La Cucaracha: an essay with passion

La Cucaracha, La cucaracha;
Ya no quieres caminar…

That’s what the song says. It states that the cockroach does not want to continue on. I have never seen a cockroach that did not want to go on. They are survivors. They’re the ones that certain scientists think will survive a nuclear holocaust (like the one that Iran is gearing up for, no doubt). Now, don’t think that just because I admit that they are tough and adaptable and can live indefinitely on next to nothing that I have even a modicum of respect or even (shudder) admiration for these plagues. Nope.

They are nasty, evil, treacherous, and all of that times 10 when they fly at you. Big, high-walking, scratchy-legged scavengers that revel in surprising my daughters in the kitchen, or the bathroom, or outside the front door. They have a diabolical intellect, though simple and unadorned. Their intents are guided primarily by striking fear into humans, and only on the second tier, eating. When a roach flies at you, it is not to escape. It is a tactic reminiscent of the kamikazi pilots of Japan. Take wing directly to the enemy, though he be larger, he may just run screaming like a little girl. Didn’t really work in the Pacific in the early 1940s, but the intent was the same. Except I think that more of those pilots died than have the roaches who take the same approach.

I can’t tell how many times I have been lurched awake from a nap or solid nighttime slumber by the shrieks of my oldest daughter after a sighting. The middle one is better, but she is reluctant to enter a room where one has been seen without proof of extermination; she needs a habeas corpus. The littlest gal is a bit more intrepid; she’ll actually kill one herself with whatever is at hand, and since we don’t allow shooting in the house, it’s usually a sister’s flip flop conveniently left wherever.

It’s not like we’re infested, we have sprayed around the house at various times and supplemented with Bengal at the entrances and other possible entry points. So most of the shiny brown devils we see are at least ailing, if not on their last tour of duty. This aids us immensely in the killing of the intruders; normally a cockroach’s reflexes are so lightening-fast that they can smell the synapses fire in your arm just as your nerves cause your muscles to contract in the effort to smash them with a shoe. Unless you’re an experienced roach hunter, you don’t know to lead them by a sole width so that they run into the hammer of judgment.

But the experienced hunter also knows that it takes a deft touch to kill the quarry in the proper way. A well-timed, well-aimed monster slam will give the killer a satisfying recoil, but it will also provide the dreaded “pop/crackle” that indicates that you will have the unsavory job of cleaning up the roach innards that explode from the unfortunate target.

I watched my Grandmother play cat-and-mouse with a big roach one summer night a long time ago. We were watching TV and kept seeing the shiny dark form trekking back and forth in front of the old black and white Zenith. Each time GranMommy would spot him, the roach would skitter back across the floor to safety. After several near misses and frustrated attempts to send him to his eternal punishment, she just happened to be returning from a trip to the kitchen that coincided with his trek across the floor. There, in front of all of her grandchildren, GranMommy said, “Roach, you and me have done had it out!”, and with that declaration, she shot her bare foot out and crushed him. We were shocked at her brave, bare foot and admiring of her fearless protection of us.

Ya no quieres caminar, indeed!

A Lament

Being on the forced active job search, I am under somewhat of a strain lately. To put it mildly. I thought it might be nice to slip out this afternoon and go down the grass path to the low water bridge and squeeze off a few rounds of my trusty pistola.

I gathered my .40 and magazines full of 42 rounds of Winchester ammunition, along with my trusty Daisy Powerline, two CO2 cartriges and a box of BBs.

Heading off toward the ditch, I was enjoying the Southeast breeze and the smell of all the grass. I saw a two foot long rat snake. We exchanged greetings and went our separate ways.

As I got closer to the ditch and the “road” that leads to our shooting spot, I noticed that there were new fenceposts and a strand of brand new bob wahr. To the rest of the country that’s “barbed wire”.

I was aghast. How could they do that? Staring in disbelief, I kept walking closer and closer, not wanting to believe my entry was being barred. Passively, yes, but barred nonetheless. There was a day not so long ago that I would have simply ducked under the fence, but in those days I wasn’t carrying a serious caliber pistol in my hip pocket. The thought of encountering someone and them calling the county mounties on me, all the while with a firearm (concealed) and a pile of ammo did not appeal to me. I am out of work, but I don’t think I want to spend that time in jail.

Crestfallen, I trudged back up the dirt track, half hoping to tell the snake my troubles. I crossed the dried up ditch and went up the other side of the tributary. This leads down to the main bayou/ditch where the low concrete bridge is where we used to stand and shoot.

Tromping down the open dirt road that runs parallel to the familiar road to the place I taught my youngest daughter to shoot, I began to really regret the advancement of civilization. Who would do that? Well, it’s just as well; the property I was walking alongside is rumored to have sold for development a while back, and the property behind that has turned into improved pasture for cattle. I looked out across the field to my right and even saw houses. I grew more nervous about seeing houses across the pasture. I made the decision to leave my big pistol holstered, so to speak.

But I just had to reach out and touch something! Good thing I brung my BB gun. I set up a lonesome Sam’s cola can and used up both CO2 cartridges, practicing my aim and trigger control, to the extent that one can on a Daisy Powerline.

So another page turns in my life; no more places to shoot for free. No more getting my nitrocellulose fix, not to mention my little gal and her Annie Oakley practice.

Dang civilization.

An Old Right for a New Generation

The Second Amendment lives! I had a student of mine come up to me at the beginning of class last night and ask if he could have an excused absence. I looked slightly askance at him and said, "Go on..." and he proceeded to tell me that on Wednesday night, he had his home broken into and burgled. They kicked the back door off the hinges and took a lot of stuff.

He went on; when he arrived home and was assessing the loss and damage, the guy came back and was going for round 2. Michael, the student, heard the intruder and retrieved his 9 mm pistol. He approached the guy and basically told him, "You can stand still right there, or I will shoot you."

I guess the guy, though Michael said his eyes were switching and twitching like a thing that twitches and switches around a lot, was lucid enough to understand that the fella with the pistol wasn't fooling around. The police got there and cuffed the drugged-out burgular and took the report.

So needless to say, he had some things to take care of that night, which probably included buying a pizza for his 9 mm.

I let him off, shook his hand for exercising his right to keep and bear (and bare) arms to protect his life and property, and had a good class.

I hope he gets it all straightened out, the doors repaired and new hollow points for his weapon.

Cuz you never know.

Chivalry is Not Dead...

...even when other things are.

Sometimes you just have to do the right thing. Like the time I went to my sister’s house to borrow the floating family edger. She was on vacation up in the Hill Country for a week or so, and it would still be several days before she arrived home again. My yard couldn’t wait.

I backed the ol’ Caravan into the driveway and lifted the back door for a quick-load-quick-getaway. As I approached the garage door, I heard some loud buzzing and saw a couple of big green-tailed flies that seemed anxious to get into the garage.

“Hmm, them’s some big flies.”

As I opened the door, I noticed a large number of other flies coming out to meet me. That’s odd. I ventured in past the cloud of insects toward the interior of the garage and on the first breath I drew, the unmistakable scent of decomposition met me like a sack of humid rotted cat, right in my sizeable nose. My eyes grew accustomed to the dimly lit tomb and sure enough, there was a very large decomposing orange tabby cat sitting there, well, decomposing. Now, when I see the CSI guys stroll into a crime scene with a five-day-old corpse decaying in the kitchen I know that it’s just a set with ersatz yuk on the floor. I don’t think anyone could keep a straight face in an atmosphere filled with putrefying flesh. Actors.

What I saw was a truly amazing composition that put me in mind of the famous painting; “the Death of Marat”, by Jacques Louis-David. That painting is of a man dying in his bathtub, fatally stabbed while writing, his quill pen still in his right hand, which had fallen limply to the floor, his head leaning on his right shoulder. The cat was a mirror image of this pose, save for the pen. He sat in repose, in a plastic baby tub with his legs out in front of him and his left paw outside the tub, and he was leaning heavily to his left. While I was amused by this similarity, the stench soon drove me outside amidst gags and chokes.

I briefly considered grabbing the edger and flying back home with nary a word to anyone. That option was short-lived; I couldn’t dream of having my sister come home from vacation to a ripe, dead feline ruining her babies’ bathtub. My path was clear; I had to dispose of this cat-tastrophy.

I wore a bandana around my head as a sweatband, and quickly decided to repurpose it to become a mask to protect me from the “eau de rotting kitty”. I took a couple of deep breaths and returned to the crime scene to assess what I could do. There was a large paper garbage bag provided by the city close at hand, and it looked as though I could slide the entire tub, cat and all into it and thus be rid of the entire thing at once. No way was I going to clean the tub out. There’s not enough bleach in Texas to disinfect that plastic tub.

About this time, I ran out of oxygen and had to bolt for the outside air once again. As I got clear of the stink zone, I again took a breath, this time through the bandana. Big mistake. The cloth held the molecules of stench in suspension until I could actually use them. Gag. Gag again, this time with the lunch I had consumed hours before nearly making an appearance.

I repeated that sequence about four more times as I readied the reeking tabby for his final journey to the landfill; breathe, run in, finagle tub/cat/bag until I run out of air, run outside. I finally secured him and his vehicle in the gigantic paper bag, rolled the top shut tightly and galloped to the curbside. Now it was someone else’s problem, most notably, the sanitation workers. Better them than me, since their olfactory fatigue has been keeping them alive since their second week on the job.

We never figured out how the unfortunate animal met his demise or how he ended up so conveniently in the tub, but I was thankful for whatever coincidences lined up to make my incredibly selfless act a little bit less, ah, pukish. I proudly say that I did not at any time of this ordeal actually hurl; but I gagged more than I ever had. Ever.

Still, when I think of it, I kinda want to spit.

Just Peachy

I love a peach. Not just any peach, but a really good, sweet, juicy Freestone peach. The kind they grow in the Texas Hill Country.

Alas, they don’t build peaches the way they used to. I had a couple of peaches last week that looked an awful lot like a peach, same size as a peach, same fuzzy demeanor, even a faint whiff of peach.

My hopes, as always, rose, but after the first bite, they were dashed. Though disappointed, I was not surprised when each in turn ended up as mealy, dry, pale imitations of what I wanted. These were strip-mined peaches from California, with flavor and juice bred out of them and “shippability” bred in. They will travel for days in a truck from coast to coast and not have much more than a slight contusion on the stem end, or a mere scrape across the cheek.

Flavor? No. But durability in spades.

The peaches that I long for are the ones from Kerrville and Fredricksburg that are as big as my fist (a pretty big fist) and so sweet and juicy you need a pancho and an insulin shot when you eat them.

When I was a kid (here it comes, Geezer Alert), I remember hopping barefooted across the asphalt griddle that was the parking lot of the Weingarten’s grocery store and into the cool air-conditioned store. The chilled floor soothed my feet and from the produce aisle off to the right the unmistakable aroma of peaches overtook me from twenty feet away. The Hill Country peaches were in.

As a young tough in high school, I recall a certain teacher, Mr. Christian, who would come by my Mother’s workplace and take orders for Fredricksburg peaches, by the half–bushel box. We usually got at least four and sometimes more when he arrived back in town. Then as a kid at home during the summer, my job was to peel and slice as many as I could. The resulting bounty was subsequently frozen, preserved or just sliced and sugared to go in a plastic tub in the refrigerator. These were used for every day tasks such as corn flake duty, Blue Bell ice cream accompaniment or to put in the milkshakes we used to make.

It was a job that was never like a job; something I didn’t mind doing at all. I would start at the pointed end and peel downward to the stem end (the peel came right off that way) and then run the knife around longitudinally, then a final lateral double circumnavigation into the big bowl in my lap, tossing the stone in a bag. Time after time, peach after peach and I never tired of the scent or the fuzz or the juice running from my fingers to my hand to my elbow.

My aunt Winnie, Grandaddy’s sister, had a peach tree in her back yard in Galveston. I used to accompany my grandparents there to pick peaches and figs. The peaches were grand, and I distinctly remember a picture of peaches backlit by the morning sun on Heard’s Lane and as I touched the skin, the tiny hairs falling off into the breeze in a faint cascade of shimmering dust. I wish you all could see the picture I have in my head from that vantage point. The act of purchasing your fruit with your own physical exertion; climbing the tree, holding on to the bucket, reaching for the perfectly ripe fruit that come to you hand as willingly and as gently as a drop of water coming off of a leaf.

It’s been years since I had eaten a peach that lived up to all I have just described to you. Too many times I have sniffed, squeezed and bitten only to be disappointed or even repulsed. There are peaches that I won’t tolerate past my teeth.

We went to New Branufels last year, the final “full-blown-whole-family-we’re-having-a-great-time-aren’t-we vacation. On the way to Canyon Lake, we saw a roadside stand next to a sun-bleached F150 with little buckets of “FREDRICKSBURG PEACHES”, so the sign said. Following an afternoon at the lake, we had to stop and sample some of their wares.

The friendly feller said that they were $5 a bucket, and though they looked awful small to me, I succumbed and forked over my five. Walking back to the van, I felt a little cheated; these things were not even the size of a tennis ball. Oh, well.

On the way back to the hotel, my middle daughter couldn’t stand the thought of those peaches sitting untouched, so she snagged one. Upon tasting the flesh of it, she exclaimed loudly, attesting to what I had only hoped for. “These are SO GOOD!” etc.

I had her select one for me while the other girls eagerly grabbed one of their own to sample. When I bit into it, I felt like letting go of the wheel and flying off to heaven on my own. It was the peach that I have searched for over the last twenty years. The Hill Country Peach that I remembered was disappearing down my gullet. Memories flooded back and the Geezer rose up in his seat, looked into the rearview mirror and intoned the sacred words, “Girls, THAT’s what a peach should taste like”.

And it is true.

Fire on the Front (yard)

The battle against the insects continues on another front. I am waging war on the army that has been massing these past few weeks. Through some unintentional reconnaissance, I discovered a large camp housing several battalions of my particular foe.

I found a big mess of fire ants on the side of the house. I was pulling up a tall weed, and as the grass parted, the mound became visible, and in half a second, a brown tide of angry ants came boiling out toward me, covering the adjacent fence boards and climbing the stalk toward my hand frozen on the stalk.

When I was a kid, we had two kinds of ants to contend with; little black ants and red ants. The black ants were innocuous little societies, running and gathering and burrowing all the time, and I was content to watch them for hours (cumulatively) over the kid years. They were even OK to gently pick up to traverse the acre of your hand.

Red ants were the ones to watch out for. They were aggressive and dealt a painful sting. Their hills were a bit higher and their pace was more deliberate and ominous. The only redeeming aspect of their existence was that they are the primary food of the Texas horned toad.

This was all before the advent of the fire ant invasion from South America. Google it if you want to know more about the origins of these murderous little devils. Back before they came to oppress us, a kid could lay in the shade of a tree right there on the grass. For a half hour or more at a time, with no idea of being overrun by ants. Nowadays (how’s THAT for a geezer expression) one would be hard pressed to stand still in a yard of any kind for more than a few minutes for fear of attracting a traveling scout party of fire ants ready to kill and drag anything smaller than a Brahma bull to the (most likely) nearby ant hill.

I have seen baby birds knocked from the nest by an evening storm suffering on the ground, covered with biting, stinging, dismembering little terrors. Evil creatures. Their sting is where their name is derived; it burns like fire almost immediately, and even after you mash the deliverer to butter, the fresh bite still feels exactly like it is still being stung. The wound takes an overnight break, then develops into the characteristic little blister surrounded by an itching ring of fire. I think this is what Johnny Cash may have been inspired by…

I suppose the most frightening thing about them besides their toxicity is their teamwork. What happens when you step on (or near) the hill, phalanxes of heartless little soldiers are dispatched to swarm your foot, climb your leg and bite at the same time. The victim is suddenly compelled to start the “ant dance” in a futile attempt to dislodge them from their post. Feet are slapped, ankles are rubbed, shins are skimmed, shoes come off, heck I have seen pants come off in an attempt to repel the stinging hordes.

My Dad’s remedy, though not completely effective, is more fun to watch. His method is to take a spade full from one mound, place it next to another mound, take a spade from the second mound, place it in the original hill and likewise with the first shovel full. This technique pits the innate aggression of both “families” to maximum effect, and if he’s lucky, a soldier ant gets in to the queen’s chamber and delivers a fatal “check mate”.

It’s often the little things that bring one pleasure in the battle for yard dominance. My Dad has found one.

Now where did I leave my shovel?

Driving the View*

As some of you know, I am no longer employed where I was before. You also know my thoughts on it. ‘Nuf said. Now I drive to work in a different direction. These days, instead of driving into Pasadena, Texas, the largest small town in the country, I drive into Lake Jackson. It’s the complete opposite direction, in every way, and the traffic is not even an issue.

Normally, one would drive down State Highway 35 from Alvin, to FM 523 to FM 2004 and into Lake Jackson/Clute on Business 288. Now, I know that’s a lot of numbers, and to those of you on the left coast, it means absolutely nothing. Trust me when I tell you; it is some of the nicest driving on the Gulf Coast of Texas.

Naturally, I wanted to see if there were other routes to get me to my destination and home again. Since I knew that FM 2004 goes pretty much straight from Lake Jackson to Alvin with naught but a single traffic light in 25 miles, and that a road behind our neighborhood leads directly down to 2004 with naught but one light that more often than not remains green, I figured that would be the way to go.

On my way home the second day, I opted for the straight 2004 (referred to around here as “two double oh four”) to 2917 route home. Just a flat, mostly gun-barrel-straight road through undeveloped coastal prairie crossing several bayous and creeks. Then the “big bridge” over Chocolate Bayou, which is a steep, high structure over the largest waterway between Galveston and Freeport. The sky is wide and the Gulf breeze that blows across the Brazoria Wildlife Refuge is fresh and strong.

I made the mistake of driving 2917 to 2004 on the morning end of the commute one day. There are petrochemical plants down that direction. You’ll see why this is important in a couple of seconds.

Can you imagine being caught in the middle of the Long Beach Grand Prix while you're riding a tricycle? This is what it feels like trying to hold at a reasonable 60 miles an hour with F-250s, Ram 2500s, Silverados and battered Nissan Sentras running up your tailpipe at an average of about 75 miles per. There is a wide shoulder, but it’s often populated by dead possums or raccoons or some other obstacle. This precludes the normal courtesy of pulling to the right while the impatient plant workers blast by with scowls of disapproval. They whip out from behind you in a cloud of diesel smoke or gasoline-produced carbon monoxide in a huff and give no time for you to even try to move over.

Having survived that, I learned my lesson: 35 in the morning, 2004 in the afternoon. With that knowledge burned into my brain, I could now enjoy the commute that I needed to make every day. It’s easier to take pleasure in a nice drive when there isn’t a ton and a half of screaming metal and diesel fuel looming in your rearview mirror like the kiss of death.


*the title is a reference to the song by the same title by Son Volt, an "alt country" group outta Missouri. Good stuff.

Geezers Arise!

(hnnnnnhh, UNHnhh!, stands to full height)
Dang, my foot's asleep.

WORDY GUY with NO ROMAN NuMERAL

UPDATE

THE LONG AWAITED ANSWER: Is "B", Stingy or frugal.

Many thanks to you smart alecks whose penchant for making up your own definitions (Innominatus and Wollf) make the comments funnier than the whole blog on a normal basis. But SIS is the one who got it right. She played to win. And did.

I hope RobV's caffienated sinuses fully recover enough to provide us with another installment soon. This is fun!

I have lost track of the roman numeral associated with this installment of Wordy Guy. But that does not diminish it's fun or importance. Nay, if anything, it frees me to not worry about counting every one of these. And If Rob V stays on board with us here, we'll get more of this educational fun.

As always, do your best, dig deep in your brains, and NO CHEATING...

Parsimonious

A. Extremely self-righteous, to the point of being "holier than thou."

B. Stingy or frugal

C. Extremely bitter and resentful

Computers Have Taken Over

I was drawing today, the old-fashioned way; paper and pencil. I am doing a couple of preliminary sketches for a guy gearing up to make a movie. My job will (hopefully) be to do the storyboard drawings to a) sell the idea to investors and b) show the progression of the shots to plan out the film being shot. Pretty cool.

It’s been a while since I have just sat and drawn pictures, and as I had been sitting there for half an hour or so, I decided to get up and get some water. Just before I stood up, my mind started to fire the synapses to my left hand to hit “command + S”; the Mac keyboard shortcut to “Save” a file.

I couldn’t believe that the action gotten that far. Totally inconceivable. Have I been creating art on a computer for so long that even a simple act that I have done virtually all my life been invaded by the requirements of the virtual world?

I had to laugh when I actually realized what had happened. I told my daughter about it, and she just grinned and rolled her eyes.

I just hope that my students read this and realize how deeply ingrained that the actions become.

Not Intended for the USPS

I was at my parents’ house the other day, and a poor little gecko that had been smashed somewhere and dried out to an ashy, shadow of a husk turned up. It reminded my Mom of an anecdote that included, of all things, a similarly-fated lizard and the United States Postal Service.

It may be important to assert that the statute of limitations on minor postal transgressions is likely elapsed many times over in the intervening 27 years, so there is not too much danger of an arrest by an overzealous postal inspector.

Being in college in far-flung Commerce, Texas, any correspondence from anyone but the Dallas Morning News was welcome. OK, even sales pitches from The Dallas Morning News, the Fort Worth Star Telegram or even the Pecan Gap Citizen were welcome. REAL mail was almost too much to ask for.

But one day, I got an envelope from my sister. I was so excited. As I all but skipped back up the walkway to the porch, I wondered at the small greasy spot on the back of the envelope. And it was kinda thicker than a letter or card.

On opening the packet, I quickly realized that it was not actually a letter so much as a tomb. A tomb for a little greasy spot that slightly resembled a shrimp. Had my sister actually sent me a shrimp in the mail? And there was a smell. Kinda shrimpy.

After a little more careful inspection, notice I didn’t say “closer inspection”, there seemed to be more of a land-based creature; the partial skeleton and overly gaunt form made me think of perhaps a small lizard. HAD MY SISTER SENT ME A FORMERLY LIVE LIZARD THAT THE MAIL MAN KILLED?

Even though at that time, 1982 to be precise, long-distance telephone conversations were reserved for special occasions or really important news. This qualified. I called her and asked her what made her even think of this sick, sick, sick, funny, strange, sick, weird, awesome, sick little prank. She laughed and said that it was completely dessicated when she found it wherever it was and it came to her in a flash, “Send it to aAron” in the mail.

While she said that the tiny lizard was utterly mummified and should not have greased the envelope he came to me in, I do concede that it had been a bit rainy in Commerce for a few days. Maybe it had gotten a little time to “reconstitute” in the humidity of an East Texas post office.

Needless to say, I will never see a pressed lizard and not think of a certain winter day when I went to the mailbox and found a surprise. And also fear my sister, just a little.

Something Random...

How many miles to the galleon did the Spanish Armada get?


UPDATE

I never got a definitive answer to this very real question. I only got invective for my use of a very tasteful pun. Offers to pummel me with pillows and the like.

Does knowbody no the answer? Just make something up, OK?

Fourth of July Waterworks Show

Fridays, I get off early during the Summer. I think most of the regulars know this. This is a good thing.

I arrived at home at around one in the afternoon, just as the females in the house were readying themselves for a trip to the movies. I had eaten some sort of food for lunch and was just on the verge of zoning out in the chair. My youngest sat at the fireplace awaiting her ride to the movie. My wife was in our bathroom, making the final preparations for their outing.

As I was nearing the doze-point, I heard some sounds of urgency from the back of the house. “Wabba wabba weeba wabba, wabba water wanh wanh! Help wanh!” As I moved toward the sound, it became clear that something was amiss. I thought that perhaps she was hurt or possibly a roach or other abominable hazard.

I burst into our room and heard her harsh and assiduous tones joined by the sound of spraying water. Rounding the edge of the sink area, I saw my wife leaning over, clutching a towel with it jammed down on the cold water side of our faucet. Water was gushing from under the terry cloth relentlessly. I dove beneath the counter and reached through the waterfall to turn off the supply valve.

That done, the relieved spouse withdrew the towel and sure enough, the cold water faucet handle was just gone. I peered down the hole and sure enough, I saw all the way down the tube to the water treatment plant.

I analyzed the hardware and could see nothing obviously broken. Yet there we were, the countertop swimming in the city water supply. My wife describes the order of events as 1) turning on the hot water valve, 2) cold water valve blasting off like a Saturn V rocket to the ceiling. Or almost.

After they left, I sat in my chair for a while, dreading the trip to the Dome Hepot for a replacement faucet. The trick was going to be the drain stopper mechanism. In case you have never replaced a faucet, the box contains a stopper assembly that necessarily entails the removal of the silver ring that you spit your toothpaste at in the bottom of the sink. Not really hard, just not fun. And the opportunity to over or under-tighten something resulting in a leak. So I made the decision to go with the direct replacement. With the failure of the original after such a short time, the prospect of duplicating the initial mistake was cause for hesitation. But the prospect of replacing the drain was the tipping point.

I dragged myself up from the air-conditioned comfort of the living room and into the blazing heat of the afternoon, on a trek to find an American Standard Cadet faucet set.

I am glad to say that the procurement and installation went without a hitch, save for the one in my back from wadding myself up under the bathroom sink. Let me tell ya, removing a relatively new faucet is much easier than removing one that was twenty or so years in one place.

I think I would have like to seen the liftoff of the handle skyward, followed by the plume of water. And while my wife’s description was vivid, the thought of all that water in the face of such dry heat the last few weeks would have been refreshing, I think. And I guess my job afterward was that of the guys that prepare for the fireworks shows, only in reverse.

Hearty Laugh in the Produce Aisle...

I got a laugh in HEB today. There I was, picking out jalapeño peppers for the salsa I was about to make. Fine, firm, green peppers.

I quickly got flanked by a couple preparing for some sort of wind-ding, shindig or hootenanny for the Fourth of July; the woman on the left with the basket and the man on hunter/gatherer duty bringing in the onions and other produce.

He saw me pawing through the jalapeños and asked his wife, across me, "We're grilling, right?"

She replied in the affirmative and he mentioned that he was going to go for some jalapeños. As he grabbed one or two, he said into the air, "I'm going to smoke up a few of these and see what happens..."

Again, the smart aleck was at the ready, and I said to him, "They're hard to keep lit...", accompanied by the exaggerated cigar-puff-mouth-action and my fingers holding a big, fat mock-stogie.

He chuckled, but as I walked away, I heard him laugh some more.That was when he saw the visual in his head, trying to light a pepper with a grilling lighter, puffing like mad on it, then sitting back in his chair. Then his wife mumbled,"Huh..." from her shopping list , and he repeated it as I disappeared down the aisle. As he related the gag to her, I heard him laugh some more. There was that visual again.

I felt good to have played to a small but apparently appreciative audience. Just about made my Fourth.

Rain, Rain, Come Again, Go Away Some OTHER Day!

It rained here today.

So you say, "Big deal, you're on the Texas Gulf Coast, it's positively tropical!" Ah, not lately, Dear Reader, not lately. It has been very dry for something like 39 days, with no appreciable rain. Burn bans are in effect and many municipalities are calling for water conservation measures.

People are putting stamps on letters with paper clips. The Baptists are sprinkling, the Methodists are using a wet handkerchief and the Lutherans are issuing rain checks. We have catfish in the pond a year old that don't know how to swim yet.

To say it has been dry is an understatement. I got out of my car the other evening and smelled the aroma of hay. Fresh, dry hay. Since there were no hay bales or rolls nearby, I looked over at my lawn and saw the brown, withered grass doing it's best imitation of Coastal Bermuda.

The high pressure "bubble", as the weather people refer to it as, has maybe slipped a little. "Bubble" is a little misleading; it sounds like Lawrence Welk is playing a polka in the clouds, with happy people dancing in the streets to "champagne music". We're all sweating like pigs in the heat. It's been over 100º for, like ten days in a row, so there's not much of the implied "kicking-up-of-the-heels" going on around here.

I think they should describe it as a looming, apocalyptic dragon slowly cooking us in our own humid shirts.

But it rained today. For about 30 minutes in Pasadena (where I work) and maybe about the same amount of time in my home town. Of course, the pavement was about 120º F and the entire parking lot was nearly dry half an hour later.

Maybe our weather is getting back to normal.

HMS Titanic, Highland Bayou Style

The captain of the Titanic was confident of a smooth, productive maiden voyage of his ship, no doubt. I was mostly confident that today was going to be a good day on the water with my youngest daughter for our first fishing/boating adventure.

Mostly.

We drove down to Highland Bayou in my neighbor’s truck with a borrowed pirot. I had never used a pirot. Have heard about them all of my life; a shallow flat bottomed boat with the bow and stern interchangeable. This one is fiberglass and has two seats molded in. During the drive down, I mentioned that if we were to go over due to wind or other wave action, that she should not panic. The water is warm and shallow, and we’ll just be wet, no big deal.

I found a place on the Southern side of the bayou, a place fairly unfamiliar to me. It was either that or park where I usually do, and carry the sixty pound watercraft for 300 yards, OVER the levee and to the water. No thanks.

We had a bucket, an ice chest (I don’t really know why, now that I think about it), my tackle box and the rods. I got in the boat myself, then encouraged my offspring into the back of the boat to find a seat. I knelt in the middle to paddle the craft to our destination.

I had decided on the way down that this was going to be an adventure rather than strictly a fishing trip. My young protégé is a casting neophyte, the pirot is a new kind of vessel for me to pilot. I wasn’t planning on trying to bring in a couple of limits of fish, we were just out to have some fun.

So back to the water; the pirot is kinda twitchy when it’s loaded. As I shoved off, the quick action made some extra side-to-side motion, and we took on a couple of quarts of the bayou. My daughter tensed up, but didn’t panic, and I told her that we were OK, just stay low and don’t move too radically. Me, on the other hand, had to paddle the whole cruise liner out into the watercourse necessarily shifting my prodigious weight as I propelled and steered the boat.

As we progressed, my girl wondered how deep the water was. I had brought along a five foot piece of pvc pipe as a nod to my Grandaddy with his “calcutta depthfinder” (a cane pole). I invited her to poke it down into the water as we were gliding along and see how deep it was. She was pleasantly surprised with the two and a half foot depth of the seas. She was less pleasantly surprised with the amount of water that was in the boat with us; up to her ankles. I was informed later that each time I paddled, the water was within an inch of so of the gunwales.

We had progressed about 150 yards out to the channel, and I was notified of some more water invading our sanctuary. That was it. I decided to come about and steam back to our berth. In the middle of the turn, my first mate announced, “Daddy, Daddy, we’re sinking!”… and it was true. The stern sank quickly with her bailing out vertically as the hull slid beneath the surface. The water made rapid progress in my direction as well; past my feet, up my calves, then inundating my back pockets and finally my chest. The last bit of “dry” was the bow as it looked to heaven one last time.

By this time we were laughing in surprise and shock. The bucket with my cast net went down, down to Davey Jones’ locker; really only about three feet. But the mud was pretty deep. I grabbed my (luckily) floating tacklebox and put the rods on top. The crew was confused about the depth of the water, since the mud was so soft in that particular spot, she thought it was deeper. She seized the sunscreen and tried for the paddle. I retrieved that after getting the ice chest.

After gathering all of our floating cargo, laughing, I made sure to hem it all in for my fellow castaway to hold while I salvaged the ship. I turned it on its side, then lifted it over my head, then plopped it back on the surface. No big deal. We then tossed our flotsam and jetsam in, and I let my crew climb my leg and flop back in the boat giggling.

When I made sure that we had everything, I allowed myself a time to laugh at the ridiculous outing we were in the middle of. My thoughts of earlier came back to me; this was not solely a fishing trip, but was to be an exploration. Well, that it was! My girl asked if I were disappointed, and I replied, “How could I be? We had an adventure!”

While making our way back to where we put in with me towing the boat (which was riding nicely in the water minus the 255 extra pounds), I took the time to have the wee lass practice casting my Shimano Calisto reel. Suffice to say, she will continue to practice.

The epilogue to this escapade is that my gal got to skipper the pirot around a little bit while I learned her how to paddle a boat around. She made several large circles in the channel, paddling, switching, back paddling, digging deep and using the paddle as a rudder. She did really well, and was excited to be the captain of such a fine, albeit low capacity, craft.

The moral to this story is to always be ready for something different. Don’t be content to follow plans every time, and a good hint is to leave your cell phone in the car like we did.

The Missus Takes the Family for an Evening Stroll

Yes, the little dogs have been worrying a place at the end of the deck for several days now, culminating in an irritating yapfest earlier this evening. I figured it was a possum or something. Couldn’t be a cat, it was too quiet over there when the dogs were racing around sniffing and barking. I well remember the hiss that the stupid little black cat could utter.

Sure enough, as I was locking the back door for the night, I flicked on the porchlight just to see what I could see. What I saw was Mrs. O. Possum and the entire clan of little possum-lings clutching her fur, out for their evening constitutional.

Her expression, if possums can have expression, was one of slight bewilderment and mild confusion. Not that there is anything unusual about that kind of expression for a possum, but she looked as if she hadn’t any clue how she got on my back porch with no fewer than nine ugly little carbon copies of her gripping her pelt. She was panting a little, maybe because she sensed the air conditioning inside in defiance of the high humidity and heat of the Gulf Coast night. Perhaps she was plotting on how to buy a minivan to tote her brood rather than doing it the old-fashioned way. Who knows what goings-on are going on in the mind of a possum. If anything.

I will need a larger trap than I have to relocate the entire family to the Soderberg Marsupial Trade School and Re-education camp. I’ll have to see if they have a “loaner”.

Until then, I’ll have to staple my dogs to the tree in back.

Sounds Like...

The mind of a smart aleck is a terrible thing to have trapped in your skull. You who know me have heard what comes out of my mouth when the muse inspires.

On Thursdays in the office, we have a “snack day”, mostly just to feel better about the work week. We have half days Friday throughout the summer, so it’s a nice distraction to have food within easy reach to get ready for the slightly longer weekend.

My friend Sparky brought in some fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, olive oil, salt and pepper. We had some fresh basil as well, so the salad was a big hit. She decided to leave the olive oil up at the office for other snack days.

So much for the setup.

On Friday, our office manager strolled past the table we had the food products on the Thursgraze Snack Day. As she notice the olive oil bottle, she inquired about the owner.

Now, the way she worded it was crucial to my response, otherwise, I wouldn’t have said anything, or it just wouldn’t be funny.

Her exact words were, “Whose olive oil?” to which I replied instantly, “She’s Popeye’s girlfriend…why?”

She laughed heartily, and a couple of others moaned. I think that they were just jealous. You see, they’re smart alecks, too, and to get beaten to a perfectly laid out straight line was too much for their egos.

Reminds me of the “electric cat” episode of a couple of years ago.

The Big Night

Summer evenings on the Coastal Plains of Texas can often mean muggy, sticky, mosquito ridden hours that go on forever. This evening however was different for a couple of reasons.

First, a mild “cool” front came through. All that means is that the pressure is high and the humidity is low. Weather reports had it at around 39% today; normally it’s 90% or higher. High temp was in the low 90’s. The evening turned off really nice, just a few small clouds, a soft South breeze. Mosquitoes were hunting in the cow pastures.

They missed a bonanza, because there was a stadium full of warm-blooded family and friends making ready to witness the graduating class of 2009. I was there because my middle daughter was one of the 496 eager grads just outside the stadium. They were all wearing their orange caps and gowns, the girls’ hair all straightened and/or curled, the boys’ necks all crammed into buttoned collars and ties. No doubt most of them were visited by butterflies and flop sweat.

As the stands filled up with interested and obligated spectators and the sun edged down, the breeze was refreshing and made the hard bleachers a little less offensive. The only thing we were concerned with was saving space for my parents, who were to be a little late. Even that assignment was made bearable by the parade of humanity in a variety of forms that issued past us.

This being Alvin, the Alvin ISD police were checking bags on the way in; they banned the air horns and cowbells and all manner of obnoxious noisemakers that had plagued previous graduations. The reason being, enthusiastic family cheering for one graduate virtually obliterated the names of the next three or four kids. So much for the dignity of the ceremony.

The graduates filed into the stadium single file down the track on each side. I was told that we should be on the South side. Sure enough, of the four hundred ninety-something high school seniors mine was there way back in the back with the “S’s”.

As I watched her in her orange cap and gown, I had that strange feeling that amounts to wonder at the speed of life. *Cliché alert*; It seems like such a short time ago that she was just a little kid running around the house with a busted piñata on her head. No, really. She has grown up so much. She is over five feet nine inches tall, and with the shoes she wore, she was nearly six feet even. Taller than nearly all of the girls and a great percentage of the guys. She looked like royalty, striding along the padded track with her wide, bright smile and her long blonde hair. Like Graduate Barbie.

Now she was in a group of kids that had gone through 12 years of school together, and were about to hit the streets as real people. They filed onto the new field of artificial turf filled with an army of chairs in a long, neat rectangle.

The crowd settled down and the color guard came out, the national anthem was played by the band, minus the seniors. The introductions of the officials were made and the speeches were speeched by the student class president and the smart kids. The top 10% was introduced, honors made and the long list of graduates’ names was read.

We sat through the lengthy list, waiting for the nineteenth letter of the alphabet that would signal Katie’s moment. We watched as her row stand up and walk to the staging area to be called up to receive their “diploma”.

Hearing her name, our entire group stood up and yelled, “Yay Katie!”. I texted her later during her time of Project Graduation all-night-soirée and asked if she had heard our exclamation. Her reply was, “LOL yah! ☺”. It made me feel good to have been noticed from that far away.

I am proud of my girl. She took the Math classes that I didn’t even know existed. As a matter of fact, I don’t think anyone in my immediate family has even touched that level of ciphering unscathed.

She is one of the reasons that I have to go on, and I love her so much. Congratulations Katie-Belle.

Wordy Guy X!

Yes, the ever-sensational Wordy Guy has bestowed another puzzle gift on us. On you, I mean, I already knowed what this one means.

As always, do your best, dig deep in your brains, and NO CHEATING...

Lugubrious

A. Extremely ridiculous


B. Extremely mournful


C. Extremely humorous

And remember, last time Innominatus got the actual Wordy Guy to chork on his java with the dandy usage guess.

I'll have the answer and winners on Monday nite!

UPDATE
Well, here it is Monday night, and as promised I am announcing the winner of the Wordy Guy XI, or "X!" as I have in the title (on purpose)(really, I did it on purpose).

This is going to be difficult, since Innominatus came in first with an answer that very well could indicate that he knew the meaning of "lugubrious". But I can't let him drift through on his lightning-quick smart aleck answers forever. So this week's bragging rights goes to Falcon. His "process of elimination" educated guess was right on the money.

While Joe Biden's hair could be described as "extremely mournful", it wasn't decisive enough for the win.

And I mention "money" just as an expression, as you know there are no monetary prizes issued here.

Just a warm feeling of questionable accomplishment. So Falcon, revel in your moment. Thanks for playing!