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?
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
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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