him of. He gave the correct response: it smelled like camping at Lake Sam Rayburn, more specifically, Ebeneezer Park.

That was the place where we used to go in the late fall and winter to camp, when we had the campground nearly all to ourselves. The giant pine trees would drop enormous pine cones, which we would gather and bring home to GranMommy for her stash.

It's funny how the nose leads you down memory lane so quickly!

How Not To Break Your Arm

...Continued from Wednesday...

With the washer back in the active roster, I closed out the ticket on what I thought was to go on record as a successful, productive day. That was before I welcomed my 12-year-old home. She came in with her right arm at a strange angle and saying something about having her elbow hurt in choir. It seems that she was in class and the teacher had the girls all lay on the floor to demonstrate how much better that position makes the voice project. As my daughter was lying down, her arm was put in an awkward position. Her elbow popped so loud, she said it echoed in the choir room. Everyone turned around, shocked, and asked if she was all right. She lied and said she was fine. As the rest of the day progressed past choir, the last class, her arm got stiffer and stiffer. By the time she got home, she was in quite a bit of pain and her right hand was going numb and cold. Not a good sign.

I had some frozen lasagna in the oven, and it was nearly done, so I called the pediatrician’s office and asked what they thought. The nurse asked if her fingers were pink and I said “no”. That was when she uttered the dreaded words, “You’d better take her to the emergency room”.

There was lasagna heating, the sixteen-year-old was not quite home from swim practice, and my wife was not quite home from work. I called her and told her what was going on and she was understandably in shock at the news.

The lasagna was just about ready, I called the swimmer and she was nearly home, so we waited a couple of minutes to go. Then, off to the Alvin Urgent Care Center.

When we arrived, nobody was at the front desk, there was a lady with a fever filling in the check-in form; hopefully she hadn’t added some of her germs to the stack of paper...I used my own pen. I gave the form to the girl who popped up from nowhere and we advanced to the waiting room. We only sat there for a couple of minutes when we were called back, mainly because one of the nurses didn’t like the color that my daughter’s fingers were displaying. Sort of a blue tint, and they were cold as ice. We were hustled straight into triage where another nurse hammered all of our information in on a computer terminal. Cool and efficient, she made some quick assessments and took us to our own little room.

We waited for about half an hour until the doctor on duty came in and asked her what happened to her arm. This was the fifth of about twenty run-throughs of the story that she would tell that night. He listened patiently and I asked if perhaps it was dislocated. He said that it was possible and did a cursory examination, trying to bend her arm and pushing and squeezing her elbow, all the while she tried to be strong, but I could tell that it hurt.

After the doctor left, we remained in our cell for a short time until the sprightly x-ray technician came in for our trek down the hall and into radiology. Not being a super-modern facility with the film-free digital x-ray (multi-million dollar) machines, the smell of Dektol permeated and nearly-but-not-quite defeated the smell of “stale hospital”. As the technician place the wee lass’ arm in the proper position for the x-ray, it was clear that it wasn’t the proper position for her arm. She silently bore the pain, but big tears fell from her eyes and on to her dress code khaki pants. The tech tried to explain why she had to move her arm in such a way, but the wounded joint didn’t quite understand. I know that it’s his job to place injured and sick people in optimal attitude for radiographic examination, but my little girl was in a pretty good amount of pain. All I could do was reassure her that it was going to be just a minute or so before it would be done.

The two exposures done, we were able to return to our waiting room. The doctor on duty came in shortly and said that there didn’t appear to be a dislocation or a fracture, so he was going to send us to Clear Lake Regional for another doctor’s opinion, along with the possibility that if it actually was dislocated, they could sedate her before they started in on it. Oh joy. Immediately, the patient began to look around nervously like a cat in the car.

My wife arrived from work but could only stay a little while, and she had to go home and see to our other offspring. That in addition to the fact that sometimes our little trooper troops better with Dad; Mom’s presence makes her want to try for a dose of some sympathy and some extra, “this hurts really bad...”. She did, however get to experience the new nurse, Vivian. She was a whiskey tenor with a friendly and chatty demeanor. She came in and hammered on the computer terminal for a little bit, getting more nuance out of the same information we had given an hour or more before, and administering a couple of doses of acetaminophen with codeine for the pain.

In a few minutes, a male nurse came in, asked what happened to her arm (number nine by now) and said that he was going to start an IV so that when we got to the hospital, it would be easier to give medications if necessary. He was very friendly, reassuring and gentle in starting the catheter IV line, and my gal was being a real trooper. They told us that they would be transporting her by ambulance, to which I gasped and dollar signs flashed in front of my eyes. I asked if it would be possible for me to drive her over there (as I should have done in the first place), to which they replied that it would be best, since she would bypass the teeming hordes in the waiting room. I acquiesced, and I called my wife and told her what was happening and added that it would likely cut our wait time.

So the EMTs came in and helped her onto their high-tech gurney. They strapped her on and wheeled her to the door. I headed to the exit to meet them at the ambulance. My girl looked so small tied down to the hardware like that, her right arm still stiff and her left arm wearing an IV terminal. I kissed her on the head and told her that she could ask them all the questions she wanted to. That seemed to cheer her up a little. The driver told me that I should go ahead; she guaranteed that she would catch up with me. She sure did.

On arrival at the hospital, I found the Emergency Room Patients Parking Only lot, and then to the only open space. By the time I parked, Speed Racer, EMT had already pulled the gurney out of the ambulance bearing my little dependant. As I trotted up, she indicated that the ride was fun and that she had talked the whole time. They wheeled her into the ER and as they did, I heard them comment on the volume of people in the waiting room. Good call by the Alvin doctor, I guess, because we went straight to our stall and waited. Thus began our three-hour stay in limbo. We were introduced to our nurse for the evening, a nice blonde woman who didn’t seem to be paying complete attention to our words at any time. She asked what happened to my offspring (number twelve) without actually hearing the explanation. It seemed the words she spoke to us were from a carefully crafted and memorized script. The reason I suspect it was memorized is that I couldn’t see any teleprompters in the cube.

There was a small dry erase board with the words carefully and neatly written; “welcome to Clear Lake Regional Medical Center –Your Nurse is: Charge Nurse is: . So who are they? I don’t know. I never found out. Our charge nurse could have been Clara Barton and we missed her because they didn’t bother to write it down.

As we sat and killed three hours, occasionally we heard the disembodied voice come over the loudspeaker and call out for “Dr. Anthill”...did we hear that right? Could they have said, “Dr. ANTHILL”? We half-expected to see an aardvark amble through wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope. We snickered about this every time over the next three hours. I also drew a "girraffifly" on the dry erase board and we watched “Little People in a Big World”. A couple of times, the nameless nurse came in for some reason or another, and we always anticipated her reaction when she gazed up at the dry erase board with the whimsical creature. She never even looked. We were both disappointed, but I guess it wasn’t in the stage directions for her to “glance at dry erase board”. I also happened to overhear a couple of EMTs comment on the size of the crowd in the waiting room.

Finally “Dr. Anthill” came in, and after the poor girl recounted the story yet again, he explained that he saw nothing on the x-ray. After a quick review of the case, during which at no time did he even touch or examine the arm, he proceeded to splint the ailing wing. He wrapped it and told us that the nurse would be coming in shortly to administer some pain medication through the IV that had been started hours ago in Alvin. So we waited. About fifteen minutes later, Nurse No-Name hurried by and read from her script, “I’ll be back in two seconds to give you your pain meds...”

We got to watch the rest of “Little People in a Big World”, I had no idea that this was even a real show. Finally the nurse came in and administered two milligrams of morphine. Apparently the time warp we were in was coming back to reality. We got processed in the ER, then were led out the door to be reprocessed at the Discharge window. This is where they extracted the $100 for the privilege of being ignored and told what we already knew. The one benefit was that Dr. ANTHILL (actually, no “h”) gave us advice on how to get in to the best orthopedic doctors’ offices the next day.

The entire time we were checking out, the patient, though still in some pain, was talking and singing and humming. I suggested to her on several occasions to settle down and let the morphine bring on the rest she needed. The complete trip home was filled with statements and questions that required answers from me. Not the standard yes or no answers. These required thought and speculation, getting to the heart of some ancient or hypothetical situation. I didn’t have the strength. I finally told her to contemplate how tired she really was; hadn’t she gotten up early this morning and how exhausting it had been to be on the hospital bed for so long?

When we arrived home at nearly midnight, she was hungry; we hadn’t eaten the lasagna before we had left, and all I had eaten since breakfast were four Satsuma tangerines. Before I faded out completely, she indicated that she really wanted to go to school the next day. I managed to croak out the explanation that we had to go to the orthopedic guy quick so as not to drag out the suspense any longer than necessary. She finally settled down and went to bed at about 12:30 a.m., maintaining her wish to attend school on the morrow.

She didn’t wake up till 10 the next day.

EPILOGUE:
We went to Dr. Boone on Tuesday, and he indicated that he didn’t see a fracture, but would treat it as one since, “It’s better to treat a sprain like a fracture than to treat a fracture like a sprain...”. We go back next Tuesday for a follow-up and a fresh x-ray to see if she needs a full cast.

Find It and Listen

OK, you know that I don't blog during the day too much, but I just heard a song that I think many of my readers would appreciate. It is by Greg Brown, an Iowa-raised baritone who is a wordsmith par excellence.

The song is "Canned Goods", it is a live version and it is great. It's a song describing how, in the winter, he is eating canned goods that his granmother put up in the summer, and how she canned the thunderstorms with the peaches and whipoorwill's call. That kind of imagery. Beautiful.

Such a good song.

Find it. Listen.

What Was Left OUT of the Last Post

And that wasn't all. My youngest daughter tried (maybe successfully, we're not certain yet) to break her right elbow.

The long sordid story is forthcoming. Or fifthcoming, depending on when I get it all typed in. I was going to include it on the "Washing Machine" post, but I had over 1200 words and not a one about the elbow. This story alone will likely reach well over 650 words, to adequately capture the ER experience. Twice.

So the story is taking shape now.

How to Repair a Washing Machine

Sunday evening, I didn’t know how to fix my washing machine, much less that I was going to have to fix it. The operation is very simple. The time it took for the actual repair was approximately 20 minutes, including the test. Every good repairman tests his repairs before proclaiming victory. The cost, as well, was minimal. The drain hose (culprit) was only $23 and change, American. The right front tire was only $28; £13.716 British Pounds Sterling.

The notification of the need for these things is rarely at a convenient time, but this one coincided with the Sunday Night Curse. You know, when you need to get some quality sleep before the workweek begins, it is nearly impossible. One of the kids gets sick, your shoulders knot up, your legs get twitchy, you develop a cough or your spouse snores loud all night. Not that I have experienced the last one, I have heard of things like that. From other people.

I was on the threshold of a beautiful sleep, my body relaxing into slumber, when the hall light flicked on, the door to the bedroom opens and my wife’s usually melodious and song-like voice transformed into an exhausted snarl, “There’s water pouring out from under the washing machine.”

Adios to Dreamland. I stumbled out of bed, clawed for my glasses and “dashed” in a controlled fall through the living room into the kitchen. My first vision was a battle line of extremely wet towels and other clothes extending a third of the way across the floor stretching from the laundry room toward my unsteady feet. My wife was looking from me to the floor to the washing machine, standing atop a mound of soaked towels and shirts and socks. As I drew near to the breach in the levee, I heard the unmistakable sound of a babbling brook. Which is much less soothing than you would expect, especially since it was inside my castle. There were no finches and wrens singing in the trees.

Still shaking what would have been blissful sleep from my head, I tried to make sense of the situation. I leaned on the twenty-year-old Kenmore and tried to determine the most likely and easiest way to staunch the flow. I finally snapped to the fact that it was actually off, and the water was draining out on its own. I reached around to the back where the drain hose is attached, and noticed that it was wet there, which was a good sign for me; it could be a simple fix.

As I became fully awake, due in part to the cold water I was standing in, the thought that the ten-gallon wet/dry shop vac might be able to benefit us at that moment. I sloshed out and grabbed it, dragged it nearby and commenced to vacuum out the flood. First I lowered the nozzle into the tub to take care of the headwaters. I then turned my full attention to the shoreline. This was fairly uneventful, just time consuming. The angle was funny (“funny”, “OW”, not funny, “Ha ha”) and my back sort of wanted to spasm. Mainly because of having to drag out a shop vac full of water and Pomeranian hair. When I took it outside to dump it, I noticed we had enough hair to make a whole ‘nother dog. Nice. As the TV struck eleven, I trudged off to bed, leaving a wet pile of clothes on the laundry room. It would stay until tomorrow, I was sure.

Monday dawned warm and muggy, and after I took my sixteen-year-old to school, I went dutifully off to work with the Kenmore on my mind. I stayed until just past the Staph meeting, printed out an important phase of a big, fire-breathing project, and got out at nearly eleven o’clock. I arrived at home, changed clothes and launched into the cleanup that precedes the repair.

While there are typically a large number of clothes in the laundry room, when that same number of articles of clothing are wet, the weight becomes quite different. If everybody wore white t-shirts and khaki work pants we wouldn’t have a problem. And of course, with a dryer, you’re always behind, with the lag time between the washer cycle and the dryer being at least thirty minutes. You would need a dryer the size of a cement truck’s mixer to keep pace.

The clothes all moved, I wrestled the washer out of its usual place. Being a narrow nook more than a room, the 34 inch-wide laundry closet is not ideal for a machine that is 26 inches wide to maneuver around. When I completed my Dancing With the Kenmore moves, I marveled at the ten years worth of guk under the machine. There was dust, lint balls, 137 bobby pins, broken and unbroken coat hangers, a wrapping paper tube, Armor All wipes, Gain detergent bottles, Gain laundry sheets, gum wrappers and quite a few other unidentifiable objects, all in various stages of sopping wet. At that point, I got to slide behind the washer that was pulled out and angled to the side, with just enough clearance for me to get back there, but not much room to maneuver in a crouch. For anyone who hasn’t ever seen me, just imagine a grizzly bear trying to get in and turn around in a 55-gallon drum. Tight fit, to say the least. And if getting into a crouch was comical enough, the inverse was pitiful to be sure.

The space cleaned and dried completely, I turned to the task of finding and eliminating the leak. That was simple; I touched the drain tube, and water came out of the side. I squeezed the clip and pulled it out. Couldn’t be easier. I measured it and then called the Sears Parts Center. Found out the part would be around $22 (American) and decided to jet down to Dickinson to pick it up. No Problem.

Until I got on the road. I noticed the steering wheel twitching like a toad on a hot plate. The farther down the road I got, the worse it became. When I stopped at the Sears store, I checked my tires. Sure enough, there was a huge bump on the right front tire. I limped back to Alvin and straight to Lozano’s Tire for a cheapo tire to get me through. When the workman removed the wheel, I could see the steel belt beginning to fray and slow-motion explode out of the tread. A few more miles and it would have been a blowout of epic proportions.

On arrival back at my home, I quickly replaced the drain hose and repositioned the appliance. I made the test, and proclaimed victory to the dog, and she rejoiced with me in my handyman-ness.

When I started the first load of clothes, the sound of the water reverberated in the newly cleaned and emptied laundry cubby, and made a little panic feeling rise in my liver. I checked about four times, and satisfied that it had been successfully repaired, I closed out the ticket.

Oh, What a Day...

This is a "trailer" of sorts; there is coming a very long, convoluted post about fixing washing machines and a couple of other things you won't want to miss. Check back tomorrow and you won't (may not) be disappointed. I already have about 600 words and i'm only half finished.

Things just kept happening on Sunday/Monday. But it will make for an epic post that only a humorless accountant-type would find "not amusing". No offense to you humorless accountant-types.

So please tune in tomorrow (Wednesday if you're reading this "tomorrow") and I hope you will enjoy the show.

Birthday Notice

Yes, believe it or not, it has been 17 years since we were blessed with my second daughter. Looking at the old pictures, it doesn't seem so long. But when I sit and think about the amount of time that has gone by, my knees hurt.

She's a great swimmer, water polo animal, witty and pretty. Full of funny one-liners and smarty-pants remarks (where'd she get THAT?) you have to be close by to hear them, but they're hilarious.

Happy Birthday, Katie!

New Animal, Part II

I am sure all my regular reader remembers my "girraffifly" (Lepidoptra giraffenseii) commonly known as the Texas Longneck Jeezerfly. A fine specimen that I made up all by myself, named by the readers of this blog.

Now it is time to introduce an all-new species that my middle daughter discovered. In her fear of arachnids, she is ever-vigilant for new manifestations of spider, and so her watchful eye spotted a fleeting glance at one of these: a Pronghorn Tarantalope.

What you see is a sort of police-sketch-artist-rendition, based on her description. Study this well, and see if you observe any in your area. I am going to study the habitat, range, diet and IQ of this creature, if any.

Please report sightings and behavioral observations in the comments.

*WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE*
Be the first to comment with the right answer (except NancyV) and be internationally recognized! I can say that because of my friend in London and the hit that I received from Japan this morning.

**UPDATE**
Well, our fiend, Invigilator Tex is the grand winner because of his speedy and correct answer of "nine legs". Congratulations on your quick eyes and wit to match. The world bows at your feet.

Of course, the conventional wisdom is that since this specimen is apparently of the arachnid family that nine legs is a surplus of limbs. My contention is that if eight is good, then nine is great. And being from Texas, it only makes sense that the extra leg (or legs, we're not sure if this one was injured or not) would ensure a perfect fit for being in Texas. Just a theory, but as my father-in-law used to say, "I may not always be right, but I'm NEVER wrong."

Mr. Wollf; this animal was not spotted recently, it's just now that I got the "police sketch" up. The report came in several weeks ago.