Summer Has Arrived, Finally

I came down Highway 6 this afternoon and decided to check out the fruit stand I have been seeing for several months. Several hand-spray-painted signs touting mangos, coco frio, and freestone peaches lead up to the makeshift stand. The “freestone peaches” notice is the one that got my attention.

Actually, my oldest daughter got my attention with it when she was going back to Austin a couple of weeks ago. She called me and relayed the message that the spraypaint and plywood advertised. I just never had the time to stop.

This time, though, I did. This stand consists pretty much of some posts and joists with something nailed on the top. I’m not even sure what it is; either plywood or scrap tin. I think it’s the latter. I was locked on the “peaches” message too much to pay undue attention to the structure.

A skinny, sweaty thirtysomething guy was doing some busy work when I drove up. When I came under the rafters with not much clearance for the top of my head, I scanned the baskets and little piles of produce for the peaches. I was wearing my sunglasses, so tomatoes kinda looked like peaches for a second, but I finally made my way down to the sweet end of the display.

There they were, baskets heaped up in little maroon and gold hills according to ripeness. The quick-thinking salesman hurried over with a peach and a knife and as soon as the words, “Where were these peaches grown…” crossed my lips, he was at my side with a slice of one. He said, “Heck, I don’t know, maybe the moon. I had to cover these up over here so nobody would know they’re moon peaches”.

Kinda weird and smart alecky at the same time, which I am not averse to, and that coupled with the sweet nectar-y goodness of the sample he gave me, sold a bucket of them moon peaches.



So my lunch today consisted of several peaches at the peak of ripeness. The only thing that kept the golden juice from running down to my elbow was the fact that I cleverly ate it over the sink and slurped it loudly. The taste and aroma took me back many years to my younger days.

That’s summertime, folks.

News From the Front

We have a new breed of roaches visiting us lately. It’s not that we have a roach problem, mind you. I mean EVERYBODY on the Gulf Coast of Texas has an arthropod of the roach-ish persuasion cross their threshold at one time or another. Even if you spray the perimeter, set out bait and patrol with a vinegar squirt bottle, there is still an intrepid wanderer that comes in and checks your place out. If you have sprayed the boundary, they’re likely in bad shape. On one of their last six legs.

ANYhow, this new strain of visitors; they walk really high and they fly. They all seem to be young, strong braves, in really good health despite the poison I kindly leave for them.

Did I mention that they fly? Shudder. Yeah, they take wing with the alacrity of the flying monkeys of Oz. Anybody with any experience at all with La Cucaracha knows that the one who flies has the advantage.

So the other night, one flew in from the long hallway just like he had good sense and a flight plan, to land at the corner of the entry hall. Then he crossed back (flying) to the handle of the only-recently-used vacuum cleaner. That was pretty impressive, especially for an animal with the brain the size of a grain of sand.

Equally impressive was my answer to his crossing into my airspace. I grabbed the nearest flip flop that was lying on the floor (there are usually plenty of them to choose from) and gave him a precision swat. So mighty and accurate was the slinging of the slap-shoe, he was propelled at high velocity to the wall. After the satisfying slap and clatter of the roach on the wall, he fell dead as the proverbial doornail. He didn’t even have time to fold his wings before his death throes. There were no throes. Victory was mine.

A couple of more have invaded our space, just last evening. I spotted one of the high-walkers creeping along the baseboard behind the television stand. I approached with a shoe (just as plentiful as the flip flops), confident that I could deal death quickly during the commercial. Not so. He eluded when I was grabbing for my weapon, and I had to hunt him down and flush him out with vinegar spray. After he charged straight at me, coughing from the acetic acid mace I wielded, I clamped the life outta him with a Nike. My confidence shaken, I resolved to do better next time.

The next time came sooner than I had wanted. An hour later, my middle gal reported an incoming flying roach, and sure enough, he was in the entry hall next to the picture on the wall. Not wanting to just smash him into that black roach butter, I tried to delicately pop him without breaking the frame he was a half-inch from. Then the little devil flew at me, like an F-18! He landed on my Nike-hand, and I exclaimed (not screaming like a little girl, more of a “aaaAAGH!”), jumped back and accidentally lost the grip on the shoe. He hit the floor next to the vacuum cleaner (yes, it was out again) and went under it. I grabbed my shoe and the handle of the Dirt Devil to do a “move/swat” motion. It was not to be. So clever was this little beast, he kept running under the machine! I kept picking it up, flopping it down and winding up for the killing blow. This repeated no fewer than four times, in a left-hand circle, nearly exhausting me.

FINALLY the intruder tried to make a break for the hall closet door, and that’s when I clanked him. I raised my arms in victory to my daughter who was calmly watching from a safe distance. I grabbed the still-quivering carcass in my paper towel and slam-dunked him into the garbage.

So the fight continues; this battle won, the rest of my life to press on in the war on roaches.

Too Good Not to Share

I know I have not been posting lately, and many of you have stopped coming by. That makes me ashamed.

I have been thinking a lot lo these past weeks, alas, I just ain't been able to get enough of a handle on them thoughts to write them down.

But I found this accidentally, and it's a scream. I haven't seen it on TV yet, but can't wait to.

Sorry for the drought, but it has been raining all week here, and perhaps an idea will sprout.

Fishing Report

There is nothing to report.

I went to my especiale fishing spot Sunday afternoon. Hot, humid and windy. But not too windy, mind you. The first thing that I couldn’t help noticing was the bright yellow pipe gate with the “No trespassing…DANGER” sign posted in two places on it. I had seen the gate, but the sign was new. Had they added some tigers since last summer? Some nuclear waste? Unrepentant psychopathic fashion designers?

Well, after I trespassed, I didn’t see any of the above hazards, so I proceeded up the road and over the levee. The time was around 5:30 p.m. and the wind was out of the South at approximately 6 miles per hour, but steady. One of the first things I noticed was that they (the ever-guilty “they”) had cut down all of the small trees at the edge of the water. I actually had to think about where to get in the water. Very disconcerting.

The rest of the evening was spent with me plying the waters for my quarry of choice, the venerable Sciaenops ocellatus; the venerable red drum. Suffice to say, from the opening line, there was no danger of catching reds that evening. But I was outside, in very warm water up to my knees and at times to the middle of my thigh, and the birds and the sea breeze and sunset calmed my soul.

As I trudged back to the car via the levee, I paused to scan the bayou yet again. I saw a group of seagulls working a small area about 250 yards away. From experience, I knew that there was a group of trout or redfish dining on baitfish or shrimp at that location, and the birds were there to clean up the table with a lot of noise. I also noticed a couple of guys in a jon boat just about 50 yards from where this was all happening. I stared in wonder as the pair just sat there, never moving any closer to the action. Incredulous, I sent them messages telepathically, “Cast into the birds, get closer, cast to the birds, get closer…”, yet there they sat. Had I had wings or a kayak, I would have moved over there so fast, the boat sitters would have been embarrassed.

But I can neither fly or paddle a kayak that I don’t own, so I watched for a bit, then trudged back through the humid wind to my little car.

Maybe the redfish were aware of the “DANGER” as posted on the sign. I certainly left them safe.

The picture is of the fish I never caught. These are from last year, but their relatives are not in the freezer right now.

New Post brewing in my brain

This is just a "placeholder" for the future post about my eating the last few blackberries left on the vine yesterday.

Now I have committed, and risk internet shames if I don't follow through.

Stay tuned.

NOtice

Yeah, everybody thought that I forgot how to do this, right? Sorry.

I have a notification, which, if my current rate of postings remains at status quo, will be irrelevant.

Due to the steady and growing number of stupid "bots" posting comments for all manner of inappropriate links, I have instituted the "must type in nearly unintelligible word" feature/requirement on the "comments" section.

Yes, it's an irritation. Yes, I resisted for several years, but when the only comments I get are for nothing, I must do something.

Again, I apologize for the inconvenience, and am really irritated at Al Gore right now for inventing the internet nerd.

Diner Bites Back

I have always wondered about the origin of names of some of the restaurants that serve us our non-home food.

Like how is a taco associated with a bell? Who IS this Applebee? I have eaten at the Flying Dutchman restaurant, and it is nothing like the Pirates of the Caribbean portray; quite good actually, and not at all like a sailor’s purgatory. But then again, I didn’t visit the kitchen.

Then we have the restaurants with a name and a rank in the trademark. For example, “Captain D’s”. Not Long John Silver (he was a nasty character, but does seafood OK) or Colonel Sanders. What could the “D” stand for?

Recently I got an impression of the origin of the nomenclature of Captain D’s and have narrowed it down to two possibilities.

Disappointing and Disgusting.

I was a bit put off when I went inside and smelled the old grease clinging to the thick enamel paint. That was my first opportunity to bolt. Then the guy behind the counter popped up with a long, LONG beard, and no hair net. I know he was just taking money and was separated from the food by about four feet and a partial wall, but it just looked unsanitary. So sue me. Second opportunity to flee.

I ordered the crab cake and fish. Looked good on the menu sign, but then corporate always does a great job in getting appetizing photos of their offerings. The price was a bit on the steep side, I thought, but what the hey, it’s crab.

After being assured that they would bring my food to me, I went into the stale dining quarters and tried to find a comfortable place to sit on the shop-project wood benches. The sparsely populated picnic area should have been my next clue.

When the girl brought my food, my initial reaction was that there was an ample amount on the plate. Little did I know the pandora’s box that would open when I tried to take a bite. There were a couple of big pieces of fish, but on closer inspection, they all seemed to be fried a little too aggressively.

When I bit into one, the discovery was that the fish was just overcooked to death. Absolutely to death. Tough. Dry. Alligator is kinda what it reminded me of. And the outside was reminiscent of the outside of a gator.

Aside from being overly dry, the fish looked to be double battered, with large “airspace” gaps in between, so as to give the overall volume a visual boost, without adding to the cost in actual fish.

OK, the fish left something (substantial) to be desired, but there was a crab cake, too. Unfortunately, it was so overcooked and dark, it looked like an igneous rock. Kinda tasted like one, too. If you can imagine a rock with crab flavoring.

So, for nearly ten dollars, you can go to Captain D’s and get the experience of a lifetime, hopefully not to be repeated. You can draw your own conclusions as to what the “D” stands for.

Oh yeah, you can get a blog posting out of it, too.

Fresh Wordy Guy

Yes, I know it's been nearly 2 months since I posted anything on this rusty old blog. And I know that the last one before the last one was a Wordy Guy, but hey, what are wordy guys for but to give you a little vocabularial help when you need it, right?

Of course. And Mr. V is the Wordy Guy. So this is his latest.

Cloche
A. A woman's large handbag, popular during the late 1800s
B. A woman's close-fitting, bell-shaped hat
C. A woman's bell-shaped dress, popular during the late 1800s

NO CHEATING. NO CONSULTING ANY BOOKS (ONLINE OR OTHERWISE). JUST MAN-UP AND TAKE A GUESS. (the all caps is directly from Mr. V himself, so watch it!)

As always, this is only for fun; no prizes will be awarded, and please, no wagering.

*UPDATE*

The show is over folks, WE HAVE A WINNER! Hats off to the coincidentally chapeau-centric CACTUS, for being full to the brim with a knowledge of millinery. Yes, she wins the crown for this round of Wordy Guy. It is the hat.

Stepsistah can put a feather in her cap for being quick on the trigger, just not as quick as Cactus.

Innominatus filled the niche that geezers fill; being fiscally "responsible" (read: cheap) and full of punishment.

Thanks for the three of you playing Wordy Guy, and I hope that more of you readers cross the line from spectator to combatant soon!

Saturn: Out of This World, really.

It was advertised as, “A new kind of car, a new kind of car company”, in the days of the launch of GM’s newest and now-defunct line of cars.

I'll say!

I think there are numerous reasons for the demise of this formerly-esteemed car company and their proffered products. Chief of these reasons is that in attempting to be innovative and different, they made “innovations” that made no “sense”.

The hallmark of this line is a confounding penchant for making things difficult or impossible to work on by the regular guy on the street.

Let me back up for a moment, if you will. Last January, we became the owners of a 2000 model Saturn LS whose primary driver would be our middle daughter. Seemed like a solid car, four-door, air conditioning, good tires and a CD player; the essentials for any young driver.

Not too long afterward, things started going wrong. Now, I know buying a used car, there is the inherent gamble that you are buying someone else’s problems and this was no different. Except that we soon found that Saturn means “special” when it comes to many of the parts and configurations. The engine, much like any other car maker’s offerings, is wedged in a space only an inch or two larger than the outside dimensions of the engine and associated exterior parts.

It started with an annoying habit of dying for no reason, leaving a 19 year-old girl stranded and scared. Tried the easiest approach first; took it to Uncle Russell. We were going to check the spark plug wires and all that stuff. Upon opening the hood, we found the plug wires leading into a vault of an engine cover with proprietary bolts and a maze of covering shrouds and shields preventing any entry by the unwashed masses. So we tried the ol’ fuel treatment, because the symptoms pointed to fuel supply, and because that was the cheapest test.

Purchased, poured, drove it, and it seemed like it was OK. For a day. I googled “Saturn troubles dying” in the meantime, and was met with an encyclopedic list of strange little problems that were apparently still unresolved with this car line. One thing that struck me in most of the comments posted in various places was the generally negative tone in which the company’s service departments were painted. Nobody would help.

Well, it turns out that it was some strange, expensive-but-simple sensor that registers transmission speed that apparently will not allow the car to run if the conditions are not precisely precise.

There were radiator problems and most lately the inevitable (105,000 miles) timing belt and associated kit of idlers and pulleys, which were compounded by the name “SATURN” stamped thereupon. At least the water pump was a regular Delco part.

Of course, there remains the suspense about when the next shoe is to drop.

The most recent example of Saturn’s nonsensical, unnecessarily complex design concept was evidenced when I had to remove a tire to repair a leak in the radial.

After removing the hubcap held in place by faux lug nuts, I found the real lug nuts. Fortunately (and surprisingly) they were not Torx or some other unusual interface; they were standard 19mm lug nuts. When I removed them, however, I saw the insanity perpetuated on the simple “holding-a-wheel-on-the-hub” model. These things were actual bolts that went through the wheel holes and threaded into the hub itself! Not the standard “nut-on-a-stud” system that has worked for a hundred years; these fools had designed a system where you have to hold the tire up, matching holes in the wheel to holes in the hub, and then you’re required to thread the lug/stud in through the one hole into the other. At night, this could easily be a two-man job; one to hold the light, and the other poor schmo that gets to lay on the deck and balance the whole thing up and juggle the luggle. I guess it could be expanded to a three-man job, if you include cussing the "designers" at GM.

I really don’t want my daughter to have to lay on the ground, inches from speeding traffic, to hold a full size tire up with one hand and fish for the proper hole alignment with the other, possibly in the dark, likely in the rain (when most flats happen for some reason).

This has me more worried than the next mechanical problem on the horizon, or outer space, which is where the Saturn belongs.

Wordy Guy!

Yes, a new year, a new Wordy Guy! (...all the people said, "YaY!")

I think you'd know the rules by now, but I would be remiss if I were to not mention them: No cheating with your Wikipedia or your Google or your MrV Iconic Lexicon and Dictionary of Stumpers.

Also, no wagering; this is not a competition, it's only for fun. If there is any wagering, you will need to split winnings with Mr V and me.

Final answer

Umiak
A. a large boat made of skins
B. a large lodge used by Eskimos to conduct public meetings
C. a wild ox native to Nepal, close relative to a yak

Dammit Woman made the first correct guess, while Innominatus cared more about covering all bases in the most creative way. Both are winners in my book, and since it's my contest, I can say that. Congratulations to you both!

Vote Early, Vote Often

Everyone knows that election time for any issue always means signs. Signs everywhere. Absolutely EVERYWHERE! The little bandit signs, some bigger plastic signs on wooden stakes, some others are big wooden ones on 4x4 pieces of lumber. So many signs, so worthless. And the worst part is that they have no commercial or entertainment value. It’s true; campaign signs are nowhere near the fun they were when I was in high school.

You may ask, “What made the signs so much fun in the 1970s?” To be more clear, the signs were not inherently fun. The fun came in the form of a large fellow we’ll call “Falcon” and a large Dodge in the form of a gold Polara.

My sister and I rode around with Falcon and his sister, in his 66 Falcon, in his dad’s ’69 GMC truck, and in the family 4-door Polara. Usually with him in the driver’s seat, me at shotgun, and my sister and his sister in the back barking instructions on which 8-track tape to insert next and which track to put it on. That was the arrangement in all of the vehicles, except for the truck. That was typically all of us crammed in the cab, with the one next to the driver ever vigilant of the driver’s elbow in motion shifting gears (3 on the tree).

Sometimes, it was just Falcon and me, flying down the road just behind the roaring Mopar powerplant, with his foot planted firmly on the accelerator. One night on the way to our house from one of our forays into the heart of Texas City, he took the exit to 25th Avenue where you can go right to 6th Street or left to our house on 25th. The intersection is “Y” shaped and a small gas station sat there in the center of the “Y”. On either side of the road, coming to a point, there was a small forest of cardboard signs on slender wooden stakes. They were about three feet apart and there were tons of them.

Falcon was inspired, I guess. He veered to the right just off the shell shoulder and started whacking the placards with the big, shiny chrome bumper of the Polara. The image of the signs appearing in the headlights, then instantly disappearing only to be replaced by fifteen others was hypnotic. The rhythm of those evenly spaced posters thumping on the car and the idea of what was happening to those eyesores was just so dang funny to us. He was laughing hysterically and I was looking backward through misty tears of uncontrollable mirth at the short stubs of pine.

This went on the entire election season, until it was unnecessary to replace the signs. They just kept springing up next the roads, and Falcon kept plowing them down, in an insane but hilarious cycle. Democracy and free speech in action.

In the area of election reform, Falcon has my vote.

Put a Lid On It

The old saw about socks getting lost in the dryer seems to elicit universal laughs and nods of assent. Not from me, though.

Socks and dryers pose no problem for me, personally. I take precautions; I wash my own socks, thankyouverymuch. I know how many I put in, I take the same number out, and match them up as they exit the dryer. I don’t believe in the mythical “sixth dimension” that takes a sock from a pair into a parallel universe. Hokum and hogwash.

The problem I have found around our house is the one with storage containers, specifically the kind that we used to refer to as “Tupperware”. Of course, back in this geezer’s formative years, the procedure for the aforementioned socks: use it, wash it, store it, was the enforced standard for plastic storage containers. Tupperware was expensive stuff, and not to be treated casually; someone in the house had to go to a Tupperware Party and endure silly games and sales pitches to procure the gear. It wasn’t something you’d take to the back yard to wash the dog or dig a hole. Nope. The product was so good, so effective and so “everywhere”, the name has become synonymous with “resealable plastic containers”. Like Kleenex, Formica and Coke.

Which brings us to the present day. Now Glad and Ziploc, Rubbermaid and worthless knockoffs have three for three dollars in a pack, in just about any size you want. We have tons of them. Making salsa, dragging it to work, bringing extra food back from holiday feasts. Buying them specifically because we always need more. Heck, we also have the yogurt tubs, sour cream containers and sherbet receptacles.

And why would we need more? When nearly every lunchmeat package purchased has a free container around it? Of course, there is the inevitable explanation (that would never fly with real Tupperware) of leaving it at work after a successful lunch or two. Or that it just disappears somewhere. I have seen them with paint in them, out in the backyard with dirt in them, under beds in the girls’ rooms, and used as emergency travel food dishes for the puffy dogs.

Yet every time one of us ventures into the chamber of horrors that is the “tupperware” cabinet, there is a disparity between the number of containers and the number of lids. There are several brands and sizes, none of which are interchangeable. There are two brands, however, that are similar in size, and the lid from one can be forced upon the container of the other. Don’t try this at home, kids. The seal is unreliable at best, and dangerously flawed when bringing tortilla soup to a remote location. Chances are, the soup will end up on the floorboard of your car. I just know this stuff. Names and soups have been changed to protect the innocent.

No matter how many we have, the lid/box ratio is always unequal. When it is time to put the leftovers away, the unlucky person, usually me, gets to drop to their (my) knees, stand on their (my) head, and go through the process of dredging, matching and testing various vessels and lids for the magic combination. Usually the frustration and pain in their (my) knees drives them (me) to their (my) feet for another solution.

Fortunately, there is always a lid to be found for the resourceful. The ubiquitous roll of aluminum foil is the go-to hero of the food putter-upper. I like it because of the way you can roll it up really tight under the lip of the carton for a pretty good seal. And if you crimp it really tight, you can even stack them in the fridge. And when the enclosed food turns to fur, you can form the foil into interesting animal shapes to sell at garage sales.

Short of the old chain-the-pen-to-the-desk approach of attaching the lid to the container, I can only count on the classic “use, wash, store” line of attack to keep the equipment intact. But there are three other people in the house. And nobody has the commitment that the old Tupperware inspired for a geezer-in-training.

Love/Hate With the Shoes

OK, I have on some shoes that are sock-eaters. I like the shoes, but the fact that they are drawing my socks down into their depths bothers me. New Balance 644. There, I said it. And most likely totally ruined any ad or endorsement deals for their otherwise fine footwear.

I have had New Balance shoes before, so this twist is new for the brand in my experience. It is by no means a new experience for me, who has been wearing shoes off and on for 50 years. There have been dress shoes (the blue ones)(so what, it was 1974, OK?), and some Converse knock offs, also from the 70s. There have been cowboy boots; I gave them to a Swiss guy over here as an exchange student, he was proud to have them. I had some motorcycle-type boots that were fine for a long time, but after a protracted time saturated with water, they developed and appetite. I theorize that the long term wetness and subsequent drying next to the water heater caused a mutation. I guess like boot-zombies. Come to think of it, that pair of moccasins that I wore outside in the rain turned hungry as well.

Top-siders get that way, too. While designed to be worn wet and sockless, my guess is that they have latent tendencies when pressed into duty as anything else.

The only thing more annoying, foot-wise, is the proverbial pebble in the shoe. After a short time walking, the sock is worked down toward the toe box of said shoe and balls up under the arch. The elastic is working down around the heel, stretching beyond what sock elastic was born to endure. Long enough exposure will reduce the socks to mere sacks that you put your feet in. Now these will pass on the curse to even your most well-behaved footwear. They head for the ball of your food without hesitation.

Anathema.

But I like these shoes, so I suppose I will either endure or resort to stapling my socks to my ankles. Cuz you know I'm too cheap to get new shoes.

First Geezer Act of 2010

Since the beginning of this blog, I have been becoming aware of my geezer behaviors. Sometimes I can feel them coming on, sometimes they spring up from nowhere.

Yesterday, being the second day of the new year, I was eyewitness to my first official geezer activity of this 365 day period.

I was in K-Roger scamming the free wi-fi (in true geezer form, free wi-fi is the BEST), seated at one of the tiny bistro tables. There were about three other sets of surfers in the long, narrow venue, tending to their internet-based tasks. I noticed a group of three junior high-aged kids seated at the first table by the Starbuck’s storage cabinets. After I had logged in and well on my way to a good surf, I heard the unmistakable drumming of a pre-teen on the table to my left, the same kids by the cabinets, about ten feet away. Suppressing a strong urge to send a scowl their way, I calmed myself with the thought that perhaps he would tire of the drumming, as they usually do. Not so. The sound was pretty loud, too, I thought, loud enough to make me take my scowl off of “safety”. I was determined to wait the little nerd out.

The drumming continued with short respites in between which I began to pray for the short attention span to set in. He then began scraping his wooden chair backward on the terrazzo floor; “Skroooaawwwk, skroooaawwwk, skrawwk, skrawk…”, back toward the cabinets. Which he then began to drum upon. Same intensity as the table, except producing a different sound, which the astute young man noticed, “Hey it sounds different!” Genius. I was sure he was intentionally being annoying.

All this transpired with my eyes locked on to G-mail, my mind trying not to scream at my hands to throw a table at him. I happened a glance his way, because I could feel something about to happen; the drumming had ceased for a moment. I saw him open the cabinet and take a quick peek inside. The other little knotheads asked what was in there. “Raspberry flavoring, a lot of it!”, he said, grinning that goofy junior high I-just-found-something-interesting grin. He made a couple of quick looks back in and kinda laughed, “Ghyulk!”.

At this point, I had stopped pretending to work on the computer and just watched the little hammerhead. He proceeded.

“Hey, a bunch of little straws…” he snorked, pulling out a whole brick of the little stirring straws, thankfully wrapped in plastic. Putting them back, he found another doo-dad of interest. It was a little item, wrapped in a small plastic bag, and it was about the size of a key fob for your car remote. I have no idea what it was. He held it up with that same stupid grin, glancing back and forth between the thing and his little nerd buddies. Then he slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie.

At that moment, I ran through a couple of scenarios in my head. One involved me jumping up and grabbing his hoodie hood and dragging him to the Starbuck’s manager. My fear was that the manager would not back me up, to avoid trouble. Nix that one. The next one involved my boot on his little sunken chest with me screaming in his face about the dangers of shoplifting. Instantly dismissed that one, too. You can tell cuz this isn’t being posted from jail.

The third one is the one I used. I pointed right at the kid twelve-and-a-half feet from me and said in a loud, firm voice, “PUT THAT BACK.” The little noodlehead looked like he’d been taserd. Everyone in the area looked at me, then at the kid I was pointing at. He sheepishly put the item back in the cabinet and closed it. He then sat there, three feet from his table with a blank look on his face.

I went back to the computer, aware that he and his little goofball friends were looking at me. After a while, I noted that he was still sitting where he was, next to the cabinet. I stared him down and told him, “You need to move your chair back to your table, that would be best.”

He “skrooked” his chair back into its original position, and sat there with his little buddies, all giving furtive glances back at me every few seconds. I occasionally looked back at them, unflinching and direct.

My first official act as a geezer this year was very fulfilling; I got to call out a rotten little shoplifter, and hopefully he will remember the feeling for a long time. Who knows, I may have saved a kid from a life of petty crime, or worse. He may have been on the road to become a politician.

Christmas 09: The Clean Up

Much like Hurricane Ike, Christmas came through and spread debris and leftovers all around. The main difference is that the weather was cool, and everybody had a nice time without any fear of the house blowing away. But like a hurricane cleanup, a unique set of precautions must be noted during the cleanup to ensure a successful disaster. Hurricanes have live power lines, snakes and looters. Christmas brings other hazards.

Not that there wasn’t any big wind; Christmas Eve brought a cold gale blowing 20 or 30 miles per hour. My youngest commented earlier in the day that it sounded like we were at the beach, with the constant drone of the wind rising and falling sounding like the relentless surf. My Mom was the first to allude to the hurricane similarities. On the way to the Soderberg Farm and Chicken Resort we saw a horse that had been facing the wrong way in the blow; he was turned inside out.

The wind was OK, because it had rained for a couple of days, and for several weeks earlier. Had all the rain come in the space of about 36 hours, it would have been Ike-level water. The steady breeze had dried everything off as much as possible, but it is still not advisable to walk across our front lawn if you weigh much more than about a hundred pounds.

The comparison continues to the hand-outs and their wrapping. When Christmas gifts are exchanged, the ratio of usable and valuable to worthless debris and packaging is high on the wreckage and garbage side. With small children, the danger is greater for losing something essential/expensive, and that number recedes only slightly as the audience age increases. There is a Walmart ad on television that ran Christmas morning showing two guys rifling through their garbage cans in the snow between their driveways. Surrounded by bright wrapping paper, one says to the other, “What are you looking for…?”. The other guy holds his gloved fingers about an inch apart and says with a resigned certainty, “The comb for Rapunzel Barbie.”

I haven’t ever had to dig in the trash for the missing pieces, but have at times feared that as the next step. My usual procedure is no doubt perceived as a buzzkill, but it consists of a roll-call for every gift and any essential parts. This includes any cash or gift cards that were produced. Then begins the paper/box removal detail. Since there is a good bit of jewelry involved in our Christmas gift exchanges, I like to think that the reason we have no MIA James Avery earrings is my “post-joy checklist”.

This comes in part from a story my Grandmother related (every single Christmas) about the time Grandaddy was cleaning up after the opening of gifts, and tossed an envelope from his boss into the fire, only to find later that it contained a $100 bill.

Another hazard is the leftover food, which is usually directly proportional to the amount prepared in anticipation of a huge feast. The problem is frequently an overestimation of consumption. If there are any teenagers or young men around, planning for 10 easily becomes planning for 15. A characteristic of females is usually a calculation of need per person, even factoring in teenagers and young men. So if there are a total of 10 humans to be fed, including three teenagers and one young man, the normal factor of 150% would actually be sufficient. But looking through the filter of a female food planner’s eyes, there is a perception of the 200% rule. After the meal, there is usually nearly 100% left over that needs to be dispersed and dispensed back to various refrigerators. This requires Ziploc bags and Tupperware-ish containers to be at the ready.

This year was really a little different, though. At my parents’ house, the provisions were pretty much correctly anticipated and we took nothing home in Ziploc bagz or any other container. Likewise, at my sister-in-law’s house, the amount of food was fairly close to the amount of appetite. Of course I am not complaining that there was leftover brisket and shrimp. And some of the cauliflower salad, along with some homemade mac and cheese. There was even a good amount of “good potatoes” left and we actually get to eat them ourselves! The teenage boy that was there was full a little early, and that threw off the average some.

So this year was more of a “tropical storm year”; nothing lost on the Christmas floor, no 10 pounds of dressing to tote home and throw away on Valentines Day. But there’s always next year.

Christmas Eve at Our House 09

My oldest is home from Texas A&M for the rest of this week (gig 'em whoop howdy), so our house is back up to full capacity.

After they all finally rolled out of bed at about a quarter to ten, we were lounging around the living room watching the run-up to the Winter Olympics. My middle one remembered an assignment from the 8th grade where she had to re-write the "Night Before Christmas". She said that I oughta post it on the GeezerChron, and I said, "If you can dig it up, I'll post it today..."

Well, she did, it's pretty good, so here it is.

A Zoo Christmas

‘Twas the night before Chirstmas and all through the zoo
Not a creature was stirring, not even Shamu.

The bats were all hung in the cages with care
In hopes that Saint Nick would soon be there.

The snakes were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of mice ran around in their heads.

When outside the cages, there arose such a clatter,
The tigers sprung from their dens, to see what was the matter.

Away to the cage door they made a mad dash,
When they dove for the door, it made quite a crash.

The parrot sat on a branch and he laughes,
“Santa’s sled, hey, it is pulled by giraffes!”

Santa swings from the trees by his arms to the cages
It was like he’d been doing this stunt for ages.

Fruits and veggies, and seeds; bananas and steaks,
There were even some nice little mice for the snakes!

“On Longneck, on Spotty, on Too Tall, on Stretch,
You giraffes are too fast for even reindeer to catch!”

The giraffes pulled the sled as they started their flight
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

That is my wish for all of you! Uh, not the "...nice little mice..." part, the "Merry Christmas" part.

Christmas Makes Great Leap Toward Geezer

Last night was the Alvin High School Choir Winter Concert. My youngest is a freshman, but is in the varsity choir: YaY for my kid!. The auditorium was decorated nicely, with some projected cutouts of conifer trees shining on the walls adjacent to the stage. On either side of the stage were a couple of Christmas trees decked out in lights, ornaments and ribbons. Behind the risers, there were lights and big ornaments hanging from the bottom of the top curtain.

The auditorium was packed and there was a sense of anticipation. As the lights came down right at 7:30, there was a pause as the choir directors took their places and the accompanist readied her piano. The music began, and from all corners of the room, the choir made a slow processional carrying candles singing “O Come, O Come Emanuel”. That was very impressive. It was also very refreshing to hear the singing of a Christian song, without references to Christ bleeped out. In a public school no less!

The rest of the program was filled with traditional and variations-on-traditional carols and songs. The highlight of the bill, however, was when one of the directors, Mr. J. Gallagher, took center stage and sang “O Holy Night”.

His rendition, from the beginning, was powerful. Everyone in my group later admitted to seeing a similarity to Josh Grobin, the young sensation that all parents, grandparents and refined young folks are enamored with. For good reason. Mr. Gallagher was very reminiscent in his style, vocal quality and power.

As he sang, I noticed that the entire audience was totally silent. Not a sound in the entire hall, save his voice and the piano. He sang the entire song, all verses. The words were like a cool drink of water. Nothing left out. The mention of the world “in sin and error pining”, and

“…His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.”

This song pulls no punches.

We sat there in the dark, a young, powerful baritone basically singing a sermon about the reason for Christmas as the redemption of the world, and I found my eyes welling up. The whole experience was deeply powerful.

At the moment the last chord of the piano was dying out, the crowd exploded in applause and shouts. I am quite sure the sound of hands clapping was amplified by the sound of all the chillbumps colliding on everyone’s spines collectively. I have never been moved so much at a school function, and judging by the thunderous ovation in that room, I suspect many others were moved as well.

Following that song, a couple more perfunctory carols were performed, but the glow that “O Holy Night” left carried the program to its conclusion and beyond.

So Christmas is a LOT closer than it was just a couple of days ago, at least in my mind. Thanks to Alvin High School choir and its excellent directors for that.

Merry Christmas everybody, and listen closely to that song next time you hear it.

New Post Warning

There is a new post forthcoming, or fifthcoming, depending on the flow.

We went to the Alvin High School choir concert tonite, and was pleasantly greeted by harmonious tones and stuff.

Will try to have something by this time tomorrow.

No promises. Of course, you may consider this a threat.

Potatoes, potahtoes.

Christmas Arrives…

…Or at least sends it’s RSVP.

It hasn’t felt a lot like Christmas lately. It could be the fact that I am still looking for a permanent job. Elf-ing is a pretty closed profession, and Santa Claus-ing is even more restricted.

I was in the local Kroger store, using the free wi-fi, and upon leaving I passed through the Christmas tree display. As I strolled through as cool as a big old guy toting a laptop in a bag can possibly stroll, I was overcome by a desire to start running in between the rows. I wanted to dart in and out between the trees and hide from the adults. The smell took me back 40 years and the only thing that prevented me from cavorting through the evergreens was the fear that the police would be called.

But I did enjoy the pine-scented air and that fleeting sense of being a kid again. Besides, my knees and back would've made me pay for a couple of days, and that's without falling on my patootie.

Snow Day

“Pandilarium”. That’s the word that Jeff Foxworthy made up as a redneck describing a weather-related incident. He was speaking specifically of a tornado. What we experienced yesterday was a Snow Day. Not as devastating, but almost as disruptive.

The previous record for the earliest snowfall was that of December 10, I am too lazy to find out what year. Suffice to say, we don’t get much snow around here on the Texas Gulf Coast anyhow, so any time it does, it sets SOME sort of record. I remember that day (not the year, they all blend in together), since I was working in an office. The extent of the revelry was limited to adults shivering under the entrance awning , staring stupidly at the sky, grinning. When the low temperature got to be unbearable, after about 7 or 8 minutes, all of the aforementioned adults filed like cattle back to their pens. Yesterday I found that this low-key reaction is NOT universal by any stretch of the imagination.

As you may or may not know (or care), I have been substitute teachering until which time I can secure a full-time position that does not involve riding on the back of a garbage truck. It was in the venue of a local high school that the snow day came and blessed us with the blanket of beautiful white silence.

Well, it was silent and beautiful until the hordes of squealing teenagers bolted out of their classes and into the grass at the front of the school. One science teacher just down the cell block, er, HALL from me, ill-advisedly took her class out to “observe” the snowfall. As her excited students shoved their way to the stairs, I heard one kid say, “We’re going out to study the Global Warming!” Hilarious.

The actual snowing of the big, fluffy but wet snowflakes the size of a silver dollar only lasted about an hour and a half, but resulted in almost 2 inches on cars in the parking lot. But the off-the-reservation-AWOL shrieking and freaking out lasted until the riot police were called in. When the principal finally gained the upper hand, the halls were teeming with wet, panting, beaming teenagers not wanting to lose the magic of the moment.

There was a final negotiation over the school’s PA system that stated if everyone would stay in class the rest of the day and not run outside like a bunch of mental patients, the five days prior to the Christmas Break would be designated “jean days”.

I guess it worked, because by the end of the day, he came on the PA again to award the coveted semi-break from the dress code that nobody adheres to.

The rest of the area experienced similar disruptions to the point that snow and ice dominated the news for the last 36 hours.

I’ll bet you guys in the parts of the country that experience snow regularly are shaking your heads in wonder at us bumpkins down here in the semi-tropics. Just remember this when we scoff at your “95° heat waves” next summer. Till then, we’ll smile at nature’s cool, beautiful, albeit brief dusting of beauty.

UPDATE
Heck, it was just LAST YEAR when it snowed December 10 here! THIS IS HISTORIC! Two years in a row has never happened here, at least since the waning years of the Ice Age, which no doubt the dinosaurs caused with their chain saws and weed eaters.