oK, Only a Week

This is me in shock. I have seen the future and it is only six days away! Is that strange to everyone else, too? Even though the usual run-up to Christmas starts earlier and earlier, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas seems to be compressed this year. Maybe it's me, maybe it's global warming, but I just don't think there's been as much time intervening as there used to be.



Of course, the hustle and muscle of the season has taken somewhat of a toll on nearly everyone in my age-ish bracket...geezers, mainly.



Yes, I KNOW the expression is "hustle and bustle", but it doesn't take "bustle" to drag a 120 pound artificial tree from the attic, does it? And you don't strain a "bustle" in your back and get a cramp in your leg "bustle" trying to man-handle all the ornaments, lights and other accoutrements from their vacation land. No, sir.



But, time is fleeting, I know that. It's just that it seems to get fleet-er from year to year. Or month to month, depending on your lease.

24 More Days...

Ah, December First, only 24 more days till Christmas. To a seven year-old, the preceeding 341 days must have seemed like an eternity. I know, because I have been there.



But I'm here now, and it seems like only a couple of weeks ago we took down the (artificial) tree and stowed it and all similar seasonal kitch and knick knacks in their 11 month resting place.

Stand by, I feel another story coming on...wait, it was a sneeze...never mind.

Turkeys Galore

OK, so Thanksgiving is over, and all the turkeys are consumed until Christmas. Or one would think.



My parents have a deep freeze and an apparent compulsion to collect turkeys. I don't know where they all come from; I thought that most of the free turkey offers went the way of $1.50-a-gallon gasoline.



For several years, my wife has been asking my mother what the count was for frozen birds in their freezer, and every time the answer came back, "None of your business." Somehow, we would eventually find out, at least a general count for the small army of large poultry residing in the frozen turkey mine. Sometimes we'd weasel it out of my sister, who could occasionally spy on the cache, sometimes my mother might let a hint slip in conversation, as in, "Then the fifth one was free..." or "...we didn't have any room for number eight, y'all want some carrots?"



This year, I don't know if her guard was down or she was just weary of the game, but we actually found the total value of the stash. Visible in the photo are eight of the remaining nine turkeys, after the one that was cooked on Thursday. And one was deployed to my sister's house. The mystery solved, we can finally rest.



For this year.

Turkey Schmurkey

Of all the Thanksgivings and all the turkeys that I have consumed, there are three of the days that stand out in my mind, and only one of them involves a real (formerly) live cooked turkey.

The first one that is burned into my memory wasn’t at home and the target of our palates was barely qualified as a turkey. My parents had chosen to go camping in East Texas somewhere. My mother had carefully chosen the menu for the Thanksgiving feast; items that could be easily prepared in the “kitchen” of our 18 foot Mobile Scout travel trailer. There were no sweet potatoes with marshmallows and green bean casserole; the oven was the size of a Stetson hatbox and the burners were only the size of postage stamps. I don’t even remember the side dishes; they were obviously simple and most likely canned. The “bird” was a roll of processed turkey meat commonly referred to as a turkey loaf. It was smaller than a football and resided in an aluminum coffin. This we ate under the canopy of hardwood and pine trees, with the cool fall air surrounding the Mobile Scout. Thus ends the remembrance of the actual meal.

So why is this such a memorable Thanksgiving? Why did the meal only rate a paragraph? Well, ‘cause it wasn’t the meal that made it Thanksgiving. It was roaming around the campsite, poking the fire, and enjoying the clear air, chopping or sawing on firewood. My Dad sitting listening to the Aggies play the Longhorns. So it was the whole experience.

The next one was the traditional Thanksgiving, and though uneventful and wholly non-spectacular, it just sticks in my mind. It was when I was 14 or 15, and we were all at our house. Mother had broken out the “good” 1954 china and crystal; it was a Level I holiday meal. Turkey, cranberry sauce (two kinds), green bean casserole, waldorf salad, green pea salad, sweet potatoes smothered with mini-marshmallows, and who knows what else. Suffice to say, it was the whole nine yards.

I suppose the reason for all the finery was that all the grandparents would be in attendance. It was one of the few times that Grandmother Soderberg was with us on Thanksgiving, being that a couple of years before she had gone to live with Aunt Margie and Uncle Clifford. They lived in Galena Park, which isn’t THAT far from Texas City, but in those days when my range extended mostly to La Marque and south to Galveston, anything beyond that was a foreign land.

For that reason, mostly, I suppose that get-together stays with me.

And the absolute most memorable feast of thanks that I hold is the one when I came home from college and we ate at GranMommy and GranDaddy’s house. I was so sick of college cafeteria food that I could scream. And before classes let out, they had served turkey and dressing. Big deal. I like turkey, but I couldn’t say I LOVE turkey. I longed for the Gulf Coast.

That longing was satisfied when we came and readied for the feast. They had bought about 25 pounds of shrimp, and prepared it lovingly (fried, butterflyed, boiled), trout, flounder (stuffed with homemade crab stuffing), oysters (fried) and all manner of seafood-ish delights. GranMommy, ever the creative decorator, had constructed an incredible centerpiece. It was in a crystal punchbowl, a tapering tower of ice adorned with parsley greenery studded with small boiled shrimp on toothpicks; like a Christmas tree with tiny pink ornaments you could eat. And eat we did. That was back when I weighed less and could eat more. Frighteningly more.

I think this particular Thanksgiving embodies the entire spirit of the holiday for me. It isn’t about the food that is served. The traditions from back in 1621 are honorable and worthy of remembering and celebrating. This particular observance, for me at least, came alive by virtue of the things I missed the most while I was in the Hill Country away at college, and the fulfillment that evening is what made me so happy and thankful for what was at home.

I Thought it Would Never Happen To Me

Last week, as I was sitting in my recliner, relaxing after a day at work, my wife handed me a piece of mail that come for me that day. I felt important. I seldom get mail these days, unless you count the solicitation to be the patsy for another credit card company, a special offer of $15,000 off the Chevy of my choice, or one of the endless utility bills. This was hand addressed to me. Personally.


As I gazed expectantly at the return address, I first noticed that it was from my home town of Texas City. As my eyes moved up the lines, I realized that is was from the “Class of ’77 Reunion Committee”. A little jolt of excitement shot through me, a reunion was imminent. Since I had missed more than I had attended over the years, I decided then and there that I was GOING TO GO to this one!


As I greedily opened the letter and glanced over the page that was printed on someone’s inkjet printer, I was arrested by the apparently erroneous information at the top; it said something about the 30th reunion. Thirty years? How can that be? It seems like just a short time ago I was on the yearbook staff snapping pictures of fellow students in the halls and classrooms. Dragging Palmer, going to the Tradewinds Theater to see Smoky and the Bandit, giving Lynrd Skynrd three steps!



I quickly looked at the bottom of the letter to see who was responsible for this mistake. There I saw the familiar names of my classmates and/or their wives who had taken the names of their high school sweethearts. My mind reeled, and I hastily did the math...hmm, 2006 minus 1977 equals 29 plus the May graduation date and the scheduled August 2007 party date...comes to roughly...no, it can’t be...a full thirty years. THIRTY YEARS!


They weren’t wrong. I was an old geezer, uh, AM and old geezer. My girls chuckled at hearing that grand number bandied about. The oldest graduated two years ago, the print on her graduation program is still barely dry in my estimation. The middle one is yet two years away from that great day in her life. And my youngest thinks The Little Mermaid is a quaint old-time movie.


I am determined to get to this gathering of my old friends and rivals. I may finally accept that I am one of the aging teens drifting through the reality that has become the future. Did I turn out as I had imagined I would? Who knows, I didn’t even have any idea that one day I would be staring down the barrel of a 30 year reunion.


I have heard that the farther out the reunions get, the better they get. It becomes not about how good looking you are, or what your dad does for a living. Reports state that the higher the number, the more it becomes about who you are and who is important to you. I am anxious to reconnect with old classmates and see what they have experienced. And to remember some of the fun we had as young goofballs.

Future Rant

I feel one coming on: a rant based on the fact that I got a notice from "the committee" about my 30th High School Reunion. I was floored, my girls were amazed.




So watch for this one in a week or so...it's going to hit hard.

This Coffee Tastes Like...

UgH! COFFEE! Yeah, I’m a coffee ninny, this is an established fact, backed up and admitted to in writing. But sometimes, especially Monday afternoons, I need a mild jolt that only the dark potion can give.

And yeah, I brought it on myself, but this time I tried to be an adult about the amount of sweet appeal that I applied. Big mistake. I feel like a child being forced to take castor oil or Echinacea extract. This substance is not to be imbibed for pleasure. I am convinced of that.

Some say that it’s an acquired taste, like beer or cabbage. My response to that statement is that a person can get used to living next to a swine farm, too. Why you’d WANT to is beyond my comprehension.


So you cops, Coasties and insomniacs can have your black coffee…pass the sugar please, in a front-end loader.

I finished it like a man, though. A big sissy girly-man...

1000 Bananas

Lest anyone forget what a pill I could be as a child, I have yet another anecdote for the bulging file. I’m not making any excuses, but it goes back to the innate need for everything to look whole and complete. This has been covered in other articles.

As a child, at my grandmother and grandfather’s house during the day, we had it pretty good. There wasn’t much snack food or coke to be had there, but sometimes there were frozen figs or frozen pineapple to cool us on those hot, sticky Texas City summer days.

I liked bananas, too. The only thing that kept a banana from being perfect was the penchant they had for breaking. That was an action I couldn’t tolerate. For some reason, I felt as though I could not eat the disfigured fruit.

The sad thing is, GranMommy usually peeled them for me. That in itself was not sad; any grandmother would do that for their grandchild. What set this woman apart is the fact that when she peeled a banana, if it broke, I would reject it. Upon my snub of the proffered treat, she would eat the wrecked banana. She would try again. If THAT one crashed, guess what? Right, I didn’t eat it. Wouldn’t touch it. So she ate that one. Looking back, I now recognize the expression on her face as a prayer for strength; for her and the banana.

I am not sure how many bananas that old lady ate trying to appease the persnickety little boy, but I am almost certain she never had a potassium deficiency.

In her later years, she seemed to lose patience easily, and I feel responsible for using up so much of it in my youth.

Slip Sliding Away

Cheap shoes make your feet stink. Everybody knows this. When you’re old and married, you don’t think that much about it. Your victi—uh, spouse, can just move away, ignore the smell, or take her own cheap shoes off to fight fire with fire.

When you’re young, in love and obsessed with projecting the perfect image to your loved one, the scent of sour feet is not acceptable.

So, when I went to visit my betrothed in her apartment one Friday night just weeks before we were married, I decided to wash my feet off in the tub before we went out. Simple, right? All day in those cheap shoes had not done any favors for my feet. It was essential that I get them reborn as quickly as possible.

I was in the bathroom next to her bedroom. Just paces away, she readied herself for our date while I prepared in my own way. I kicked off my shoes and proceeded to make right what was so wrong. I washed the staleness and toxins from my feet without incident. But when I was standing at the back of the tub, wearing my work clothes with the pants legs rolled up, an incident did occur. Apparently, the laws of physics aren’t always posted clearly, but the penalty for transgressing them is always the same. It seems that if your center of gravity is “so high” and you weigh “so much” and the surface on which you are standing is “so slick”, then you should in fact only reach “so far”. In my vigor to get my feet dry and presentable again, I did reach “just so much further” and my feet slipped on the bottom of the cursed tub. There was a certain amount of friction; there were squeaks galore, but not enough traction to keep me from going down. Over and down. My feet went to the left, skated for a bit, and my upper body went right. When my body pitched to the wall, I lead with my cranium, creating a loud THUMP on the tile wall. As my feet continued their descent toward the drain, they declared their desire for grip on the wet porcelain. More long squeaks. Loud ones. Accompanied by several more thumps, of varying volume. That would be dependent on whether there was much muscle over the bones that were impacting the tile/tub structures. Of course, head, elbow and knee make the loudest noise, while a hip has a lower frequency tone.

As I lay in the tub, partly wet, head, elbow, knee and hip throbbing in pain, I became aware of the voice of my future wife calling out to me in my injured state.

“Are you all right...?”

“Uugh...I...well...ugh...”

It was only a few seconds later that I realized that her caring inquiry was interrupted by suppressed gales of laughter. These gales quickly gathered strength and lost control.

Needless to say, by that time, my body was not the only thing bruised.

“I’m not laughing that you got hurt,” she managed to choke out, “I’m laughing at the sound of the squeaking and the thuds...” This statement was punctuated by the stifled laughter which eventually gave way to all out guffaws and cackles.

Only now can I laugh about this as well as she, and her glee is still strong after more than 20 years. It is the essence of comedy: somebody gets hurt in a funny way, and people laugh. I almost feel honored to be an active participant.

All Saints (Have a Candy Hangover) Day

Well MOST of the Saints do, anyhow. I didn’t participate in the “handing-out-of-candy” ritual last night. It just so happened, as I am sure everyone is aware, that Halloween fell on a Tuesday this year. Which coincides exactly with my teaching of graphic design classes at San Jacinto College in the evening.

So, in the name of Education (and in the name of “if-I-don’t-show-up-I-don’t-get-paid”) I went dutifully to class last evening. I had students looking expectantly to me to somehow oblige them in the celebration in the name of all things sweet and greedy. “Sorry”, I told them, “but some other instructor looks like they cared, and I think you are welcome to this...”, pointing to the plastic pumpkin half full of bubble gum and tootsie rolls.

On the home front, my oldest had some guys over to eat and eat and pass out candy and eat. I think they accomplished the stated goal. They also watched scary movies till late at night.

My middle daughter was forced at grade point (apparently) to attend the varsity volleyball team’s last game (as it turned out) over in Manvel. She got home quickly, since the team was retired summarily in three games. She just hung out with her sister and the guys.

My youngest, the one most "into" the festivities, was dressed as a little boy; plaid shorts, baggy camo t-shirt and slide-on plaid sneakers. Oh, and a camo-billed Astros hat to cover her girly hair. I haven’t gotten a full report, but I saw the plastic pumpkin full to the brim with loot. My wife accompanied her on the neighborhood blitzkrieg, along with my daughter’s best friend and her mom. The friend was dressed as a boy as well; this had been planned for seven months.

Judging from the bales of candy that were purchased and the near-empty bin used for distribution, either the trick-or-treaters had a good night, or the resident and visiting youths did. I just had the few odd Kit Kat bars and went to bed. My last official act was to bring the pumpkin and jack-o-lantern in; last year, my excellent offering was smashed over night, so I didn’t want to trust this new incarnation to the late night no-goods marauding after hours.

So ends another celebration aimed at kid’s teeth and sense of entitlement. I only wish we could harness the energy generated and expended for good rather than fat and cavities. Think of the distances we could drive powered by Snickers bars and gummy eyeballs!

Hollow-een

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skeleton From the Closet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Have on Two Black Socks

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

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

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

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

addendum to "Rules..."

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

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

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

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

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

Rules Rules Rules

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today...

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

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

Departure...

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

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

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

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

Lucky I keep a dull razor in my desk drawer.

Birthday Blue Corn

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

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

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

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

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

Dart, Dr Pepper & DeSoto

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Token Post

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

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

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

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