Hurricane Season Looms

This was forwarded to me by my sister who experienced the evacuation from Rita (although not to the extent that I did) as did several million other geniuses.

I am not sure of the authorship pedigree, but this sounds a lot like Dave Barry.

Here are some hurricane tips.
To:
Former Gulf Coast Residents
Current Gulf Coast Residents
Future Gulf Coast Residents; and/or
Those who know a Gulf Coast Resident

We have just entered the 6-month hurricane season. Any day now, you're
going to turn on the TV and see a weather person pointing to some radar
blob out in the Gulf of Mexico and making two basic meteorological
points:
(1) There is no need to panic.
(2) We could all be killed.

Yes, hurricane season is an exciting time to live along the Gulf Coast.
If you're new to the area, you're probably wondering what you need to do
to prepare for the possibility that we'll get hit by "the big one." Based
on our experiences, we recommend that you follow this simple three-step
hurricane preparedness plan:

STEP 1. Buy enough food and bottled water to last your family for at
least three days.
STEP 2. Put these supplies into your car.
STEP 3. Drive to Nebraska and remain there until Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, statistics show that most people will not follow this
sensible plan. Most people will foolishly stay here in Gulf Coast area.

So we'll start with one of the most important hurricane preparedness items:

HOMEOWNERS' INSURANCE: If you own a home, you must have hurricane insurance. Fortunately, this insurance is cheap and easy to get, as long as your home meets two basic requirements:
(1) It is reasonably well-built, and
(2) It is located in Nebraska.

Unfortunately, if your home is located along the Gulf Coast, or any other area that might actually be hit by a hurricane, most insurance companies would prefer not to sell you hurricane insurance, because then they might be required to pay YOU money, and that is certainly not why they got into the insurance business in the first place.

So you'll have to scrounge around for an insurance company, which will charge you an annual premium roughly equal to the replacement value of your house. At any moment, this company can drop you like used dental floss.

Since Hurricane Katrina, I have had an estimated 27 different home-insurance companies. This week, I'm covered by the Bob and Big Stan Insurance Company, under a policy which states that, in addition to my premium, Bob and Big Stan are entitled, on demand, to my kidneys.

SHUTTERS: Your house should have hurricane shutters on all the windows, all the doors, and -- if it's a major hurricane -- all the toilets. There are several types of shutters, with advantages and disadvantages.

Plywood shutters: The advantage is that, because you make them yourself, they're cheap. The disadvantage is that, because you make them yourself, they will fall off.

Sheet-metal shutters: The advantage is that these work well, once you get them all up. The disadvantage is that once you get them all up, your hands will be useless bleeding stumps, and it will be December.

Roll-down shutters: The advantages are that they're very easy to use, and will definitely protect your house. The disadvantage is that you will have to sell your house to pay for them.

"Hurricane-proof'' windows: These are the newest wrinkle in hurricane protection: They look like ordinary windows, but they can withstand hurricane winds! You can be sure of this, because the salesman says so.
He lives in Nebraska.

"Hurricane Proofing Your Property: As the hurricane approaches, check your yard for movable objects like barbecue grills, planters, patio furniture, visiting relatives, etc. You should, as a precaution, throw these items into your swimming pool (if you don't have a swimming pool, you should have one built immediately). Otherwise, the hurricane winds will turn these objects into deadly missiles.

EVACUATION ROUTE: If you live in a low-lying area, you should have an evacuation route planned out. (To determine whether you live in a low-lying area, look at your driver's license; if it says "Galveston, New Orleans, Houston, or any other location close to the coast, you live in a low-lying area.) The purpose of having an evacuation route is to avoid being trapped in your home when a major storm hits. Instead, you will be trapped in a gigantic traffic jam several miles from your home, along with two hundred thousand other evacuees. So, as a bonus, you will not be lonely.

HURRICANE SUPPLIES: If you don't evacuate, you will need a mess of supplies. Do not buy them now! Hurricane tradition requires that you wait until the last possible minute, then go to the supermarket and get into vicious fights with strangers over who gets the last can of SPAM.

In addition to food and water, you will need the following supplies:

23 flashlights. At least $167 worth of batteries that turn out, when the power goes off, to be the wrong size for the flashlights.

Bleach. (No, I don't know what the bleach is for. NOBODY knows what the bleach is for. But it's traditional, so GET some!)

A 55-gallon drum of underarm deodorant.

A big knife that you can strap to your leg. (This will be useless in a hurricane, but it looks cool.)

A large quantity of raw chicken, to placate the alligators. (Ask anybody who went through Hurricane Andrew in Florida; after the hurricane, there WILL be irate alligators.)

$35,000 in cash or diamonds so that, after the hurricane passes, you can buy a generator from a man with no discernible teeth.

Of course these are just basic precautions. As the hurricane draws near, it is vitally important that you keep abreast of the situation by turning on your television and watching TV reporters in rain slickers standing right next to the ocean and tell you over and over how vitally important it is for everybody to stay away from the ocean.

Good luck and remember: it's great living in paradise! Those of you who aren't here yet you should come. Really!

"Daimler Chrysler"

Sounds like a curse, doesn't it? Yeah, well, it is starting to feel like one to me these days. Especially after this last week of automotive trouble.

It all began when we decided to get the A/C fixed in our 2000 Dodge Caravan. We took it to our regular mechanic here in Alvin last Friday. I have Fridays off, so I took my wife to her job.

I knew what the problem was, basically. There was a hose with at hole in it the size of the Khyber Pass. Turns out the hose is about $200 alone. Then you have to get a contortionist to put it on. And the dryer had to be replaced because of “contamination”, probably because there was a squirrel or cat caught in there.

OK, so they replace THAT on Friday, to the tune of about $500. Before I came to pick it up, I got a call, and the unlucky Steve said that there was a leak in the OTHER hose now. “Daimler”! But we could take it home for the weekend and bring it back on Monday.

They called Monday with semi-good news; the other hose wasn’t leaking, there was a slight problem with an “o” ring on the new one. Fixed no problem. Saved us another $450 or so. But later they discovered that the driver’s side wasn’t blowing cool air. The mechanic traced the problem to an expansion valve. So they order the part. It won’t be in till Tuesday. OK, I can take Kelly to work for another day.

The part didn’t come in till late on Tuesday, and it turns out it was the wrong one. Wednesday we’ll get another one. “Daimler!”, we carpool AGAIN! In the mean time, the shop had decided to go with the Mopar dealer, but without charging us the difference. Even THEY were feeling bad about our situation. Surely the all-knowing dealer would be able to provide the correct part. Not so.

Wednesday, I called (which was call #23) and when they told me that news, I told them that I needed the van back anyhow. The air couldn’t be blowing any hotter than my wife, who had been stranded at work for 4 days already. They said a new part was coming from Dodge and it was surely likely that it was correct. Almost definitely.

Thursday I drove the “room temperature” van to work and my wife took my mostly air conditioned car to her job. Some time after noon, Steve called and told me that the new part came in and it was suspiciously similar to the original part that came off the van. Which isn’t a resounding “Perfect!”, but in light of the other three parts, none of which bore even a passing similarity to the original part, even a slight familial resemblance was a step in the right direction. I told him that I would bring it in on Friday and they could do the work.

I just now got the call that the A/C service is complete and that all we lack is the state inspection that is needed by the end of the month.

I will likely never view another Dodge commercial without launching into a tirade about this incident. The burden of being a Geezer.

UPDATE
So the state inspection didn't get done on Friday, as planned. It seems they started the engine without a particular vacuum hose connected, and the computer picked that up and tossed a "Check Engine" code on them. They reconnected the offending hose, but couldn't get the computer to clear the code, and that code precludes an emissions test.

So I bring it back on this next Friday.

gOSh!

I'm at the Apple Store in Baybrook Mall right now. My youngest daughter is here, too. This very post was created just now on the biggest, baddest, fire-breathingest Mac Pro in the room. The monitor is one of those gigantic 30 inch jobs that makes you think you're looking out of the windshield of a giant Kenworth truck.

I am like a blind dog in a meathouse, and I don't know what to look at next. I want to cry. I want a lot of money. I want to walk out of here with this right now.

So, do you think they'd notice? Everybody seems to be kinda preoccupied now...

New Species

Not known for frequenting berry patches, this specimen was found in a staff meeting. As you can tell by the ratio of notes to drawn strokes, it was a very productive meeting...for me. Click the image for a closer look. I am accepting Latin taxonomy suggestions in the comments.


**Addendum**
If any of you can come up with specifications on this beast, please suggest. Size, habitat, diet, level of education; put it in the comments.

Thanx...

...and you're not off the hook, none of you!

I want to take this opportunity to thank the readers and contributors to the geezer knowledge base. Old Time Simple Pleasures.

But if you think of other examples, please feel free to submit them as well. Who knows, if I publish the compendium, it could end up being required reading for junior high school kids! Or at the very least, hospitals could give them in gift bags to new parents..."Trust us, you'll need this one day...".

Keep reading, writing and remembering. Thanks so much.

Spider Bite

This essay perhaps isn’t what you think it is about. Truth is, I MAY have eaten a spider. Please, dear reader, don’t be too alarmed. And don’t fret for my well-being. This was a little over a week ago, so I have passed the 7 day incubation period for turning into Spiderman.

It happened while picking blackberries at the Soderberg Farm and Chicken Resort. It happened in the midst of liberating the great, near-bursting Brazos Blackberries from amongst the thorns and tangle where they were imprisoned. Had they remained there, they would surely have been pecked by mockingbirds, stung by stinkbugs or webbed up by spiders. I know that there are spiders that frequent the berry vines because of the housing projects that they build.

I was pulling berries in a focused frenzy when one berry in particular appeared to be too close to self-juicing, so I reflexively popped it in my greedy mouth. On it’s way to my gaping maw, I subconsciously noticed a gossamer thread leading from the back side of the berry to somewhere deep within the thicket of tangled thorns and twisted canes. It was too late to stop, even with the alert bells clanging; the inevitable outcome came to culmination. The threshold of teeth was crossed, and even as my right hand tried to catch the spider web that trailed from my mouth, I bit the juicy berry and flooded my mouth with the sweet nectar.

There was another sensation, however, that I noticed in my mouth. I thought that perhaps it could be the suggestion that the spider web was in there trying to rescue the berry. But this had the feeling of being bigger than a single strand of silk. Maybe it was a small wad of it. It was possible, however, that it was the original source of the silk, because it was sticking to the back of my throat. I swallowed the berry, and then made the sound of one trying to dislodge a fish bone from the throat. That didn’t work. I repeated the sound, and that’s when the mental picture came to me.

I imagined a small arachnid clinging to my tonsil, too afraid of the teeth and tongue to even bite. This picture caused me to repeat the “dislodge sequence” followed by a couple of purple expectorations. To no avail.

I decided not to panic, and took a common sense remedy that I felt sure that any old timer would suggest; I ate three or four more berries. Eventually, this tactic must have had the desired effect, because after the last one, I no longer detected any passengers, real, imagined or webbed.

This past Sunday when I picked more of the sweet treasures, I took a second or two longer to give at least a cursory review of the exterior of the berries I ate.

I take solace in the fact that at least the spider wasn’t living in my ear.

When We Were Kids

There was no Nintendo, Internet, iPods, cell phones or any of the myriad other devices that kids need to be entertained these days.

I climbed trees, read books (yes Martha, encyclopedias and dictionaries included) played in the dirt, talked to the dog, looked at clouds and countless other activities that were just as non-productive as our children's tricks. The main difference being that my activities cost nothing and used no electricity or expensive batteries.

I was talking with someone on the way up the stairs to the office today about how we occupied our idle hours. I told him of the sport of slug salting that I engaged in during those damp, early mornings of yesteryear.

His story was from West Texas. He related that they used to pour coal oil down a spider hole, and when the resident tarantula jumped out, they used to try to hit the spider in question with a tennis racket.

If you have simple yet entertaining methods of wasting time that your memory releases to you, please comment and relay them. The creativity of your youth must be chronicled. And where better to do that?

Tool Primer

I wish I were clever enough to come up with stuff this funny on my own. Alas, I am not. However, I am smart enough to be able to post it here. A smart alecky friend emailed it to me, so now you get to see it, too. This is really funny.

Tools and Their Uses

1. DRILL PRESS: A tall upright machine useful for suddenly snatching flat metal bar stock out of your hands so that it smacks you in the chest and flings your favorite chilled beverage across the room, splattering it against that freshly painted part you were drying.

2. WIRE WHEEL: Cleans paint off bolts and then throws them somewhere under the workbench with the speed of light. Also removes fingerprint whorls and hard-earned guitar calluses in about the time it takes you to say, "D'Oh!!!"

3. ELECTRIC HAND DRILL: Normally used for spinning pop rivets in their holes until you die of old age.

4 . PLIERS: Used to round off hexagonal bolt heads.

5. HACKSAW: One of a family of cutting tools built on the Ouija board principle: It transforms human energy into a crooked, unpredictable motion, and the more you attempt to influence its course, the more dismal your future becomes.

6. VISE GRIP PLIERS: Used to round off bolt heads. If nothing else is available, they can also be used to transfer intense welding heat to the palm of your hand.

7. OXYACETYLENE TORCH: Used almost entirely for setting various flammable objects in your shop on fire. Also handy for igniting the grease inside a wheel hub from which you are trying to remove the bearing race.

8. WHITWORTH SOCKETS: Once used for working on older British cars and motorcycles, they are now used mainly for impersonating that 9/16 or 1/2" socket you've been searching for, for the last 15 minutes.

9. HYDRAULIC FLOOR JACK: Used for lowering an automobile to the ground after you have installed your new disk brake pads, trapping the jack handle firmly under the bumper.

10. EIGHT-FOOT LONG DOUGLAS FIR 4X4: Used to attempt to lever an automobile upward off a hydraulic jack handle.

11. TWEEZERS: A tool for removing splinters of wood, especially Douglas fir.

12. TELEPHONE: Tool for calling your neighbor to see if he has another hydraulic floor jack.

13. SNAP-ON GASKET SCRAPER: Theoretically, useful as a sandwich tool for spreading mayonnaise; used mainly for removing dog feces from your boots.

14. E-Z OUT BOLT AND STUD EXTRACTOR: A tool that snaps off in bolt holes and is ten times harder than any known drill bit.

15. TWO-TON HYDRAULIC ENGINE HOIST: A handy tool for testing the tensile strength of bolts and fuel lines you forgot to disconnect.

16. CRAFTSMAN 1/2 x 16-INCH SCREWDRIVER: A large motor mount prying tool that inexplicably has an accurately machined screwdriver tip on the end without the handle.

17. AVIATION METAL SNIPS: See hacksaw.

18. TROUBLE LIGHT: The home mechanic's own tanning booth. Sometimes called a droplight, it is a good source of vitamin D, "the sunshine vitamin," which is not otherwise found under cars at night. Health benefits aside, its main purpose is to consume 40-watt light bulbs at about the same rate that 105-mm howitzer shells might be used during, say, the first few hours of the Battle of the Bulge. More often dark than light, its name is somewhat misleading.

19. PHILLIPS SCREWDRIVER: Normally used to stab the lids of old-style paper-and-tin oil cans and squirt oil on your shirt; can also be used, as the name implies, to round off the interiors of Phillips screw heads.

20. AIR COMPRESSOR: A machine that takes energy produced in a coal-burning power plant 200 miles away and transforms it into compressed air that travels by hose to a Pneumatic impact wrench that grips rusty bolts last tightened 70 years ago by someone at GM, and rounds them off or twists them off.

21. PRY BAR: A tool used to crumple the metal surrounding that clip or bracket you needed to remove in order to replace a 50 cent part.

22. HOSE CUTTER: A tool used to cut hoses exactly one inch too short.

23. HAMMER: Originally employed as a weapon of war, the hammer nowadays is used as a kind of divining rod to locate expensive parts not far from the object we are trying to hit.

23. MECHANIC'S KNIFE: Used to open and slice through the contents of cardboard cartons delivered to your front door; works particularly well on boxes containing upholstered items, chrome-plated metal, plastic parts and the other hand not holding the knife.

So there you have it; a complete description of the tools all men need, and occasionally use correctly.

Turtle in the Road

Yesterday driving home from work, I spied a large (bigger than a serving platter) soft-shell turtle trying to cross Highway 35 just North of Alvin. He was (I assume it was a "he" since a "she" would've asked someone for advice on an easier, less dangerous way to get from one place to another) in the middle of the right Northbound lane at the moment I saw him. There was a red Cavalier bearing down on him, closing at around 50 mph. I looked at the driver and the nose of the car dipped slightly as she braked and made a small course correction; she straddled the old fella as he yanked his head back in to avoid the inside of a tire.

When he emerged from the back of the car, I looked down the road and I saw about 15 vehicles of varying sizes, shapes and tire counts. I wondered if he would survive the new onslaught, knowing that some of the close-followers wouldn't have time to swerve to miss the great slick beast.

At that second, I empathized with that turtle; things happen fast, and sometimes they keep happening. Without much of a break in sight. And you, the turtle in the road, don't have much to say about most of it. Except maybe, "Oh DANG...". If you're lucky, you can finish your phrase.

When I made the return trip this morning, I looked for evidence of the old guy, secretly hoping not so see a large greasy spot in my lane. Not usually one to have much sympathy for soft-shelled turltes, I was pulling for him.

I am glad to say that the roads were clear this morning, save for that skunk near Friendswood. Despite the unwise decision that the big guy made in trying to cross a busy highway at the worst time of day, he made it to the new retention pond in the new subdivision they're building. Someday, a kid will tell of a giant turtle that ate his puppy at the side of that pond.

I really don't like soft-shelled turtles.

Your Best Shot

Is cortisone. Especially if you have a bad shoulder. Yeah, it comes in a needle six inches long, and requires two others to accompany it, but it's already worth it.

I got my bad shoulder ("bad shoulder, bad, bad shoulder...") injected first thing this morning. Well not FIRST thing, I signed in and wrote the check for the co-pay (hurt worse than the injection), THEN got the injections.

The big needle, full of cortisone and some kind of pain management juice, was the most uncomfortable; it went really deep (I didn't actually SEE it, he snuck in behind me) but I felt the injection site at my left shoulder and felt the "deep pressure" (Dr. Holt's words) all the way down to my right knee...

They said that it could be irritating for 36 hours or so, but I reassured them that I could be irritating for a lot longer than that. Try 47 years.

I am sentenced to six weeks of physical therapy three times a week. I can take the physical discomfort; I know that my shoulder will feel better soon. The co-pain is what this geezer will cringe at the most. Rumor has it that the PT sessions are $40 each, and at three times a week for six weeks, that adds up to some serious fishing equipment. Almost to the software level.

But if all of this brings my shoulder back into my good graces, it may be worth it.

Blues

We have blue dust bunnies in the bathroom. Not that dust bunnies in our bathroom are unusual, just that they are blue.

Last week we were in Sam’s Club, and we made the mistake of walking around with our eyes open. With the outsized basket leading the way, we went down every aisle and weighed whether we had the room/need/cash for any of it. I think most of what they sell is impulse buying of the highest order. Most likely, the giant quantities of food get wasted.

We found ourselves on the linen aisle, and there were two huge cardboard bins of towels with “8 for $15” or some ridiculously low price. We have been slowly losing towels for a while, the inevitable rips and tears, bleach holes, glass break/spill mishaps and ‘we left it outside for the kitties”. It seems we had to wash towels every day just to keep up with the demands of showers and hair washing.

With a deal like that staring at us, all we had to do was choose blue or white. White was not an option for us; we just aren’t a “white towel” family. The blue was the instant choice. We bought two bundles. Of course, we picked up some washcloths, too. Blue as well.

Now, in the shower as I am drying off, I start to see little tufts of blue against my white skin. And when I get out of the shower to dry and dress, I squint down into the tub and see it speckled with blue lint. I wash it out the best I can in my semi-blind state, but I know they are still there. As the drying process persists, I am sure the linting phenomenon does as well.

When we wash a load of the new towels, the dryer lint trap is a thick blue blanket that comes off all at once. I am tempted to make a pillow or a comforter out of it. I just don’t know how long it will last. The towels seem to be of good quality, but I wonder if I should save the lint to make new towels out of when they dwindle to nothing.

I bet I could find instructions on how to do that on the internet.

Where O Where is the Fusion?

I got to work this morning and spied my reflection in a mirror. My neck looks like a bull's at the hands of a matador. There was blood everywhere. The carnage made me madder than anything, why does the Fusion cost so much? I longed for the phalanx of blades in the smooth patrol over my face and neck.

So much for that. I'll bleed my blood rather than bleeding money.
I'm over it.

...But they have one with a motor in it, I wonder what THAT's like...

Growth Pie Study: UPDATE

IT is with a heavy waist that I announce the results of the Flying Saucer Pie Growth Chemical Study; Chocolate, Lemon and Key Lime...

Key lime most likely had more of the chemicals in there, since I ate most of it myself and nobody else grew any larger. The suit still fits pretty much the same, but one more study and I may need to go back to the tailor. Chocolate was good, but not as good as my mother-in-law's; Lemon was good, but not as good as my mom's; Key lime just made me want to focus solely on that variety. I could taste the sweetened condensed milk (Dime brand, right?) along with the lime. The consistency was smooth and sweet, the hint of lime tanginess coupled with, uh, DANG, I need some more of it...

No, I'll be strong. I'm already big...

Growth Chemicals

Well, I bought a new suit last Friday. I had to get the trousers altered because they were, like size 46 or something and unhemmed, of course. So the tailor had to put cuffs at the bottom and take them up quite a bit in the waist and seat. QUITE a bit! I picked them up this afternoon and tried them on. Well, the pants were a little loose, which I'm sure is the standard procedure for suit pants. You don't want to be struggling with a tight waistband when you're supposed to be looking beautiful, right?

My wife bought three pies from her sister's son as a fundraiser. Flying Saucer Pies from Flying Saucer Pie Company in Houston. Chocolate, lemon and key lime. I have been studying them quite carefully, and have concluded that the ingredients include a substance that promotes growth in humans. I think it's gradual, but the amount of study that I am conducting (two down, one to go), may show that the rate accelerates randomly.

And theoretically that may take care of the suit pants being a little too loose.

Stay tuned.

Happy Easter

As we all know, the celebration of Easter is a mélange of Christian and pagan celebrations. One is the commemoration of the ministry, death and resurrection of the Messiah, the Savior of the world, Jesus; and the other is an observance of the vernal equinox, the coming of spring and the new life offered thereby.

So you have the Easter bunny, decorated eggs and the Risen Savior, all at one time. In East Texas, however, there is a fete involving not the Easter bunny, but the Easter Possum.

While considered a nuisance and an ugly, prehistoric, giant rat-like creature, the opossum is a gentle marsupial with no malice for anyone. Actually, they have a taste for snails and slugs and snakes, the three favorite creatures to hate.

In the Eastern part of Texas, the locals revere the possum as a food source and the harbinger of spring. This time of year, the woods are rife with possum. You can’t drive down a country road at night without risking a close encounter. And at Easter time, you need to watch out, because the possum you swerve to miss may be the celebrated Easter Possum. This messenger of the season is decked out in a gray fur coat and the special set of 42 teeth. In the marsupial pouch, she carries eggs, candy and baby possum, the symbol for summer barbeques. Typically, the children leave nests of clover, pine needles and snails for the Easter Possum to enjoy on her nightly rounds. There is also a small plug of chewing tobacco for luck guarding the Easter Possum against locals with a .410.

Sometimes pickings get slim in East Texas, especially in the counties where the logging industry has sagged, and although it’s not recommended or encouraged, it is perfectly acceptable to revere the Easter Possum next to potatoes and poke salad.

It's Been a Week...

...and i've got nothing. Sorry for both of you regular readers. i just don't have time. i had a couple of good ideas; my sister reminded me of something, but i didn't have time to write/type it down and now it's gone. i shut my eyes for a minute and someone came and snatched the thoughts from me.

Dave Barry is really funny

Dave Barry is a really funny guy. A clever and smart-alecky writer who is one of the inspirations for me and the semi-smart-alecky blog you are reading. Or are pretending to read. And not commenting on. Apparently. Which I wish would stop. Not the "reading" part, the "not commenting" part.

I have had a couple of conversations today, oddly enough, concerning words and their proper and popular uses. Sometimes not the same thing. I have spoken/written of this before.

Read Dave Barry's column about "Mr. Language Person". You'll laugh, you'll cry, it's better than Cats.

...Now Internationally Recognized!

I can only say this because a Swedish friend in London took a night-shift job and has done some catching up on the GeezerChron in between studying and working.

SO, in addition to the four people who read this in Brazoria, Galveston and Harris counties, there is a Swede in London who pretends to enjoy my rants.

Thanks Mikael, you made me an international author. Sort of.

I win!

Slow Ride in Tyler Texas

Whenever you hear a song from your past, the memories flood back in an instant. You may be transported back immediately to the beach, or in the student center of the high school or the parking lot of the Weingarten’s grocery store. It may be an idyllic vacation spot in the Hill Country, or some East Texas lake. Almost any Chicago song takes me back to a certain ’64 Ford Falcon in Texas City.

But the song “Slow Ride” by Foghat whisks me away to Tyler Texas on a rainy weekend thirty-something years ago. An odd journey, you might say, but the story is tattooed on my brain. And the brains of three others in the geezer demographic.

Our families were always together, at church, after church and many times in between. The Dickson and the Soderberg adults got along famously, completely compatible in every sense. The kids always had a great time together, too. I think WE had more fun than the parents, but that’s just from our perspective. We played 8-track tapes and laughed a lot.

This particular time, we had all made a pilgrimage to the East Texas town of Van, the old homestead of our friends’. The town was so small, there was no lodging any closer than the pulsating metropolis of Tyler. There were numerous stop lights and even a motel, where we stayed Friday and Saturday nights. We roamed around the back roads of Van on Saturday, everybody piled into our truck (an early SUV; camper shell decked out with long bench seats and a vinyl “boot” connecting the cab and the camper) looking out the windows while stories about long ago ran around the space, with everyone laughing and imagining the old days.

My Dad and Mr. Dickson went and tromped around in the rain on some stickerburr-infested property that was owned by Mrs. Dickson’s family. Everybody else sat in the truck and waited for them.

So where does “Slow Ride” come in?

On Sunday morning, the day we were to leave, we were having breakfast in the diner associated with the motel. As usual, the adults were in one booth, and us kids were at another. The place was quiet at 7 a.m. on that morning, with older couples eating their waffles and eggs along with cups of coffee, their spoons quietly tinkling in the thick ceramic cups. Mostly rural types; farmers and retired oil field workers, ready for a quiet life in a quiet town.

That was all about to change, because we had decided that it was a little TOO quiet. Donna, being the youngest, was instantly and wordlessly chosen to take the magic quarter and feed it to the jukebox we spied up by the kitchen door. I don’t recall much convincing going on, so she innocently strolled up to the jukebox, coin in hand. We also didn’t make any specific requests for a particular song or kind of song, as far as I can remember. Just that the stirring of coffee and soft murmurs in the background perhaps needed a soundtrack.

We watched as she made her way to the jukebox, perused the offerings and made her choice. She spun on her heel and quickly retreated back to our booth by the window, but not before the strains blasted out of the speakers...NAA NUHNT- DA NAA NUNT- DA NAA NUHNT-- NER NEER NAAR - NA NUHNT-DA NAA NUHNT ...ReeeeReeeREEEEEee “SLOW RIDE...TAKE IT EASY...”

It sounded like they had been holding a dance the night before because the decibel level was absolutely off the chart! As Donna flinched and slunk down the aisle to our booth, leading EVERY EYE IN THE DINER right to the small group of stunned and laughing teenagers, the coffee cups rattled on their saucers as forks and knives were dropped next to the fried eggs. As the gravy congealed in the cold stares lowered at us, the manager exploded out of the kitchen scowling at us, and without looking, yanked the jukebox’s power cord out of the wall. He never took his eyes off of us.

I am wondering if the reaction would have been so swift and severe if the choice had been Willie Nelson warbling “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain”. Most likely not, though we can never actually know. I do know that I will likely never venture into Tyler again. Even with the radio off.



*UPDATE*
My lone commentor, so far, has corrected the date of the aforementioned Ford Falcon's model year. I said '64, the former owner says '66. Believe him about that. Believe ME about EVERYTHING ELSE!
Thanx, Falcon!

The Great Race

At our house, we don’t seem to get a lot of special snacks. Only rarely do we buy Cokes (mostly Dr Pepper, Sprite and root beer). Any time we get cherry pies, a special box of cookies or any other sort of extravagance, the chances for survival of the treat immediately plummet.

I made the comment once that my girls consume the orange, apple or grape juice at a rate that would suggest that there is a contest going on in which the object is to eat/drink or otherwise consume the delicacy in a crude and barbaric manner. Heck, I don’t even know how they TASTE the food, much less how they slam it down their throats so quickly! They pour giant tumblers of milk and orange juice, and root beer and Dr Pepper; they heap bowls full of ice cream and pudding and whatever else happens to land on the counter next to the refrigerator. Ice cream seldom even gets a chance to go soft around here.

One evening during the feeding frenzy associated with a jug of white grape peach juice or some other delight, my wife and I were relaxing, watching the news or King of the Hill, you know, something informative. The middle girl dashed through the living room into the kitchen, and in one swift move, grabbed a glass and the last of the juice, and poured the rest of it for herself. She then exclaimed, with glee, “I WIN!”

When we asked what she was talking about, she reminded us of my pronouncement that they acted like the consumption of juice was a contest. She had won, she’d gotten the final drop.

This remains a staple now, whenever someone plays the finale for the milk, juice, pie, ice cream, etc., they exclaim “I WIN!” At least here, I can have the last word.

I win.