"Cold" is kinda relative according to your personal perspective.
Examples:
When I was around 12 years old, we would have an occasional Wright City ice storm/snow that would last for a few days. I would put on a pair of canvas "tennis" shoes, blue jeans, a tee shirt and a worn light jacket and then tromp thru the fields and creeks all day long with no thought of "cold" or illness.
When I was 17, 18, 19, working in the East Texas oil field, I would go to work in the winters with ice on everthing (ya didn't eat if ya didn't work). I wore shoes (never in my life have I worn a pair of steel toed boots because "they cost money"). I wore jeans, a "hard hat" and some kind of trashed out waist length jacket. We worked 10-12 hour shifts. Our "heater" was a five gallon bucket of diesel burning (a lot of smoke, absolutely nothing in the way of heat). You only got to enjoy the "heater" on rare breaks (and away from the oil well!!!!). When the temperature was in the teens and it was raining/sleeting, you had a real treat. As you are "going in/out of the hole" (removing or putting back rods/pipe/casing) in a well, your are alternately looking straight up (think rain/sleet in face) or looking down at the well head (think rain/sleet down the back of your neck and running down your spine). (Now imagine that for 10-12 hours without ever getting out of the pasture you were working in?). Yeah, I was "cold", but I didn't have a lot of options, and truthfully, I don't remember feeling like I was especially miserable, unfortunate, or whatever.
From age 20 until 31, I worked as a TROOPER/SERGEANT with the TEXAS HIGHWAY PATROL (sorry bout the all caps, but guess my pride kicked in?) When ice storms hit, I would go to work to handle the problems and not come home for as long as three days. I wore leather cowboy boots, and a DPS uniform. My only concession to the weather was the absolute cheapest insulated underwear that Sears & Roebuck sold, a "parka" coat issued by DPS, and "leather" gloves with rabbit fur inside (I still have those gloves). Again, I got cold, but it was a part of the job (and remember, you don't work, you don't eat). I just did it without much thought because the men in my family had endured much worse conditions for eons before me.
(OK, there is a point to this trip down "cold" memory lane)
Yesterday morning I went to my beloved TIN STAR RANCH (all caps: the "pride" thing) to hunt for venison/trophy/memories. It was 23 degrees. I was wearing truly expensive long johns, insulated boots, a sweat shirt, insulated expensive overalls (over my jeans, tee shirt, denim shirt) high dollar heavy hunting parka, high dollar thick insulated gloves, an insulated hat, and put the parka hood over the hat.
I sat in my deer stand from 6 AM till 8 AM (no wildlife sightings, not even a sparrow/squirrel).
I can't think of the words to say how miserable cold, shaking, (can't even think), bone aching, feet numb, nose running, eyes watering, (fat old gray haired man), my butt got.
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE TOUGH BUTT GUY WHO COULD DO IT FROM CAN TIL CAN'T AND JUST GO BACK FOR MORE WITH NO REMOTE THOUGHT OF "COLD"????????
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
"GIFTS"
Christmas season "gifts" come in many flavors.
Yesterday afternoon I was sitting in my tree stand adjacent to the pond on my land hunting for big horns. About 5Pm I was looking at the pond and an incredibly beautiful red fox walked to the edge of the water, drank to its heart's content, looked around, and then walked back into the brush.
What a neat gift to get to see that in nature.
Yesterday afternoon I was sitting in my tree stand adjacent to the pond on my land hunting for big horns. About 5Pm I was looking at the pond and an incredibly beautiful red fox walked to the edge of the water, drank to its heart's content, looked around, and then walked back into the brush.
What a neat gift to get to see that in nature.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
A SET OF WHEELS
This is going to be pretty boring (more personal history BS for my kiddos) so you might want to get comfortable before reading any further?
I grew up out in the real deal "country" (We are talking downright rural, also known as Wright City). When we went to "town", that was Henderson (about 12 miles away. When we went to the "city", it was Tyler (but not often as it had traffic lights, one way streets, and more people than you would see in a decade in Wright City).
We seldom had more than one vehicle in the family and it doubled as Dad's oil field work vehicle. That meant that we were "on foot" for the most part and put one foot in front of the other to ease around the neighborhood.
***My First Wheels***
When I was about 12, my Dad found a bicycle in a scrap pile somewhere that had the frame cracked and about to break. Dad drilled a hole in the top rail and bottom of the bike, put bolts in the ends of a piece of chain, and tightened nuts on the ends of the bolts until it pulled the frame together (I rode that sucker 900,000 miles and the frame never cratered) It came with slick tires and I left it with the same set of slick tires, but with the inner tube almost completely made of the patches to fix the "flats". The mechanical parts in the rear axle were so worn that the pedals would turn endlessly before they would "catch" and I could pedal effectively. BUT, IT WAS A SET OF WHEELS AND I RODE THAT PUPPY FROM DAWN TO DUSK FOR MANY YEARS (I also painted it new color every time I found a can of house paint with a little left in it)
When I discovered "girls", my parents wouldn't let me ride my bike on the highway, and they threatened me with all manner of things if I "hitchhiked", but for some reason they didn't care if I walked. So::: when I had a girl friend that lived about 10 miles away, I would walk to her house, stay til night, and then walk home. All good except there was a creek bottom along the way and to this day I remember the spooky sounds in the night as I rather briskly walked that "bottom" (while wishing I had a set of wheels to effect a hasty escape).
One more "walking" story (OK kids, you can groan). I was the point guard on our basketball team. We were playing in a tournament in Carlisle. I didn't have a ride to my school, but the bus would go thru Turnertown to get to Carlisle. So for the morning game I walked from Wright City to Turnertown, caught the bus and we won the first game. We didn't play again til the afternoon so the bus came back, stopped in Turnertown, and I walked to Wright City. That afternoon I walked back to Wright City, caught the school bus and helped to win the second game to get us in the championship game that night, BUT, the bus went back thru Turnertown, my butt walked home (and then back that night to catch the bus for the third time). We got beat like a drum in the championship game, in part because ole frankie was playing in his third game of the day and had walked about halfway to the moon and back in between. (The point being, I learned to appreciate "wheels" intensely at an early age)
***My First Access to a Motor Vehicle***
I got my driver license when I was 14 (I now find it hard to believe that Texas law allowed children to drive at 14?). In my youthful innocence I thought the world was about to open up and provide all its glory due to my new found freedom. (dang, I forgot the part about being a one vehicle family and Dad needing that vehicle for his job)(PLUS: when I was 14, Mom and Dad were 31 and they enjoyed going to Kilgore to "honky-tonk", drink some cerveza and dance). To their credit and my undying gratitude, when I started dating, they decided to let me have the family vehicle every other Saturday night while they used it on the off Saturday night. So imagine the romanticism of the following for each "lucky" teen girl: My "limo" was a 1953 Chevy pickup with more rust than paint. On my Saturday I would sweep out the inch of red sand in the floorboard and then get some diesel and with an old rag wipe the oil and grease off the seats, dash, steering wheel, etc (Dad filled the truck with oil field roughnecks every day) I would love to know what those girls thought about my fragrant chariot???
***My School Wheels***
We lived on the end of the bus route for New London Schools. We were the first kids picked up in the morning and the last to get off each night (yeah it was dark a lot as we rode that big yellow sucker from can til can't). Wasn't no big deal as everyone did the same (til they got driver licenses and cars) Not ole frankie. This fat boy rode that big yeller suckah thru the 11th grade. I looked like some of those little kids' Daddy since everyone else was so much younger than me. Finally my senior year in high school a buddy who lived close got a car and took me to school each morn and got me off that bus (and no doubt saved my eternal dignity)
***Heaven at Last***
After graduation from high school, I worked in the oil field long enough to finally get my own personal set of wheels and it was grand!! In 1968 I paid $175 for a red 1959 Chevy Bel Air. I was stylin'!! Only thing was every time I drove it I lifted the hood and put in a quart of oil. Didn't even check the dipstick, just poured that oil (oh yeah, it had a V8 engine, but it was so wore out it wouldn't run over 70 MPH, BUT IT WAS MINE!!!!)
***Upgrade Time***
About 1969 that first Chevy pretty near cratered so Dad took me to Tyler to a used car lot and we found a 1962 Chevy Bel Air that looked in mint condition. Dad co-signed a note for (hold onto your hats: $700) with Mills Parker at the Arp State Bank and I was now formally in debt for the first time in my life. I drove that little Chevy until 1972 and dang near drove the wheels off it.
***New Car***
In 1972 I had been a Trooper for a couple of years and decided to assume some serious debt and bought my first new car, a 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. I was stylin' in high cotton (while choking on the payments).
***My Favorite Wheels***
I have owned a 1964 Corvette Sting Ray, a Mitsubishi 3000 GT and a host of other testosterone ridiculous cars, but my all time favorite that I wish I owned to this day was my first pickup.
I think it was about 1973 that my Dad told me that my Uncle Jerry was willing to sell his truck for $600 (I think that was the amount?). I didn't know the vehicle, but Dad promised me I would not be disappointed and should buy it. Wasn't no way I had access to $600, but I managed to borrow it and sight unseen made the purchase. When Dad took me to White Oak to pick up the truck, I started a love affair with that sweet little truck that continues until this day.
It was a 1964 Chevy step side with a short bed, and all kinds of extra chrome not normally found on trucks of that era. It had "west coast" chrome outside rearview mirrors, a 230 cid six cylinder engine and as much class as anything I have ever rode in. When I would stop at traffic lights in a town, people were always offering to buy it.
In 1981 I was sent to Chicago for a year to attend a management school at Northwestern University. I took my beloved truck to Dad in Wright City and asked if he would keep the truck til I got back, crank it every week or so and maybe once per month drive it to keep it in shape. I left Texas and within a week Dad had sold his truck and moved into mine.
When I got back a year later, I didn't have the heart to take the truck away from Dad (he loved it as much as me). For many years he would let me know when "my" truck needed to be inspected, registered, or needed new tires. Finally at some point I offered to put the truck in his name on the title with the understanding that I would get the truck back one day.
Dad drove the truck until the rust was about to cause the fenders to to fall off, rust a hole in the roof, etc, and the engine was worn to a complete frazzle. Each time the odometer passed 99,999 miles day would pull the cardboard sunvisor down and with a pencil note the event. I think it lasted more than 300,000 miles! Dad parked it in a comfortable resting place at the side of his house and patiently listened to many men over the years stop at his house and try to buy the truck. Finally one day Dad called (he needed some money) and suggested that we sell the truck to Bubba Ward and let him use the parts to build another similar truck. I wanted to help Dad, I liked Bubba, and I felt it was a way to preserve the dignity of my beloved "first pickup" so I agreed (with a degree of sadness).
I'LL NEVER FORGET THAT 1964 CHEVY OR THE KINDNESS SHOWN BY JERRY IN SELLING IT TO ME FOR SUCH A MODEST PRICE AT A TIME WHEN I COULD LITTLE AFFORD SUCH A LUXORY.
***My Parent's Gift***
I have had too many vehicles in my life to even count, but with each one, I have kept the perspective provided by growing up in the country with limited transportation and thus knowing how lucky I have been in the transportation department. I have also never forgotten my parents' love in sharing the family vehicle at a very important time in my youth.
I grew up out in the real deal "country" (We are talking downright rural, also known as Wright City). When we went to "town", that was Henderson (about 12 miles away. When we went to the "city", it was Tyler (but not often as it had traffic lights, one way streets, and more people than you would see in a decade in Wright City).
We seldom had more than one vehicle in the family and it doubled as Dad's oil field work vehicle. That meant that we were "on foot" for the most part and put one foot in front of the other to ease around the neighborhood.
***My First Wheels***
When I was about 12, my Dad found a bicycle in a scrap pile somewhere that had the frame cracked and about to break. Dad drilled a hole in the top rail and bottom of the bike, put bolts in the ends of a piece of chain, and tightened nuts on the ends of the bolts until it pulled the frame together (I rode that sucker 900,000 miles and the frame never cratered) It came with slick tires and I left it with the same set of slick tires, but with the inner tube almost completely made of the patches to fix the "flats". The mechanical parts in the rear axle were so worn that the pedals would turn endlessly before they would "catch" and I could pedal effectively. BUT, IT WAS A SET OF WHEELS AND I RODE THAT PUPPY FROM DAWN TO DUSK FOR MANY YEARS (I also painted it new color every time I found a can of house paint with a little left in it)
When I discovered "girls", my parents wouldn't let me ride my bike on the highway, and they threatened me with all manner of things if I "hitchhiked", but for some reason they didn't care if I walked. So::: when I had a girl friend that lived about 10 miles away, I would walk to her house, stay til night, and then walk home. All good except there was a creek bottom along the way and to this day I remember the spooky sounds in the night as I rather briskly walked that "bottom" (while wishing I had a set of wheels to effect a hasty escape).
One more "walking" story (OK kids, you can groan). I was the point guard on our basketball team. We were playing in a tournament in Carlisle. I didn't have a ride to my school, but the bus would go thru Turnertown to get to Carlisle. So for the morning game I walked from Wright City to Turnertown, caught the bus and we won the first game. We didn't play again til the afternoon so the bus came back, stopped in Turnertown, and I walked to Wright City. That afternoon I walked back to Wright City, caught the school bus and helped to win the second game to get us in the championship game that night, BUT, the bus went back thru Turnertown, my butt walked home (and then back that night to catch the bus for the third time). We got beat like a drum in the championship game, in part because ole frankie was playing in his third game of the day and had walked about halfway to the moon and back in between. (The point being, I learned to appreciate "wheels" intensely at an early age)
***My First Access to a Motor Vehicle***
I got my driver license when I was 14 (I now find it hard to believe that Texas law allowed children to drive at 14?). In my youthful innocence I thought the world was about to open up and provide all its glory due to my new found freedom. (dang, I forgot the part about being a one vehicle family and Dad needing that vehicle for his job)(PLUS: when I was 14, Mom and Dad were 31 and they enjoyed going to Kilgore to "honky-tonk", drink some cerveza and dance). To their credit and my undying gratitude, when I started dating, they decided to let me have the family vehicle every other Saturday night while they used it on the off Saturday night. So imagine the romanticism of the following for each "lucky" teen girl: My "limo" was a 1953 Chevy pickup with more rust than paint. On my Saturday I would sweep out the inch of red sand in the floorboard and then get some diesel and with an old rag wipe the oil and grease off the seats, dash, steering wheel, etc (Dad filled the truck with oil field roughnecks every day) I would love to know what those girls thought about my fragrant chariot???
***My School Wheels***
We lived on the end of the bus route for New London Schools. We were the first kids picked up in the morning and the last to get off each night (yeah it was dark a lot as we rode that big yellow sucker from can til can't). Wasn't no big deal as everyone did the same (til they got driver licenses and cars) Not ole frankie. This fat boy rode that big yeller suckah thru the 11th grade. I looked like some of those little kids' Daddy since everyone else was so much younger than me. Finally my senior year in high school a buddy who lived close got a car and took me to school each morn and got me off that bus (and no doubt saved my eternal dignity)
***Heaven at Last***
After graduation from high school, I worked in the oil field long enough to finally get my own personal set of wheels and it was grand!! In 1968 I paid $175 for a red 1959 Chevy Bel Air. I was stylin'!! Only thing was every time I drove it I lifted the hood and put in a quart of oil. Didn't even check the dipstick, just poured that oil (oh yeah, it had a V8 engine, but it was so wore out it wouldn't run over 70 MPH, BUT IT WAS MINE!!!!)
***Upgrade Time***
About 1969 that first Chevy pretty near cratered so Dad took me to Tyler to a used car lot and we found a 1962 Chevy Bel Air that looked in mint condition. Dad co-signed a note for (hold onto your hats: $700) with Mills Parker at the Arp State Bank and I was now formally in debt for the first time in my life. I drove that little Chevy until 1972 and dang near drove the wheels off it.
***New Car***
In 1972 I had been a Trooper for a couple of years and decided to assume some serious debt and bought my first new car, a 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. I was stylin' in high cotton (while choking on the payments).
***My Favorite Wheels***
I have owned a 1964 Corvette Sting Ray, a Mitsubishi 3000 GT and a host of other testosterone ridiculous cars, but my all time favorite that I wish I owned to this day was my first pickup.
I think it was about 1973 that my Dad told me that my Uncle Jerry was willing to sell his truck for $600 (I think that was the amount?). I didn't know the vehicle, but Dad promised me I would not be disappointed and should buy it. Wasn't no way I had access to $600, but I managed to borrow it and sight unseen made the purchase. When Dad took me to White Oak to pick up the truck, I started a love affair with that sweet little truck that continues until this day.
It was a 1964 Chevy step side with a short bed, and all kinds of extra chrome not normally found on trucks of that era. It had "west coast" chrome outside rearview mirrors, a 230 cid six cylinder engine and as much class as anything I have ever rode in. When I would stop at traffic lights in a town, people were always offering to buy it.
In 1981 I was sent to Chicago for a year to attend a management school at Northwestern University. I took my beloved truck to Dad in Wright City and asked if he would keep the truck til I got back, crank it every week or so and maybe once per month drive it to keep it in shape. I left Texas and within a week Dad had sold his truck and moved into mine.
When I got back a year later, I didn't have the heart to take the truck away from Dad (he loved it as much as me). For many years he would let me know when "my" truck needed to be inspected, registered, or needed new tires. Finally at some point I offered to put the truck in his name on the title with the understanding that I would get the truck back one day.
Dad drove the truck until the rust was about to cause the fenders to to fall off, rust a hole in the roof, etc, and the engine was worn to a complete frazzle. Each time the odometer passed 99,999 miles day would pull the cardboard sunvisor down and with a pencil note the event. I think it lasted more than 300,000 miles! Dad parked it in a comfortable resting place at the side of his house and patiently listened to many men over the years stop at his house and try to buy the truck. Finally one day Dad called (he needed some money) and suggested that we sell the truck to Bubba Ward and let him use the parts to build another similar truck. I wanted to help Dad, I liked Bubba, and I felt it was a way to preserve the dignity of my beloved "first pickup" so I agreed (with a degree of sadness).
I'LL NEVER FORGET THAT 1964 CHEVY OR THE KINDNESS SHOWN BY JERRY IN SELLING IT TO ME FOR SUCH A MODEST PRICE AT A TIME WHEN I COULD LITTLE AFFORD SUCH A LUXORY.
***My Parent's Gift***
I have had too many vehicles in my life to even count, but with each one, I have kept the perspective provided by growing up in the country with limited transportation and thus knowing how lucky I have been in the transportation department. I have also never forgotten my parents' love in sharing the family vehicle at a very important time in my youth.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
CHRISTMAS DAY
WOW!
How does so much food get prepared and ingested??
The important thing, of course, is that we remember the reason for the season. Corny phrase, but exactly where it is at. Celebration of the earthly birth of our Lord Jesus.
But:: how neat to have a family together in a relaxed, happy, atmosphere with positive interaction and so much laughing.
Christmas love to all and God's own blessing as well.
Love to my family, wherever you may be!
TSRH
How does so much food get prepared and ingested??
The important thing, of course, is that we remember the reason for the season. Corny phrase, but exactly where it is at. Celebration of the earthly birth of our Lord Jesus.
But:: how neat to have a family together in a relaxed, happy, atmosphere with positive interaction and so much laughing.
Christmas love to all and God's own blessing as well.
Love to my family, wherever you may be!
TSRH
Monday, December 24, 2007
CHRISTMAS EVE
Christmas love to all as we rejoice in the glory of our Savior Jesus at this special time of love, grace and family unity.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
SPECIAL TIMES
5:30AM
Full moon brighter than anything imaginable
Stars that look anything but real in their collective ornamentation
15 feet up on a ladder stand leaned against a cedar elm with not a leaf in sight
Just lean back against the tree trunk, soak in the God given heavenly view
And realize that it doesn't matter if a deer ever comes in sight
You have seen the glory of the heavens in their finest
Full moon brighter than anything imaginable
Stars that look anything but real in their collective ornamentation
15 feet up on a ladder stand leaned against a cedar elm with not a leaf in sight
Just lean back against the tree trunk, soak in the God given heavenly view
And realize that it doesn't matter if a deer ever comes in sight
You have seen the glory of the heavens in their finest
Monday, December 17, 2007
Blessed Are The Peacemakers
Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called sons of God (Mathew 5:9)
There have been 11 Colonels/Lt. Colonels in the history of DPS:
1. L. G. Phares
2. Homer Garrison
3. Wilson Speir
4. James Adams
5. Leo Gossett
6. Joe Milner
7. James Wilson
8. Dudley Thomas
9. Tommie Davis
10. Frankie Waller
11. David McEathron
All of the above worked more than 30 years at DPS with Davis topping the chart at 41 years.
Yours truly managed 33 years and 18 days.
Each year at Christmas the current Colonel hosts a lunch for the remaining retired Colonels. We did that today for a total of four of us. Talk about looking mortality in the face. We each know we are part of a dying breed. The current generation has no thought of putting in 30-40 years with one employer and has a myriad of outside interests that have no relation to law enforcement.
I reckon we take solace in knowing that we gave it everthing we had for our entire adult lives trying to do the right things for the right reasons at the right time, every time, while trying to make the lives of all a bit more secure.
Blessed are the peacemakers.........
There have been 11 Colonels/Lt. Colonels in the history of DPS:
1. L. G. Phares
2. Homer Garrison
3. Wilson Speir
4. James Adams
5. Leo Gossett
6. Joe Milner
7. James Wilson
8. Dudley Thomas
9. Tommie Davis
10. Frankie Waller
11. David McEathron
All of the above worked more than 30 years at DPS with Davis topping the chart at 41 years.
Yours truly managed 33 years and 18 days.
Each year at Christmas the current Colonel hosts a lunch for the remaining retired Colonels. We did that today for a total of four of us. Talk about looking mortality in the face. We each know we are part of a dying breed. The current generation has no thought of putting in 30-40 years with one employer and has a myriad of outside interests that have no relation to law enforcement.
I reckon we take solace in knowing that we gave it everthing we had for our entire adult lives trying to do the right things for the right reasons at the right time, every time, while trying to make the lives of all a bit more secure.
Blessed are the peacemakers.........
Sunday, December 16, 2007
The First Time
There are any number of things that humans do, "for the first time", that forever remains as a special memory.
If one is inclined to hunt for wild game, there is usually no more special memory than the first deer taken.
Today I had a very special privilege. My friend, Lynn, allowed me the courtesy of his son, James, shooting his first ever deer on the Tin Star Ranch (also a "first" as the first Tin Star Ranch doe taken by anyone).
The deer was a doe (a great first deer). James shot the deer with his .223 at 115 steps with a perfect head shot which instantly put the deer down. When Lynn called to let me know, Mendy and I felt the same elation as if it was our own boy's first deer.
I am very proud of and for James and hope that if my four year old grandson, Jonathan, ever wants to hunt, he will allow me to have his first deer come from the Tin Star in the gracious manner that Lynn granted us this privilege.
James, I hope that today begins a lifetime of rewarding hunting memories for you and your sons.
If one is inclined to hunt for wild game, there is usually no more special memory than the first deer taken.
Today I had a very special privilege. My friend, Lynn, allowed me the courtesy of his son, James, shooting his first ever deer on the Tin Star Ranch (also a "first" as the first Tin Star Ranch doe taken by anyone).
The deer was a doe (a great first deer). James shot the deer with his .223 at 115 steps with a perfect head shot which instantly put the deer down. When Lynn called to let me know, Mendy and I felt the same elation as if it was our own boy's first deer.
I am very proud of and for James and hope that if my four year old grandson, Jonathan, ever wants to hunt, he will allow me to have his first deer come from the Tin Star in the gracious manner that Lynn granted us this privilege.
James, I hope that today begins a lifetime of rewarding hunting memories for you and your sons.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Is It Just Me Or ......?
Didja ever see the cartoon where the herd of cows are all standing on their hind legs in the pasture smokin' cigs and drinking beer. Then a car comes by on the highway and they get back down on all fours and munch grass til the coast is clear, then back up to act "human"?
(Yeah, there is a point to this postulation)
This morn I settled into my trustee venison harvestin' structure (technically it is just an ugly hut I built since I have never actually ingested wild game meat acquired while within). It was near 5:45A with the temp 48, and a right stiff North wind blowing heavy mist on me like the Titanic was goin' down (nother words the warm was suckin' outta me like a tall dawg)!
Near bout 6:55AM (when my eyeballs were shakin' with the cold and I was seriously doubting my own sanity), six non-horned deer began to suck up the corn candy (Lisa would call it "slappin on belly jelly") under my Northeast feeder. Two of said ruminants were this year's nubbin' bucks with just the hint of "bumps" on their heads where one day magnificent calcified statuary will no doubt sprout.
Bein' younguns', the two "nubbins" soon began to headbutt, bite and kick each other exactly as my kiddos used to do. As the doe (mom) soon got tired of the commotion, she "charged" at them in an aggressive display. This went on a time or two until the "twins" took off like their tails were on fire. Not to be outdone the "mom" followed at full tilt: closely followed by the entire herd. This unlikely parade then began to circle a group of trees at such speed that they were at best a blur.
After about four trips around the trees, the whole fam damily ran right straight at my location, stopping no less than 15 yards away.
Upon seeing me (with my eyes about the size of tennis balls) they suddenly regained their "dignity" and began to rather stiffly (no doubt due to embarassment) slowly stroll away until they disappeared into the brush.
Heck, who cares that no tangible, braggin' rights, Boone and Crockett, testosterone drippin' stag appeared this morn. Seeing them dang unhorned deer act so "human" was a memory that shall not soon fade.
(Yeah, there is a point to this postulation)
This morn I settled into my trustee venison harvestin' structure (technically it is just an ugly hut I built since I have never actually ingested wild game meat acquired while within). It was near 5:45A with the temp 48, and a right stiff North wind blowing heavy mist on me like the Titanic was goin' down (nother words the warm was suckin' outta me like a tall dawg)!
Near bout 6:55AM (when my eyeballs were shakin' with the cold and I was seriously doubting my own sanity), six non-horned deer began to suck up the corn candy (Lisa would call it "slappin on belly jelly") under my Northeast feeder. Two of said ruminants were this year's nubbin' bucks with just the hint of "bumps" on their heads where one day magnificent calcified statuary will no doubt sprout.
Bein' younguns', the two "nubbins" soon began to headbutt, bite and kick each other exactly as my kiddos used to do. As the doe (mom) soon got tired of the commotion, she "charged" at them in an aggressive display. This went on a time or two until the "twins" took off like their tails were on fire. Not to be outdone the "mom" followed at full tilt: closely followed by the entire herd. This unlikely parade then began to circle a group of trees at such speed that they were at best a blur.
After about four trips around the trees, the whole fam damily ran right straight at my location, stopping no less than 15 yards away.
Upon seeing me (with my eyes about the size of tennis balls) they suddenly regained their "dignity" and began to rather stiffly (no doubt due to embarassment) slowly stroll away until they disappeared into the brush.
Heck, who cares that no tangible, braggin' rights, Boone and Crockett, testosterone drippin' stag appeared this morn. Seeing them dang unhorned deer act so "human" was a memory that shall not soon fade.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Old Wore Out Stories
I can't say exactly why, but for some reason I enjoy sharing stories about growing up economically poor (yes, I know kids, you have heard each story a gozillion times)
I kinda knew we were short on cash as a kid, but everyone else in our world was pretty much in the same boat so it was never that big a deal.
As far as clothes were concerned, we got new school clothes and one pair of shoes once per year when school started. For many years Mom made my sisters' dresses (always just alike so they tried to coordinate so that they didn't wear the same dress on the same day) and she made my shirts and underwear. One day when I was older I was looking at the tail of a store bought shirt and realized something was missing. The I realized it was the first time I owned a shirt that didn't have the writing concerning the chicken feed in indelible ink printed on the shirt tail. (My shirts matched the girls dresses as chicken feed sacks only came in so many patterns)
When those clothes got holes in them, the holes got patched. No new clothes until the next school year started. Some times the patches got patches, but we kept wearing them.
Being a typical boy, my one pair of shoes per year got pretty ragged before the end of their life. One time when I was about 13 the sole of my "slippers" came loose and it made a flopping sound with every step. As this embarassed me, I cut the sole off the shoes and walked around with my stocking feet hitting the ground (but no flopping noise).
When I was about 16, my Dad and I shared a pair of dress shoes. We both had the same size feet. My job was to keep the shoes shined and in return, Dad let me wear them on special occasions when he wasn't wearing them. That worked fine for me as I had no nice shoes otherwise.
Dad made the same deal with our family vehicle, a 1953 Chevy pickup. Every other Saturday night he and mom would use the truck to "honky tonk". On the alternate Saturday nights he would let me use it to go on a date. Of course the truck was also Dad's oil field work truck so in order to go on this date, I had to get about two inches of red sand from the floorboard and use kerosene soaked rags to get all the oil and grease off the seats. No big deal, it was a ride and I was mobile and free (with a strong kerosene smell as ambience.) The only thing to do on a "date" was go to the Turnertown drive-in. The Dairy Queen in Henderson had not been built and there isn't much you can do with $2 anyway. The drive-in was 50 cents each and gas was like 18 to 25 cents per gallon so I even had enough money for a couple of cokes at 15 cents each (but not much else).
When I started high school my english teacher, Ms. Spradley, noticed the ragged condition of my clothes. She had me come to her room alone one day and showed me a sack of nice used clothes she had obtained from a relative and ordered me to try them on and keep whatever fit. She said that this would be our secret forever as no one had to know she was helping me with clothes. That dear lady smuggled used clothes to me for all of high school and to this day no one that I went to school with ever found out.
OK, kids, I blogged this stuff so maybe you won't have to hear it again (Naw, I enjoy telling it too much)
I kinda knew we were short on cash as a kid, but everyone else in our world was pretty much in the same boat so it was never that big a deal.
As far as clothes were concerned, we got new school clothes and one pair of shoes once per year when school started. For many years Mom made my sisters' dresses (always just alike so they tried to coordinate so that they didn't wear the same dress on the same day) and she made my shirts and underwear. One day when I was older I was looking at the tail of a store bought shirt and realized something was missing. The I realized it was the first time I owned a shirt that didn't have the writing concerning the chicken feed in indelible ink printed on the shirt tail. (My shirts matched the girls dresses as chicken feed sacks only came in so many patterns)
When those clothes got holes in them, the holes got patched. No new clothes until the next school year started. Some times the patches got patches, but we kept wearing them.
Being a typical boy, my one pair of shoes per year got pretty ragged before the end of their life. One time when I was about 13 the sole of my "slippers" came loose and it made a flopping sound with every step. As this embarassed me, I cut the sole off the shoes and walked around with my stocking feet hitting the ground (but no flopping noise).
When I was about 16, my Dad and I shared a pair of dress shoes. We both had the same size feet. My job was to keep the shoes shined and in return, Dad let me wear them on special occasions when he wasn't wearing them. That worked fine for me as I had no nice shoes otherwise.
Dad made the same deal with our family vehicle, a 1953 Chevy pickup. Every other Saturday night he and mom would use the truck to "honky tonk". On the alternate Saturday nights he would let me use it to go on a date. Of course the truck was also Dad's oil field work truck so in order to go on this date, I had to get about two inches of red sand from the floorboard and use kerosene soaked rags to get all the oil and grease off the seats. No big deal, it was a ride and I was mobile and free (with a strong kerosene smell as ambience.) The only thing to do on a "date" was go to the Turnertown drive-in. The Dairy Queen in Henderson had not been built and there isn't much you can do with $2 anyway. The drive-in was 50 cents each and gas was like 18 to 25 cents per gallon so I even had enough money for a couple of cokes at 15 cents each (but not much else).
When I started high school my english teacher, Ms. Spradley, noticed the ragged condition of my clothes. She had me come to her room alone one day and showed me a sack of nice used clothes she had obtained from a relative and ordered me to try them on and keep whatever fit. She said that this would be our secret forever as no one had to know she was helping me with clothes. That dear lady smuggled used clothes to me for all of high school and to this day no one that I went to school with ever found out.
OK, kids, I blogged this stuff so maybe you won't have to hear it again (Naw, I enjoy telling it too much)
Sunday, December 9, 2007
WRIGHT CITY TALK
The following represents a collection of Wright Cityisms carefully and accurately recorded over my life in order to preserve and eulogize a unique language spoken no where else on Mother Earth.
The absolute best friend I have ever had in my life, my Dad (Gene Waller), uttered the best of the following, but others unwittingly contributed to the treasure as well while uttering phrases worthy of recording for posterity.
After all, our language is more a product of common usage than something that is arbitrarily printed as rules in a book as to how we should speak.
OK, here goes in a style befitting the manner of Dad's every day way of communicating:
Act of Commerce - difficult to accomplish (Act of Congress)
Back Sifle - siphon
Baffroom - bathroom
Ball - boil
Ball Batten - tennis racket (OK folks, all this will not make perfect sense, but it is the real stuff)
Barney Fite - barney fife
Bat Drawers - (OK, you got me on this one, but generally it means Gosh, Darn, or an exclamation of disgust?)( Dad also said, " Shit and two is eight" when something didn't make sense)
Biotics - antibiotics (close, but no cigar phonetically)
Bumb - bomb
Buzz Saw - weed eater (newfangled technology don't you know?)
catawpiller tree - catalpa tree (if you ain't from East Tx, you can't "get" this 'un)
Catywampus - off center or out of line (this makes as much sense to me as any of them)
CBR -VCR (hell, it's just letters?)
Clatterin' - collateral (I don't think paying back loans was all that important to Dad so why worry about the word for it??)
Climb in the Box - burial (something to always make light of in order to not feel depressed by the prospect)(my Dad was kind enough to help me make pre-burial arrangements for him and insisted on laying in the casket he selected in order to test its comfort???)
Compression - depression (another one that makes sense to me as both concepts seem to apply pschologically?)
Convertra - catalytic converter (OK, Detroit and the government just made up a damn word so why can't Gene do the same?)
Countrymary - customary (pure music to a kuntry boy's ears)
Cross Stickin' - cross stitching (what do men know about this anyway)(OK, I got pretty darn good at this for at time, but try to be easy on the "sissy" names?)
Dacked Out - fashionably dressed (Dad didn't have the finances to do this often, but he recognized when someone had it "going on" fashionably and commented accordingly)(also known as looking like a "band box", no clue on this one?)
Defang Shrimp - devein shrimp
Desistent - consistent
Devil Indenity - double indemity (you gotta love this one if your are insurance oriented?)
Digikal - digital
Doozy - anything good or of high quality
Duke's Mixture - Any combination of thing's (I spent my youth wondering who this "Duke" person was, but still have no clue?)
ECI - MCI long distance service
Encyclopedic - orthopedic
Epsoleptic fit - Epileptic fit
Farkason - Massey Ferguson Tractor (sometimes ya just gotta live there to know what they are talking about?)
Favors - looks like (OK, you read this and think, " What is unusual about that?" Well, go to somewhere besides East Tx and try that line and people will look at you and say , HUH?\
Flush Hole - threshold (only important if you need to know that the bottom of the door entryway has a problem?)
Fraud - frog
Gidget Saw - jig saw (another one of my personal favorites)
Go Down Amongst 'Em - die (how can you not like this one?)
Go Down Swangin' - yep, die again
Goes by Squirts - goes in spurts (I take this to mean stops and starts, but you may interpret Dad anyway you like on this one?)
Head Ponch - boss
Heerawed - Made fun of or laughed at (Dad did this a lot)
Hindu - emu
Hocus Pocus - hex
Hokeymolie - guacamole
Housitosis - cabin fever (Dad had this a lot as he hated to be inside and only did that due to the weather or his health)
Infectated - infatuated (in matters of love, Dad's word was probably better?)
Lanna - Mylanta (important if you had a stomach problem)
Last of the Moheekians - all used up or empty
Light Bread - white bread ( I think I still unconsciously use this word when not wanting to be healthy with "whole wheat", but not sure?0
Magnets - maggots
Mikeyway - microwave
Mollies - tomales
Musher -mulcher
Mysterionly - mysteriously
O Say - O.J. Simpson
Pasketti - spaghetti
Polly pop - kool aid
Poop the Poop - wear an item out or individually tired
Rassel - wrestle
Rastin - harassment (I don't get this one either, but you had to know Dad)
Receive - command a dog to "retrieve"
Recoil - redial
Rekasessed - reposessed (yeah, this happened a time or two due to nonpayment)
Reservated - reserved a hotel room (something Dad did not do in his entire life)
Rister Scale - richter scale
Sanger Sewer - singer sewing machine
Skeered up - worried
Skip and Dip - coffee or tea bag
Seaster Mechanic - accountant ( no clue here)
Selector - telephone solicitor
Small Fortune - any cost above a bargain
Smoothmouth - anything worn out
Snyternol - tylenol
Testicle Flu - intestinal flu
Teejus - requiring careful adjustment within exacting tolerances?
Tranquilican - mannequin (another personal favorite of mine)
Twister Tweets - swisher sweets (cigars)
Umpire - empire (a refererence to his pile of scrap iron and old cars parked in the back yard)
Who Hit John - any alcoholic beverage other than beer
Wishwash - wrist watch
Wobbler Butt - anyone fat
*Lisa get personal kudos for adding:
Slap on the Belly Jelly - eat
That Sun's Just Right to be Wrong - the sun is in my eyes
Whomperjawed - catywampus, askew, out-of-line
Anywho, you get the idea.
The lingo of my "raisin" was colorful, imaginative, and "almost" in the ballpark as far as meaning. I always loved Dad's colorful adornment of the "language" and will always treasure his contribution to conversational communication.
Enjoy if you will and know I enjoyed remembering the memory of Dad talking regardless!
Tin Star Ranch Hand
The absolute best friend I have ever had in my life, my Dad (Gene Waller), uttered the best of the following, but others unwittingly contributed to the treasure as well while uttering phrases worthy of recording for posterity.
After all, our language is more a product of common usage than something that is arbitrarily printed as rules in a book as to how we should speak.
OK, here goes in a style befitting the manner of Dad's every day way of communicating:
Act of Commerce - difficult to accomplish (Act of Congress)
Back Sifle - siphon
Baffroom - bathroom
Ball - boil
Ball Batten - tennis racket (OK folks, all this will not make perfect sense, but it is the real stuff)
Barney Fite - barney fife
Bat Drawers - (OK, you got me on this one, but generally it means Gosh, Darn, or an exclamation of disgust?)( Dad also said, " Shit and two is eight" when something didn't make sense)
Biotics - antibiotics (close, but no cigar phonetically)
Bumb - bomb
Buzz Saw - weed eater (newfangled technology don't you know?)
catawpiller tree - catalpa tree (if you ain't from East Tx, you can't "get" this 'un)
Catywampus - off center or out of line (this makes as much sense to me as any of them)
CBR -VCR (hell, it's just letters?)
Clatterin' - collateral (I don't think paying back loans was all that important to Dad so why worry about the word for it??)
Climb in the Box - burial (something to always make light of in order to not feel depressed by the prospect)(my Dad was kind enough to help me make pre-burial arrangements for him and insisted on laying in the casket he selected in order to test its comfort???)
Compression - depression (another one that makes sense to me as both concepts seem to apply pschologically?)
Convertra - catalytic converter (OK, Detroit and the government just made up a damn word so why can't Gene do the same?)
Countrymary - customary (pure music to a kuntry boy's ears)
Cross Stickin' - cross stitching (what do men know about this anyway)(OK, I got pretty darn good at this for at time, but try to be easy on the "sissy" names?)
Dacked Out - fashionably dressed (Dad didn't have the finances to do this often, but he recognized when someone had it "going on" fashionably and commented accordingly)(also known as looking like a "band box", no clue on this one?)
Defang Shrimp - devein shrimp
Desistent - consistent
Devil Indenity - double indemity (you gotta love this one if your are insurance oriented?)
Digikal - digital
Doozy - anything good or of high quality
Duke's Mixture - Any combination of thing's (I spent my youth wondering who this "Duke" person was, but still have no clue?)
ECI - MCI long distance service
Encyclopedic - orthopedic
Epsoleptic fit - Epileptic fit
Farkason - Massey Ferguson Tractor (sometimes ya just gotta live there to know what they are talking about?)
Favors - looks like (OK, you read this and think, " What is unusual about that?" Well, go to somewhere besides East Tx and try that line and people will look at you and say , HUH?\
Flush Hole - threshold (only important if you need to know that the bottom of the door entryway has a problem?)
Fraud - frog
Gidget Saw - jig saw (another one of my personal favorites)
Go Down Amongst 'Em - die (how can you not like this one?)
Go Down Swangin' - yep, die again
Goes by Squirts - goes in spurts (I take this to mean stops and starts, but you may interpret Dad anyway you like on this one?)
Head Ponch - boss
Heerawed - Made fun of or laughed at (Dad did this a lot)
Hindu - emu
Hocus Pocus - hex
Hokeymolie - guacamole
Housitosis - cabin fever (Dad had this a lot as he hated to be inside and only did that due to the weather or his health)
Infectated - infatuated (in matters of love, Dad's word was probably better?)
Lanna - Mylanta (important if you had a stomach problem)
Last of the Moheekians - all used up or empty
Light Bread - white bread ( I think I still unconsciously use this word when not wanting to be healthy with "whole wheat", but not sure?0
Magnets - maggots
Mikeyway - microwave
Mollies - tomales
Musher -mulcher
Mysterionly - mysteriously
O Say - O.J. Simpson
Pasketti - spaghetti
Polly pop - kool aid
Poop the Poop - wear an item out or individually tired
Rassel - wrestle
Rastin - harassment (I don't get this one either, but you had to know Dad)
Receive - command a dog to "retrieve"
Recoil - redial
Rekasessed - reposessed (yeah, this happened a time or two due to nonpayment)
Reservated - reserved a hotel room (something Dad did not do in his entire life)
Rister Scale - richter scale
Sanger Sewer - singer sewing machine
Skeered up - worried
Skip and Dip - coffee or tea bag
Seaster Mechanic - accountant ( no clue here)
Selector - telephone solicitor
Small Fortune - any cost above a bargain
Smoothmouth - anything worn out
Snyternol - tylenol
Testicle Flu - intestinal flu
Teejus - requiring careful adjustment within exacting tolerances?
Tranquilican - mannequin (another personal favorite of mine)
Twister Tweets - swisher sweets (cigars)
Umpire - empire (a refererence to his pile of scrap iron and old cars parked in the back yard)
Who Hit John - any alcoholic beverage other than beer
Wishwash - wrist watch
Wobbler Butt - anyone fat
*Lisa get personal kudos for adding:
Slap on the Belly Jelly - eat
That Sun's Just Right to be Wrong - the sun is in my eyes
Whomperjawed - catywampus, askew, out-of-line
Anywho, you get the idea.
The lingo of my "raisin" was colorful, imaginative, and "almost" in the ballpark as far as meaning. I always loved Dad's colorful adornment of the "language" and will always treasure his contribution to conversational communication.
Enjoy if you will and know I enjoyed remembering the memory of Dad talking regardless!
Tin Star Ranch Hand
Saturday, December 8, 2007
A Good Day at the Tin Star
Eased onto the Tin Star bout 5:30A this morn and it was as dark as the world gets. Turn out the lights and you can't see your hand in front of your face.
Outfitted for the deer blind and was sittin' pretty bout daylight and saw three does at the corn feeder muching like they didn't have a care in the world. Didn't see any horns today, but who cares? Just had a laid back, relaxing day with the wind in the trees and just me and the Lord veggin' in the glory.
Managed to assemble my second deer feeder (compliments of ebay) and put it by the (ebay) tree stand at the tank so should draw some "customers" to that? Will Tin Star Ranch smoked link sausage be in my near future??
THANK YOU LORD FOR EVERY DAY THAT I HAVE THE PRIVILEGE OF RELAXING AND ENJOYING YOUR BOUNTIFUL BLESSINGS AT MY BELOVED RANCH!
Outfitted for the deer blind and was sittin' pretty bout daylight and saw three does at the corn feeder muching like they didn't have a care in the world. Didn't see any horns today, but who cares? Just had a laid back, relaxing day with the wind in the trees and just me and the Lord veggin' in the glory.
Managed to assemble my second deer feeder (compliments of ebay) and put it by the (ebay) tree stand at the tank so should draw some "customers" to that? Will Tin Star Ranch smoked link sausage be in my near future??
THANK YOU LORD FOR EVERY DAY THAT I HAVE THE PRIVILEGE OF RELAXING AND ENJOYING YOUR BOUNTIFUL BLESSINGS AT MY BELOVED RANCH!
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Ghost Bucks and Other Myths
About three weeks ago I eased into my trusty hand built deer blind (cleverly disguised by yours truly to look like a country outhouse in order to facilitate my BS hunting stories) well before the crack of 6AM (still dark another words).
Legal shooting light (30 minutes before sunrise) was 6:30A. Near bout 6:34A, my feeble eyes determined that a deer was back in the trees at my corn feeder. Further examination with my binoculars allowed me to see that the "deer" had horns which included multiple points.
Life is full of choices and roads taken - or not?
I decided to take the "shoot the deer now" road while barely able to discern it in the rifle scope rather than risk having it "escape" before the light increased.
Taking careful aim I fired, causing the muzzle blast from the round to blind me temporarily due to the darkness.
I heard brother deer crashing thru the brush on my neighbors land (I thought), but for a few moments I was as blind as a bat (muzzle blast remember). I then spent the next hour struggling thru the dense brush on my neighbor's land trying to find some evidence of the deer, but finally decide I "missed" the shot. (Now sports fans, this is a significant and sobering point because at the ripe old age of 57 with probably 50 deer killed, I had NEVER missed a deer???????????)
Anywho, fast forward three weeks and a buddy of mine goes to the Tin Star to hunt and sees a bunch of vultures on the ground and investigates. Yep, about 25 yards from where I shot the buck, a deer was in the middle of a patch of dense brush (ON MY LAND!!!!!!).
Talk about mixed feelings:
1. I felt inadequate due to my ineptitude at "tracking".
2. I felt vindication as I can still say I have never missed a shot at a deer.
3. I felt sad that one of God's creatures was eliminated without providing sustenance as food.
4. I felt proud to have the horns to display as my first TIN STAR RANCH BUCK
The rack has nine points with a 12 inch inside spread and fairly heavy beams. Not a trophy by any standard, but it is symetrical and will look good with a European mount (skull and horns attached)(if my dumbutt ever figgers out how to put pics on this blog, I will add one of ole bucky?)
During December I am going to spend as much off-duty time as possible pursuing a venison supply in order to lay in a store of Tin Star Ranch sausage for the coming year (more blogs later on the continuing exciting episodes of the ole gray fat boy and his adventures overcoming failing vision and the wobbles while on safari at his beloved Gabriel Mills ranchito)
Legal shooting light (30 minutes before sunrise) was 6:30A. Near bout 6:34A, my feeble eyes determined that a deer was back in the trees at my corn feeder. Further examination with my binoculars allowed me to see that the "deer" had horns which included multiple points.
Life is full of choices and roads taken - or not?
I decided to take the "shoot the deer now" road while barely able to discern it in the rifle scope rather than risk having it "escape" before the light increased.
Taking careful aim I fired, causing the muzzle blast from the round to blind me temporarily due to the darkness.
I heard brother deer crashing thru the brush on my neighbors land (I thought), but for a few moments I was as blind as a bat (muzzle blast remember). I then spent the next hour struggling thru the dense brush on my neighbor's land trying to find some evidence of the deer, but finally decide I "missed" the shot. (Now sports fans, this is a significant and sobering point because at the ripe old age of 57 with probably 50 deer killed, I had NEVER missed a deer???????????)
Anywho, fast forward three weeks and a buddy of mine goes to the Tin Star to hunt and sees a bunch of vultures on the ground and investigates. Yep, about 25 yards from where I shot the buck, a deer was in the middle of a patch of dense brush (ON MY LAND!!!!!!).
Talk about mixed feelings:
1. I felt inadequate due to my ineptitude at "tracking".
2. I felt vindication as I can still say I have never missed a shot at a deer.
3. I felt sad that one of God's creatures was eliminated without providing sustenance as food.
4. I felt proud to have the horns to display as my first TIN STAR RANCH BUCK
The rack has nine points with a 12 inch inside spread and fairly heavy beams. Not a trophy by any standard, but it is symetrical and will look good with a European mount (skull and horns attached)(if my dumbutt ever figgers out how to put pics on this blog, I will add one of ole bucky?)
During December I am going to spend as much off-duty time as possible pursuing a venison supply in order to lay in a store of Tin Star Ranch sausage for the coming year (more blogs later on the continuing exciting episodes of the ole gray fat boy and his adventures overcoming failing vision and the wobbles while on safari at his beloved Gabriel Mills ranchito)
Monday, December 3, 2007
SCHOOLIN' AND SUCH (more history for my kids)
I figured out fairly early in life that the folks I knew who could read and write had an easier time in life. During the three years I worked in the East Texas oil field, it amazed me that so many people I worked with were illiterate and thus stuck in very difficult jobs.
My guesstimation is that the average education level of "successful" people in my small world was maybe the 6th or 7th grade. Those who made the 10th grade were somewhat akin to scholars so I decided that getting a high school diploma was simply a must do.
I spent 12 years "readin' and writin'" at New London, Texas For the first ten years the school was simply called New London. In 1966, two white schools and two black schools consolidated and integrated simultaneouly and became West Rusk County ISD. I received my coveted high school diploma in 1968.
It occurred to me that if a high school diploma would get me a better job and perhaps an easier life, maybe some college would add to the benefit. However, the Sunday after high school graduation, my Dad visited with me and told me that I could continue to live and eat in his house, but I would otherwise have to be on my own as he needed to take care of my sisters.
As leaving the area to attend college was not an option, I decided to try Kilgore Junior College. It was maybe 20 miles from home.
I had no clue about anything related to college. On the day of registration I drove to the college totally stressed with no knowledge of what I was supposed to do. When I got there I saw the longest line of people ever in front of a large building. I got in the line with no idea about what I was supposed to do or where the line was going. The other kids in the line were talking, laughing, and obviously confident. The longer I was in the line the more I became convinced that I didn't belong there (and was likely too damn dumb to do college work anyway). Somewhere inside of me I found the fortitude to stay and went thru the process of registering.
Being too ignorant to start out easy in this strange new challenge, I registered for 19 hours of pre-med (Chemistry, Zoology, English, Algebra, Government and ???). WOW, that first semester was an eye opener. Learning from that experience, I only took 18 hours each of the next two semesters. If I remember correctly, I made the only "D" of my entire life one semester in Inorganic Chemistry and most of the other grades were an "A".
As noted in a previous blog, while taking a challenging course load at KJC, I was working three part time jobs (clerk to the dean of night school, night janitor at a business, and oil field hand on weekends). All the while slowly "starving" economically. When I bought gasoline it would be 3 or 4 gallons at a time. When I was away from home and hungry, well, I just stayed hungry. Forget clothes, entertainment, medicine (whatever) as it just wasn't possible so I left school and started my life long occupation.
I was a Highway Patrolman in San Antonio from 1970 to 1976. I left KJC with 54 semester hours and figgered out I needed around 60 for an Associate of Arts degree. To get residence at San Antonio Community College I needed a minimum of 15 hours. Bottom line: I started going to SAC part time while Highway Patrolin' full time and got an AA with 69 total hours about 1973.
After the AA, I decided what the hell and enrolled at St. Mary's University in San Antonio and started working on a BA. After 15 hours at St. M's, the University of Texas at San Antonio was created and opened. I transferred to UTSA and continued taking a class or two per semester while making a living. While at UTSA, I got to within 12 hours of a BA with a major in psychology when I was promoted to Sergeant and moved to Houston.
The working and economic conditions in Houston were not such that I felt I could attend school. After a year in Houston I transferred to Marshall in 1977. Marshall had two colleges!! One was an all black school and the other was a Baptist private school with tuition costs greater than my annual salary (so no progress on school here).
In 1981, I was sent to Northwestern University in Chicago, Illinois for a one year police executive program. While at Northwestern, I earned 24 semester hours credit to add to my growing transcript total (with no undergrad degree).
After Northwestern, I was transferred to Austin for a one year internship at DPS headquarters. Thinking I would only be there one year I did not try to attend school.
About 1986 I was still in Austin and was asked by the DPS Public Safety Commission to interview for the position of Lieutenant Colonel. I was very flattered to get the interview, but not at all surprised to not be promoted due to my limited tenure. That interview got me to thinking about how I might be more competitive if I was ever interviewed for Assistant Director in the future. I knew that all candidates interviewed, except me, had a bachelor's degree. This inspired me to relaunch my attempt for an undergraduate degree.
I tried Southwest Texas State, but they never offered what I needed for the degree at a time I could take it due to work. I looked at the University of Texas at Austin, but at the time they offered no night classes. I finally ended up at St. Edward's University. The cost was going to be mind boggling to attend St. Ed's, but it was my only option. Bottom line: in 1988 I received a Bachelor of Liberal Studies degee (with 161 hours on my transcripts due to all the dang moving around and problems getting credit at different places for a degree program)
After struggling to "educate" myself from 1968 to 1988, I still vividly remember the feeling I had the day I went to St. Ed's and picked up (I never walked the stage for my degrees) my diploma. It was an awesome high.
A few months after the St. Ed's degree, it occurred to me that having a bachelor's degree only got me even with my competition at DPS. Therefore, I decided to apply for the Master of Public Administration degree program at Southwest Texas State. This master's program was not only offered at night, but about half of the classes were even offered in Austin rather than San Marcos. The limit to complete the program was 7 years. I didn't feel I had the time professionally or otherwise to drag it out, however, so I finished the program and recieved my MPA in 1992 after a three year whirlwind of school and job.
About 1993 or 1994, I got curious about a doctoral program at the University of Texas in Human Resource Development. I started the application and interview process to get into the 6 year program. I got to the last stage and the person interviewing me told me I was accepted into the program, with one last question. The question was simply for me to ask myself why I was wanting to be in the program. All these years later, I have never come up with an acceptable answer to that question and so obviously did not accept their invitation to enter the Phd program.
I reckon that my high school diploma and three college degrees allowed me to "escape" the East Texas oil field by giving me more options. At the same time, I shall always remain grateful that the oil patch gave me the incentive and the perspective to try to give myself a better chance in life to make a decent living.
(FOOTNOTE: For two of the three years I was a roughneck I worked for my Dad. As the "rig operator" or boss, Dad always made me work twice as hard as anyone else and made me do all the menial jobs as well. At the time Dad said it was because he didn't want anyone to think he was being partial to me because he was my parent. In later years, he told me his real motive was to make me so miserable with oil field work that I would have the incentive to make a better life for myself. THANK YOU DAD FOR THIS AND SO MANY OTHER VALUABLE CONTRIBUTIONS YOU MADE TO MY LIFE)
My guesstimation is that the average education level of "successful" people in my small world was maybe the 6th or 7th grade. Those who made the 10th grade were somewhat akin to scholars so I decided that getting a high school diploma was simply a must do.
I spent 12 years "readin' and writin'" at New London, Texas For the first ten years the school was simply called New London. In 1966, two white schools and two black schools consolidated and integrated simultaneouly and became West Rusk County ISD. I received my coveted high school diploma in 1968.
It occurred to me that if a high school diploma would get me a better job and perhaps an easier life, maybe some college would add to the benefit. However, the Sunday after high school graduation, my Dad visited with me and told me that I could continue to live and eat in his house, but I would otherwise have to be on my own as he needed to take care of my sisters.
As leaving the area to attend college was not an option, I decided to try Kilgore Junior College. It was maybe 20 miles from home.
I had no clue about anything related to college. On the day of registration I drove to the college totally stressed with no knowledge of what I was supposed to do. When I got there I saw the longest line of people ever in front of a large building. I got in the line with no idea about what I was supposed to do or where the line was going. The other kids in the line were talking, laughing, and obviously confident. The longer I was in the line the more I became convinced that I didn't belong there (and was likely too damn dumb to do college work anyway). Somewhere inside of me I found the fortitude to stay and went thru the process of registering.
Being too ignorant to start out easy in this strange new challenge, I registered for 19 hours of pre-med (Chemistry, Zoology, English, Algebra, Government and ???). WOW, that first semester was an eye opener. Learning from that experience, I only took 18 hours each of the next two semesters. If I remember correctly, I made the only "D" of my entire life one semester in Inorganic Chemistry and most of the other grades were an "A".
As noted in a previous blog, while taking a challenging course load at KJC, I was working three part time jobs (clerk to the dean of night school, night janitor at a business, and oil field hand on weekends). All the while slowly "starving" economically. When I bought gasoline it would be 3 or 4 gallons at a time. When I was away from home and hungry, well, I just stayed hungry. Forget clothes, entertainment, medicine (whatever) as it just wasn't possible so I left school and started my life long occupation.
I was a Highway Patrolman in San Antonio from 1970 to 1976. I left KJC with 54 semester hours and figgered out I needed around 60 for an Associate of Arts degree. To get residence at San Antonio Community College I needed a minimum of 15 hours. Bottom line: I started going to SAC part time while Highway Patrolin' full time and got an AA with 69 total hours about 1973.
After the AA, I decided what the hell and enrolled at St. Mary's University in San Antonio and started working on a BA. After 15 hours at St. M's, the University of Texas at San Antonio was created and opened. I transferred to UTSA and continued taking a class or two per semester while making a living. While at UTSA, I got to within 12 hours of a BA with a major in psychology when I was promoted to Sergeant and moved to Houston.
The working and economic conditions in Houston were not such that I felt I could attend school. After a year in Houston I transferred to Marshall in 1977. Marshall had two colleges!! One was an all black school and the other was a Baptist private school with tuition costs greater than my annual salary (so no progress on school here).
In 1981, I was sent to Northwestern University in Chicago, Illinois for a one year police executive program. While at Northwestern, I earned 24 semester hours credit to add to my growing transcript total (with no undergrad degree).
After Northwestern, I was transferred to Austin for a one year internship at DPS headquarters. Thinking I would only be there one year I did not try to attend school.
About 1986 I was still in Austin and was asked by the DPS Public Safety Commission to interview for the position of Lieutenant Colonel. I was very flattered to get the interview, but not at all surprised to not be promoted due to my limited tenure. That interview got me to thinking about how I might be more competitive if I was ever interviewed for Assistant Director in the future. I knew that all candidates interviewed, except me, had a bachelor's degree. This inspired me to relaunch my attempt for an undergraduate degree.
I tried Southwest Texas State, but they never offered what I needed for the degree at a time I could take it due to work. I looked at the University of Texas at Austin, but at the time they offered no night classes. I finally ended up at St. Edward's University. The cost was going to be mind boggling to attend St. Ed's, but it was my only option. Bottom line: in 1988 I received a Bachelor of Liberal Studies degee (with 161 hours on my transcripts due to all the dang moving around and problems getting credit at different places for a degree program)
After struggling to "educate" myself from 1968 to 1988, I still vividly remember the feeling I had the day I went to St. Ed's and picked up (I never walked the stage for my degrees) my diploma. It was an awesome high.
A few months after the St. Ed's degree, it occurred to me that having a bachelor's degree only got me even with my competition at DPS. Therefore, I decided to apply for the Master of Public Administration degree program at Southwest Texas State. This master's program was not only offered at night, but about half of the classes were even offered in Austin rather than San Marcos. The limit to complete the program was 7 years. I didn't feel I had the time professionally or otherwise to drag it out, however, so I finished the program and recieved my MPA in 1992 after a three year whirlwind of school and job.
About 1993 or 1994, I got curious about a doctoral program at the University of Texas in Human Resource Development. I started the application and interview process to get into the 6 year program. I got to the last stage and the person interviewing me told me I was accepted into the program, with one last question. The question was simply for me to ask myself why I was wanting to be in the program. All these years later, I have never come up with an acceptable answer to that question and so obviously did not accept their invitation to enter the Phd program.
I reckon that my high school diploma and three college degrees allowed me to "escape" the East Texas oil field by giving me more options. At the same time, I shall always remain grateful that the oil patch gave me the incentive and the perspective to try to give myself a better chance in life to make a decent living.
(FOOTNOTE: For two of the three years I was a roughneck I worked for my Dad. As the "rig operator" or boss, Dad always made me work twice as hard as anyone else and made me do all the menial jobs as well. At the time Dad said it was because he didn't want anyone to think he was being partial to me because he was my parent. In later years, he told me his real motive was to make me so miserable with oil field work that I would have the incentive to make a better life for myself. THANK YOU DAD FOR THIS AND SO MANY OTHER VALUABLE CONTRIBUTIONS YOU MADE TO MY LIFE)
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
The Duerite Boys
As a child and teen I fairly quickly perceived that law enforcement was not viewed as a welcome part of our world. The "law" was someone who sold a product no one wanted (tickets, jail, etc.).
Of course, the fact that many of the male members of our clan lacked a driver license, often neglected things such as valid vehicle inspection certificates or registration (and many had a propensity for drinking and driving) kinda helped to draw negative attention from the constabulary at large. The more creative of our bunch even managed some extensive free room and board at government expense for more serious legal trifles.
The only officers that seem to draw some admiration were the one's Dad called the Duerite boys. For years I thought this was brothers that he was acquainted with who wore neat police uniforms and seemed to look more professional than others. At some point, I figured out he was calling them (Texas Higway Patrolmen) the "Do Right" boys referring to the fact that they only had one way and that was the right way for all concerned. At least in my family, from the occasional drunks to the convicted felons, the Highway Patrol seemed to maintain a measure of begrudging respect.
In 1968, I graduated from high school and start a pre-medical school curriculum at Kilgore Junior College. While attending college (taking 18 hours of pre-med per semester) I held three part time jobs simultaneously to try to meet expenses. It became apparent the financial slope I was on was too slippery to survive.
I resolved to temporarily delay medical school and get a full time job (a decision made even more difficult by the fact that the Viet Nam War was at full tilt and I would lose my education draft deferment).
One of my brother-in-laws was a policeman in Kilgore. I was describing my plans to him, with no clue about how to get any job, and he suggested I apply with the Texas Highway Patrol. I was nineteen years old at the time (The minimum age for a Patrolman was 20). I had never been more than a day's ride off the front porch and wasn't sure I could spell Texas Department of Public Safety so I said they would not be interested in me. My brother-in-law disgustedly asked how I would know if I never tried!
Rather than back down from the challenge, I decided to apply to play for someone other than the home team (with no clue about what my part-time outlaw blood kin would think). At the ripe old age of ten and nine years I applied, went thru a background investigation (that couldn't have taken long) took all the tests. and had the first formal oral interview of my short life (while terrified).
I went to the Highway Patrol Office in Tyler and the Captain (now deceased), Lieutenant (now deceased) and Sergeant (long ago retired) interviewed me about being a Patrolman (the title wasn't changed to Trooper till many years later). They asked me if I had ever been arrested ("No", and I thought to myself that I hoped they didn't ask about any family members). They asked if I had ever gotten a ticket or been stopped by the law ("No"). They asked if any of my family were policemen ("No", I was wondering if they knew the Duerite brothers that Dad seemed to be acquainted with). They asked if I had ever talked to a policeman (again, "No"). Suddenly the Lieutenant leaned forward and in a booming loud voice said, "Then son, what the hell makes you think you want to be a policeman."
My reply was, "Sir, I need a job real bad and this looks like a good one." (while about to wet my pants).
I guess the answer was good enough because the next month on the day of my birthday (January 12, 1970), I received a letter of appointment to attend the Texas Highway Patrol School in Austin. The Academy was as tough mentally and physically as anything I have ever done and mostly due to homesickness (missing my MaMa) I thought a lot about quitting. Several things kept me there:
1. I had never quit anything or let anything beat me in my life.
2. The only alternative was the army in Viet Nam.
3. I couldn't stand the thought of ever going back home and having all know I failed.
Guess it all worked out one way or the other in the long run as my career at DPS lasted 33 years and 18 days until I retired on February 28, 2003.
I started as a Patrolman in San Antonio. Working the South and West side of that town will either make you grow up real quick or kill you in the same time frame. (I still remember drivers telling me they had been driving longer than I had been on earth)
I promoted to Highway Patrol Sergeant the first time I was eligible to apply and was transferred to Houston in 1976. After one year there, I transferred as a Sergeant to Marshall to be able to help mom when she was terminally ill with cancer. In 1981, I was selected to attend a one year police executive management school at Northwestern Unversity in Chicago.
While in Chicago, I was at the top of a promotion eligibility list and was promoted to Highway Patrol Lieutenant (like the one that yelled at me at my employment interview in Tyler)
After finishing at Northwestern, I was transferred to Austin to work in the State Headquarters. I thought being a Lieutenant would be a big deal until I realized that I was the lowest ranking person in the entire Headquarters?
In 1985 I was promoted to Captain and remained at Headquarters.
In 1987 I was promoted to Assistant Division Chief and put in charge of the Training Academy (the same one where I was so homesick), the Human Resources Department, the statewide vehicle fleet, the statewide building program, and many other programs.
In 1992 I was asked to accept an interim appointment as the head of the DPS mainframe computer operations. This was an especially challenging time for me for three reasons:
1. I was asked to lead the development of the current digitized driver licens issuance process
2. I had to manage the development of the computerized Automated Fingerprint Identification System
3. I was and remain as dumb as a post as far as computers are concerned
Guess I didn't screw the temp job up too bad (or maybe as punishment) I was promoted to full Division Chief in 1993 and made responsible for (yep) the computer operation (which now was full blown into the Y2K conversion process), the statewide criminal record system, and disaster and emergency management operations. I held this job for longer than anyone in the history of DPS up to that time (over 7 years) and was sure this would be my last assignment.
In 2000 (when I had 30 years service) the Public Safety Commission chose to appoint me to the position of Assistant Director with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. I was placed in charge of the Texas Highway Patrol (and finally being older than 20 could buy my own bullets), the Criminal Investigation Division, and the Texas Rangers.
When I retired from DPS in 2003, the Public Safety Commission gave me a lifetime law enforcement commision as a Special Texas Ranger allowing me to retain police powers and carry a sidearm is I desired.
My law enforcement career was over and I retired to my beloved Tin Star Ranch in Williamson County near Gabriel Mills to get it ready to build a house on it in the future.
What I could not foresee was that in June of 2006 a retired DPS friend would ask if I was interested in being the "interim" Police Chief for Austin Community College while they searched for a permanent chief. I remember the "interim" gig I had as the so-called computer guru and hesitated a bit, but then decided to do it for a change of pace.
After 6 months, I went to the College President and said I noticed you are not trying to hire a police chief. He replied that he didn't need to because he had one that he wanted to keep.
To make this too long story start mosying (not sure that is a word, but I know what it means) toward an ending, I have been the Police Chief for 17 months and in a couple of months I will have amazingly (to me) amassed a total of 38 years as one of the "Duerite Boys".
I'm not sure that helps even the score for all the mischief made by all the Wallers and Boyds over the years, but maybe it will keep the devil at bay?
Of course, the fact that many of the male members of our clan lacked a driver license, often neglected things such as valid vehicle inspection certificates or registration (and many had a propensity for drinking and driving) kinda helped to draw negative attention from the constabulary at large. The more creative of our bunch even managed some extensive free room and board at government expense for more serious legal trifles.
The only officers that seem to draw some admiration were the one's Dad called the Duerite boys. For years I thought this was brothers that he was acquainted with who wore neat police uniforms and seemed to look more professional than others. At some point, I figured out he was calling them (Texas Higway Patrolmen) the "Do Right" boys referring to the fact that they only had one way and that was the right way for all concerned. At least in my family, from the occasional drunks to the convicted felons, the Highway Patrol seemed to maintain a measure of begrudging respect.
In 1968, I graduated from high school and start a pre-medical school curriculum at Kilgore Junior College. While attending college (taking 18 hours of pre-med per semester) I held three part time jobs simultaneously to try to meet expenses. It became apparent the financial slope I was on was too slippery to survive.
I resolved to temporarily delay medical school and get a full time job (a decision made even more difficult by the fact that the Viet Nam War was at full tilt and I would lose my education draft deferment).
One of my brother-in-laws was a policeman in Kilgore. I was describing my plans to him, with no clue about how to get any job, and he suggested I apply with the Texas Highway Patrol. I was nineteen years old at the time (The minimum age for a Patrolman was 20). I had never been more than a day's ride off the front porch and wasn't sure I could spell Texas Department of Public Safety so I said they would not be interested in me. My brother-in-law disgustedly asked how I would know if I never tried!
Rather than back down from the challenge, I decided to apply to play for someone other than the home team (with no clue about what my part-time outlaw blood kin would think). At the ripe old age of ten and nine years I applied, went thru a background investigation (that couldn't have taken long) took all the tests. and had the first formal oral interview of my short life (while terrified).
I went to the Highway Patrol Office in Tyler and the Captain (now deceased), Lieutenant (now deceased) and Sergeant (long ago retired) interviewed me about being a Patrolman (the title wasn't changed to Trooper till many years later). They asked me if I had ever been arrested ("No", and I thought to myself that I hoped they didn't ask about any family members). They asked if I had ever gotten a ticket or been stopped by the law ("No"). They asked if any of my family were policemen ("No", I was wondering if they knew the Duerite brothers that Dad seemed to be acquainted with). They asked if I had ever talked to a policeman (again, "No"). Suddenly the Lieutenant leaned forward and in a booming loud voice said, "Then son, what the hell makes you think you want to be a policeman."
My reply was, "Sir, I need a job real bad and this looks like a good one." (while about to wet my pants).
I guess the answer was good enough because the next month on the day of my birthday (January 12, 1970), I received a letter of appointment to attend the Texas Highway Patrol School in Austin. The Academy was as tough mentally and physically as anything I have ever done and mostly due to homesickness (missing my MaMa) I thought a lot about quitting. Several things kept me there:
1. I had never quit anything or let anything beat me in my life.
2. The only alternative was the army in Viet Nam.
3. I couldn't stand the thought of ever going back home and having all know I failed.
Guess it all worked out one way or the other in the long run as my career at DPS lasted 33 years and 18 days until I retired on February 28, 2003.
I started as a Patrolman in San Antonio. Working the South and West side of that town will either make you grow up real quick or kill you in the same time frame. (I still remember drivers telling me they had been driving longer than I had been on earth)
I promoted to Highway Patrol Sergeant the first time I was eligible to apply and was transferred to Houston in 1976. After one year there, I transferred as a Sergeant to Marshall to be able to help mom when she was terminally ill with cancer. In 1981, I was selected to attend a one year police executive management school at Northwestern Unversity in Chicago.
While in Chicago, I was at the top of a promotion eligibility list and was promoted to Highway Patrol Lieutenant (like the one that yelled at me at my employment interview in Tyler)
After finishing at Northwestern, I was transferred to Austin to work in the State Headquarters. I thought being a Lieutenant would be a big deal until I realized that I was the lowest ranking person in the entire Headquarters?
In 1985 I was promoted to Captain and remained at Headquarters.
In 1987 I was promoted to Assistant Division Chief and put in charge of the Training Academy (the same one where I was so homesick), the Human Resources Department, the statewide vehicle fleet, the statewide building program, and many other programs.
In 1992 I was asked to accept an interim appointment as the head of the DPS mainframe computer operations. This was an especially challenging time for me for three reasons:
1. I was asked to lead the development of the current digitized driver licens issuance process
2. I had to manage the development of the computerized Automated Fingerprint Identification System
3. I was and remain as dumb as a post as far as computers are concerned
Guess I didn't screw the temp job up too bad (or maybe as punishment) I was promoted to full Division Chief in 1993 and made responsible for (yep) the computer operation (which now was full blown into the Y2K conversion process), the statewide criminal record system, and disaster and emergency management operations. I held this job for longer than anyone in the history of DPS up to that time (over 7 years) and was sure this would be my last assignment.
In 2000 (when I had 30 years service) the Public Safety Commission chose to appoint me to the position of Assistant Director with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. I was placed in charge of the Texas Highway Patrol (and finally being older than 20 could buy my own bullets), the Criminal Investigation Division, and the Texas Rangers.
When I retired from DPS in 2003, the Public Safety Commission gave me a lifetime law enforcement commision as a Special Texas Ranger allowing me to retain police powers and carry a sidearm is I desired.
My law enforcement career was over and I retired to my beloved Tin Star Ranch in Williamson County near Gabriel Mills to get it ready to build a house on it in the future.
What I could not foresee was that in June of 2006 a retired DPS friend would ask if I was interested in being the "interim" Police Chief for Austin Community College while they searched for a permanent chief. I remember the "interim" gig I had as the so-called computer guru and hesitated a bit, but then decided to do it for a change of pace.
After 6 months, I went to the College President and said I noticed you are not trying to hire a police chief. He replied that he didn't need to because he had one that he wanted to keep.
To make this too long story start mosying (not sure that is a word, but I know what it means) toward an ending, I have been the Police Chief for 17 months and in a couple of months I will have amazingly (to me) amassed a total of 38 years as one of the "Duerite Boys".
I'm not sure that helps even the score for all the mischief made by all the Wallers and Boyds over the years, but maybe it will keep the devil at bay?
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Wright City Ramblings
Fairly soon in life, I figured out the social pecking order for East Texas in general and Wright City in particular. I am not saying it was politically, morally, or intellectually correct (or that I even supported it), but the fact remains that it existed as follows from lowest to highest in order:
Hispanics (I don't think I ever saw one til a high school trip to San Antonio)
Blacks (Many were close friends with Dad as he treated people equally)
White Trash (Universally scorned as "sorry lazy no-goods")
Oil Field Trash (Gene Waller, Inc.)
The Rest of the World
As multiple generations of both sides of my family had worked as East Texas oil field laborers for minimum wage, we were obviously catagorized by the world as Oil Field Trash.
Above us was a social mystery that we had no knowledge of (nor the number of social layers that existed) and below us were those that we shared a lot in common with (also known as near poverty)
I grew up in a single wall house (look between the boards from the inside and see a narrow view of the world on the outside, a parallel to growing up in Wright City now that I think about it). The house had originally served as the parsonage for the Wright City Assembly of God church. It was offered for sale and Dad paid the princely sum of $500 (cash, I don't think Dad ever had a checking account). When we bought the house (1962) it had no paint on the boards and and when Dad moved out of it (about 1992) it had never felt a paint brush. The lights were bare bulbs that hung from the ceiling on wires, the AC was a large fan in one end of the house that ran backwards in order to draw (hot, humid) air into the house from the outside and the floor was usually just boards that Mom kept scrubbed almost white. (Mom was big on cooking and cleaning and darn good at both as she worked with focused dedication to keep the house and kids in good shape while Dad literally slaved in the "oil patch" in menial jobs.)
All that said, I would not trade places with anyone on where I grew to young adulthood. Both sets of my grandparents lived within a couple of miles (and they loved and cared for me in many meaningful ways). We were surrounded by woods, creeks, ponds and all manner of things where a boy could run, romp and just have a blast (in the absence of money, transportation, etc.) Back then, I didn't know the things money could allow that I was "missing". Now, I know that money could have never purchased the feelings of freedom and sheer joy at being alive when the whole of Wright City and surrounding farms were open to my pleasure (I never heard the word "tresspass" back then and nobody seemed to care that boys roamed their places so long as no mischief occurred). As an aside (this is my blog so I will take literary liberties as I choose) when I was about 12, my parents bought me a new Noble single shot .22 rifle for $13 (serious money at the time) I carried and used that gun (rabbits, squirrels) like it was the grand prize of an African Safari and keep it to this day with great memories of carrying it for the "hunt".
A heartfelt public kudo to Dad: many oil field workers followed the work which meant moving a lot. Dad would move us in the summer to find work, but he made it his number one priority to always be back in Wright City when school started so that we could have the continuity and stability of starting and finishing public school at the same place, New London. To understand the depth of this "gift" to his children, you would need to know some history. My Mom's Dad (Papuh) told me one time that he tried first grade on the first day he was old enough, but didn't like it so never went back (he was completely illiterate). I never really knew the reading level of Dad's Dad, but I suspect it was somewhat minimal as he had little formal education to my knowledge. My Dad was so severely dyslexic that he could not look at the word "cat" on a piece of paper and copy the letters underneath. In the beginning of Dad's educational attempts, he was told he was stupid and lazy and he was "whipped" every day by his Dad because of it. For the remainder of his life, Dad was depressed and frustrated at his inability to get good jobs, read letters from family (or even order from a menu in a public place)(Dad's trick in a cafe was to look intently at a menu and then ask the waitress what was good. He did this one time and the waitress said it was all good. Dad pointed at three items on the menu and said I'll have this, this and this. The waitress dutifully brought Dad fried potatoes, stewed potatoes and mashed potatoes). BOTTOM LINE: Dad knew that his kids needed a better chance in life than he had and he did his part to allow the opportunity. GOD BLESS AND KEEP YOU DAD!
So: we were economically poor, had near zero perspective on the world at large, and grew up with a lot of psychological challenges that altered our focus at times, BUT, we were housed, clothed, fed (well) and always knew we were loved by all in our immediate and extended family. How much better can it get than that for a Wright City Oil Field Trash boy who has always kept sight of where he started and tried to merit the "start" he was given in life.
My heartfelt and sincere thanks to all who had a part in that.
Hispanics (I don't think I ever saw one til a high school trip to San Antonio)
Blacks (Many were close friends with Dad as he treated people equally)
White Trash (Universally scorned as "sorry lazy no-goods")
Oil Field Trash (Gene Waller, Inc.)
The Rest of the World
As multiple generations of both sides of my family had worked as East Texas oil field laborers for minimum wage, we were obviously catagorized by the world as Oil Field Trash.
Above us was a social mystery that we had no knowledge of (nor the number of social layers that existed) and below us were those that we shared a lot in common with (also known as near poverty)
I grew up in a single wall house (look between the boards from the inside and see a narrow view of the world on the outside, a parallel to growing up in Wright City now that I think about it). The house had originally served as the parsonage for the Wright City Assembly of God church. It was offered for sale and Dad paid the princely sum of $500 (cash, I don't think Dad ever had a checking account). When we bought the house (1962) it had no paint on the boards and and when Dad moved out of it (about 1992) it had never felt a paint brush. The lights were bare bulbs that hung from the ceiling on wires, the AC was a large fan in one end of the house that ran backwards in order to draw (hot, humid) air into the house from the outside and the floor was usually just boards that Mom kept scrubbed almost white. (Mom was big on cooking and cleaning and darn good at both as she worked with focused dedication to keep the house and kids in good shape while Dad literally slaved in the "oil patch" in menial jobs.)
All that said, I would not trade places with anyone on where I grew to young adulthood. Both sets of my grandparents lived within a couple of miles (and they loved and cared for me in many meaningful ways). We were surrounded by woods, creeks, ponds and all manner of things where a boy could run, romp and just have a blast (in the absence of money, transportation, etc.) Back then, I didn't know the things money could allow that I was "missing". Now, I know that money could have never purchased the feelings of freedom and sheer joy at being alive when the whole of Wright City and surrounding farms were open to my pleasure (I never heard the word "tresspass" back then and nobody seemed to care that boys roamed their places so long as no mischief occurred). As an aside (this is my blog so I will take literary liberties as I choose) when I was about 12, my parents bought me a new Noble single shot .22 rifle for $13 (serious money at the time) I carried and used that gun (rabbits, squirrels) like it was the grand prize of an African Safari and keep it to this day with great memories of carrying it for the "hunt".
A heartfelt public kudo to Dad: many oil field workers followed the work which meant moving a lot. Dad would move us in the summer to find work, but he made it his number one priority to always be back in Wright City when school started so that we could have the continuity and stability of starting and finishing public school at the same place, New London. To understand the depth of this "gift" to his children, you would need to know some history. My Mom's Dad (Papuh) told me one time that he tried first grade on the first day he was old enough, but didn't like it so never went back (he was completely illiterate). I never really knew the reading level of Dad's Dad, but I suspect it was somewhat minimal as he had little formal education to my knowledge. My Dad was so severely dyslexic that he could not look at the word "cat" on a piece of paper and copy the letters underneath. In the beginning of Dad's educational attempts, he was told he was stupid and lazy and he was "whipped" every day by his Dad because of it. For the remainder of his life, Dad was depressed and frustrated at his inability to get good jobs, read letters from family (or even order from a menu in a public place)(Dad's trick in a cafe was to look intently at a menu and then ask the waitress what was good. He did this one time and the waitress said it was all good. Dad pointed at three items on the menu and said I'll have this, this and this. The waitress dutifully brought Dad fried potatoes, stewed potatoes and mashed potatoes). BOTTOM LINE: Dad knew that his kids needed a better chance in life than he had and he did his part to allow the opportunity. GOD BLESS AND KEEP YOU DAD!
So: we were economically poor, had near zero perspective on the world at large, and grew up with a lot of psychological challenges that altered our focus at times, BUT, we were housed, clothed, fed (well) and always knew we were loved by all in our immediate and extended family. How much better can it get than that for a Wright City Oil Field Trash boy who has always kept sight of where he started and tried to merit the "start" he was given in life.
My heartfelt and sincere thanks to all who had a part in that.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Old Story
Casie is likely the onliest one who hasn't heard the folowing story, but guess she needs to know her daddie's frailties as well?
OK SPORT FANS
GRAB A COOL ADULT BEVERAGE, GET IN A COMFORTABLE
CHAIR, AND TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF (THIS MAY BE A LONG
STORY???)
ABOUT 1990 I ASSASINATED A WILD TOM TURKEY ON MY LONG
TERM DEER LEASE IN FREDERICKSBURG (MY FIRST TOM!)
ALTHOUGH I "CROCK-POTTED" THE VICTIM IN SOME QUALITY
ONION SOUP, IT WAS KINDA STRINGY AND NOT THAT TASTY.
BEING ONE WHO DOES NOT KILL GAME JUST FOR THE
WHATEVER, I DECIDED I WOULD NOT KILL ANOTHER WILD
TURKEY.
FAST FORWARD ABOUT 15 YEARS AND I BUY THE "TIN STAR
RANCH" AND DECIDE THAT IT WOULD BE COOL TO KILL (ONE,
UNO, 1, A SINGLE) WILD TOM TURKEY AND SAVE THE
BEARD/TAIL AS (HELL, I DON'T KNOW, JUST TO SAY I DID
ON MY OWN LAND FOR MY "OWN" TURKEY.
OK, AT THE TIN STAR TODAY (JUST FOOLING AROUND ABOUT
11:30a) AND NOTICE THREE TOM TURKS AT MY DEER FEEDER.
MY BRILLIANCE KICKS IN AND I DECIDE TO GET MY ONE AND
ONLY/LAST WILD TURKEY AS A "RANCH TROPHY"?????????
SO:::::: I SILENTLY/STEATHILY EASE/SLINK TO MY TRUCK
AND GET MY TRUSTEE FIREARM AND EVERY SO MORE
SECRETIVELY LOAD THREE SHELLS.
THE DISTANCE IS 115 STEPS (DETERMINED AFTER THE FACT)
AND I AM THE PICTURE OF CONFIDENCE AS I HAVE BONDED
WITH THIS LITTLE WEAPON THRU RANGE PRACTICE,
"SIGHTING-IN" AND METAPHYSICAL PRESTIDIGITATION.
OK, NOW THE TURKS ARE ABOUT THE SIZE OF TWO/THREE
FOOTBALLS AND I AM AT LEAST 100 YARDS AWAY (DON'T GO
TO SLEEP OR QUIT ON ME AS THIS STORY REALLY HAS AN
ENDING)
OLE DANIEL BOONE, JR., TAKES CAREFUL OFFHAND AIM AND
(CRAP) THE SAFETY IS ON??? OK, NOW JUNIOR BOONE AIMS
AGAIN AND SHOOTS THE SHOT OF THE CENTURY (EXCEPT THE
TURK JUMPS IN THE AIR AND GOES IN THE BRUSH)
OK, NOW JUVENILE BOONE HAS A BIT OF THE SHAKES AND
CHAMBERS THE NEXT FATAL ROUND. OFFHAND, THIS LETHAL
BLOW CAUSES THE TURK TO "JUMP IN THE AIR" AND RUN IN
THE BRUSH.
GOSH-OH-GEE-GOLLY-DARN-DIRTY-MOUTH-NASTY. baby boone
decides (in his heart pounding, hyper-ventilating
mode) that maybe resting the (damn throat cutting,
back-stabbing) traitor gun against a tree for support
will make the ole gray haired fat boy a better shot at
100 yards (did i mention this is a 30/30 lever action,
pawn shop cheapie that I wuz very proud of up to this
moment??)
NOW, we is into serious bizness: ole fat boy "eases"
up to a tree, takes a careful rest, breathes like a
pro, and SQUEEZED the trigger in order to see the last
remaining turk jump in the air and "run in the
brush".???????
Now see the fat boy, RUN back to the truck and GIT MO'
SHELLS, and try to git them loaded and back to the
action/?????
started toward the murderous turks and worked the
rifle action to git a round in the chamber?????? OK,
spit a good round on the ground as already had a
"round" in the chamber and just too dang 'cited to
know it???????
Now gonna INJUN from tree to tree to git whut is
rightfully mine (whatever that means cuz I don't like
the dang wild turkey meat anyway).
finally get to the edge of the brush, walk in like a
bengal tiger may jump on me at any minute and see:
THREE TURKEY TOMS LAID OUT IN A ROW (dead) LIKE THEY
WUZ FUNERALIZED AND JUST WAITING FOR DUMBUTT TO SEE
WHUT HAD HAPPENED???????????
what kin I say????????? (P.S. cleaning three turkeys
in one sittin' ain't whut i call a pick nick?) (doing
turkey jerkey the next few days so git out yur false
teeth and start practicing gnawing???)
f
OK SPORT FANS
GRAB A COOL ADULT BEVERAGE, GET IN A COMFORTABLE
CHAIR, AND TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF (THIS MAY BE A LONG
STORY???)
ABOUT 1990 I ASSASINATED A WILD TOM TURKEY ON MY LONG
TERM DEER LEASE IN FREDERICKSBURG (MY FIRST TOM!)
ALTHOUGH I "CROCK-POTTED" THE VICTIM IN SOME QUALITY
ONION SOUP, IT WAS KINDA STRINGY AND NOT THAT TASTY.
BEING ONE WHO DOES NOT KILL GAME JUST FOR THE
WHATEVER, I DECIDED I WOULD NOT KILL ANOTHER WILD
TURKEY.
FAST FORWARD ABOUT 15 YEARS AND I BUY THE "TIN STAR
RANCH" AND DECIDE THAT IT WOULD BE COOL TO KILL (ONE,
UNO, 1, A SINGLE) WILD TOM TURKEY AND SAVE THE
BEARD/TAIL AS (HELL, I DON'T KNOW, JUST TO SAY I DID
ON MY OWN LAND FOR MY "OWN" TURKEY.
OK, AT THE TIN STAR TODAY (JUST FOOLING AROUND ABOUT
11:30a) AND NOTICE THREE TOM TURKS AT MY DEER FEEDER.
MY BRILLIANCE KICKS IN AND I DECIDE TO GET MY ONE AND
ONLY/LAST WILD TURKEY AS A "RANCH TROPHY"?????????
SO:::::: I SILENTLY/STEATHILY EASE/SLINK TO MY TRUCK
AND GET MY TRUSTEE FIREARM AND EVERY SO MORE
SECRETIVELY LOAD THREE SHELLS.
THE DISTANCE IS 115 STEPS (DETERMINED AFTER THE FACT)
AND I AM THE PICTURE OF CONFIDENCE AS I HAVE BONDED
WITH THIS LITTLE WEAPON THRU RANGE PRACTICE,
"SIGHTING-IN" AND METAPHYSICAL PRESTIDIGITATION.
OK, NOW THE TURKS ARE ABOUT THE SIZE OF TWO/THREE
FOOTBALLS AND I AM AT LEAST 100 YARDS AWAY (DON'T GO
TO SLEEP OR QUIT ON ME AS THIS STORY REALLY HAS AN
ENDING)
OLE DANIEL BOONE, JR., TAKES CAREFUL OFFHAND AIM AND
(CRAP) THE SAFETY IS ON??? OK, NOW JUNIOR BOONE AIMS
AGAIN AND SHOOTS THE SHOT OF THE CENTURY (EXCEPT THE
TURK JUMPS IN THE AIR AND GOES IN THE BRUSH)
OK, NOW JUVENILE BOONE HAS A BIT OF THE SHAKES AND
CHAMBERS THE NEXT FATAL ROUND. OFFHAND, THIS LETHAL
BLOW CAUSES THE TURK TO "JUMP IN THE AIR" AND RUN IN
THE BRUSH.
GOSH-OH-GEE-GOLLY-DARN-DIRTY-MOUTH-NASTY. baby boone
decides (in his heart pounding, hyper-ventilating
mode) that maybe resting the (damn throat cutting,
back-stabbing) traitor gun against a tree for support
will make the ole gray haired fat boy a better shot at
100 yards (did i mention this is a 30/30 lever action,
pawn shop cheapie that I wuz very proud of up to this
moment??)
NOW, we is into serious bizness: ole fat boy "eases"
up to a tree, takes a careful rest, breathes like a
pro, and SQUEEZED the trigger in order to see the last
remaining turk jump in the air and "run in the
brush".???????
Now see the fat boy, RUN back to the truck and GIT MO'
SHELLS, and try to git them loaded and back to the
action/?????
started toward the murderous turks and worked the
rifle action to git a round in the chamber?????? OK,
spit a good round on the ground as already had a
"round" in the chamber and just too dang 'cited to
know it???????
Now gonna INJUN from tree to tree to git whut is
rightfully mine (whatever that means cuz I don't like
the dang wild turkey meat anyway).
finally get to the edge of the brush, walk in like a
bengal tiger may jump on me at any minute and see:
THREE TURKEY TOMS LAID OUT IN A ROW (dead) LIKE THEY
WUZ FUNERALIZED AND JUST WAITING FOR DUMBUTT TO SEE
WHUT HAD HAPPENED???????????
what kin I say????????? (P.S. cleaning three turkeys
in one sittin' ain't whut i call a pick nick?) (doing
turkey jerkey the next few days so git out yur false
teeth and start practicing gnawing???)
f
Picture
Ya know, it occurred to my that I might try to figger out how to put a pic of me on this blog thing, but then I started wondering if the lawyers for Richard Gere or George Clooney have a sense of humor about the use of their clients pictures.
Let me do some research and get back to your about the picture thing?
Let me do some research and get back to your about the picture thing?
An old fat man's musings
OK World,
When I was born, computers did not exist, the internet was not yet a "figment" and Al Gore was starting to figure out the global warming thing (but it turned out to be an accident in his pants).
Now as I am about to ease in my 58th year, my daughters Casie and Lisa have each encouraged me to "blog" because it is "easy"? Hmmmmmmmmm? They told me Highway Patrol School, parenting, a Master's degree, and a database programming school I attended would be easy, but... well anyway.... here goes ?????????????????//
My thoughts for this Thanksgiving season have been totally focused on the incredible blessing of my family. My spouse, children, and grandchildren are an awesome source of admiration, joy and love in my life. Although I do not have the privilege of seeing them as often as I would like, I think of them (and pray for their wellbeing and happiness) every day that the sun rises. ALL YALL PLEASE KNOW THAT I HOLD YOU IN MY HEART AS THE MOST PRECIOUS THINGS IN MY LIFE!
We will mutually have to see where this blog business leads as I tend to "muse" at length at times and lean toward the irreverent humor bent on occasion (mostly to poke fun at yours truly), but the older one gets, the more they are entitled as far as I am concerned (Hell, every day I wake up these days I consider it a new personal longevity record).
Ya'll all stay purty and bear with me on this new adventure.
When I was born, computers did not exist, the internet was not yet a "figment" and Al Gore was starting to figure out the global warming thing (but it turned out to be an accident in his pants).
Now as I am about to ease in my 58th year, my daughters Casie and Lisa have each encouraged me to "blog" because it is "easy"? Hmmmmmmmmm? They told me Highway Patrol School, parenting, a Master's degree, and a database programming school I attended would be easy, but... well anyway.... here goes ?????????????????//
My thoughts for this Thanksgiving season have been totally focused on the incredible blessing of my family. My spouse, children, and grandchildren are an awesome source of admiration, joy and love in my life. Although I do not have the privilege of seeing them as often as I would like, I think of them (and pray for their wellbeing and happiness) every day that the sun rises. ALL YALL PLEASE KNOW THAT I HOLD YOU IN MY HEART AS THE MOST PRECIOUS THINGS IN MY LIFE!
We will mutually have to see where this blog business leads as I tend to "muse" at length at times and lean toward the irreverent humor bent on occasion (mostly to poke fun at yours truly), but the older one gets, the more they are entitled as far as I am concerned (Hell, every day I wake up these days I consider it a new personal longevity record).
Ya'll all stay purty and bear with me on this new adventure.
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