Second Hand Smoke

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WhataLunch

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Literate Readers

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

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

Also Spook Zarathustra

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Headless Horseman of Copperas Cove

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YaY! Wordy Guy IV

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


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


B) A young guinea fowl.


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


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

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

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

Eat at the Naked Rib

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOW it feels like October

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

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

Wordy Guy III

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

“mendicant”

A. Ineffective

B. A beggar

C. Characterized by deception or dishonesty

RESULTS

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

Salute To Travis Waldrep, 18

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

This story will prove it.

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

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

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

Night of the Six Foot Hot Dog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons in a Hurricane

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Technology

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

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

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

Muu Muu

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

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

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

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

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

Just try put it outta your mind.

Wordy Guy II

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

Hachure

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


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


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


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



THE ANSWER IS...

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

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

Cheap Shots

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

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

Wordy Guy

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

Thanks for playing "Wordy Guy"!

mensch

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

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

C. A person of integrity and honor

UPDATE

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

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

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

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

Something Unexpected Came Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

'urricane 'umberto

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

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

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

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

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

Memorial for Darryl Ferguson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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