Forthcoming!

No, REALLY, tonight I finish the blog entry that I intended to write last week.

Or the week before.

I am so ashamed.

Just For Tex

Definition Time

blear•y adjective
(of the eyes) unfocused or filmy from sleep or tiredness: you don't want to face the world with bleary, tear-soaked, itching eyes.

THIS is the picture that's in the dictionary. Or should be, at least.

Radio Silence Broken

Yes, it's been quiet here at the GeezerChron, but many things have befallen the author. A vacation, for one. As a matter of fact, most of the next few posts have a lot to do with water.

Please be patient, because there is at least two, maybe three really strong posts coming. If there was any way to guarantee that you'll like it, I would.

Thanx!

Soft Serve Service

I went to WallyWorld last night for a few essential items. Actually, about six essentials and ended up with about eleven total.

After making my choices, I zoomed to the short line and waited; there were only two people ahead of me, so the wait would likely be short. The woman at the checkout counter had a relatively small collection of various produce items. The older woman behind her had two containers of ice cream, a tub of margarine, some bagels, a loaf of bread, and a bag of Fritos.

We both stood by, waiting for what was sure to be a short time before we could make our purchases.

As the minutes dragged by, it became obvious that our wait would be anything but short. Watching the checker and the current customer, there was what seemed like an inordinate amount of banter and contact. The customer lady seemed to be insisting on a personal inspection of every piece of produce in the bags, which turned out to be a sizeable haul. As she stood there smiling, the checker tenderly unwrapped all the fruits and vegetables, the customer pointed out nearly every one on a sale sheet. The smiling, slow-motion checker delicately turned each item to find the code and entered it carefully by hand into the keypad.

Meanwhile, at the next register, the young family of six sailed through their line with a groaning cart of groceries and summer items. At the same time, we were stalled out at the glacial line. It was then that I noticed the ice cream, mainly, and it made me think of my milk warming in my basket. I was wondering if granny was planning on eating the two melty half gallons in the car. Her bread was heading toward moldy, her bagels were going stale, I could hear them turning. The only thing she had in her basket that was not perishable was the bag of Fritos. Come to think of it, they won't go stale for another ten years.

Finally, the negotiations finally came to a close, she FINALLY paid her tab, and the old lady got to put her cartons of milkshake and tub of vegetable oil, along with her stale bagels and moldy bread on the short counter to tally.

It was then that I noticed that the checker was probably a greenhorn who didn't know the codes. By the time I got there, I was a little older, and wishing I could change my sour cream milk for a fresh gallon. Our little clerk was very friendly; achingly slow but friendly. By the time I got through, the little old lady was probably back at her car, eating her ice cream with her driver's license.

Slim Fishin's

Saturday was a fishing day. I went down to my "spot", the last time before my yearly fishing license expires (tonite at midnite, snif).

The days around my house had been fairly calm, in the mornings at least; a respite from the howling gusts of the past couple of months, and so I decided that I was going fishing. Saturday, I rose at nearly 5 a.m., only to fall back asleep till just before 6:30. Dang! I hurried down the road, slid to a stop and double-timed it over the levee and down to the water. Even then, the wind had begun to come up and riffle the surface of the water. Double Dang.

As I waded around the flat, the wind continued to build, yet I noticed that several people were up in the Northwest corner, right where I wanted to be. I didn't see them catching anything; I didn't see them doing much of anything. I wondered if they were perhaps crabbing. There was only one of the group of four that were there was moving around like he was actually fishing.

The entire foray netted me only three undersized flounder, one of which was a mere quarter inch short of the 14 inch minimum limit. But I can't bring myself to haul a short, illegal fish and explain to my daughters why I broke the game laws just to have a fish. So they all walked. So to speak.

Still, it was beautiful, even though the fishing success was less than resounding.

Gasoline

This is not an editorial on the price of the stuff that makes our cars go. This is about gasoline specifically, the actual substance, and another power that it fuels.

This evening when I came home, I knew of the chore that awaited me. My wife’s chariot, the Grand Caravan, was in need (again) of new disc brakes. Not a particularly difficult job, since I have gotten so much practice with this machine and its penchant for eating brake pads.

I went to Auto Zona and obtained the needed supplies. I then came back, knocked on my best neighbor’s door and asked him if I could use his mechanic’s tools to do my brakes. Since I help him whenever I can and mostly since he’s an old school-type guy, he said, “Of course,” and proceeded out to gather the tools while I replaced his silver Grand Caravan with ours in his driveway.

It wasn’t long before I had made the swap with the disc brake pads and even one of the rotors, and began cleaning up. This is where ol’ Larry picked up one of his red shop rags, opened the hood of Black Beauty (his riding lawn mower that I mow our yards with) and dipped a corner in the gas tank for a good old-fashioned instant hand cleaner. At first there was a slight catch in my brain about using such a precious and dangerous commodity for cutting the stubborn brake dust from my hands. Immediately, the smell of gasoline permeated the garage as we stood around and talked, me wiping my hands of as much of the solid black dust as I could.

We hung out at his truck and spoke of many things that geezers talk about, actually for longer than it took me to change out the brakes.

When we finally adjourned to our respective dens, I was fairly hungry, since it was about eight o’clock by that time. I washed my hands about five times, each time removing a small amount more of the black brake soot that accentuated every line on my fingers and framed every fingernail with a near-indelible line of ebony. I would have made a fine engraving or pen drawing. Even now, as I type on this satin-smooth aluminum computer keyboard, I can see that I will be wearing the evidence for several days to come.

I ate my spaghetti, aware of the faint but unmistakable odor of “Eau De Refinery” emanating from my fingers. As I ate my peach for dessert, slurping and juggling the slippery globe, I even got a closer encounter with the 87 octane cologne I wore on my hands.

The smell was a comfort, though. The peach brought back many summer days, enjoying my favorite fruit in the shade of a mimosa tree in GranMommy’s back yard.

The petrol scent was what caught me, though. It immediately transported me back to GranDaddy’s garage, the cool, dark cavern that smelled of gasoline, dirt, grease and old wood. On a hot day, I often retreated into the relative cool of the garage to explore what he had in there. The usual things, the broken hammer, the small vise, the coffee cans full of bolts, screws, nails and whatnots. There was an old outboard motor clamped to the end of the workbench. In under the shelves, the ancient pickle crocks were nested. And at any time, there was a good chance that one of the local feline tramps had dropped her latest litter of kittens in there. Maybe I’d find an old, interesting relic from his days as the owner of a car dealership. Or an ancient fishing reel. It was possible.

Whether I found anything of interest or not, I was always satisfied to go in there to spend a few minutes or an hour. I was never disappointed.

All of that from some gas on my fingers. In much less time than it takes to read it. The nose and the brain are a fantastic team.

The Appetite of Youth

Today at lunch, I was a witness to something I had only heard allusions to on Whataburger commercials.

The young fella that's an intern here, a big strapping former offensive lineman, actually ate a triple-meat with bacon Whataburger, along with a bucket of fries and a big coke.

The older guys present, of which I am chronologically the eldest, were aghast at the thought of putting that much meat into one's stomach.

In my day, three patties was virtually un-thought-of. Double meat was the epitome of gluttony, and that's pretty much the standard of consumption for me way back in the 70's and 80's. The idea of putting on another quarter-pound of beef and three slices of bacon hadn't crossed anyone's minds yet. I wouldn't think. I "usta-could" eat a double meat cheeseburger, and did on many, many (many,many) occasions, but that was when I did something besides sit on my backside and click a mouse for 9 hours a day.

I checked in with him a little later in the afternoon to see how he was faring after his gastronomical gut-bomb. He affirmed that he was doing pretty well, although, he did admit that an hour or so earlier, he had a patty on each eyelid, pulling them toward the ground floor.

Those days are gone for me, however. One patty, one burger, a tomato slice, pickle, ketchup, cheese and mayo, on a good day. But that's only maintenance. If I actually DID anything, I'd probably take up less real estate.

Oh, well, that's a big "IF".

The Words DO Kinda Rhyme…

One night after a particularly spicy dinner, I found that I needed some help in the stomach acid department, as in a reduction thereof. I went to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen and began to rummage through the products kept there.

My middle gal was playing with the dog in the kitchen and saw me fumbling with the package of acid reducer tablets. They were housed in the nearly impenetrable blister pack; solid Plexiglas to view the tablet, the back encased in plastic covered by sixteen gauge stainless steel, and all of it as slick as possum gravy.

My ever-helpful lass noticed my struggle and asked what I was getting. “Heartburn medicine…” was my reply.

“Didn’t Mom do that earlier?”

“Huh?

“Never mind, I’ll get it for you…”

“Thanks!” I replied, drying my hands off.

I turned away for a second and when I turned back around, I saw my dear, sweet daughter about to feed my acid reducer to the dog! As a matter of fact, the little pink tongue of our Pomeranian was unfurling in slow motion to accept the treat from her beloved master.

A fraction of a second before the pup’s tongue touched my over-the-counter medication; I snatched it from my girl’s fingers.

“What are you!?...That’s my medicine!”

She burst out laughing, nearly uncontrollably, and I couldn’t help but join her, tentatively.

When she gained a measure of composure, she managed to choke out haltingly, “I thought you said ‘heartworm medicine’!”

Well, that was just it. We all laughed and laughed, and her cryptic statement from earlier about Mom blah blah blah made perfect sense.

So dear readers, please enunciate very, very clearly anytime the words “burn” and “worm” are used. You may get something you don’t want.

Or your dog might.

Helpful Link

This is the link to a handy site for checking your local beach for dangerous bacteria levels.

Click on the "Interactive Map Tool" for a view of the Texas Coastline (typed lefty while standing, facing East, with my right hand over my heart) and your favorite beach.

Hit this before you hit the beach. You are able to search by county and then by beach using the "Beachwatch Search" feature on the right side of the page. Shown here >


This is just one more reason to sort of rely on the GeezerChron.

I just need a link to find out if there is a jellyfish, man-o-war or shark report in force. I'll look.

Really.

The Best of Friday

My apologies for the dearth of postings, all you regulars (the three of you) are aware of why the postings have been so sparse. There has been found a remedy, albeit temporary, but a solution it is. I have Cactus to thank for it.

Thanks Cactus!

OK, so back to telling you how phenomenal last Friday was. At 0600, I arrived at my parents’ house to disembark on a fishing expedition with the elder Mr. Soderberg; my Dad.

We headed to the private lake (I REALLY can’t tell anybody else where it is, he blindfolded me at a crossroad as a security measure) where he reported in the neighborhood of 20 fish being caught last Monday. This lake is loaded with black bass.

The twisting, turning, convoluted double footpath on the other side of the locked gate ran us deep into the tallow and hackberry forest, with glimpses of lake and partial lake meadows in between. We finally arrived at the corner of a man-made lake with glassy water and some miniature islands, grasses and hydrilla along a channel not three feet deep. But the water was clear and in good shape.

We started out with worm fishing (Dad) and spinnerbait (me). He drew first blood, and while it’s nice to watch your dear old Dad catching fish and laughing, there is only so much you can stand while not duplicating the activities. After about three of the joyous outbursts, I had endured just about enough and abandoned the spinnerbait.

A Cocahoe minnow was my weapon of choice, red with a white tail. On the first cast, I hooked up with a small bass, and that was the way the day ran for several hours. The quarry ranged from about a pound-and-a-half to a beast that was over five pounds. Well, it was five pounds on Friday, but today I think it had grown to nearly six, and I am not sure how much she will weigh next week. I anticipate the growth to be a geometric progression. It was, in fact, the biggest black bass I had ever caught; just look at the unretouched telephone photo and where it comes on me. Good sized fish, brothers and sisters.

My Dad caught one nearly as big (operative word “nearly”) a little later, and you can see the scale in the next photo. The sizes ranged from my thirty-seven pounder and my Dad’s four-and-a-half pounder down to two pounds and the one to one-and-a-half pounders. All were athletic and well-marked, healthy and sparkly green.

As the morning progressed, the action eased up a bit, and we tried some different lures. The sun rose a little more over the trees, and a slight breeze came up. The cicadas began their raspy chainsaw chorus in the trees, immediately raising the temperature just by virtue of the relentless sound.

Changing to topwater seemed to be the strategy of the moment, so thus armed, we attacked the water with a renewed vigor. The first cast of the big treble-hooked topwater lure yielded the big fish that I so proudly display above. This continued for a time, and as expected, that action slowed as it inevitably does.

That indicated a change back to “the worm strategy”. My Dad used a Texas rig and I, dedicated as I am to saltwater soft plastics, used a sand eel in a pumpkinseed color with a yellow tail on an eighth-ounce jig head.

We both noticed an increasing number of tiger striped dragonfly couples darting up and down across the surface of the lake, and the bass of all sizes were cartwheeling after the (apparently) tasty insects. As a matter of fact, one of the fish I caught still had a half-swallowed pair of dragonflies in his throat, alongside my sand eel and hook.

The sand eel served me well, even up until a particularly savage strike removed half of the brave lure. The body was roughened by the rasp-like teeth of the bass and was barely recognizable. As a side-note, my left thumb was beginning to look the same. After removing the hook from the bass’ mouth, I decided to throw the truncated plastic bait a couple more times. To my surprise, the hungry largemouths kept relentlessly attacked my offering, until which time I retired it to my pocket, to show as a trophy.

The breeze kept blowing, the fish kept hitting and the sun began to beat down with a purpose and by eleven, I was beginning to show signs of wear. At one point, I sat down at the bank and cast to the grass across the channel. Sure enough, a fish hit the lure and I had to stand up to bring him in. That was when, jokingly, I exclaimed, “I’m just BORED!” with my hands on my hips, looking down on the fish with feigned disgust. My dad replied with a hearty laugh.

Shortly thereafter, HE caught another one, and then HE exclaimed, “Now I’m bored, TOO!”

My thirst began to build, and staring into the clear water, I nearly tempted myself into flopping into the lake to take a long drink. Of course, the proximity of the old landfill was also in my mind (the reason we didn’t keep the fish) and wondering what dangerous lead/mercury/arsenic/cocktail had maybe leached out into the water was deterrent enough.

Along about then, my Dad proffered a suggestion that whenever I was ready, we could go. I countered by asking him if he were anywhere near ready. After a couple of hems and haws by both of us, we finally admitted that we were just TIRED OF CATCHING BASS!

That’s a hard statement to make, that’s why it took another couple of casts to convince ourselves that we were still Texans.

On the drive out, we reveled in time spent together, the smell of fish slime, and the scars borne by our shredded thumbs.

SO much better than a good day working, I can’t even fully express!

Stay Tuned!

Yes, there is a good one (a purely objective opinion) is on the way!

Keep checking back!

Wordy Guy IX

After a couple of months to think of new brain twisters, Wordy Guy is back with Number 9 in the series.

Brush the dust off your Latin; here comes


Ipso Facto

A) A Latin term meaning “an established fact.”

B) A Latin term meaning “as an inevitable result.”

C) A legal term meaning “established by law.”


This one's tough if you know "just enough Latin to be dangerous". Take care my fiends!

**UPDATE**
The answer is
B
Although Cactus was the first, our lupine friend from way out West, Wollf, was the first correct answer. If you look at his comment, it is evident that he has some experience with Latin as a language.

Congratulations, Mr. Wollf, you now have bragging rights for Wordy Guy IX!

Wine & Cheeze Whiz

My youngest gal and I were traveling through the upscale village of Friendswood last Friday, and happened to stop at a Shell Stop and Rob store for a Dr Pepper. This particular store is only a few hundred yards from an elementary school, and is on the right side on the approach to the beginnings of neighborhoods.

As we pulled up to the curb and got out, I noticed through the glass door a wine rack filled with long, slender bottles. A big fluorescent splat hung off of the left side shouting “$9.99.”

I commented to my daughter, “Hmm, I wonder if they sell a lot of wine here…” We headed back to the coolers at the back, and to my surprise was another section of wines, with prices up to about $15 a bottle. And there were some in the cooler already, too!
I thought it strange to have wine above the “Ripple” level in a convenience store, and a pretty good variety, it looked like.

On arriving at the counter to check out, a little Chinese man popped up and asked if we found everything OK. I said yes, and as he scanned our chosen soft drinks, my little reporter asked him, “So do you sell much wine here?”

At first he didn’t seem to hear, so I repeated her question.

“Oh, yes, yes, we sell a lot of wine, yes!”
“Do you sell a lot to the elementary school students?” I asked.
“Huh? Oh, no, no, ha ha!”
“Mostly the teachers, I’ll bet, right?”
“Ha ha, oh yes, ha ha, no, ha ha!”

Driving away, I thought it odd that in the same place, you could buy your $15 bottle of wine, a bag of pork rinds and a jar of Cheeze Whiz. The trailer park version of the wine and cheese tasting party.

Geezers Summer Reminisce

This morning, my sister sent me one of those “forward to everyone in your age group” emails. There were the general references recognized by everyone in the geezer demographic. “Remember, back before cell phones and Nintendo and cable TV and 24 hour news coverage…staying out till the streetlights came on, your parents yelling for you to come home after dark…” , et al.

I responded with some of our personal experiences from pre-geezer days, and she evoked some really good memories. So what follows is my own little list that we assembled in about 10 minutes and four emails.

You are not obligated to send this to your friends. And there’s no Frankie Valle music in the background. Just our memories.

Your reminisces may vary.

It made me recall:
Campfires in the back yard, and giant four-foot-deep holes you got to dig, and dirt clod fights and making Greg, Kelvin and Timmy pee themselves with a cardboard skeleton...GranMommy eating two bananas (broken) for each one that I ate...”Whap whap whap what’d he do?”...frying ants and pillbugs with Grandaddy’s magnifying glass, the rectangular one with a long screw for a handle...carving up refrigerator boxes with GranDaddy’s pocket knife!

She replied:
GranMommy making hamburger forgetting to put meat on it...and popping popcorn in a skillet without a lid…the sound of the wind whistling through the screens upstairs...the smell of Monsanto's benzene whatever wafting thru the morning breeze...the sound of kitties meowing under the house…the smell of freshly cut grass and cape jasmine bush on the east side of the house.

Which set me to:
I don't care how hot it was wearing the coats, paddling a trailered boat across the burnt lawn! We were somewhere else, anyhow. How awesome was it to lie on that slick concrete of the breezeway to get cool? Oh, and the smell of old, OLD grease and dirt in the garage...the cannas and mimosa behind the garage, the oleanders as a hiding place (don’t put those in your mouth, they’re poison and they’ll kill you)...

And of course she HAD to add:
“And get yore finger stuck in the concrete!” This is a very NOT funny story that I will relate in a (much) later GeezerChron.

OK, back to work, but I’ll remember this stuff long after I forget what I had for breakfast or what I stood up and walked into the hallway for.

Thanks Sis, that was fun!

Bad Day Fishing...

...Is better than a good day working. That’s the old saying. It’s true. I went on a fishing expedition Sunday evening and confirmed it, even though I was not otherwise required to be at work. Partly because it was Sunday, but mainly because I have a week of vacation coming up.

I decided at about 5:30 p.m. that I was going, and by 6:30 I was on my way down Highway 6 to my super-secret fishing spot. Not that it’s all that secret; there are only about 4 people who go down there at all, my Dad being one of them. It is a great spot, but most people have boats and like to skipper them around, whereas I just like to wade and fish. I have no boat, save for the ones at the end of my ankles.

As I decided to make the trip, part of the decision was based on the lack of the strong wind we have been experiencing the past few weeks. At our house, there was a slight breath of a mostly North wind. With evening coming on, that would only die down and likely make for a glassy smooth bayou. The commute to the spot progressed and as I made my way down Highway 6, I noticed the trees along about Hitchcock began showing signs of a strong Southerly breeze. Undeterred, I stayed the course to my destination.

The evening was turning out beautiful, save for that wind which only increased as I neared the water. Typically, when the wind is up, the fish are down, but stranger things have happened. Once I caught a flounder in a wind so strong, that when I landed it, the wind had it turned inside out by the time I got it off of the hook. I pressed on, persistent as a cat hair on a grilled cheese sandwich.

I walked up over the levee from where I parked, and I noted the gale blowing out of the Southerly direction, with hardly a cloud in the sky. The waves were kicking up and in the bigger part of the flats, there were a couple of whitecaps. As I peered down from the top of the hill, I noticed among the waves, there were some birds working on the North side of the flats. That was a good sign.

I was watching the sun make the rapid slip down to the horizon. I could smell the water, and I got to watch a big brown pelican make some lazy circles over me, scanning the shallow water for a snack before going to roost. The pelican, not me. There were terns and black headed gulls hovering and diving for small mullet. As I walked through the water, shrimp skipped ahead of me. The setting sun made the colors so warm, and the breeze was so cool. I began to care less and less if a big redfish or flounder decided to take my offered bait or not.

Not that I didn’t WANT to catch a fish, it’s just that the overall experience was taking on a completely different purpose. There was a family across the bayou, approximately a half-mile away, were firing up the grill for dinner. Birds were flying overhead to their evening roosts. All of the shorebirds were headed for the islands and marshes. The blackbirds and starlings were headed to the trees over the levee toward I-45.

Being out on the water, with the wind blowing as it was, I was somewhat removed from the Gulf Freeway which was only about a mile and a half away. It reminded of its presence only when a Harley with straight pipes or a high powered Honda with a coffee can for an exhaust would pass, bound for Galveston under full steam. The occasional semi truck under a heavy load accelerating for the overpass sounded off to remind me of where I was on the map.

After one particularly difficult cast, I found the limits of the magnetic brake when casting across the wind. A birdnest the size of a hawk’s homestead appeared from the interior of the new reel. I worked for about 15 minutes to extricate the overrun. The sun slipped toward Highland Bayou Park and I whipped out the pocketknife. Even with the blade, I needed a couple of minutes to perform the surgery and re-fit the bait. Then, back to my quest to the corner where I have caught so many reds and flounder in the past.

At about ten minutes till eight, the wind laid down a bit. Now the magic was beginning to happen; all my casts were on target and the air was just right. I turned back to the East to check for “throwback fish” and saw a sight that surprised me enough to cause me to make a slight sound of alarm. It was the moon rising from Galveston.

It was glowing like a giant pearl on a lavender-to-pink-to-deep blue background. I was surprised because I had no idea where the moon was in its phase. The fact that it was just nearly full (mere hours, it seemed) caught me completely by surprise.

As the sun settled into the salt grass, I headed to the exit to go ahead and move back to the car. I made a couple of final casts and lo and behold, a tiny trout took my bait. It was not much of a fight, but a fish on the line is a fish on the line. I brought him to hand and removed the hook and got the obligatory haze of fish slime on my paw. After I released him, I sniffed the slime that was left behind. It was fresh and clean and fishy, the smell of success in the hunt.

Being near the “jumping off point” I waded through the reeds and deep shoreline mud. The smell of decaying plant matter bubbled up alongside my feet as I made my way to the broken concrete at the edge of the grass. Ascending the side of the levee, I secured my net and fishing rod, and reveled in the evening. The smell of the grass was comforting, as was the aroma of the water and saltgrass, the smelly mud I had just trudged through and the light scent of the grill from across the water.

I have a good friend who can’t fathom what hold the Gulf Coast has on me. He would flee to the Hill Country at the drop of a hat, and he would drop the hat. I tell him that this place is in my blood. The sights, the smells and the sounds of the coast have all come together and made the giant eleven-year-old that you have all come to know. Now you know the reason that the smell of skunk does not offend me; the olfactory assault of rotten mud does not repulse me. Fish slime is a reassurance.

Geezers are not born, they are made. Call me strange, call me weird, but that’s what makes me the best geezer I can be.

Oh, and just so you know, there is no "bad day fishing."

Don't Despair

...Yeah, like the lack of a GeezerChron would be cause for widespread depression...

Anyhow, I have a new one in the works. I just need to finish it and post it...that's just a step away from THINKING of it and writing it, right?

I DO have a lot of older stuff that a lot of you haven't seen as yet. So browse thru the archives and wait like good boyz and grills.

Thanks for your patience.

Leaf Us Alone

My GranDaddy was a taciturn man. When he spoke, he meant to be heard. He thought a lot, he read a lot, and only uttered words when they would have an impact. Subtle impact was acceptable in his book. As a matter of fact, his humor was subtle and dry. And very effective.

My Mother recently re-told me the tale of GranDaddy running the lady off from their camp. The story goes that they were camping at some lake quite a number of years ago. There was a gregarious woman at a nearby encampment who felt welcome at their site.

She apparently spent quite a bit of time there, and since too much empty talk (especially by an interloping stranger) tended to get on GranDaddy’s nerves, he went down to the lake to swim. After a time, he was ready to come back to camp, and saw that the friendly neighbor was there still.

His remedy for that was to go back down to the lake and pick one of the giant-sized water lily leaves. This he brought back up to the edge of the bivouac area, holding it in front of himself at waist level.
He raised his voice (a rare occurrence) and asked if someone could go bring him some pants, since he lost his swimsuit in the lake.

Their new “friend” looked and saw him standing there dripping, holding a giant leaf as a garment, as far as she knew. Her immediate reaction was to vacate the vicinity.

The family rolled with laughter following her departure when he finally dropped the leaf to reveal that he had not indeed lost his suit.

But he had succeeded in losing the uninvited guest.

Happy Birthday, Andy!

There is a young man in San Marcos right now who is celebrating his 21st birthday today. I have known him for every one of those years.

He is what people describe as a "miracle baby". When he was but a few days old, he contracted meningitis, rode in a Life Flight helicopter and spent some time in a hospital. It was touch-and-go for awhile, but as you can guess, he made it from being a tiny, helpless little baby, to a large, likable and intelligent young man. He's well over six feet tall and exhibits no evidence of his tentative beginning.

But it's not just his physical being that is imposing and strong, his spirit is perhaps bigger than his body. He's not one of those hammerheads that is going to go out and get drunk on his 21st birthday "WOO HOOOO!Cuz I finally can cuz I'm legal". He's smart.

He has worked his guts out at HEB and school work at Texas State University, and will no doubt make his family proud in his chosen profession.

But then, he already has!

Happy Birthday, Andrew!

Sad News

Big Toe put in an emergency call to me this weekend, with some sad and disturbing news: The Naked Rib is no more.

It is now called Sekula's BBQ, and that's all she knows. A slight face-lift was noticed from the road: red and white checkered table cloths on the outside tables.

Still to be determined is the bill of fare, specifically, do they still use that superior BBQ sauce, and is there still a brisket pie.

Of course, if the above items remain intact, I don't care if they call it Ali Baba's 40 Thieves Cafe.

There will be an update on this situation.