The only store bought fishing worms I have ever seen were what we called "Georgia Wigglers". They were small, red and wiggled like crazy. They were hard to put on a fish hook, but worked fairly well for catching perch.
The real deal for worm bait was a good ole East Texas earthworm. Them puppies might be a foot long, big around as a pencil, and good and tough to stay on the hook for catfish.
Only trouble was the only way to get them, we thought, was to get a shovel and dig in the ground wherever one found worm sign (round pellets of dirt on top of the ground secreted by the worms as they dug/ate their way into the earth). Being on the business end of that shovel was not exactly a pleasurable experience and it tended to leave holes that were problematic (especially if I did it in Dad's yard)?
One day Dad accidently spilled some gasoline on the ground near some worm sign. In a few minutes we noticed that giant worms were coming out of the ground everywhere (INSTANT FISH BAIT). We used this expeditious method for a term, but in truth the gasoline fumes tended to drastically shorten the life of Mr. Worm.
Dad decided the trick was to pour any liquid on the ground that had strong "fumes" (Dad pronounced this word as "fooms") that would irritate the worms into "abandoning ship", but would not cause their premature demise.
Enter Chlorox bleach. Dad sprinkled a bit full strength near some "worm sign" and sure nuff, them puppies near leaped out of the ground and would live as long as needed for that day's fishing trip.
Now, here's the real blog treat. The most genuine fisherman in the family was Buddy. Dad swore Buddy's first marriage went bust because Buddy chose fishing over wife/kids/work (hell anything). There was a time when he fished every waking moment, and some while asleep.
We were talking about harvesting earth worms one day and Buddy declared that he just "fiddled" them up???? I would report that him and Dad were drinking beer at the time, but that would be superfluous comment as they were always drinking beer.
Not to be "hooraahed" unduly, Buddy produce some strong nylon twine, a piece of iron rod, and a hammer. He then proceeded to drive the iron rod in the ground in the middle of a bunch of worm sign and then tied one end of the string to the iron rod. He tied the other end of the string to a tree limb with the string drawn tight.
Ole Bud Drawers then began to "pluck" the string like a musical instrument. Took all of 15 minutes of "plucking" but them dang worms started stampeding from the ground like rented mules.
Buddy's explanation was that the vibrations of the iron rod, caused by plucking the tight string was the trick. (Several more beers drank now) Budreaux then allowed as how he could also just squat down near worm sign and "thump" on the ground with an appropriate size limb and achieve the same results as with the "fiddle".
Bets were made and Alvin Louis squatted on his haunches and commenced to "thumping" on the ground with a dang pecan tree limb. Took longer this time, but once again, the pied piper of earthworms called them forth??
Don't know why any of this works, but I witnessed it all so that is all the proof I need.
Probably ought get me one them worm fiddles and see if I can make my fortune???
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
STUMPS II
Last month I wrote a brilliant (well OK, a modestly interesting) (aw hell, boring) piece on the hundreds of stumps on my beloved TIN STAR RANCH and how I relate them to life and the trials and tribulations of living in this world. Sports fans, ya just ain't lived til you are perched on a Kubota tractor and hit one them puppies in waist high weeds unexpectedly.
Anywho, last weekend my bro-law used his construction equipment to dig out about 300 of those sneaky murderous devils and lay them on top of the ground (leaving a nice hole to fill in their place). Some were a mere 4 inches across, most were closer to two feet across (Big Dawgs another words).
Old, gray haired, fat frankie went to the rancho this morn and spent 7 hours "wrasslin" them dang stumps into the front bucket of the tractor and then taking them to the back forty to pile for burning.
The score:
A. I only got about 1/3 of the job done.
B. My butt is about to crater from the physical exertion.
C. It's gonna be real interesting to see if I can crawl on my hands and knees to get out of the bed in the morning?
Oh well, this too shall pass and the Lord never gives us a mountain that we can't climb (and I'm confident there is some esoteric lesson I learned as well that will be revealed to me at the proper time)(if I can just survive the soreness that will surely be mine in the morn?)
Anywho, last weekend my bro-law used his construction equipment to dig out about 300 of those sneaky murderous devils and lay them on top of the ground (leaving a nice hole to fill in their place). Some were a mere 4 inches across, most were closer to two feet across (Big Dawgs another words).
Old, gray haired, fat frankie went to the rancho this morn and spent 7 hours "wrasslin" them dang stumps into the front bucket of the tractor and then taking them to the back forty to pile for burning.
The score:
A. I only got about 1/3 of the job done.
B. My butt is about to crater from the physical exertion.
C. It's gonna be real interesting to see if I can crawl on my hands and knees to get out of the bed in the morning?
Oh well, this too shall pass and the Lord never gives us a mountain that we can't climb (and I'm confident there is some esoteric lesson I learned as well that will be revealed to me at the proper time)(if I can just survive the soreness that will surely be mine in the morn?)
Saturday, March 29, 2008
CABINS
Me and my beautiful bride are set on erecting a modest structure on our rancho that would long term serve as Mendy's "playhouse", which she has long dubbed the "henhouse"?
We are at present considering building something a bit more substantial than just a "playhouse", selling our town home, and moving into the "playhouse" until we build the "real" house on our ranch (are you following this thin thread?)
We have spent the day on a "road trip" looking at "cabins", etc. and find that they are very small, very expensive, and not what we would want to actually live in for more than a week or two.
Anybody got any suggestions?
We are at present considering building something a bit more substantial than just a "playhouse", selling our town home, and moving into the "playhouse" until we build the "real" house on our ranch (are you following this thin thread?)
We have spent the day on a "road trip" looking at "cabins", etc. and find that they are very small, very expensive, and not what we would want to actually live in for more than a week or two.
Anybody got any suggestions?
Friday, March 28, 2008
DANCIN'
For as far back as I can remember my Mom and Dad loved to go to Kilgore and "honky tonk".
"Honky tonk" meant drink a little beer (OK, a bunch in Dad's case) and dance (they pronounced it in a way I'm not sure I can spell but it rhymed with "aints".)
Dad, especially, was universally known in his small circle as an accomplished dancer. All would say that the women would line up for a chance to dance with Dad.
In later years, Dad began to show the signs of age and after two heart attacks he told me a "new" dancing strategy. He would not ask or agree to a dance until the song was half over so he could "perform" to his satisfaction without having to stop and sit down.
I did not in any form or fashion inherit my Dad's dancing ability or his braggadocio in terms of just doing his thing without worrying what anyone cared. I was shy, introverted, and not near brave enough to "dance", of all things, in front of people. Yeah, thats right sports fans, I did not EVER dance in high school, at proms, at "sock hops" (some of you know what that is), at bar mitzvah's or whatever. (Just no guts).
I have another "thing". At some point I refuse to be intimidated by any person or any thing on earth. It took a while for that trait to kick in for dancing, but when I turned 40 years old I decided that it was time I learned to dance. Once I was proficient to my satisfaction, whether or not I danced was a matter of personal preference and had no relation to an intimidation factor. Another words, if I never danced again, it would be because I didn't want to rather than because I was intimidated by the act.
So, ole frankie went to the Austin Breckenridge Hospital Wellness Program and signed up for beginning country/western dance lessons. Being somewhat of an overachiever, I then proceeded to the intermediate class. (Not being a masochist, I let it go at that).
Who would have thought? For the last 18 years I have enjoyed dancing more than I ever could have imagined and what great exercise! I ain't the best hoofer on the floor, but I quickly learned that nobody notices and no one cares (except maybe the gal I'm holdin'?).
Can't believe I wasted all those years by not doing something I clearly enjoy and some would say I am fairly good at???? Makes me wonder how many other things there are in life that I have not tried that I would enjoy as much?
"Honky tonk" meant drink a little beer (OK, a bunch in Dad's case) and dance (they pronounced it in a way I'm not sure I can spell but it rhymed with "aints".)
Dad, especially, was universally known in his small circle as an accomplished dancer. All would say that the women would line up for a chance to dance with Dad.
In later years, Dad began to show the signs of age and after two heart attacks he told me a "new" dancing strategy. He would not ask or agree to a dance until the song was half over so he could "perform" to his satisfaction without having to stop and sit down.
I did not in any form or fashion inherit my Dad's dancing ability or his braggadocio in terms of just doing his thing without worrying what anyone cared. I was shy, introverted, and not near brave enough to "dance", of all things, in front of people. Yeah, thats right sports fans, I did not EVER dance in high school, at proms, at "sock hops" (some of you know what that is), at bar mitzvah's or whatever. (Just no guts).
I have another "thing". At some point I refuse to be intimidated by any person or any thing on earth. It took a while for that trait to kick in for dancing, but when I turned 40 years old I decided that it was time I learned to dance. Once I was proficient to my satisfaction, whether or not I danced was a matter of personal preference and had no relation to an intimidation factor. Another words, if I never danced again, it would be because I didn't want to rather than because I was intimidated by the act.
So, ole frankie went to the Austin Breckenridge Hospital Wellness Program and signed up for beginning country/western dance lessons. Being somewhat of an overachiever, I then proceeded to the intermediate class. (Not being a masochist, I let it go at that).
Who would have thought? For the last 18 years I have enjoyed dancing more than I ever could have imagined and what great exercise! I ain't the best hoofer on the floor, but I quickly learned that nobody notices and no one cares (except maybe the gal I'm holdin'?).
Can't believe I wasted all those years by not doing something I clearly enjoy and some would say I am fairly good at???? Makes me wonder how many other things there are in life that I have not tried that I would enjoy as much?
Sunday, March 23, 2008
LONGS
At the ripe ole age of about 12, Mom and Dad went to Tyler and for my birthday purchased a Noble single shot .22 rifle for the grand sum of $17.
To fully appreciate this bounty, you would need to know that we lived in a rural wooded area and that the land owners allowed young boys to roam at will as long as no mischief occurred. Add these facts to rifle ownership and I was in heaven.
My safari accoutrements were completed when Grandaddy gave me his old quail hunting vest which had pockets in the front for shells and a rubber lined pouch in the back for game. It was old, ragged and stained with quail blood, but that just made it more valued to me.
My only remaining challenge was to acquire ammunition. Cash was short for adults in those days and almost nonexistent for kids. My salvation was Lester Sala. Mr. Sala owned what we called a "drug store" in Turnertown. His store sold near everything I could think of (including ammo) and a few things that I did not recognize.
Further, Mr. Sala did something that I have never found since. He would sell me individual shells rather than making me buy a whole box. I don't know if he made that concession to only me, but it was my blessing as I would never have managed nor did I know the price of a box of 50? He sold three "sizes" of .22: "shorts", "longs" and "long rifles". I didn't want to be a pauper and just buy the cheaper "shorts" so I always treated myself with "longs"!
I remember one time scraping together enough to buy 3 shells. The only "wild game" of interest in Wright City was squirrels (I never during the time I lived there see a deer?) I took my trusty .22 rifle and my precious three bullets into the woods and proceeded to "injun" my way around looking for the elusive prey that Grandmother would "parboil" and put in her dumplin' pot.
Now these days I have more weapons than I will even let myself count as the number is ridiculous. Many are rapid fire, multiple shot, ammunition burners like you wouldn't believe. I go dove hunting and when a victim flies over, I will spray lead like a banshee with no thought of careful aim or wasted shots. I have so many rounds of various kinds of ammo in my house that a fire would would cause a sound like World War III.
However, when you have a mere three rounds and don't know where the cash will come from for the fourth missile, you would not believe the care with which one makes shot selection before allowing the firing pin to fall? You don't shoot at running squirrels and you don't just wound 'em cause ya ain't got enough follow-up to finish the job.
Bottom line, on that fated day long ago with my small stash of game harvesting .22 "longs", I came home grinning like a possum eating saw briar with three squirrels in Grandaddy's hunting pouch, each taken with a clean head shot.
I could tell a thousand hunting stories from over the years, but this one sticks in my mind as much as any. (and I still have that rifle and Grandaddy's hunting vest!)
To fully appreciate this bounty, you would need to know that we lived in a rural wooded area and that the land owners allowed young boys to roam at will as long as no mischief occurred. Add these facts to rifle ownership and I was in heaven.
My safari accoutrements were completed when Grandaddy gave me his old quail hunting vest which had pockets in the front for shells and a rubber lined pouch in the back for game. It was old, ragged and stained with quail blood, but that just made it more valued to me.
My only remaining challenge was to acquire ammunition. Cash was short for adults in those days and almost nonexistent for kids. My salvation was Lester Sala. Mr. Sala owned what we called a "drug store" in Turnertown. His store sold near everything I could think of (including ammo) and a few things that I did not recognize.
Further, Mr. Sala did something that I have never found since. He would sell me individual shells rather than making me buy a whole box. I don't know if he made that concession to only me, but it was my blessing as I would never have managed nor did I know the price of a box of 50? He sold three "sizes" of .22: "shorts", "longs" and "long rifles". I didn't want to be a pauper and just buy the cheaper "shorts" so I always treated myself with "longs"!
I remember one time scraping together enough to buy 3 shells. The only "wild game" of interest in Wright City was squirrels (I never during the time I lived there see a deer?) I took my trusty .22 rifle and my precious three bullets into the woods and proceeded to "injun" my way around looking for the elusive prey that Grandmother would "parboil" and put in her dumplin' pot.
Now these days I have more weapons than I will even let myself count as the number is ridiculous. Many are rapid fire, multiple shot, ammunition burners like you wouldn't believe. I go dove hunting and when a victim flies over, I will spray lead like a banshee with no thought of careful aim or wasted shots. I have so many rounds of various kinds of ammo in my house that a fire would would cause a sound like World War III.
However, when you have a mere three rounds and don't know where the cash will come from for the fourth missile, you would not believe the care with which one makes shot selection before allowing the firing pin to fall? You don't shoot at running squirrels and you don't just wound 'em cause ya ain't got enough follow-up to finish the job.
Bottom line, on that fated day long ago with my small stash of game harvesting .22 "longs", I came home grinning like a possum eating saw briar with three squirrels in Grandaddy's hunting pouch, each taken with a clean head shot.
I could tell a thousand hunting stories from over the years, but this one sticks in my mind as much as any. (and I still have that rifle and Grandaddy's hunting vest!)
Saturday, March 22, 2008
BAREFOOTIN'
Yeah I know, spring is stuff finally starting to sprout and turn green, the garden being planted, and the awesome feel of the sun on your face. It's the blue sky, clouds, birds singing, and bees doing what bees do. It's love, warmth, renewal of life, and an awakening.
Know what it always brings to my mind? Every year on Easter day, Mom would let us take off them infernal shoes and socks and go outside BAREFOOT!!!. I can remember feeling like I was freed from a prison and that I could run like the wind without being bound to the gravitational pull of mother earth due to them dang clodhoppers we wore!
Never mind that East Texas Easter might be 40 degrees with a "touch" of frost in the mornings. Never mind that it might be raining like Noah's flood. By whatever "almanac", maternal instinct, tribal custom, or (just knowing her kids?) Mom would let them shoes be shucked come Easter day no matter what the circumstance.
As a side note, my readers (reader???) should know that at present time my old butt feet are so tender I can walk across the floor and near founder if I step on a mote of dust. Not so in my glory years. I could race through a field of East Tx grass burrs and laugh at their impotence. The August sun would bake the oil base road in front of our house til the crude oil would bubble on the surface and I would just casually stroll as if on the Academy Award red (black?) carpet.
With "toes of iron" ole frankie would kick rocks, thump dogs, and generally be invulnerable to all with what came from the "sole".
Taking off those shoes, from the perspective of sudden absolute unconditional freedom and joy, was something that I shall never forget.
Thanks Mom for making the most out of the meager material things you had to offer and making our lives such a daily joy: From your loving and alway admiring son.
Know what it always brings to my mind? Every year on Easter day, Mom would let us take off them infernal shoes and socks and go outside BAREFOOT!!!. I can remember feeling like I was freed from a prison and that I could run like the wind without being bound to the gravitational pull of mother earth due to them dang clodhoppers we wore!
Never mind that East Texas Easter might be 40 degrees with a "touch" of frost in the mornings. Never mind that it might be raining like Noah's flood. By whatever "almanac", maternal instinct, tribal custom, or (just knowing her kids?) Mom would let them shoes be shucked come Easter day no matter what the circumstance.
As a side note, my readers (reader???) should know that at present time my old butt feet are so tender I can walk across the floor and near founder if I step on a mote of dust. Not so in my glory years. I could race through a field of East Tx grass burrs and laugh at their impotence. The August sun would bake the oil base road in front of our house til the crude oil would bubble on the surface and I would just casually stroll as if on the Academy Award red (black?) carpet.
With "toes of iron" ole frankie would kick rocks, thump dogs, and generally be invulnerable to all with what came from the "sole".
Taking off those shoes, from the perspective of sudden absolute unconditional freedom and joy, was something that I shall never forget.
Thanks Mom for making the most out of the meager material things you had to offer and making our lives such a daily joy: From your loving and alway admiring son.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
GROWN KIDS
I'm not sure my Dad ever really "grew up". He loved to laugh, play and do things that "mature" adults would never want to be caught doing. Dad did not ever in his life give one "hoot" about the opinion of anyone else on the face of the earth, except for family he loved. He was just "Dad" and did his thing til his last day.
Here's the "hook", Dad wasn't the only person in the world like that. There was at least one other named Arthur Mitchell. To say that they had a lot in common would be like saying that peas and carrots kinda go together?
So what did they share:
1. The back breaking, minimum wage, filthy, dangerous Kilgore/Turnertown oil field.
2. Falstaff beer (and one hell of a lot of it)
3. Wives named Thelda and Zelda
4. An absolute passion for cars, speed, noise and hell raising, all day, every day
5. For a period they lived about 50 yards apart in Wright City
6. They NEVER really "grew up"
Need examples of "never really grew up"?
Wright City was on a telephone "party line". That meant that all were on the same circuit and by picking up the receiver one could evesdrop on any conversation occurring (kinda like an early CIA) Hattie Lee has spent her life being the most consumate, vicious, sanctimonious, psycho (OK, I'm kinda going overboard here, but there is a lot of history with this "woman") and she spent her entire day "spying" on the "party line". For a brief period in time (another blog here perhaps?) Dad had a phone in his house. Arthur had a phone. They would make it up to call each other knowing that Hattie would be on the phone. Then they would say the most vulgar things they could think up and giggle like school girls when the phones would start hanging up as the "listeners" (yeah Hattie wasn't the only one evesdropping) became offended.
Dad and Arthur each had a truck (didn't everyone then?). One of their favorite "sports" was to back them up to each other in the pasture between their houses and chain them together. Then they would see who could outpull the other and drag the loser's truck around the pasture (I witnessed the "winner" drag the "loser" around and around many a time while they were giggling like twelve year olds.
Bottom line: these "kids" were absolutely fearless of death, tough, but loved their families, and accepted people at face value without regard for any window dressing whatsoever.
Here's the "hook", Dad wasn't the only person in the world like that. There was at least one other named Arthur Mitchell. To say that they had a lot in common would be like saying that peas and carrots kinda go together?
So what did they share:
1. The back breaking, minimum wage, filthy, dangerous Kilgore/Turnertown oil field.
2. Falstaff beer (and one hell of a lot of it)
3. Wives named Thelda and Zelda
4. An absolute passion for cars, speed, noise and hell raising, all day, every day
5. For a period they lived about 50 yards apart in Wright City
6. They NEVER really "grew up"
Need examples of "never really grew up"?
Wright City was on a telephone "party line". That meant that all were on the same circuit and by picking up the receiver one could evesdrop on any conversation occurring (kinda like an early CIA) Hattie Lee has spent her life being the most consumate, vicious, sanctimonious, psycho (OK, I'm kinda going overboard here, but there is a lot of history with this "woman") and she spent her entire day "spying" on the "party line". For a brief period in time (another blog here perhaps?) Dad had a phone in his house. Arthur had a phone. They would make it up to call each other knowing that Hattie would be on the phone. Then they would say the most vulgar things they could think up and giggle like school girls when the phones would start hanging up as the "listeners" (yeah Hattie wasn't the only one evesdropping) became offended.
Dad and Arthur each had a truck (didn't everyone then?). One of their favorite "sports" was to back them up to each other in the pasture between their houses and chain them together. Then they would see who could outpull the other and drag the loser's truck around the pasture (I witnessed the "winner" drag the "loser" around and around many a time while they were giggling like twelve year olds.
Bottom line: these "kids" were absolutely fearless of death, tough, but loved their families, and accepted people at face value without regard for any window dressing whatsoever.
Friday, March 14, 2008
F STOCK
We lived on a black top oil field road that had a slight uphill climb to the main highway about 100 yards away.
From my earliest memory, every time Dad backed into the street (and I mean EVERY time), he would rev the engine, pop the clutch, and spin the tires on his vehicle as far as it would happen.
A side issue is that after spending my life watching Dad drive that way, the first time he let me take his car alone, I backed into the street, revved the engine, popped the clutch, and spun the tires as far as I could. When I got back, Dad gnawed my rear with the wisdom, "When you have your own car and can pay to fix what you break, you can drive it anyway you want, but don't drive mine that way." He then acknowledged, "Do as I say, not as I do."
I can remember from my earliest memories of riding with Dad and having him point out to me that the speedometer on his vehicle was at the highest point it registered. I recall vehicles pulling up beside Dad going down the highway and Dad "racing" that vehicle to see who could get to the next town the fastest (side by side all the way).
Obviously Dad loved vehicles and speed. He always said that if he had the money, he would have raced cars for a living.
Dad never had enough money for professional racing, but around 1960 or so, a drag strip opened at Whitehouse. I think it only cost $5 to enter (less than $20 anyway) and race. Entries were rated according to their horsepower, etc. and assigned to race against other similar cars in their "stock" category. The lowest/slowest category was F STOCK.
Dad had a 1950 two door Ford with a flat head V8 and standard transmission that he had bought in Arp from an "old maid school teacher" (according to the used car salesman). It looked new (to me) and I guess would run as fast as a vehicle of that era could run. It was put in F STOCK which the race officials wrote on the side windows with white shoe polish.
The races were run on Sunday (remember working people worked 6 days per week). Dad won for 7 consecutive Sundays. By out-driving, out-hustling, and out-daredeviling all comers, he proudly collected small chrome trophies for display at home.
Dad only quit the drag strip when he was beaten by a Studebaker. Dad knew that the Studebaker (which were notoriously slow) could not have a factory engine and so he protested. The officials hem-hawed around and then would not accepts Dad's protest saying he had to do it prior to the race. Fair was fair to Dad and this wasn't fair so he packed up and went home never to race "legally" again.
During those weeks at the drag strip I was constantly in amazement. As a competitor, we were in the pit area and I got to see the drivers and watch them work on their cars. I didn't know it at the time but I was meeting drivers who were later internationally famous like Art Arfons, Gene Snow and Big Daddy Don Garlits. I got to see the first jet engine mounted on a vehicle frame "race" down the track.
The strip allowed challenge races to entertain the crowd. That meant that a winner from one racing class could challenge the winner of another class to race. The difference in the vehicles was made up in modern times by having the starting lights for the slower vehicle turn green a prescribed length of time before the starting lights for the faster vehicle. In Dad's day, there were no lights. A man with a green flag stood between the cars to start the race and a man at the finish line waved a checkered flag to indicate which car had won at the end of the quarter mile.
Dad being Dad, won F STOCK one sunday and then decided to challenge the winner of the A/A fuel dragsters (the fastest vehicles on the track). To compensate for the differences in Dad's 1950 coupe and the rail frame, alcohol burning, fire breathing monster that Dad would race, the starter with the green flag parked the "rail job" at the start line and directed Dad to follow him down the track. The starter walked and walked and walked until almost at the finish line (with Dad hanging out the window waving his hand yelling, "farther, farther" and the crowd laughing their butts off.
When the green flag dropped the "rail job" looked like something shot out of a gun with fire, smoke and noise being spectacular. Dad's little coupe looked like it was barely rolling the wheels in comparison.
I'd love to report that Dad won, but the sad truth is that at the last second the "rail job" did what it was suppposed to do and crossed the finish line first. The memory I have is not of Dad losing that race, but the incredible grin he had on his face for the rest of the day after "racing" the fastest thing on the road that he had ever seen.
From my earliest memory, every time Dad backed into the street (and I mean EVERY time), he would rev the engine, pop the clutch, and spin the tires on his vehicle as far as it would happen.
A side issue is that after spending my life watching Dad drive that way, the first time he let me take his car alone, I backed into the street, revved the engine, popped the clutch, and spun the tires as far as I could. When I got back, Dad gnawed my rear with the wisdom, "When you have your own car and can pay to fix what you break, you can drive it anyway you want, but don't drive mine that way." He then acknowledged, "Do as I say, not as I do."
I can remember from my earliest memories of riding with Dad and having him point out to me that the speedometer on his vehicle was at the highest point it registered. I recall vehicles pulling up beside Dad going down the highway and Dad "racing" that vehicle to see who could get to the next town the fastest (side by side all the way).
Obviously Dad loved vehicles and speed. He always said that if he had the money, he would have raced cars for a living.
Dad never had enough money for professional racing, but around 1960 or so, a drag strip opened at Whitehouse. I think it only cost $5 to enter (less than $20 anyway) and race. Entries were rated according to their horsepower, etc. and assigned to race against other similar cars in their "stock" category. The lowest/slowest category was F STOCK.
Dad had a 1950 two door Ford with a flat head V8 and standard transmission that he had bought in Arp from an "old maid school teacher" (according to the used car salesman). It looked new (to me) and I guess would run as fast as a vehicle of that era could run. It was put in F STOCK which the race officials wrote on the side windows with white shoe polish.
The races were run on Sunday (remember working people worked 6 days per week). Dad won for 7 consecutive Sundays. By out-driving, out-hustling, and out-daredeviling all comers, he proudly collected small chrome trophies for display at home.
Dad only quit the drag strip when he was beaten by a Studebaker. Dad knew that the Studebaker (which were notoriously slow) could not have a factory engine and so he protested. The officials hem-hawed around and then would not accepts Dad's protest saying he had to do it prior to the race. Fair was fair to Dad and this wasn't fair so he packed up and went home never to race "legally" again.
During those weeks at the drag strip I was constantly in amazement. As a competitor, we were in the pit area and I got to see the drivers and watch them work on their cars. I didn't know it at the time but I was meeting drivers who were later internationally famous like Art Arfons, Gene Snow and Big Daddy Don Garlits. I got to see the first jet engine mounted on a vehicle frame "race" down the track.
The strip allowed challenge races to entertain the crowd. That meant that a winner from one racing class could challenge the winner of another class to race. The difference in the vehicles was made up in modern times by having the starting lights for the slower vehicle turn green a prescribed length of time before the starting lights for the faster vehicle. In Dad's day, there were no lights. A man with a green flag stood between the cars to start the race and a man at the finish line waved a checkered flag to indicate which car had won at the end of the quarter mile.
Dad being Dad, won F STOCK one sunday and then decided to challenge the winner of the A/A fuel dragsters (the fastest vehicles on the track). To compensate for the differences in Dad's 1950 coupe and the rail frame, alcohol burning, fire breathing monster that Dad would race, the starter with the green flag parked the "rail job" at the start line and directed Dad to follow him down the track. The starter walked and walked and walked until almost at the finish line (with Dad hanging out the window waving his hand yelling, "farther, farther" and the crowd laughing their butts off.
When the green flag dropped the "rail job" looked like something shot out of a gun with fire, smoke and noise being spectacular. Dad's little coupe looked like it was barely rolling the wheels in comparison.
I'd love to report that Dad won, but the sad truth is that at the last second the "rail job" did what it was suppposed to do and crossed the finish line first. The memory I have is not of Dad losing that race, but the incredible grin he had on his face for the rest of the day after "racing" the fastest thing on the road that he had ever seen.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
HARD BOILED EGGS
To my knowledge, folks in Wright City NEVER ate hard boiled eggs. I don't mean they shorted themselves on "deviled" eggs or in a potato salad or whatever recipe. I mean I never heard anyone say, "You know what, I'm gonna boil me some eggs and pop them suckers in my mouth!"
Except at Easter.
Sure as shootin', every Easter Mom would boil enough encased chick embryos to feed an army and dye them the colors of the rainbow. Somebody would "hide 'em" and me, C, and J would hunt them little multi-colored treasures like our life depended on it. Then us kids would take over and repeatedly hide them puppies and re-find them until the eggs were a broken, smashed mess (sometimes we would find one a month or two later and it would smell like, well you don't want to know).
Dad had his own personal ritual at Easter that I never figgered out. On that special Sunday celebrating the resurrection of Jesus, he would always spend the day eating hard boiled eggs. Go figger, you couldn't pay him to eat one 364 days per year, but come Easter, he would peel that cackle fruit, douse it with salt and pepper, and make them disappear one after the other.
I haven't dyed eggs at Easter in so many years that I wouldn't know how, but most Easters I will "hard boil" an egg or two, splash a dab of salt/pepper on it, and think about Dad.
Good memories.
Except at Easter.
Sure as shootin', every Easter Mom would boil enough encased chick embryos to feed an army and dye them the colors of the rainbow. Somebody would "hide 'em" and me, C, and J would hunt them little multi-colored treasures like our life depended on it. Then us kids would take over and repeatedly hide them puppies and re-find them until the eggs were a broken, smashed mess (sometimes we would find one a month or two later and it would smell like, well you don't want to know).
Dad had his own personal ritual at Easter that I never figgered out. On that special Sunday celebrating the resurrection of Jesus, he would always spend the day eating hard boiled eggs. Go figger, you couldn't pay him to eat one 364 days per year, but come Easter, he would peel that cackle fruit, douse it with salt and pepper, and make them disappear one after the other.
I haven't dyed eggs at Easter in so many years that I wouldn't know how, but most Easters I will "hard boil" an egg or two, splash a dab of salt/pepper on it, and think about Dad.
Good memories.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
NICKNAMES
Dad used to say that he could never remember anyone's name, but after he talked to a person for a bit, a nickname came to mind that he never forgot.
Dad's nicknames were popular enough that the world at large would begin to forget a person's Christian name and only refer to them by Gene's nickname. Many of the nicknames had no known connection/reference to the recipient, but once Dad bestowed your new moniker on you, it stuck.
His kids got no slack in this endeavor. I was "Piss Willy", Jimmie was "Skinny Minny", and Carolyn was "Faucho". Go figger? I don't know where these names came from, but we grew up being called such by our father.
Dad had a buddy named Alsois Calhoun Webb. Dad called him "Aussie" to the point that no one knew his real name.
Lisa was "Mouth" and Casie was "Casin".
Curtis was "Wobbler" and Buddy was "Bud Drawers".
Dean was "Uglier than I am", Hattie Lee was "Miss Ask her", and my dear bride Mendy was "Windy".
Dad referred to Mom as "Tubba" and to himself as "Gobba". (OK, Dad's explanation was "Tubba Shit and Gobba Shit", but you had to know Dad to not be offended by this)(Expletives were merely Dad's way of adding emphasis to conversation)
Dad's greatgrandkids had no clue they had a name other than Grandaddy Gene's offering as Cameron found out when she was annointed "whistlebritches".
Dad naming people according to his own catalog was so typical of his view of the world. No boundaries, no concern about what anyone might think, just pure and simple (from the heart) what you see is what you get.
DAMN I MISS HIM!
Dad's nicknames were popular enough that the world at large would begin to forget a person's Christian name and only refer to them by Gene's nickname. Many of the nicknames had no known connection/reference to the recipient, but once Dad bestowed your new moniker on you, it stuck.
His kids got no slack in this endeavor. I was "Piss Willy", Jimmie was "Skinny Minny", and Carolyn was "Faucho". Go figger? I don't know where these names came from, but we grew up being called such by our father.
Dad had a buddy named Alsois Calhoun Webb. Dad called him "Aussie" to the point that no one knew his real name.
Lisa was "Mouth" and Casie was "Casin".
Curtis was "Wobbler" and Buddy was "Bud Drawers".
Dean was "Uglier than I am", Hattie Lee was "Miss Ask her", and my dear bride Mendy was "Windy".
Dad referred to Mom as "Tubba" and to himself as "Gobba". (OK, Dad's explanation was "Tubba Shit and Gobba Shit", but you had to know Dad to not be offended by this)(Expletives were merely Dad's way of adding emphasis to conversation)
Dad's greatgrandkids had no clue they had a name other than Grandaddy Gene's offering as Cameron found out when she was annointed "whistlebritches".
Dad naming people according to his own catalog was so typical of his view of the world. No boundaries, no concern about what anyone might think, just pure and simple (from the heart) what you see is what you get.
DAMN I MISS HIM!
Monday, March 10, 2008
IN BETWEEN
Has anyone besides me ever gone from brilliant to stupid with nothing in between?
Once upon a time, (about 50 years ago) I decided I could swim across a rather large pond in Turnertown. Yep, bout halfway across I got the "cramps" and proceded to drown. At least until Leo Ellis swam out and helped me to shore. I'm only alive today because of Leo. Thanks buddy, wherever you are?
Another time, about 40 years ago, me and Calvin Johnson decided we would go into the Angelina river bottom and hunt 'coons all night. Never mind that it was below freezing and we had never been in that neck of the woods afore. Never mind that I to this day have no clue what I would do with a 'coon if I "caught" it, we needed an adventure. Yep, spent the entire night wandering around lost while breaking through the shallow, but frozen swamp water. Did we have warm clothes, heck no. Did the mud, crap and corruption envelop us, Yep. About daylight we finally found a highway. Didn't have a clue where we were, but pavement was a sign of civilization. Only trouble was, we had to decide which way to walk on the road. Ole frankie was sure beyond a shadow of a doubt to go south. Calvin was equally sure that we needed to go NORTH. Calvin won the argument and we shortly found the car we had started the journey in. When I got home, I filled our claw foot porcelein tub with scalding water and got in it for as long as the water was hot and still didn't warm up. Why I did not get pneumonia is beyond me?
When I was a Highway Patrol Sergeant in Houston, I stopped a car that was weaving from one side of IH45 to the other. The occupants were in another world due to their extreme state of inebriation. For reasons I can't to this day fathom, I went to the passenger side and opened the door. The passenger promptly put a pistol against my stomach with his finger on the trigger (and I thought Holy Crap, this might not turn out so good!). I survived that episode, but dang, how stoopid could I be??????? (Only one of thousands of times that the Lord Almighty has saved my bacon from the follies of my own stupid butt)
I remember the time I went outside our house to check the road conditions (I spent my entire professional life going out in the storm to help others instead staying home) during a rare Austin ice storm and stepped from the curb to the road and.... woke up some time later because the back of my head had hit the cement curb on my (rapid) way down. DUMMY! That was some concussion/headache/emergency room visit?
OK, how bout the time me and the bride went to Kinder, Louisiana for our anniversary and ole wonder boy decided to come back across the country without use of a map and just "see the road"???????? After the requisite number of hours, ole Daniel Boone was about to declare to the bride that Austin was about to come into view when lo and behold the city limit sign for Bryan, Texas came into view??????????????
Well, this could go on "ad infinitum" but you get the idea. I have shown a propensity over the years for going from brilliant to stupid at the speed of light with nothing in between. Damn, I hope I can slow down that transition down with the years I got left????????? (and that it isn't hereditary kiddos?)
Once upon a time, (about 50 years ago) I decided I could swim across a rather large pond in Turnertown. Yep, bout halfway across I got the "cramps" and proceded to drown. At least until Leo Ellis swam out and helped me to shore. I'm only alive today because of Leo. Thanks buddy, wherever you are?
Another time, about 40 years ago, me and Calvin Johnson decided we would go into the Angelina river bottom and hunt 'coons all night. Never mind that it was below freezing and we had never been in that neck of the woods afore. Never mind that I to this day have no clue what I would do with a 'coon if I "caught" it, we needed an adventure. Yep, spent the entire night wandering around lost while breaking through the shallow, but frozen swamp water. Did we have warm clothes, heck no. Did the mud, crap and corruption envelop us, Yep. About daylight we finally found a highway. Didn't have a clue where we were, but pavement was a sign of civilization. Only trouble was, we had to decide which way to walk on the road. Ole frankie was sure beyond a shadow of a doubt to go south. Calvin was equally sure that we needed to go NORTH. Calvin won the argument and we shortly found the car we had started the journey in. When I got home, I filled our claw foot porcelein tub with scalding water and got in it for as long as the water was hot and still didn't warm up. Why I did not get pneumonia is beyond me?
When I was a Highway Patrol Sergeant in Houston, I stopped a car that was weaving from one side of IH45 to the other. The occupants were in another world due to their extreme state of inebriation. For reasons I can't to this day fathom, I went to the passenger side and opened the door. The passenger promptly put a pistol against my stomach with his finger on the trigger (and I thought Holy Crap, this might not turn out so good!). I survived that episode, but dang, how stoopid could I be??????? (Only one of thousands of times that the Lord Almighty has saved my bacon from the follies of my own stupid butt)
I remember the time I went outside our house to check the road conditions (I spent my entire professional life going out in the storm to help others instead staying home) during a rare Austin ice storm and stepped from the curb to the road and.... woke up some time later because the back of my head had hit the cement curb on my (rapid) way down. DUMMY! That was some concussion/headache/emergency room visit?
OK, how bout the time me and the bride went to Kinder, Louisiana for our anniversary and ole wonder boy decided to come back across the country without use of a map and just "see the road"???????? After the requisite number of hours, ole Daniel Boone was about to declare to the bride that Austin was about to come into view when lo and behold the city limit sign for Bryan, Texas came into view??????????????
Well, this could go on "ad infinitum" but you get the idea. I have shown a propensity over the years for going from brilliant to stupid at the speed of light with nothing in between. Damn, I hope I can slow down that transition down with the years I got left????????? (and that it isn't hereditary kiddos?)
THE DASH
Tombstones indicate the date of birth and date of death as: month/day/year - month/day/year.
I heard someone say one time that its all about the "dash" (-). Not when you were born. Not when you expired, but the "dash" in between.
Another words, did we "carpe diem" or did the "diem" "carpe" us?
I try upon awakening each day to think about how I can best use the gift of another day upright? My goal is normally to reach the end of the day and hopefully feel that by my own personal measure I caused the day to be meaningful. By taking life one day at a time, I hope that at the end of the month, year, or life, I will have attained the goal of a meaningful existence.
I'm confident that I have mortally wasted some days and I'm confident I have hit a few home runs. But in the long run, I think the "dash" is working out OK.
I heard someone say one time that its all about the "dash" (-). Not when you were born. Not when you expired, but the "dash" in between.
Another words, did we "carpe diem" or did the "diem" "carpe" us?
I try upon awakening each day to think about how I can best use the gift of another day upright? My goal is normally to reach the end of the day and hopefully feel that by my own personal measure I caused the day to be meaningful. By taking life one day at a time, I hope that at the end of the month, year, or life, I will have attained the goal of a meaningful existence.
I'm confident that I have mortally wasted some days and I'm confident I have hit a few home runs. But in the long run, I think the "dash" is working out OK.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
PAY FORWARD
I love to read Lisa's blogs. They are funny, insightful, let me know what the Gkids are "up to", what L.d. is contemplating on any given day, and they often have words or phrases that really hit a "chord" with me.
Recently L.d. "blogged" about a couple in her life who she could never "pay back", so she vowed to "pay forward". Wow, what a caring, giving, meaningful thought. It got me to "cogitating".
My Mom was one of the sweetest, most gentle souls on earth. I have never in my life heard anyone speak of her in anything but kind, respectful terms. NO ONE, and I mean no one can ever remember her uttering a negative comment of any kind in her entire life. Her life was hard and from age 16 she was married to a man who daily challenged the world and everything in it at every oppportunity. My Mother was a rare sweet blessing in my life who I can never repay for her love and kindness. I can only "pay forward" by trying each day to emulate her sweet soul as far as kindness to others.
My Dad, bless his soul, was in his time one of the wildest free spirits I could ever imagine. But know what, he loved family more than I could ever describe with mere words. To say that he would gladly give his life for a loved one does not begin to adequately acknowledge the depth of his devotion to his kith and kin. I experienced, benefited, and now publicly declare his love. Can I ever "pay back" that kind of family devotion, Hell No! But, I can spend the rest of my life trying to "pay forward" by doing all in my power to give that intensity of love to my beloved extended family.
Katherine Spradley was a life long "old maid" and a life time high school English teacher. She never married, according to her account, because as an only child, she took responsibility for caring for her parents in a time of need. Never mind the lack of matrimonial children. She spent a lifetime "raising" high school kiddos by her special form of loving mentoring. In school I had the confidence level of a scared rabbit. I didn't think I could ever accomplish anything or would ever really "matter" (whatever that means?) Miss Spradley, bless her soul, saw something in me that I couldn't see. She figuratively grabbed me by the neck, jerked me up, and spent several years "forcing" me to do things that gave me confidence, gave me the desire for college graduate and post graduate education, and made me feel like I could accomplish some things that "matter". I can NEVER "pay her back" for aggressively making me be what I could be, but I have spent many years trying to "pay forward" by trying to mentor young folks to grow in all ways possible and stretch the limits of their dreams.
Thank you Lisa for your continuing inspiring blog.
Recently L.d. "blogged" about a couple in her life who she could never "pay back", so she vowed to "pay forward". Wow, what a caring, giving, meaningful thought. It got me to "cogitating".
My Mom was one of the sweetest, most gentle souls on earth. I have never in my life heard anyone speak of her in anything but kind, respectful terms. NO ONE, and I mean no one can ever remember her uttering a negative comment of any kind in her entire life. Her life was hard and from age 16 she was married to a man who daily challenged the world and everything in it at every oppportunity. My Mother was a rare sweet blessing in my life who I can never repay for her love and kindness. I can only "pay forward" by trying each day to emulate her sweet soul as far as kindness to others.
My Dad, bless his soul, was in his time one of the wildest free spirits I could ever imagine. But know what, he loved family more than I could ever describe with mere words. To say that he would gladly give his life for a loved one does not begin to adequately acknowledge the depth of his devotion to his kith and kin. I experienced, benefited, and now publicly declare his love. Can I ever "pay back" that kind of family devotion, Hell No! But, I can spend the rest of my life trying to "pay forward" by doing all in my power to give that intensity of love to my beloved extended family.
Katherine Spradley was a life long "old maid" and a life time high school English teacher. She never married, according to her account, because as an only child, she took responsibility for caring for her parents in a time of need. Never mind the lack of matrimonial children. She spent a lifetime "raising" high school kiddos by her special form of loving mentoring. In school I had the confidence level of a scared rabbit. I didn't think I could ever accomplish anything or would ever really "matter" (whatever that means?) Miss Spradley, bless her soul, saw something in me that I couldn't see. She figuratively grabbed me by the neck, jerked me up, and spent several years "forcing" me to do things that gave me confidence, gave me the desire for college graduate and post graduate education, and made me feel like I could accomplish some things that "matter". I can NEVER "pay her back" for aggressively making me be what I could be, but I have spent many years trying to "pay forward" by trying to mentor young folks to grow in all ways possible and stretch the limits of their dreams.
Thank you Lisa for your continuing inspiring blog.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
EXPERIENCE
I busted my rear to "survive" Highway Patrol School. Physically, psychologically, and spiritually, it dang near drained me. When I "made it", I felt that my just reward was on its way.
They had us fill out a "Dream Sheet". We got to list three areas of the state we wanted to be stationed in priority order. I listed Tyler, Dallas, or Beaumont. They sent my country butt to San Antonio. Devastation! Far from home, a BIG city, and too few who spoke my native tongue in their daily conversation.
Guess what, I loved San Antonio, I learned more about my profession than I ever could have imagined, and when I moved due to promotion SIX years later, I had genuine regret upon leaving.
I left San Antonio because I was promoted to Highway Patrol Sergeant. What I "wanted" when I made Sergeant was to go to some Northeast Texas small town and settle down to enjoy life until I reached retirement age/service. NOT. I was sent to Houston. The cost of living was astronomical (my pay raise for promotion was only $76), the traffic, population, pollution was overwhelming, and twice during my year there I came as close to losing my life in the line of duty as I could ever imagine/fear.
After one year, I asked for transfer to Marshall to help care for my terminally ill Mom. I was glad to leave Harris County, but you know what, I learned more about being a supervisor in that year than maybe all my later years put together?
While at Marshall, I decided I would apply with the many other applicants to attend the Northwestern University Police Executive Management Institute in Chicago (nine month program). I merely "wanted" to apply to get my "name in the hat" for some future year when I might be serious about the deal. Guess what, I was the only person in DPS to apply that year, management signed off on a federal grant to pay for it, and I was ordered to attend (Be careful what you ask for sports fans). That "adventure" put me figuratively on the other side of the world, in a strange COLD land with folks who "talked funny" and in a program that taxed the limits of my brains and endurance.
Again, when it was over, I felt this experience that I had not really wanted had allowed me to grow professionally more than anything I ever could have imagined.
My life since that "yankee" experience has been a series of events that were not my conscious want/need/desire, but that turned out to be "just what the doctor ordered" for my long term benefit.
Bottom line children of mine: EXPERIENCE IS WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU DON'T GET WHAT YOU WANTED.
They had us fill out a "Dream Sheet". We got to list three areas of the state we wanted to be stationed in priority order. I listed Tyler, Dallas, or Beaumont. They sent my country butt to San Antonio. Devastation! Far from home, a BIG city, and too few who spoke my native tongue in their daily conversation.
Guess what, I loved San Antonio, I learned more about my profession than I ever could have imagined, and when I moved due to promotion SIX years later, I had genuine regret upon leaving.
I left San Antonio because I was promoted to Highway Patrol Sergeant. What I "wanted" when I made Sergeant was to go to some Northeast Texas small town and settle down to enjoy life until I reached retirement age/service. NOT. I was sent to Houston. The cost of living was astronomical (my pay raise for promotion was only $76), the traffic, population, pollution was overwhelming, and twice during my year there I came as close to losing my life in the line of duty as I could ever imagine/fear.
After one year, I asked for transfer to Marshall to help care for my terminally ill Mom. I was glad to leave Harris County, but you know what, I learned more about being a supervisor in that year than maybe all my later years put together?
While at Marshall, I decided I would apply with the many other applicants to attend the Northwestern University Police Executive Management Institute in Chicago (nine month program). I merely "wanted" to apply to get my "name in the hat" for some future year when I might be serious about the deal. Guess what, I was the only person in DPS to apply that year, management signed off on a federal grant to pay for it, and I was ordered to attend (Be careful what you ask for sports fans). That "adventure" put me figuratively on the other side of the world, in a strange COLD land with folks who "talked funny" and in a program that taxed the limits of my brains and endurance.
Again, when it was over, I felt this experience that I had not really wanted had allowed me to grow professionally more than anything I ever could have imagined.
My life since that "yankee" experience has been a series of events that were not my conscious want/need/desire, but that turned out to be "just what the doctor ordered" for my long term benefit.
Bottom line children of mine: EXPERIENCE IS WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU DON'T GET WHAT YOU WANTED.
Friday, March 7, 2008
BRICK WALLS
From as early as I can remember, I knew that I would settle for nothing less than a bachelor's degree as my educational goal. Never mind that I was "oil field trash". Never mind that I had no money and was too proud for "loans" (beside "loans" had to be paid back and: the money thing again). Never mind that no one in the Waller family (that I knew of) had ever done that in the history of the world. I JUST KNEW THAT IT WAS SOMETHING I WANTED, NEEDED, AND DESIRED VERY DEEPLY.
I wanted to play football for as long as I can remember. I didn't just want to be on the team, I wanted to make a difference, be a leader, and be able to look back over the years and know that I had given it my best effort. Never mind that I was undertall, skinny and short on talent, IT WAS JUST SOMETHING THAT I FELT MY LIFE WOULD NOT BE COMPLETE WITHOUT.
I have always known that at the end of my professional life (no matter what I did to earn my living) I wanted to always be able to look back and feel good about what I had done. I wanted to feel that I had made a positive difference in the world. When someone asked me what I did to earn my living, I knew that I wanted to be able to answer that question with pride. THIS WAS SACRED TO ME IN TERMS OF BEING TRUE TO "ME".
None of the above was easy. Some aspects of it near tore out my guts, soul and sanity, but with the Lord's own blessing, I made it happen.
Bottom line: BRICK WALLS ARE THERE TO LET US KNOW HOW MUCH WE WANT IT.
Children of mine, never mind how difficult the task, how long the road, or how unbelievably frustrating the world may become, it is all part of becoming YOU.
I wanted to play football for as long as I can remember. I didn't just want to be on the team, I wanted to make a difference, be a leader, and be able to look back over the years and know that I had given it my best effort. Never mind that I was undertall, skinny and short on talent, IT WAS JUST SOMETHING THAT I FELT MY LIFE WOULD NOT BE COMPLETE WITHOUT.
I have always known that at the end of my professional life (no matter what I did to earn my living) I wanted to always be able to look back and feel good about what I had done. I wanted to feel that I had made a positive difference in the world. When someone asked me what I did to earn my living, I knew that I wanted to be able to answer that question with pride. THIS WAS SACRED TO ME IN TERMS OF BEING TRUE TO "ME".
None of the above was easy. Some aspects of it near tore out my guts, soul and sanity, but with the Lord's own blessing, I made it happen.
Bottom line: BRICK WALLS ARE THERE TO LET US KNOW HOW MUCH WE WANT IT.
Children of mine, never mind how difficult the task, how long the road, or how unbelievably frustrating the world may become, it is all part of becoming YOU.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
LAUGHTER AND TEARS
Humor can be as simple as a drop of dew falling from above to hit you between the eyes, or as complicated as any boolean equation devised per Einstein (OK, I know it was actually George Boolean who figgered out before Wright City that a logical calculus of truth values exists in computer science, but lets face it, that ain't "humorous" by any standard).
Getting it down to the simplest equation, my Dad was the funniest person I have ever known.
His humor was basic, relevant, and near bout a gut bustin' riot as I could ever imagine.
My favorite memories of Dad's humor were those times where he would start to tell a joke and could never get to the punch line. Dad would be so overcome by the hilarity (to him) of the joke, that he would begin to uncontrollably laugh, shake, cry, get red faced, and generally be unable to continue. For reasons I can't fully explain, it had the same effect on me. Without having a clue what the joke was about, I would begin to "laugh, shake, cry, get red faced" (you get the idea). It was just humor in its purest, most funny form, to see Dad so personally and emotionally involved in a play on words that we call a "joke".
Why did Dad have the ability to enjoy such simple thoughts to such an extreme of pleasure?
You would have had to know my Dad to know that he was a simple man. In all things, he evaluated life in its simplest terms:
1. What is the minimum needed to accomplish a task
2. What is the most economically efficient way to survive
3. What is the TRUTH (Dad didn't have the time or patience for "window dressing" on anything
4. And most important, he was irreverent about what anyone else in the world thought about anything you can imagine. His only values were his personal values about anything on earth
If you thought you had accomplished an awesome task or made a purchase of immense proportion, Dad's standard comment was, "Cute". If you were basking in the glory of your most recent relevation of thought, Dad would in a couple of words put it all in perspective and clearly let you know that maybe you had not considered the grand scheme of things (slammed your butt back to that which really matters another words).
I miss my Dad in more ways than I can count, but among those are my longing to once again enjoy his soul satisfying humor that made the world a more pleasurable place by his presence.
Getting it down to the simplest equation, my Dad was the funniest person I have ever known.
His humor was basic, relevant, and near bout a gut bustin' riot as I could ever imagine.
My favorite memories of Dad's humor were those times where he would start to tell a joke and could never get to the punch line. Dad would be so overcome by the hilarity (to him) of the joke, that he would begin to uncontrollably laugh, shake, cry, get red faced, and generally be unable to continue. For reasons I can't fully explain, it had the same effect on me. Without having a clue what the joke was about, I would begin to "laugh, shake, cry, get red faced" (you get the idea). It was just humor in its purest, most funny form, to see Dad so personally and emotionally involved in a play on words that we call a "joke".
Why did Dad have the ability to enjoy such simple thoughts to such an extreme of pleasure?
You would have had to know my Dad to know that he was a simple man. In all things, he evaluated life in its simplest terms:
1. What is the minimum needed to accomplish a task
2. What is the most economically efficient way to survive
3. What is the TRUTH (Dad didn't have the time or patience for "window dressing" on anything
4. And most important, he was irreverent about what anyone else in the world thought about anything you can imagine. His only values were his personal values about anything on earth
If you thought you had accomplished an awesome task or made a purchase of immense proportion, Dad's standard comment was, "Cute". If you were basking in the glory of your most recent relevation of thought, Dad would in a couple of words put it all in perspective and clearly let you know that maybe you had not considered the grand scheme of things (slammed your butt back to that which really matters another words).
I miss my Dad in more ways than I can count, but among those are my longing to once again enjoy his soul satisfying humor that made the world a more pleasurable place by his presence.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
GARDEN CHICKENS
My Dad's Dad, Grandaddy, was a gardener extraordinaire. Each year he raised a huge crop of vegetables with each offering a prize winning specimen of nutrition and countrified good taste. In addition, the garden itself was a picture perfect monument to precision and care. Each row was as straight as an arrow, a weed never dared to rear its ugly head in any corner, and the soil was tilled to perfection year round. Each growing season, Grandaddy would have more squash, okra, onions, etc., than ten families could eat.
My Mom's Dad, Papuh, also "raised" a garden. He would sorta plow this way and that thru whatever patch of ground he chose to call his "garden". He would then sort of haphazardly strow some seed, sets, or plants, and then say a short prayer before leaving the "garden" to " the will of God" (meaning he never touched it again other than to harvest the vegetables). In a rainy year, the weeds in Papuh's garden would completely obliterate any view of the garden plants (Papuh called that "shade"). Guess what, he also raised an amazing amount of delicious food in those gardens.
Ole frankie tried a garden in Wright City once upon a time (yeah, like a fairy tale beginning). I near bout foundered my fat butt pushing Grandaddy's plow with its iron spoked wheel and iron bicycle-like handles in order to break up the ground. Then I expectantly planted potatoes, corn and peas. All grew well (especially the weeds, Papuh) and time came for harvest. I dug the potatoes and found that the fire ants had eaten them to the point they looked like they had been hit with a shotgun. I tried to pull the ears of corn and each one I touched caused a nest of fire ants to boil out of the shuck and near eat me alive. END OF FLW GARDENING.
Now comes my Dad. Dad never had access to a fertile, loose soil garden in his life. His garden area was alway mostly sand over a base of red clay. No matter how much he plowed prior to planting, when it rained it packed the sand like concrete. Dad could raise enough peppers (jalapeno, bell, bannana, they were all HOT) to burn the hide off a rhinoceros, (and a monkey could raise a passel of yellow squash), but some years he struggled a bit to produce enough tomatoes to his liking. It wasn't that he lacked the talent, it was just that he had a nefarious enemy that tharted his efforts.
Dad also like FRESH eggs for breakfast each morn, so he had about 6-8 chickens. The chickens love to peck the ripe red tomatoes. Dad became sorely conflicted as he wanted the fresh chicken eggs and he wanted the tomatoes. His compromise: Daisy Red Rider BB gun. Any time he saw the chickens in the garden, he would pop them with the BB gun causing them to run sqawking behind his house.
Chickens are mostly dumb, but they ain't all dumb. Dad and I would sit in his front yard (usually sucking on a cold brew) with said BB gun nearby. Them varmit chickens would elect a "scout". The "scout" would stealthily ease along the side of the house until it could just stretch its neck around the corner to see if we were "paying attention". If we ignored the "scout", the cackle fruit posse would then begin to slowly stroll in the general direction of the tomatoes as if they did not even notice that the garden existed. Dad would wait until they were all in view, and then cut down on them with that BB gun like a banshee (think chickens running every which way while sqawking hysterically).
Those chicken "wars" are a funny memory I have, among many, of days in Wright City.
My Mom's Dad, Papuh, also "raised" a garden. He would sorta plow this way and that thru whatever patch of ground he chose to call his "garden". He would then sort of haphazardly strow some seed, sets, or plants, and then say a short prayer before leaving the "garden" to " the will of God" (meaning he never touched it again other than to harvest the vegetables). In a rainy year, the weeds in Papuh's garden would completely obliterate any view of the garden plants (Papuh called that "shade"). Guess what, he also raised an amazing amount of delicious food in those gardens.
Ole frankie tried a garden in Wright City once upon a time (yeah, like a fairy tale beginning). I near bout foundered my fat butt pushing Grandaddy's plow with its iron spoked wheel and iron bicycle-like handles in order to break up the ground. Then I expectantly planted potatoes, corn and peas. All grew well (especially the weeds, Papuh) and time came for harvest. I dug the potatoes and found that the fire ants had eaten them to the point they looked like they had been hit with a shotgun. I tried to pull the ears of corn and each one I touched caused a nest of fire ants to boil out of the shuck and near eat me alive. END OF FLW GARDENING.
Now comes my Dad. Dad never had access to a fertile, loose soil garden in his life. His garden area was alway mostly sand over a base of red clay. No matter how much he plowed prior to planting, when it rained it packed the sand like concrete. Dad could raise enough peppers (jalapeno, bell, bannana, they were all HOT) to burn the hide off a rhinoceros, (and a monkey could raise a passel of yellow squash), but some years he struggled a bit to produce enough tomatoes to his liking. It wasn't that he lacked the talent, it was just that he had a nefarious enemy that tharted his efforts.
Dad also like FRESH eggs for breakfast each morn, so he had about 6-8 chickens. The chickens love to peck the ripe red tomatoes. Dad became sorely conflicted as he wanted the fresh chicken eggs and he wanted the tomatoes. His compromise: Daisy Red Rider BB gun. Any time he saw the chickens in the garden, he would pop them with the BB gun causing them to run sqawking behind his house.
Chickens are mostly dumb, but they ain't all dumb. Dad and I would sit in his front yard (usually sucking on a cold brew) with said BB gun nearby. Them varmit chickens would elect a "scout". The "scout" would stealthily ease along the side of the house until it could just stretch its neck around the corner to see if we were "paying attention". If we ignored the "scout", the cackle fruit posse would then begin to slowly stroll in the general direction of the tomatoes as if they did not even notice that the garden existed. Dad would wait until they were all in view, and then cut down on them with that BB gun like a banshee (think chickens running every which way while sqawking hysterically).
Those chicken "wars" are a funny memory I have, among many, of days in Wright City.
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