Bout 1978, ole Marshall Texas was blessed with one of the worst ice storms in its history.
Every outdoor thing you can imagine had a thick coating of ice. Power lines were down, trees were losing limbs, water pipes were bursting, and forget road travel. Well, the smarter folks didn't travel.
Thanks to idiots, the Texas Highway Patrol will always have plenty of work to do. We were working traffic accidents just about everywhere, but it soon became apparent that a particular spot on IH 20 near Longview was causing a major problem. The West bound lanes at that location included a gradual hill that was at least a mile long. All day cars and trucks were attempting to negotiate the hill, but most were sliding off into the ditch or just spinning their tires with no effect. We spent the entire day just trying to by hand push individuals enough to get them on their way (with little success).
One guy in a pickup was spinning his tires (without moving an inch) so fast that his speedometer likely registered 100 MPH. One of my Troopers (Rusty) started walking toward the driver to chew on his butt (I mean mentor him a bit) on how to better negotiate the ice (or stick his butt in a snow drift and just forget him for a bit?). Just as Rusty got up to the driver window he slipped, fell on his back, slid under the truck and completely disappeared.
Now imagine his Sergeant swallowing his tongue while trying to halt the pickup driver's frantic tire spinning and to "save" Rusty. Fortunately, Rusty stood up on the other side of the pickup unhurt and grinned at me. He had slid all the way to the shoulder of the road without stopping?
Anywho, we had spent all day in that frozen circus and for the most part had not succeeded in getting anything to the top of that dang hill. All of a sudden I saw approaching at moderate speed a small vehicle that was not sliding, slipping, or wavering from its course. Now I'm scratching my head trying to figure out what this driver had going that no one else had tried?
As the driver slowly eased by me, I saw that it was a nun in her black and white habit fingering some rosary beads while feverishly praying aloud.
As she successfully drove out of sight over the crest of the hill, I swear I could almost see a Heavenly Hand gently pushing her along.
And that ain't the end of the story. Shortly after that nun's ecclesiastical ride, the sun came out, the ice began to thaw, and we were able to clear the hill and allow the interstate traffic to resume.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
HIM-A-CANES
In 1976, yours truly was a green butt, immature, know-nuthin, rookie Highway Patrol Sergeant in Harris County (Houston)(think a bit larger than Wright City) Texas.
Things moved a bit faster there and there was a bit more "folk" strirrin' about than I was used to. The roads were like an infested ant hill of angry varmits and the population all seemed to be pissed at being on the planet.
One day the good Lord decided that it was time for a good long "flush" of that den of inequity and he opened His everymighty faucet and the sky's let loose with a rainfall that would awe all.
During the height of that typhoon event, a memorable (for me) traffic accident occured on Interstate Highway 45 at the North city limits of Houston, Texas.
A truck-tractor semi-trailer-trailer (we be talking a nine axle rig here sports fans) was Southbound into Houston. Said "double-bottom" rig topped an overpass at highway speed and observed that all lanes of traffic were at "grave yard" dead still. Succumbing to homo sapien instinct, the driver slapped both feet on the brake, turned to the left, and promptly jumped the concrete center median barrier and plunged into the Northbound lanes.
Unfortunately, the Northbound lanes had a bit of their own "issues" going on. Seems a "minor" traffic accident had occurred previously which had brought traffic to an absolute stop on all three lanes, including a flat bed two ton truck. Only problem was a car coming behind the flat bed truck already had their head up their figurative butt so they "went the distance" and put their vehicle and their (skull) into the back of the flat bed and thus became a fatality statistic.
Now, back to the tractor, semi-trailer, trailer rig going south in the Northbound lanes into this maelstrom of vehicular chaos? Not to worry, the errant "double bottom rig" was promptly halted by a Northbound tractor, semi trailer Texas Prison System rig going North and they obligingly hit head light to head light and rather suddenly halted the progress of each and more or less stopped the carnage in the Wright City boy Sergeant's area of responsibility......ALMOST?
Trooper Curtis arrived on the scene to "investigate" the carnage. This Trooper was 6"7" and about 350 pounds. Upon arrival, his adrenalin was near bout moon launch level while his trim "bod" was still "swamp launch" weight? Said savior Trooper, "leapt" from his black/white crime fighting vehicle, ran to the concrete wall median separating the north/south lanes, planted his size 15 boot and (promptly tore every last gosh darn ligament, bone, flesh, skin, "whatever", from his ankle area and began to writhe in a rather exquisite manner on the pavement while SCREAMING in multiple languages in tribute to the PAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
OK sports fans, this is the moment when the "all knowing, calm, professional, "whatever" young butt, scared Highway Patrol (wright city) Sergeant" arrives. (This must have been how Hell on Earth, Sodom and Gomorrah, and the Garden of Eden after the "apple bite" looked all rolled into one???????)
OK, first things first. Get Curtis to the hospital to get to orthopedic surgery stuff (them dead ass people was already dead and nothing was gonna change that). HAVE I MENTIONED THAT IT WAS STILL RAINING ABOUT FOUR DAMN INCHES PER HOUR DURING ALL THIS?
Second, start prioritizing and sorting out the individual traffic accidents. Naw, if you wasn't bloodied, just get your butt down the road and work it out with your insurance agent.
Now to the traffic fatalities. Do that work, do the investigation, documentation and follow up as necessary.
Finally, what started all this. Oh yeah, the ole boy that was pushing the "double bottom rig" that jumped the concrete barrier and smacked the prison system rig head on (did I mention the fire?, just minor detail as the flooding rain took care of that buddy after enough environmental crap occurred that the federal Environmental Protection Agency launched their parade?).
Said junior Sergeant interviewed the large, brawny, hairy, tattooed male that was driving the "double bottom" rig and determined that his lack of caution in the inclement weather had started the chain of events that led to several dead and many injured (don't forget the damned fire that looked like a Fourth of July WW III!).
Took that testosterone charged muscle massed truck driving individual to the jail house for well deserved incarceration and proceeded to put the mustached mongrel into the male population of the hoosegow, (when the arrestee rather sheepishly - and with rather gross manifestation - convinced me that - "he" was as "she". (Just goes to show that there are days when ya would rather be an ice cream salesman?)
Guess that was when I figgered out why "her-i-canes" have them feminine names?????????
Lord help us!
Things moved a bit faster there and there was a bit more "folk" strirrin' about than I was used to. The roads were like an infested ant hill of angry varmits and the population all seemed to be pissed at being on the planet.
One day the good Lord decided that it was time for a good long "flush" of that den of inequity and he opened His everymighty faucet and the sky's let loose with a rainfall that would awe all.
During the height of that typhoon event, a memorable (for me) traffic accident occured on Interstate Highway 45 at the North city limits of Houston, Texas.
A truck-tractor semi-trailer-trailer (we be talking a nine axle rig here sports fans) was Southbound into Houston. Said "double-bottom" rig topped an overpass at highway speed and observed that all lanes of traffic were at "grave yard" dead still. Succumbing to homo sapien instinct, the driver slapped both feet on the brake, turned to the left, and promptly jumped the concrete center median barrier and plunged into the Northbound lanes.
Unfortunately, the Northbound lanes had a bit of their own "issues" going on. Seems a "minor" traffic accident had occurred previously which had brought traffic to an absolute stop on all three lanes, including a flat bed two ton truck. Only problem was a car coming behind the flat bed truck already had their head up their figurative butt so they "went the distance" and put their vehicle and their (skull) into the back of the flat bed and thus became a fatality statistic.
Now, back to the tractor, semi-trailer, trailer rig going south in the Northbound lanes into this maelstrom of vehicular chaos? Not to worry, the errant "double bottom rig" was promptly halted by a Northbound tractor, semi trailer Texas Prison System rig going North and they obligingly hit head light to head light and rather suddenly halted the progress of each and more or less stopped the carnage in the Wright City boy Sergeant's area of responsibility......ALMOST?
Trooper Curtis arrived on the scene to "investigate" the carnage. This Trooper was 6"7" and about 350 pounds. Upon arrival, his adrenalin was near bout moon launch level while his trim "bod" was still "swamp launch" weight? Said savior Trooper, "leapt" from his black/white crime fighting vehicle, ran to the concrete wall median separating the north/south lanes, planted his size 15 boot and (promptly tore every last gosh darn ligament, bone, flesh, skin, "whatever", from his ankle area and began to writhe in a rather exquisite manner on the pavement while SCREAMING in multiple languages in tribute to the PAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
OK sports fans, this is the moment when the "all knowing, calm, professional, "whatever" young butt, scared Highway Patrol (wright city) Sergeant" arrives. (This must have been how Hell on Earth, Sodom and Gomorrah, and the Garden of Eden after the "apple bite" looked all rolled into one???????)
OK, first things first. Get Curtis to the hospital to get to orthopedic surgery stuff (them dead ass people was already dead and nothing was gonna change that). HAVE I MENTIONED THAT IT WAS STILL RAINING ABOUT FOUR DAMN INCHES PER HOUR DURING ALL THIS?
Second, start prioritizing and sorting out the individual traffic accidents. Naw, if you wasn't bloodied, just get your butt down the road and work it out with your insurance agent.
Now to the traffic fatalities. Do that work, do the investigation, documentation and follow up as necessary.
Finally, what started all this. Oh yeah, the ole boy that was pushing the "double bottom rig" that jumped the concrete barrier and smacked the prison system rig head on (did I mention the fire?, just minor detail as the flooding rain took care of that buddy after enough environmental crap occurred that the federal Environmental Protection Agency launched their parade?).
Said junior Sergeant interviewed the large, brawny, hairy, tattooed male that was driving the "double bottom" rig and determined that his lack of caution in the inclement weather had started the chain of events that led to several dead and many injured (don't forget the damned fire that looked like a Fourth of July WW III!).
Took that testosterone charged muscle massed truck driving individual to the jail house for well deserved incarceration and proceeded to put the mustached mongrel into the male population of the hoosegow, (when the arrestee rather sheepishly - and with rather gross manifestation - convinced me that - "he" was as "she". (Just goes to show that there are days when ya would rather be an ice cream salesman?)
Guess that was when I figgered out why "her-i-canes" have them feminine names?????????
Lord help us!
CHUNKERS
About 1983, the Ku Klux Klan got the hairbrain idea to hold a meeting on the South Steps of the capitol of Texas during a bright weekday afternoon.
Now I've always been an advocate of the world ignoring those nut-job purveyors of hate and dissent. I figger they would soon stop having public meetings if no one ever showed up.
The world ain't bent that way, unfortunately, and on the day in question a huge contingent of protesters showed up to yell, scream, spit, and "chunk" stuff in the general direction of the KKK membership.
Being equal opportunity protectors of the citizenry, Lieutenant frankie and his riot squad of Sergeants and Troopers stood between the "chunkers" and the Klan to minimize bloodshed while protecting the free speech constitutional rights of all (and protect the peace and dignity of our beautiful capitol building).
When the crowd volume/anger/chunking got to its peak (after about ten minutes), the young Lieutenant decided that "free speech" issues had been aired sufficiently for the day and it was time to get the Klan Krew away from the capitol and down the road.
Easier said than done.
In their infinite non-wisdom, the Klansmen had parked their cars in a lot about four blocks from the capitol building. As we circled them and started toward their cars, the crowd circled us and began to launch missiles (rocks, sticks, whatever was loose) toward the Klan (my personal favorite was the cast iron covers from the capitol lawn water faucets that were about the size of a saucer). Trouble was, the crowd either wasn't too particular about who they hit, or they were awful poor chunkers, because the majority of that debris rain was hitting me and my squad.
We were just about to completely lose our momentum against the crowd when the Austin Police Department showed up with three wheeled Harley-Davidson motorcycles that they used in parking enforcement. Those motor jockeys drove their iron steeds alongside and in front of us and for the crowd members who didn't move, they just run their butts over until we reached our destination.
After being under a constant barrage for four city blocks, we finally arrived at the parking lot. This particular lot was at an elevation several feet lower than the surrounding parking lots. Now picture the sun almost being obliterated with the things being rained on us by the dimwit onlookers. The cars of the Klan soon looked like dimpled demolition derby rejects and the riot helmets and face shields we were wearing began to look like they had been thru a hand grenade testing facility.
Another Lieutenant standing near me took a large limestone brick alongside his jaw and went down for the count during this time.
We finally got them suckers down the road and away, but we looked like a tattered bunch of county fair shooting range ducks.
I never absentmindedly pick up a rock and "chunk" it without remembering that day.
Now I've always been an advocate of the world ignoring those nut-job purveyors of hate and dissent. I figger they would soon stop having public meetings if no one ever showed up.
The world ain't bent that way, unfortunately, and on the day in question a huge contingent of protesters showed up to yell, scream, spit, and "chunk" stuff in the general direction of the KKK membership.
Being equal opportunity protectors of the citizenry, Lieutenant frankie and his riot squad of Sergeants and Troopers stood between the "chunkers" and the Klan to minimize bloodshed while protecting the free speech constitutional rights of all (and protect the peace and dignity of our beautiful capitol building).
When the crowd volume/anger/chunking got to its peak (after about ten minutes), the young Lieutenant decided that "free speech" issues had been aired sufficiently for the day and it was time to get the Klan Krew away from the capitol and down the road.
Easier said than done.
In their infinite non-wisdom, the Klansmen had parked their cars in a lot about four blocks from the capitol building. As we circled them and started toward their cars, the crowd circled us and began to launch missiles (rocks, sticks, whatever was loose) toward the Klan (my personal favorite was the cast iron covers from the capitol lawn water faucets that were about the size of a saucer). Trouble was, the crowd either wasn't too particular about who they hit, or they were awful poor chunkers, because the majority of that debris rain was hitting me and my squad.
We were just about to completely lose our momentum against the crowd when the Austin Police Department showed up with three wheeled Harley-Davidson motorcycles that they used in parking enforcement. Those motor jockeys drove their iron steeds alongside and in front of us and for the crowd members who didn't move, they just run their butts over until we reached our destination.
After being under a constant barrage for four city blocks, we finally arrived at the parking lot. This particular lot was at an elevation several feet lower than the surrounding parking lots. Now picture the sun almost being obliterated with the things being rained on us by the dimwit onlookers. The cars of the Klan soon looked like dimpled demolition derby rejects and the riot helmets and face shields we were wearing began to look like they had been thru a hand grenade testing facility.
Another Lieutenant standing near me took a large limestone brick alongside his jaw and went down for the count during this time.
We finally got them suckers down the road and away, but we looked like a tattered bunch of county fair shooting range ducks.
I never absentmindedly pick up a rock and "chunk" it without remembering that day.
Monday, April 28, 2008
OPERA CARP
The Comal River runs thru New Braunfels Tx and due to its beauty, many fine homes were built on its banks in the early years.
About 1973, the good Lord decided it was time to clean up the banks of the gentle flowing Comal River by allowing it to rain and rain and rain some more.
The river became a raging torrent, rose about 30 feet above its normal level and proceeded to inundate/destroy the million dollar homes along its path.
Enter the Wright City boy Trooper assigned to flood rescue duty. I spent a week there wading through muddy water up to my waist while slapping off the rattlesnakes, rats, cats, dogs, varmits and vermin that were either floating by or hanging from trees.
My main duty was to go from house to house to "rescue" occupants or recover bodies.
As I entered and searched the houses you have to picture that they were the finest in the area and lavishly furnished. With this picture in your mind, now imagine that in each house there was now about 3 inches of mud and up to two feet of water. I remember going in one house that had a grand piano in the living room with a huge chandelier over it and a school of carp swimming under it as if in anticipation of some grand opera virtuoso. I went in a house that had a huge high dollar leather chair with the biggest cottonmouth water moccasin on earth coiled on it. And the stink of all was atrocious. Imagine rotting fish, wet dogs, and molded everything all rolled into one?
And who ever said that Troopers don't get to do "exciting" stuff?
About 1973, the good Lord decided it was time to clean up the banks of the gentle flowing Comal River by allowing it to rain and rain and rain some more.
The river became a raging torrent, rose about 30 feet above its normal level and proceeded to inundate/destroy the million dollar homes along its path.
Enter the Wright City boy Trooper assigned to flood rescue duty. I spent a week there wading through muddy water up to my waist while slapping off the rattlesnakes, rats, cats, dogs, varmits and vermin that were either floating by or hanging from trees.
My main duty was to go from house to house to "rescue" occupants or recover bodies.
As I entered and searched the houses you have to picture that they were the finest in the area and lavishly furnished. With this picture in your mind, now imagine that in each house there was now about 3 inches of mud and up to two feet of water. I remember going in one house that had a grand piano in the living room with a huge chandelier over it and a school of carp swimming under it as if in anticipation of some grand opera virtuoso. I went in a house that had a huge high dollar leather chair with the biggest cottonmouth water moccasin on earth coiled on it. And the stink of all was atrocious. Imagine rotting fish, wet dogs, and molded everything all rolled into one?
And who ever said that Troopers don't get to do "exciting" stuff?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
ELBOWS
Each year in San Antonio the city hosts a week of fiesta. The soiree includes nightly parades on the downtown riverwalk while brightly lit parade floats drift thru downtown on the San Antonio River and march thru the city streets.
Think lots of color, lots of lights, and enough cerveza (beer) to overflow an ocean. Now add the Hispanic culture of celebration at designated times, thousands of attendees, and you have one heck of a week long party.
About 1971, I was assigned "crowd control" duty on a downtown street during a parade event (I think it was "Battle of the Flowers night?). The event planners had placed thousands of folding metal chairs along the parade route in front of rows of metal bleachers on the sidewalks. The beer salesmen had stocked thousands of bottles of cerveza on ice in their carts to keep the crowd lubricated and fuel the excited anticipation?
During the peak of the parade, some home boys standing in the metal bleachers started throwing ice on people in the chairs. Not to be outdone, the "gentlemen" in the chairs started throwing beer bottles at the bleaches. Sensing an Olympic style competition in the works, said bleacher bums reciprocated with beer bottles of their own, followed by the street crowd launching the metal folding chairs at the bleachers, thru store windows, and at passing cars.
Now comes the "do right" boy (Wright City Trooper) and his cohorts to clean up the mess. I was partnered with Roger McCraw. Roger was 6'4" tall, weighed 260 pounds and went from broad shoulders to a small waist with nuthin' but muscle in between (I probably looked like Mickey Mouse beside him?) We were wearing standard issue riot control gear (goofy looking blue plastic helmets with a face shield) and carried three foot wooden "batons" (whittled down baseball bats).
We soon settled into a mindless free-for-all essentially fighting for our lives in the middle of maybe 40 drunks against me and Roger. We were holding our own until I got the bright idea to grab one in a "full Nelson" (standing behind the dude, I put my arms under his arms and locked my fingers behind his neck with my elbows exposed forward).
I spun the struggling arrestee around toward my partner just in time to see Roger winding up with that wooden "bat" in his best Babe Ruth imitation in order to apply some persuasion medicine to the combatant I was holding.
Here's where our finely tuned plan went a bit astray. Roger planted that oak implement squarely on the "funny bone" of each of my elbows without touching my wrestling "victim". Now imagine bright stars in my eyes, excruciating pain, paralysis and an overwhelming feeling of, "Now what the hell do I do." Its weird but the most clear picture I have of that night was the look on Roger's face when he realized he had near bout de-armed me.
We survived the night and a lot of other "stuff" thru the years, but from that day forward I learned to remember that an "Achilles" heel don't hold a candle to a wounded "funny" bone in an honest to goodness scrap.
Think lots of color, lots of lights, and enough cerveza (beer) to overflow an ocean. Now add the Hispanic culture of celebration at designated times, thousands of attendees, and you have one heck of a week long party.
About 1971, I was assigned "crowd control" duty on a downtown street during a parade event (I think it was "Battle of the Flowers night?). The event planners had placed thousands of folding metal chairs along the parade route in front of rows of metal bleachers on the sidewalks. The beer salesmen had stocked thousands of bottles of cerveza on ice in their carts to keep the crowd lubricated and fuel the excited anticipation?
During the peak of the parade, some home boys standing in the metal bleachers started throwing ice on people in the chairs. Not to be outdone, the "gentlemen" in the chairs started throwing beer bottles at the bleaches. Sensing an Olympic style competition in the works, said bleacher bums reciprocated with beer bottles of their own, followed by the street crowd launching the metal folding chairs at the bleachers, thru store windows, and at passing cars.
Now comes the "do right" boy (Wright City Trooper) and his cohorts to clean up the mess. I was partnered with Roger McCraw. Roger was 6'4" tall, weighed 260 pounds and went from broad shoulders to a small waist with nuthin' but muscle in between (I probably looked like Mickey Mouse beside him?) We were wearing standard issue riot control gear (goofy looking blue plastic helmets with a face shield) and carried three foot wooden "batons" (whittled down baseball bats).
We soon settled into a mindless free-for-all essentially fighting for our lives in the middle of maybe 40 drunks against me and Roger. We were holding our own until I got the bright idea to grab one in a "full Nelson" (standing behind the dude, I put my arms under his arms and locked my fingers behind his neck with my elbows exposed forward).
I spun the struggling arrestee around toward my partner just in time to see Roger winding up with that wooden "bat" in his best Babe Ruth imitation in order to apply some persuasion medicine to the combatant I was holding.
Here's where our finely tuned plan went a bit astray. Roger planted that oak implement squarely on the "funny bone" of each of my elbows without touching my wrestling "victim". Now imagine bright stars in my eyes, excruciating pain, paralysis and an overwhelming feeling of, "Now what the hell do I do." Its weird but the most clear picture I have of that night was the look on Roger's face when he realized he had near bout de-armed me.
We survived the night and a lot of other "stuff" thru the years, but from that day forward I learned to remember that an "Achilles" heel don't hold a candle to a wounded "funny" bone in an honest to goodness scrap.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
CRISPY CRITTERS
This be another senile rambling for my kids as a "reference" to who I am at this advanced stage of senility and some insight as to why it "happened"? (As previously stated, I ain't sure where this is going, but we will know when we git there?)
In 1970, after a period of seasoning (3 months) as a Trooper, I was serenely "patrolling" the west side of San Antonio preserving the peace and dignity of the populace on a warmish August evening.
To the anguish of the United States Air Force, a two pilot jet "trainer" crashed in a residential neighborhood.
First on the scene was the Wright City wonder boy Trooper to (didn't have a clue what I needed to do??????)
Second on the scene was the Kelly Air Force Base Fire Department who proceeded to douse the surrounding world with more white foam than a Kool Whip factory ever dreamed (coating the plane, pilot victims, grass, you name it?) in the foam flame retardant.
After the hoopla died down, the ever officious TROOPER (picture a 20 year old green butt didn't know nuthin' kid) was asked to help lift the charcoal appearing pilot remains into rubber "body bags" for transport to???????. Never one to shirk a (unpleasant?) task, said neophyte Trooper shoved his hands under the first pilot to respectfully lift lift the "remains" into the "body bag" and "lifted".
Now picture the "lift" allowing air to get to the JP-4 jet fuel flowing under the fire retardant foam, the white hot metal of the jet adjacent to the fuel, and the "heat" causing the "fuel" to flash burn!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Now picture the totally scared butt, juvenile Trooper running like his posterior may incinerate at any minute and breaking the 100 yard dash national, olympic, and world record! As a matter of record, when the dust settled, I had a perfect imprint of someone's boot on the thigh of my pant leg. That "sucka" only got one foot on me afore I hit the "afterburners" as I have no clue who it was and he didn't get a second chance to slow my escape!
All was good (and we know that I did not become a "crispy critter" from the extreme exposure), but, when my heart returned to a mere 1,000 beats per minute, I realized that my pistolo was not in its trusted holster.
OK, this has many implications!
As an officer of the law in a economically deprived (San Antonio West Side) minority neighborhood where the "government" has caused carnage, I am UNARMED!
OK, forget that, as a (rookie) Trooper, I have LOST something that I will not be able to 'splain all that easy (if EVER)?????????????
Nothing to do but start walking back and forth bent over with my fingers spread sifting thru that foam and HOPE????????? (that I find what I desperately hope to find and not auxiliary pilot body parts?)
End of story: The good Lord smiled on me that night and I found my trusty wheel gun, got it cleaned of the goo, and was able to survive yet another "adventure" as a costumed crime fighter in a foreign (San Antonio?) land.
And, I carved another "notch" in the exterior of the person I am today due to the reality check that experience etched on my ability to relate to others.
Not an excuse, just an explanation of something that forever changes anyone in the moment and causes the weaker soul to seem more unforgiving due to the damned "callous" that builds on one's heart after a lifetime of such experiences?
In 1970, after a period of seasoning (3 months) as a Trooper, I was serenely "patrolling" the west side of San Antonio preserving the peace and dignity of the populace on a warmish August evening.
To the anguish of the United States Air Force, a two pilot jet "trainer" crashed in a residential neighborhood.
First on the scene was the Wright City wonder boy Trooper to (didn't have a clue what I needed to do??????)
Second on the scene was the Kelly Air Force Base Fire Department who proceeded to douse the surrounding world with more white foam than a Kool Whip factory ever dreamed (coating the plane, pilot victims, grass, you name it?) in the foam flame retardant.
After the hoopla died down, the ever officious TROOPER (picture a 20 year old green butt didn't know nuthin' kid) was asked to help lift the charcoal appearing pilot remains into rubber "body bags" for transport to???????. Never one to shirk a (unpleasant?) task, said neophyte Trooper shoved his hands under the first pilot to respectfully lift lift the "remains" into the "body bag" and "lifted".
Now picture the "lift" allowing air to get to the JP-4 jet fuel flowing under the fire retardant foam, the white hot metal of the jet adjacent to the fuel, and the "heat" causing the "fuel" to flash burn!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Now picture the totally scared butt, juvenile Trooper running like his posterior may incinerate at any minute and breaking the 100 yard dash national, olympic, and world record! As a matter of record, when the dust settled, I had a perfect imprint of someone's boot on the thigh of my pant leg. That "sucka" only got one foot on me afore I hit the "afterburners" as I have no clue who it was and he didn't get a second chance to slow my escape!
All was good (and we know that I did not become a "crispy critter" from the extreme exposure), but, when my heart returned to a mere 1,000 beats per minute, I realized that my pistolo was not in its trusted holster.
OK, this has many implications!
As an officer of the law in a economically deprived (San Antonio West Side) minority neighborhood where the "government" has caused carnage, I am UNARMED!
OK, forget that, as a (rookie) Trooper, I have LOST something that I will not be able to 'splain all that easy (if EVER)?????????????
Nothing to do but start walking back and forth bent over with my fingers spread sifting thru that foam and HOPE????????? (that I find what I desperately hope to find and not auxiliary pilot body parts?)
End of story: The good Lord smiled on me that night and I found my trusty wheel gun, got it cleaned of the goo, and was able to survive yet another "adventure" as a costumed crime fighter in a foreign (San Antonio?) land.
And, I carved another "notch" in the exterior of the person I am today due to the reality check that experience etched on my ability to relate to others.
Not an excuse, just an explanation of something that forever changes anyone in the moment and causes the weaker soul to seem more unforgiving due to the damned "callous" that builds on one's heart after a lifetime of such experiences?
FRIJOLES
All ya'll forgive me for the following self-indulgence as it is a bit more history about "me" for my children which I feel they do not know, don't know if they want to know, but offer it as partial explanation of the unusual person they may perceive me to be. The rest of ya'll jus' 'scuse me!@
I graduated from Highway Patrol School on June 5, 1970, and was stationed in San Antonio at the ripe old age of 20 years and 5 months (yeah, a mere child that drivers I ticketed reveled in reminding me of?).
Now one would need to know that I spent my entire life to that point in Wright City, Texas, population (kin to or thought I was kin to everyone (pop. = 40?) and thrived there in the rural, backwoods, and country lanes. San Antonio (Mexico, as far as my dumb butt knew) was a metropolitan population of one million (mostly American citizens, but a few(?) were suspect???)
The first week of August 1970 (after at least three weeks "seasoning" as a road Trooper), Hurricane Celia made landfall at Corpus Christi, Texas and the ole Tin Star Ranch Hand was never again the same naive, shy, green, innocent, bon vivant that he had the good fortune to experience prior to that moment.
About 10:00PM on the night of hurricane landfall (125 MPH wind with $450,000,000 damage in the dollars of that time), my partner (Jim Pribble), called to say that we had been deployed to "Corpus" until further notice for "hurricane duty". All ya'll would need to know that a Wright City boy was not persactly sure what a hurricane was???? Hadn't seen no "tornado", no "tsunami", no "typhoon", and for the truth of the matter, didn't have a clue what I was heading toward (I was still wondering what "tide" was in the distant "ocean"?? and Striker Lake was the biggest body of water I had ever "navigated" with Uncle Buddy doing the directional stuff)
What the hell, I was twenty years old and therefore bullet-proof, dog bite-proof, immortal, amphibious, ambidextrous, and whatever other stupid idea was in my mind. I strapped on my Trooper crime fighting "costume", checked my ammo, wiped my butt and as all others fled for their life from the "catastrophe", ole dumbutt drove at full speed toward the challenge with (in truth) a bit of eager anticipation of the excitement to follow).
On the way (I didn't have a clue where we were going other than South), we drove in a convoy of black and white HP cars at or above 100 MPH. Never mind that it was raining like Noah's flood or that there were huge trees, power lines, cows, (dogs, cats, possums, etc.), and associated crap in the roadway for the last (too many miles), we were the "cavalry" and going to (hell, I didn't really know where). I just knew (after a few weeks on the "job") it was something I was destined to do for my entire life (run toward the storm and "stay there" as others fled, til the last person was safe, and all was calm. This is what I have done for the last 39 years as a "cop" and in truth it is who I am, what I do, and I don't know any other way of life.
Being perpetually "lucky", I was assigned the 6PM to 6AM shift in the general vicinity of Robstown.
Now picture this:
1. Every sign of any kind (road, advertising, warning, whatever) was blown to hell and Hiawatha by the storm (didn't much matter as I didn't bring a map).
2. I didn't know East from Up, or shit from shinola about where I was at any time.
3. No electricity = No lights (no where, no how, no matter what) You ain't seen "dark" til you are lost in a strange country with no moon/stars and you be lost like the country bumpkin you are?
4. I was responsible for "helping" folks, preventing theft/looting, getting my sorry butt back to "home base" each morn, but in truth wasn't sure at the time I could "help" myself? ("Home base" was the naval air station at Kingsville with WWII vintage barracks at the end/beginning of runways where jet trainers practiced touch and go landings all day under full throttle while we "slept" (ya got no idea what that "sleep" was like unless you live in a subway tunnel?) "Air conditioning" was a large belt driven fan that the belt stayed on at least an hour or two per day before the belt went AWOL. "Chow" was in the navy mess hall where the rule was, "take all you want, eat all you take" (the "take" was stuff like greasy calf liver and tasteless greasy anything cheap and essentially inedible/nasty/greasy/unrecognizable?
5. I was perpetually lost and perpetually throwing down on "folks" with my 12 gauge five shooter with promises to blister their butts if they didn't quit stealin' from the folks that fled the storm (and not sure what I would do with their gut shot bodies/paper work/mess)? Ain't never yet figgered why some human nature is to "crap" on others when the "others" are at their most fragile and vulnerable?????/
Other than spending two weeks there, wonderin' where the hell I was at, and thinking every minute that I would be forced to take a (miserable thievin') human life to save my own as part of my "duty", there were a few associated issues:
1. There weren't no/any/nada drinking water anywhere after the hurricane and the bottled water scam wasn't invented at that time (the Pearl beer company filled their beer cans with "pure water from the country of 1,100 springs" and sent trucks to us to quench our thirst)( now picture full grown "Trooper"dudes slurping gustily from Pearl beer cans (filled with water) to quench their thirst?
2. Freezers will "keep" meat for a bit after the electricity goes off, but it ain't gonna last forever. In spite of, or due to my youth, my hunger "button" didn't quell as a result of the disaster. Another words, my sorry rear was HUNGRY on a regular basis. In the beginning,the restaurants fed us all the free steaks we could eat with the explanation that they would ruin anyway. When they "ruined", we were like everyone else with no source of food? For my first time, but not near the last over a 33 year Highway Patrol career, the Red Cross showed up with tuna fish sandwiches. Don' t much care what you think of what my Dad called "tunie" fish, it is larupping good when you are near bout to eat your boot heels.
As a "side" story, the all-Hispanic Robstown police department announced one night that they were cooking "frijoles" and we were invited (YUM, local authentic home cooked manna). The local constabulary built a wood fire in front of the police station in the street and fashioned an iron "stand" which supported an iron kettle suspended from a cross bar. Into the pot went water, some "meat" (I never want to know what that was, but i'm thinkin' possum?), dried ground chili peppers, onions, and garlic. As for the "piece de resistance" (beans/frijoles), they produce a dusty rough brown sack of about 20 gallons of pintos and dumped them in the pot (dirt, rocks, burrs, insects, crap, crud, corruption, and you don't want to know) and smiled the satisfied countenance of the ever most cordial host, secure in the knowledge that they had "scored" a tow sack "coup" with the Estada de Tejas Policia!
Folks, after much discussion (well, mostly gesturing as I didn't really parley their habra) the feast was ready. Wasn't nuthin' to do but accept a HUGE bowl of the offering, take a spoonful, and ................... (think grit, sand, rocks, gristle(?) whatever) and just keep dippin' and swallerin' to not offend our gracious hosts? Don't know if I matured from that experience, or just staved off gnawing the tires off my Plymouth, but as you may know, it did make an impression on my psyche.
3. Gasoline pumps at gasoline stations work off off electricity. There was no electricity. Therefore, there was no gasoline. Therefore, us Troopers had a fuel problem. Some enterprising soul eventually took the cover off the gas pump at his station and hooked up his gasoline powered weed edger with the belt hooked to the gas pump and was able to "suck" some fuel from his storage tanks to keep us mobile. Thus, American ingenuity triumphed over mother nature (temporarily).
4. Electricity is also necessary for clothes cleaners to "clean" Trooper uniforms. Another surprise, after a few days wearing the same uniform in hot/humid/hurricane weather, one begins to reek of (Hmmmm?)...you don't want to know. (Just had to endure that one as a lesson in doing what ya gotta do when ya gotta do it?)
5. Ever take ICE for granted? Ya wouldn't after a few weeks in a hurricane impact area?
6. If ya ever doubt the strength of the human spirit, research pictures of C.C. following Hurricane Celia and then go visit it now to see the "after" picture.
I could go on with stories of "confrontations" with pistol packin' home owners who we had to sort out from looters, local cops who contemplated shooting me as I approached their roadblocks at night, and every rattlesnake in the free world driven from their underground burrow by flood, but you get the picture of how the ole WC "kid" got a relatively fast "baptism" into being a "road" Trooper.
I'll consider more of these "FASCINATING" (BS) stories for future TSRH blogs, but will just have to see what is therapeutic for me (I reckon there is a bit of it that I am still kinda "struggling" to mentally deal with) and that which is sufficiently "G" rated for the Waller children (Hell, ya'll will alway be kids to me?)
Til then, much love and God's own soul saving grace, healing forgiveness, and goodness to all.
I graduated from Highway Patrol School on June 5, 1970, and was stationed in San Antonio at the ripe old age of 20 years and 5 months (yeah, a mere child that drivers I ticketed reveled in reminding me of?).
Now one would need to know that I spent my entire life to that point in Wright City, Texas, population (kin to or thought I was kin to everyone (pop. = 40?) and thrived there in the rural, backwoods, and country lanes. San Antonio (Mexico, as far as my dumb butt knew) was a metropolitan population of one million (mostly American citizens, but a few(?) were suspect???)
The first week of August 1970 (after at least three weeks "seasoning" as a road Trooper), Hurricane Celia made landfall at Corpus Christi, Texas and the ole Tin Star Ranch Hand was never again the same naive, shy, green, innocent, bon vivant that he had the good fortune to experience prior to that moment.
About 10:00PM on the night of hurricane landfall (125 MPH wind with $450,000,000 damage in the dollars of that time), my partner (Jim Pribble), called to say that we had been deployed to "Corpus" until further notice for "hurricane duty". All ya'll would need to know that a Wright City boy was not persactly sure what a hurricane was???? Hadn't seen no "tornado", no "tsunami", no "typhoon", and for the truth of the matter, didn't have a clue what I was heading toward (I was still wondering what "tide" was in the distant "ocean"?? and Striker Lake was the biggest body of water I had ever "navigated" with Uncle Buddy doing the directional stuff)
What the hell, I was twenty years old and therefore bullet-proof, dog bite-proof, immortal, amphibious, ambidextrous, and whatever other stupid idea was in my mind. I strapped on my Trooper crime fighting "costume", checked my ammo, wiped my butt and as all others fled for their life from the "catastrophe", ole dumbutt drove at full speed toward the challenge with (in truth) a bit of eager anticipation of the excitement to follow).
On the way (I didn't have a clue where we were going other than South), we drove in a convoy of black and white HP cars at or above 100 MPH. Never mind that it was raining like Noah's flood or that there were huge trees, power lines, cows, (dogs, cats, possums, etc.), and associated crap in the roadway for the last (too many miles), we were the "cavalry" and going to (hell, I didn't really know where). I just knew (after a few weeks on the "job") it was something I was destined to do for my entire life (run toward the storm and "stay there" as others fled, til the last person was safe, and all was calm. This is what I have done for the last 39 years as a "cop" and in truth it is who I am, what I do, and I don't know any other way of life.
Being perpetually "lucky", I was assigned the 6PM to 6AM shift in the general vicinity of Robstown.
Now picture this:
1. Every sign of any kind (road, advertising, warning, whatever) was blown to hell and Hiawatha by the storm (didn't much matter as I didn't bring a map).
2. I didn't know East from Up, or shit from shinola about where I was at any time.
3. No electricity = No lights (no where, no how, no matter what) You ain't seen "dark" til you are lost in a strange country with no moon/stars and you be lost like the country bumpkin you are?
4. I was responsible for "helping" folks, preventing theft/looting, getting my sorry butt back to "home base" each morn, but in truth wasn't sure at the time I could "help" myself? ("Home base" was the naval air station at Kingsville with WWII vintage barracks at the end/beginning of runways where jet trainers practiced touch and go landings all day under full throttle while we "slept" (ya got no idea what that "sleep" was like unless you live in a subway tunnel?) "Air conditioning" was a large belt driven fan that the belt stayed on at least an hour or two per day before the belt went AWOL. "Chow" was in the navy mess hall where the rule was, "take all you want, eat all you take" (the "take" was stuff like greasy calf liver and tasteless greasy anything cheap and essentially inedible/nasty/greasy/unrecognizable?
5. I was perpetually lost and perpetually throwing down on "folks" with my 12 gauge five shooter with promises to blister their butts if they didn't quit stealin' from the folks that fled the storm (and not sure what I would do with their gut shot bodies/paper work/mess)? Ain't never yet figgered why some human nature is to "crap" on others when the "others" are at their most fragile and vulnerable?????/
Other than spending two weeks there, wonderin' where the hell I was at, and thinking every minute that I would be forced to take a (miserable thievin') human life to save my own as part of my "duty", there were a few associated issues:
1. There weren't no/any/nada drinking water anywhere after the hurricane and the bottled water scam wasn't invented at that time (the Pearl beer company filled their beer cans with "pure water from the country of 1,100 springs" and sent trucks to us to quench our thirst)( now picture full grown "Trooper"dudes slurping gustily from Pearl beer cans (filled with water) to quench their thirst?
2. Freezers will "keep" meat for a bit after the electricity goes off, but it ain't gonna last forever. In spite of, or due to my youth, my hunger "button" didn't quell as a result of the disaster. Another words, my sorry rear was HUNGRY on a regular basis. In the beginning,the restaurants fed us all the free steaks we could eat with the explanation that they would ruin anyway. When they "ruined", we were like everyone else with no source of food? For my first time, but not near the last over a 33 year Highway Patrol career, the Red Cross showed up with tuna fish sandwiches. Don' t much care what you think of what my Dad called "tunie" fish, it is larupping good when you are near bout to eat your boot heels.
As a "side" story, the all-Hispanic Robstown police department announced one night that they were cooking "frijoles" and we were invited (YUM, local authentic home cooked manna). The local constabulary built a wood fire in front of the police station in the street and fashioned an iron "stand" which supported an iron kettle suspended from a cross bar. Into the pot went water, some "meat" (I never want to know what that was, but i'm thinkin' possum?), dried ground chili peppers, onions, and garlic. As for the "piece de resistance" (beans/frijoles), they produce a dusty rough brown sack of about 20 gallons of pintos and dumped them in the pot (dirt, rocks, burrs, insects, crap, crud, corruption, and you don't want to know) and smiled the satisfied countenance of the ever most cordial host, secure in the knowledge that they had "scored" a tow sack "coup" with the Estada de Tejas Policia!
Folks, after much discussion (well, mostly gesturing as I didn't really parley their habra) the feast was ready. Wasn't nuthin' to do but accept a HUGE bowl of the offering, take a spoonful, and ................... (think grit, sand, rocks, gristle(?) whatever) and just keep dippin' and swallerin' to not offend our gracious hosts? Don't know if I matured from that experience, or just staved off gnawing the tires off my Plymouth, but as you may know, it did make an impression on my psyche.
3. Gasoline pumps at gasoline stations work off off electricity. There was no electricity. Therefore, there was no gasoline. Therefore, us Troopers had a fuel problem. Some enterprising soul eventually took the cover off the gas pump at his station and hooked up his gasoline powered weed edger with the belt hooked to the gas pump and was able to "suck" some fuel from his storage tanks to keep us mobile. Thus, American ingenuity triumphed over mother nature (temporarily).
4. Electricity is also necessary for clothes cleaners to "clean" Trooper uniforms. Another surprise, after a few days wearing the same uniform in hot/humid/hurricane weather, one begins to reek of (Hmmmm?)...you don't want to know. (Just had to endure that one as a lesson in doing what ya gotta do when ya gotta do it?)
5. Ever take ICE for granted? Ya wouldn't after a few weeks in a hurricane impact area?
6. If ya ever doubt the strength of the human spirit, research pictures of C.C. following Hurricane Celia and then go visit it now to see the "after" picture.
I could go on with stories of "confrontations" with pistol packin' home owners who we had to sort out from looters, local cops who contemplated shooting me as I approached their roadblocks at night, and every rattlesnake in the free world driven from their underground burrow by flood, but you get the picture of how the ole WC "kid" got a relatively fast "baptism" into being a "road" Trooper.
I'll consider more of these "FASCINATING" (BS) stories for future TSRH blogs, but will just have to see what is therapeutic for me (I reckon there is a bit of it that I am still kinda "struggling" to mentally deal with) and that which is sufficiently "G" rated for the Waller children (Hell, ya'll will alway be kids to me?)
Til then, much love and God's own soul saving grace, healing forgiveness, and goodness to all.
Friday, April 25, 2008
THE BEST
I probably mentioned a time, or maybe two that my Dad's dad was a gardener extraordinaire.
Grandaddy had the cleanest, most symmetrical, productive gardens I can ever remember seeing. His produce was delicious and county fair blue ribbon quality.
My Dad also liked to garden in his later years, but the scope and symmetry of his efforts were a bit scaled down. Still, his produce was delicious and nutritious.
Some things just don't pass genetically?
I planted a rather large garden (for me) in Wright City one time. As I recall, it included black eyed peas, corn, potatoes, okra and yellow squash. Near bout foundered trying to break the ground with Grandaddy's old one wheel push plow. The rows looked like they had been laid out by a drunk using a blind rented mule. The seed was haphazardly placed and forget fertilizer.
After planting I dutifully returned to Austin and hoped for "the best". Guess what, gardens don't do "the best" on their own. They take a lot of attention, work, and rain. This garden didn't get any of that.
In spite of inconsequential treatment, the garden managed to grow some ears of corn, a few peas, and some potatoes.
Came time to pull the ears of corn and I found that each time I wrapped my stubby fingers around an ear all the fire ants in America would boil out of the shucks and set fire to my butt (and other extremities). If I fought the ants long enough over an ear to get it shucked, the kernels were all gnawed by the little varmits!
Same with the potatoes. I would dig a shovel full and set off a fire ant nuclear bomb. What potatoes I could get close to looked like they had been hit by bird shot where the mound builders had feasted.
An on and on with nothing of note for my labors beyond frustration with the whole shebang.
Until now: Me and the bride have a lavish garden (four flower pots) growing on our back porch to include banana pepper, jalapeno pepper, and a tomato plant. They are abloom and growing like "weeds" with a dark green color to the foliage.
We are treating them like our children as we feed, water, and eagerly check their condition after work each day. We are holding our collective breath until the day we can enjoy the bounty of this repast.
Only thing is, I kinda seem to remember "cut" worms on tomato plants, some sort of "mite" thing that knocks the blooms off of pepper plants, fungus, drought, (FIRE ANTS!!) and about 40 other tribulations that make getting groceries at a store saner and more cost efficient?
I'll have to let my loyal reader(s?) know how this one comes out on another future day. Til then, invest in Amdro or Spectrocide stock and hope for "the best".
Grandaddy had the cleanest, most symmetrical, productive gardens I can ever remember seeing. His produce was delicious and county fair blue ribbon quality.
My Dad also liked to garden in his later years, but the scope and symmetry of his efforts were a bit scaled down. Still, his produce was delicious and nutritious.
Some things just don't pass genetically?
I planted a rather large garden (for me) in Wright City one time. As I recall, it included black eyed peas, corn, potatoes, okra and yellow squash. Near bout foundered trying to break the ground with Grandaddy's old one wheel push plow. The rows looked like they had been laid out by a drunk using a blind rented mule. The seed was haphazardly placed and forget fertilizer.
After planting I dutifully returned to Austin and hoped for "the best". Guess what, gardens don't do "the best" on their own. They take a lot of attention, work, and rain. This garden didn't get any of that.
In spite of inconsequential treatment, the garden managed to grow some ears of corn, a few peas, and some potatoes.
Came time to pull the ears of corn and I found that each time I wrapped my stubby fingers around an ear all the fire ants in America would boil out of the shucks and set fire to my butt (and other extremities). If I fought the ants long enough over an ear to get it shucked, the kernels were all gnawed by the little varmits!
Same with the potatoes. I would dig a shovel full and set off a fire ant nuclear bomb. What potatoes I could get close to looked like they had been hit by bird shot where the mound builders had feasted.
An on and on with nothing of note for my labors beyond frustration with the whole shebang.
Until now: Me and the bride have a lavish garden (four flower pots) growing on our back porch to include banana pepper, jalapeno pepper, and a tomato plant. They are abloom and growing like "weeds" with a dark green color to the foliage.
We are treating them like our children as we feed, water, and eagerly check their condition after work each day. We are holding our collective breath until the day we can enjoy the bounty of this repast.
Only thing is, I kinda seem to remember "cut" worms on tomato plants, some sort of "mite" thing that knocks the blooms off of pepper plants, fungus, drought, (FIRE ANTS!!) and about 40 other tribulations that make getting groceries at a store saner and more cost efficient?
I'll have to let my loyal reader(s?) know how this one comes out on another future day. Til then, invest in Amdro or Spectrocide stock and hope for "the best".
Thursday, April 24, 2008
OVERDRIVE
My feeble mind has been "wanderin" a bit (it does that with increasing frequency these days).
During theses meanderings I decided I am counted among a declining population who know a lot of things that don't really matter.
I know why inputting numbers on a phone is referred to as "dialing".
I know what the "foot feed" on a vehicle refers to. I also can identify vehicle "blinkers", "hood ornaments", "overdrive", "running boards", "recaps", "baby moons", "flippers", "steering knobs", "floor shifts", "vent windows", and "naugahyde" (but I never managed to slay a "nauga" as they was just too damn elusive?)(and I always wanted some "naugahyde""roll and pleat"). I have experience with tire "boots", "plugs", and "inner tubes". I have used "drip" gasoline and obtained oil for my motors from a 55 gallon drum with a "one armed" pump.
I have carried a "wheel gun", shot "wadcutters", enjoyed free "hardball" ammunition, and been on the business end of a "twice barrel twelve hole" (which weren't loaded with sofa pillers).
I've enjoyed a "cup of mud", called it "joe", and slurped it from a saucer.
I've sucked down "sodie pop", eaten "light" bread, munched on "goober peas", lip smacked over "poke salad", and breathed the heavenly of aroma of Grandmother baking "hot water corn pone".
I've toted a "slide rule", made a "granny shot", "dusted" erasers, and eaten enough "salt" pills to pollute an ocean.
Anyway, I amaze myself by how much I know, that ain't worth two cents, but is as much a part of me as my eyes ("peepers") or mouth ("pie hole").
Lets see, as an arbitrary number, lets say that if you recognize five or more of these valuable "factoids", you might not be as young, or as urban as you think (or worse yet, you could be as old/country as the ole Tin Star Ranch Hand????????????)
During theses meanderings I decided I am counted among a declining population who know a lot of things that don't really matter.
I know why inputting numbers on a phone is referred to as "dialing".
I know what the "foot feed" on a vehicle refers to. I also can identify vehicle "blinkers", "hood ornaments", "overdrive", "running boards", "recaps", "baby moons", "flippers", "steering knobs", "floor shifts", "vent windows", and "naugahyde" (but I never managed to slay a "nauga" as they was just too damn elusive?)(and I always wanted some "naugahyde""roll and pleat"). I have experience with tire "boots", "plugs", and "inner tubes". I have used "drip" gasoline and obtained oil for my motors from a 55 gallon drum with a "one armed" pump.
I have carried a "wheel gun", shot "wadcutters", enjoyed free "hardball" ammunition, and been on the business end of a "twice barrel twelve hole" (which weren't loaded with sofa pillers).
I've enjoyed a "cup of mud", called it "joe", and slurped it from a saucer.
I've sucked down "sodie pop", eaten "light" bread, munched on "goober peas", lip smacked over "poke salad", and breathed the heavenly of aroma of Grandmother baking "hot water corn pone".
I've toted a "slide rule", made a "granny shot", "dusted" erasers, and eaten enough "salt" pills to pollute an ocean.
Anyway, I amaze myself by how much I know, that ain't worth two cents, but is as much a part of me as my eyes ("peepers") or mouth ("pie hole").
Lets see, as an arbitrary number, lets say that if you recognize five or more of these valuable "factoids", you might not be as young, or as urban as you think (or worse yet, you could be as old/country as the ole Tin Star Ranch Hand????????????)
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
EYE BALLS
I figgered out when I was in the 6th or 7th grade that I was one of the few who had no clue what was being written in chalk by the teacher on the "blackboard" in school.
I guess I just assumed that no one else could read that stuff either.
Somehow or the other my folks scraped up enough cash to get me a set of "spectacles" so I could see. My feeble brain thinks that they were $12 (and they were the epitomy of fashion: heavy black plastic frames and coke bottle lens?)
That was when I first learned to appreciate the blessing of sight.
For the first time I could see individual leaves on trees instead of just a green blur. I saw that birds hopping on the ground actually had little skinny legs/knees/whatever. I noticed small pebbles on parking lots, (freckles on girls), and all kind of "stuff" that had not existed before.
Today I got my latest set of "specs" from Lenscrafters ($1021 for two pair - regular and tinted).
Didn't especially want the dark hollywoods, but the ole eye doc said in 4-5 years I would be needin' cataract surgery and that a set of sun-goggles would slow the process if worn faithfully. Hell, I'll sleep in them puppies if it will delay another surgery of any kind?
Anywho, I slipped on them new store bought glasses and it was kinda like that first set long ago. I guess I had gone too long in between "perscripshuns" cuz all the sudden I could "SEE" again. Written words weren't fuzzy, I could see people's eye balls in detail, and (damn, I've hatched a crop of wrinkles on my ugly face since the last time I had a close look!?)
Thank you my Lord and Savior for the blessing of sight (and the wisdom to not take it for granted)
I guess I just assumed that no one else could read that stuff either.
Somehow or the other my folks scraped up enough cash to get me a set of "spectacles" so I could see. My feeble brain thinks that they were $12 (and they were the epitomy of fashion: heavy black plastic frames and coke bottle lens?)
That was when I first learned to appreciate the blessing of sight.
For the first time I could see individual leaves on trees instead of just a green blur. I saw that birds hopping on the ground actually had little skinny legs/knees/whatever. I noticed small pebbles on parking lots, (freckles on girls), and all kind of "stuff" that had not existed before.
Today I got my latest set of "specs" from Lenscrafters ($1021 for two pair - regular and tinted).
Didn't especially want the dark hollywoods, but the ole eye doc said in 4-5 years I would be needin' cataract surgery and that a set of sun-goggles would slow the process if worn faithfully. Hell, I'll sleep in them puppies if it will delay another surgery of any kind?
Anywho, I slipped on them new store bought glasses and it was kinda like that first set long ago. I guess I had gone too long in between "perscripshuns" cuz all the sudden I could "SEE" again. Written words weren't fuzzy, I could see people's eye balls in detail, and (damn, I've hatched a crop of wrinkles on my ugly face since the last time I had a close look!?)
Thank you my Lord and Savior for the blessing of sight (and the wisdom to not take it for granted)
Monday, April 21, 2008
FREE DRINKS
Number two son, Weston, has spent the last year at Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville KY, working on a Master in Divinity degree (On a related note, the ole Ranch Hand needs as much prayer as all yall can muster).
Number one Mom, Mendy, has spent the last year concerned about number two son's welfare. Therefore, she and I safaried to Kentucky last Friday morn to "check on stuff".
Arised and got to shinin' early that morn with significant imbibement of water and coffee. Stopped on the way to the airport and got a large Coke. At the airport got bottled water (gotta stay hydrated don't you know)( there is a point to this enumeration of liquid) Embarked from Austin Bergstrom Airport early Friday morn with a "short" stop at Dallas Love Field to change planes.
Upon arrival at Dallas learned that the connecting flight plane was delayed due to bad weather. No big deal.
Then plane was delayed further, then further. No big deal. Plane finally arrives, but passengers told that the jetway was malfunctioning so all should move to a different gate to board. No big deal.
Boarded the plane at different gate and settled into the seat for takeoff (and waited and waited and waited). Finally pilot comes on intercom and says that the "APU (???) is on the fritz" and the technicians are looking at the electrical problem" and " we should be in the air shortly". (WOW that makes me relax and "settle into the seat"?) "Technicians are scurrying in and out of the pilot cabin and all look worried)(I'm probably starting to look a bit "worried" myself)(either that or I gotta pee like a baboon)(REMEMBER ALL THE MORNING LIQUID?!!!!)
Finally, the motor thingy pushes the plane away from the gate (and then the pilot over and over and OVER runs the flaps, etc. in and out on the wings (this ain't doin' nuthin' for my nerves or my bladder??)
Mr. Pilot comes on the intercom and says, "I ain't jest perzactly satisfied that the 'lectrical problem is fixed so we are going back to the gate for more analysis (count me in favor of that!)
(See more worried looking by the expert "crew", well they look more like Wright City alkies (and they wore kinda ragged clothes)(not confidence inspiring) than technicians, as they scurried in and out of the pilot place)
Finally, we git pushed back out and the pilot (being a good pilot) runs them flap thingies back and forth a bit (AND THEN BACK TO THE GATE)
Senor pilot then says that our plane just ain't up to standards today and when:
1. they can find another plane and
2. find a gate to park it at and
3. find some of the antique/obsolete plastic boarding passes to give us we will:
Leave this plane and get into another flying death trap (actually he may have not said those last few words, but I was thinking it quite loud)
OK, we sit our butts (and my 58 year old bladder there a bit more) and then finally they say that another peachy keen (flyable???) plane is on the opposite side of the terminal and all we need to do is form a conga line and hot foot it to the other side and, "sit in the same seat you are in now". Yeah right! (notice they didn't announce no damn bathroom break!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
Finally we are in the air to Louisville. Now, with inevitable timing, we are diverted to St. Louis for a "brief" stop (imagine my airline confidence, and bladder size, soaring about now).
Them airline cabin attendant folks are generally purty accomodating. After the FOUR HOUR GOSH DANG DAMN delay in Dallas, they wasn't just giving out a minature bag of peanuts per passenger, they were handing out plastic containers with near bout 100 bags each (and the adult beverages was without charge: FREE DRINKS)(Imagine my joy, they are administering free alcohol and if I take one sip my bladder will explode labeling me for eternity as some kind of sicko terrorist?)
But all is not lost as my bride (by now a basket case of fear/nerves) asks for a Bloody Mary. The obliging stewardess places the drink on her tray while the plane is still ascending to gain altitude and thus at a backward angle. Now see the drink starting to slide toward my bride's lap and the ever alert stewardess grabbing the drink just in the nick of time as she yells, "STOP" (while leaning over me). Now see the entire plane (maximum load) stopping and looking at me as an obvious hijacker that the stewardess was trying to thwart. Now see me (very redfaced) and the stewardess trying to convince the crowd that all is well???/ (DAMN, some days ya just wanta stay in bed).
OK, trying to RELAX now (except for the bladder part) so M orders second Bloody Mary as her fear of flying is beginning to lose its edge a bit? The drink is placed on the tray and promptly consumed by my nervous companion. Then M turns to me with some pearl of wisdom to impart, and then rapidly turns back to her container filled with ice and promptly "slaps" it into the lap of the passenger to her right. (OK, relax frankie, relax (except for the bladder!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
I know this is the longest BLOG on record, but what I got to tell just gotta be said, OK?
We get to Louisville (without me peeing on myself) and see at the airport that for the first time ever an earthquake hitting 5.2 on the Richter scale has hit Louisville that morning (with more quakes expected) and "stuff" has been falling off of buildings??????? (Holy Crap!)(Also noticed that gasoline is $4.68 per gallon, but not sure that the quake is related to that?) (We checked into the second floor of a damn tall hotel)(and I'm wondering if in a quake you want to be on the bottom and crawl out of the rubble, or on the top floor and ride the bricks to the ground)(more bladder complications?)
Well, we survive that first day and start the second. Weston has class so we ease over to Frankfort Street to enoy a latte at the Heinie Coffee shop (I couldn't make this up folks). Naturally my aging bladder has to visit the water closet/toilet. The "facility" is on the second story of this gozillion year old building and the stairs are steeper than a ladder. Get up there and do my business OK. Walk down the "ladder" safely to the bottom, well almost. About two steps from the bottom I miss a step and fall face first on the floor and bust my mortal "you know what" and peel all the hide off my knees (and embarass the crap out of myself in front of the crowded coffee shop)(Wayne, where are you when I need to drink coffee in a more private setting?)
Finally get through that ordeal and bride Mendy says that the "spider" bite that she got a few days before is "throbbing" "swelling" and generally being a pain in the (actually it was her calf). I look at that puppy and immediately know that the hospital emergency room is our next visit.
Three hours later (after minor surgery, heat treatments, a prescription of a recuperation regimen)(did I mention trying to convince a Kentucky Walgreens pharmacy that we really do have insurance and a legitimate "drug" account in the backwoods frontier of Texas) we are back on the streets ready for just about anything (our butts went to the hotel and gratefully went to bed at 6:30P while M's leg throbbed like the Titanic going down for the last time!)
Sunday was good. We went to a 100 year old German bakery in downtown Louisville and got fresh pastries, coffee and milk for three for $5 (wow). We went to a 14,000 acre forest preserve south of Louisville and saw awesome blooms, trees, hills etc. and we toured the Jim Beam Bourbon Distillery where they had storing/aging over one million barrels of whiskey (Gene Waller heaven I'm thinking?)(IMPORTANT: They don't allow no "samplin'" on Sundays)(good policy, unlucky for me)(imaging me having bad luck on this trip??) Lastly we went to a nice seafood restaurant on the banks of the Ohio River (where they charged me $3 to park in their damn parking lot to eat in THEIR restaurant?????)
Today rolled around and we mounted our (trusty?) Southwest Airline steed and hit the sky's to soar/motor/glide triumphantly homeward to Austin.
Take a bathroom break or whatever, but come back to read this last part:
The beautiful bride and I started out via SW Airlines with a stop in Birmingham. On landing in Alabama, our former aircraft carrier pilot/fighter jockey/naval aviator "stuck" the landing and gave us a nice jolt to awake the drowsy. After landing, a gentleman seated at the wing emergency door held up the small plastic sign that is over the door that says, "EXIT", and noted that it fell off the wall when the plane bonked the runway. (I think some of my teeth loosened when that dude slammed us into the concrete to land?)
After being on the ground for 30 minutes waiting to "continue SW flight 2021 to Houston Hobby", the pilot appears from the cabin, picks up the cabin attendant microphone (this can not be good news as the pilot is just a voice that we NEVER see connected with a face???) and tells us that due to the "EXIT" sign falling off he had to file an equipment failure report with the FAA and wait for the feds to "analyze" the report, give approval to a proposed action plan, and authorize further flight of the aircraft after repairs were certified (AND WE THOUGHT GROUNDING DUE TO FAILURE TO INSPECT AIRFRAMES WAS AN ISSUE!).
After another 20 minutes the pilot reappeared and announced that the FAA had approved "replacing" the exit sign, but that a replacement "part" had to be located and a "qualified technician" had to be found to effect the FAA mandated repair (friggin' federal gibberish for just sit your ol' butt bladders in that seat and suffer)
OK, in about 15 more minutes a kindly looking gray haired gentleman (like me, except for the kindly part) appears wearing a tattered jumpsuit with a (worn looking)(junkyard) 4"X12" white plastic strip with the words "EMERGENCY EXIT" (not just "EXIT) in red print.
Guess what, that puppy is too big to fit in the sign frame over the door. Our esteemed "technician" then whups out what looks like clear plastic packing tape and slaps a few pieces on the sign and places it above the door. Said sign falls on the floor before he can blink. (Mr. "t" is not inspiring the confidence we world travelers so richly crave?)
"Technician" disappears and comes back with, yep, good ole american DUCT TAPE (have the airframe engineers heard about this yet?)
This story ain't over.
Mr. Technician puts duct tape on the ends of the sign and puts it over the door. Sucker falls off. Mr. T then puts tape on the top and bottom of the sign, puts it over the door, and DAMMIT, it falls off again (we are at about 90 minutes on the ground now).Finally, the repairman holds the sign with one hand and puts a long piece of duct work across the middle of the sign (obliterating the lettering) and extends the tape to several inches on either side. I was sure he was going to leave it that way as a practical solution, but after looking at it for a bit, he took a blade and "carved" out enough of the middle of the duct tape to more or less see what it said.
We finally were allowed to take off (and immediately after takeoff the duct tape came loose all around the sign as if to give a "bronx cheer", but kept the bandaid sign on the wall until we landed at Houston Hobby)
If I'm lyin' - I'm dyin', but before they let anyone off the plane in Houston, TWO (2) techs came on the plane and began to analyze the sign "problem". OK, am I stupid or does SW/FAA have their priorities a bit askew?
Did I mention that SW Airlines gave us free booze on the flight to austin to "atone" for the (well as this is a somewhat family oriented BLOG, I will not call this for what it was.)
Just remember to never look a gift horse in the mouth or a think a FREE DRINK ain't without its requisite ration of pain?
(And I'm startin' to think that only birds wuz mean't to fly anywho?)
Number one Mom, Mendy, has spent the last year concerned about number two son's welfare. Therefore, she and I safaried to Kentucky last Friday morn to "check on stuff".
Arised and got to shinin' early that morn with significant imbibement of water and coffee. Stopped on the way to the airport and got a large Coke. At the airport got bottled water (gotta stay hydrated don't you know)( there is a point to this enumeration of liquid) Embarked from Austin Bergstrom Airport early Friday morn with a "short" stop at Dallas Love Field to change planes.
Upon arrival at Dallas learned that the connecting flight plane was delayed due to bad weather. No big deal.
Then plane was delayed further, then further. No big deal. Plane finally arrives, but passengers told that the jetway was malfunctioning so all should move to a different gate to board. No big deal.
Boarded the plane at different gate and settled into the seat for takeoff (and waited and waited and waited). Finally pilot comes on intercom and says that the "APU (???) is on the fritz" and the technicians are looking at the electrical problem" and " we should be in the air shortly". (WOW that makes me relax and "settle into the seat"?) "Technicians are scurrying in and out of the pilot cabin and all look worried)(I'm probably starting to look a bit "worried" myself)(either that or I gotta pee like a baboon)(REMEMBER ALL THE MORNING LIQUID?!!!!)
Finally, the motor thingy pushes the plane away from the gate (and then the pilot over and over and OVER runs the flaps, etc. in and out on the wings (this ain't doin' nuthin' for my nerves or my bladder??)
Mr. Pilot comes on the intercom and says, "I ain't jest perzactly satisfied that the 'lectrical problem is fixed so we are going back to the gate for more analysis (count me in favor of that!)
(See more worried looking by the expert "crew", well they look more like Wright City alkies (and they wore kinda ragged clothes)(not confidence inspiring) than technicians, as they scurried in and out of the pilot place)
Finally, we git pushed back out and the pilot (being a good pilot) runs them flap thingies back and forth a bit (AND THEN BACK TO THE GATE)
Senor pilot then says that our plane just ain't up to standards today and when:
1. they can find another plane and
2. find a gate to park it at and
3. find some of the antique/obsolete plastic boarding passes to give us we will:
Leave this plane and get into another flying death trap (actually he may have not said those last few words, but I was thinking it quite loud)
OK, we sit our butts (and my 58 year old bladder there a bit more) and then finally they say that another peachy keen (flyable???) plane is on the opposite side of the terminal and all we need to do is form a conga line and hot foot it to the other side and, "sit in the same seat you are in now". Yeah right! (notice they didn't announce no damn bathroom break!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
Finally we are in the air to Louisville. Now, with inevitable timing, we are diverted to St. Louis for a "brief" stop (imagine my airline confidence, and bladder size, soaring about now).
Them airline cabin attendant folks are generally purty accomodating. After the FOUR HOUR GOSH DANG DAMN delay in Dallas, they wasn't just giving out a minature bag of peanuts per passenger, they were handing out plastic containers with near bout 100 bags each (and the adult beverages was without charge: FREE DRINKS)(Imagine my joy, they are administering free alcohol and if I take one sip my bladder will explode labeling me for eternity as some kind of sicko terrorist?)
But all is not lost as my bride (by now a basket case of fear/nerves) asks for a Bloody Mary. The obliging stewardess places the drink on her tray while the plane is still ascending to gain altitude and thus at a backward angle. Now see the drink starting to slide toward my bride's lap and the ever alert stewardess grabbing the drink just in the nick of time as she yells, "STOP" (while leaning over me). Now see the entire plane (maximum load) stopping and looking at me as an obvious hijacker that the stewardess was trying to thwart. Now see me (very redfaced) and the stewardess trying to convince the crowd that all is well???/ (DAMN, some days ya just wanta stay in bed).
OK, trying to RELAX now (except for the bladder part) so M orders second Bloody Mary as her fear of flying is beginning to lose its edge a bit? The drink is placed on the tray and promptly consumed by my nervous companion. Then M turns to me with some pearl of wisdom to impart, and then rapidly turns back to her container filled with ice and promptly "slaps" it into the lap of the passenger to her right. (OK, relax frankie, relax (except for the bladder!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
I know this is the longest BLOG on record, but what I got to tell just gotta be said, OK?
We get to Louisville (without me peeing on myself) and see at the airport that for the first time ever an earthquake hitting 5.2 on the Richter scale has hit Louisville that morning (with more quakes expected) and "stuff" has been falling off of buildings??????? (Holy Crap!)(Also noticed that gasoline is $4.68 per gallon, but not sure that the quake is related to that?) (We checked into the second floor of a damn tall hotel)(and I'm wondering if in a quake you want to be on the bottom and crawl out of the rubble, or on the top floor and ride the bricks to the ground)(more bladder complications?)
Well, we survive that first day and start the second. Weston has class so we ease over to Frankfort Street to enoy a latte at the Heinie Coffee shop (I couldn't make this up folks). Naturally my aging bladder has to visit the water closet/toilet. The "facility" is on the second story of this gozillion year old building and the stairs are steeper than a ladder. Get up there and do my business OK. Walk down the "ladder" safely to the bottom, well almost. About two steps from the bottom I miss a step and fall face first on the floor and bust my mortal "you know what" and peel all the hide off my knees (and embarass the crap out of myself in front of the crowded coffee shop)(Wayne, where are you when I need to drink coffee in a more private setting?)
Finally get through that ordeal and bride Mendy says that the "spider" bite that she got a few days before is "throbbing" "swelling" and generally being a pain in the (actually it was her calf). I look at that puppy and immediately know that the hospital emergency room is our next visit.
Three hours later (after minor surgery, heat treatments, a prescription of a recuperation regimen)(did I mention trying to convince a Kentucky Walgreens pharmacy that we really do have insurance and a legitimate "drug" account in the backwoods frontier of Texas) we are back on the streets ready for just about anything (our butts went to the hotel and gratefully went to bed at 6:30P while M's leg throbbed like the Titanic going down for the last time!)
Sunday was good. We went to a 100 year old German bakery in downtown Louisville and got fresh pastries, coffee and milk for three for $5 (wow). We went to a 14,000 acre forest preserve south of Louisville and saw awesome blooms, trees, hills etc. and we toured the Jim Beam Bourbon Distillery where they had storing/aging over one million barrels of whiskey (Gene Waller heaven I'm thinking?)(IMPORTANT: They don't allow no "samplin'" on Sundays)(good policy, unlucky for me)(imaging me having bad luck on this trip??) Lastly we went to a nice seafood restaurant on the banks of the Ohio River (where they charged me $3 to park in their damn parking lot to eat in THEIR restaurant?????)
Today rolled around and we mounted our (trusty?) Southwest Airline steed and hit the sky's to soar/motor/glide triumphantly homeward to Austin.
Take a bathroom break or whatever, but come back to read this last part:
The beautiful bride and I started out via SW Airlines with a stop in Birmingham. On landing in Alabama, our former aircraft carrier pilot/fighter jockey/naval aviator "stuck" the landing and gave us a nice jolt to awake the drowsy. After landing, a gentleman seated at the wing emergency door held up the small plastic sign that is over the door that says, "EXIT", and noted that it fell off the wall when the plane bonked the runway. (I think some of my teeth loosened when that dude slammed us into the concrete to land?)
After being on the ground for 30 minutes waiting to "continue SW flight 2021 to Houston Hobby", the pilot appears from the cabin, picks up the cabin attendant microphone (this can not be good news as the pilot is just a voice that we NEVER see connected with a face???) and tells us that due to the "EXIT" sign falling off he had to file an equipment failure report with the FAA and wait for the feds to "analyze" the report, give approval to a proposed action plan, and authorize further flight of the aircraft after repairs were certified (AND WE THOUGHT GROUNDING DUE TO FAILURE TO INSPECT AIRFRAMES WAS AN ISSUE!).
After another 20 minutes the pilot reappeared and announced that the FAA had approved "replacing" the exit sign, but that a replacement "part" had to be located and a "qualified technician" had to be found to effect the FAA mandated repair (friggin' federal gibberish for just sit your ol' butt bladders in that seat and suffer)
OK, in about 15 more minutes a kindly looking gray haired gentleman (like me, except for the kindly part) appears wearing a tattered jumpsuit with a (worn looking)(junkyard) 4"X12" white plastic strip with the words "EMERGENCY EXIT" (not just "EXIT) in red print.
Guess what, that puppy is too big to fit in the sign frame over the door. Our esteemed "technician" then whups out what looks like clear plastic packing tape and slaps a few pieces on the sign and places it above the door. Said sign falls on the floor before he can blink. (Mr. "t" is not inspiring the confidence we world travelers so richly crave?)
"Technician" disappears and comes back with, yep, good ole american DUCT TAPE (have the airframe engineers heard about this yet?)
This story ain't over.
Mr. Technician puts duct tape on the ends of the sign and puts it over the door. Sucker falls off. Mr. T then puts tape on the top and bottom of the sign, puts it over the door, and DAMMIT, it falls off again (we are at about 90 minutes on the ground now).Finally, the repairman holds the sign with one hand and puts a long piece of duct work across the middle of the sign (obliterating the lettering) and extends the tape to several inches on either side. I was sure he was going to leave it that way as a practical solution, but after looking at it for a bit, he took a blade and "carved" out enough of the middle of the duct tape to more or less see what it said.
We finally were allowed to take off (and immediately after takeoff the duct tape came loose all around the sign as if to give a "bronx cheer", but kept the bandaid sign on the wall until we landed at Houston Hobby)
If I'm lyin' - I'm dyin', but before they let anyone off the plane in Houston, TWO (2) techs came on the plane and began to analyze the sign "problem". OK, am I stupid or does SW/FAA have their priorities a bit askew?
Did I mention that SW Airlines gave us free booze on the flight to austin to "atone" for the (well as this is a somewhat family oriented BLOG, I will not call this for what it was.)
Just remember to never look a gift horse in the mouth or a think a FREE DRINK ain't without its requisite ration of pain?
(And I'm startin' to think that only birds wuz mean't to fly anywho?)
Sunday, April 13, 2008
STUMPS V
That's right sports fans, the ole fat boy spent seven hours yesterday (no break) wrasslin' them damnable stumps again. (In case you are keeping score, they have been mortally kicking my butt)
I got to thinkin' yesterday bout God's eternal everlasting Plan, evolution versus divine creation, and the price of gasoline (ignore that last comment, although I really was cogitating on that).
The trees my stumps supported were ancient survivors.
Cedars (or junipers, if you will) are generally a large obnoxious "bush". They are seldom more than 15 foot high and the limbs grow ever which way from the ground out. The "ancients" actually become trees and will grow to 40 foot tall and have a base that will have a three foot circumference (hence my ongoing "stump" saga).
The bane of the cedars for central Texas is that even the small bush variety is purported to consume up to 40 gallons per day of ground water (with no redeeming value)(kinda like the TSRH blog?). Other than fence posts, the cedar just really has no aesthetic or commercial value. Hence, the "bane" categorization and the war constantly fought by ranchers to eliminate (cut down) the varmits!
Now go back about 5-6 years and you will find that the good Dr. Moore (former owner of my beloved ranch) had most of the "ancients" cut down to "improve" the property.
Now go back 4 years ago and Wright City Willie buys the place and gives it the heartfelt moniker of "Tin Star Ranch". I didn't name it Cedar Stump Ranch, not Destroy Your Tractor/Shredder Ranch, not anything having to do with ugly stumps sticking up about every three feet.
How many stumps were there? Not sure. I bought three hundred flags on little stiff wires to put in the ground and mark the villains. Used all the flags. Some places I put one flag in the middle of 5-10 stumps rather than have to buy more flags.
Let's just say that that after remediation, there were MORE THAN 300 big stumps sitting on top of the ground beside a rather large hole in the ground.
Were all the tractor shredder land mines now rendered powerless, NO! I am still finding them lurking about in innocuous places (BUT I SHALL PREVAIL, THE POWER OF MACHINERY WILL OVERPOWER THE............)
You know what, here is where I started cogitating about the Lord's plan.
Our Lord and Savior designed those "ancient" cedars in such a way that they would survive the decades/centuries in order to grow tall and majestic in their own way. He grew their roots in a manner that clung to the earth and rocks and withstood wind, rain, tornado, whatever weather had to offer.
Now who the hell was puny "I" to remove all evidence of their passing as I piled and burned the stumps and filled the remaining holes with top soil?
Then I saw the answer of everlasting life.
Surrounding each area where I had removed a stump there were dozens of small cedar seedlings springing to life and reaching to the sky.
I don't know if I will ever win the "stump wars", but I do know that long after I am mere earthly fertilizer, there will be cedars on my beloved ranch that will be the future generation of STUMPS.
I got to thinkin' yesterday bout God's eternal everlasting Plan, evolution versus divine creation, and the price of gasoline (ignore that last comment, although I really was cogitating on that).
The trees my stumps supported were ancient survivors.
Cedars (or junipers, if you will) are generally a large obnoxious "bush". They are seldom more than 15 foot high and the limbs grow ever which way from the ground out. The "ancients" actually become trees and will grow to 40 foot tall and have a base that will have a three foot circumference (hence my ongoing "stump" saga).
The bane of the cedars for central Texas is that even the small bush variety is purported to consume up to 40 gallons per day of ground water (with no redeeming value)(kinda like the TSRH blog?). Other than fence posts, the cedar just really has no aesthetic or commercial value. Hence, the "bane" categorization and the war constantly fought by ranchers to eliminate (cut down) the varmits!
Now go back about 5-6 years and you will find that the good Dr. Moore (former owner of my beloved ranch) had most of the "ancients" cut down to "improve" the property.
Now go back 4 years ago and Wright City Willie buys the place and gives it the heartfelt moniker of "Tin Star Ranch". I didn't name it Cedar Stump Ranch, not Destroy Your Tractor/Shredder Ranch, not anything having to do with ugly stumps sticking up about every three feet.
How many stumps were there? Not sure. I bought three hundred flags on little stiff wires to put in the ground and mark the villains. Used all the flags. Some places I put one flag in the middle of 5-10 stumps rather than have to buy more flags.
Let's just say that that after remediation, there were MORE THAN 300 big stumps sitting on top of the ground beside a rather large hole in the ground.
Were all the tractor shredder land mines now rendered powerless, NO! I am still finding them lurking about in innocuous places (BUT I SHALL PREVAIL, THE POWER OF MACHINERY WILL OVERPOWER THE............)
You know what, here is where I started cogitating about the Lord's plan.
Our Lord and Savior designed those "ancient" cedars in such a way that they would survive the decades/centuries in order to grow tall and majestic in their own way. He grew their roots in a manner that clung to the earth and rocks and withstood wind, rain, tornado, whatever weather had to offer.
Now who the hell was puny "I" to remove all evidence of their passing as I piled and burned the stumps and filled the remaining holes with top soil?
Then I saw the answer of everlasting life.
Surrounding each area where I had removed a stump there were dozens of small cedar seedlings springing to life and reaching to the sky.
I don't know if I will ever win the "stump wars", but I do know that long after I am mere earthly fertilizer, there will be cedars on my beloved ranch that will be the future generation of STUMPS.
Monday, April 7, 2008
MONDAYS
I worked as a road Trooper for 11 years with rotating shifts, rotating days off, rotating everthing. Monday was just another day like any day.
In 1981, I was promoted to Lieutenant and began a string of Monday-Friday weeks with weekends off that lasted for 22 years. Yep, I developed a genuine dislike for MONDAY. The weekend was over, the job/stress was inevitable, and invariably I was tired from working/playing too hard.
In 2003, I retired and found a new meaning for Monday. Monday was when all the people in the stores, on the roads and wherever I wanted to be were at work where they were not in my way. The neighborhood was quiet again and my grocery store had empty aisles and plenty of carts to haul my "stuff" in. All was good with the world and I basked in the peace and tranquility.
Two years ago in a moment of profound weakness I agreed to once again accept employment in a Mon-Fri job.
Dang if I ain' t relearned to hate Mondays! Sunday night comes and I usually had so much fun on the weekend that I don't want it to end. Also, like the past, I am usually so tired come Monday morning that I wish I had an extra day to rest from the weekend?
Well, one more working Monday is over and I survived. When my second retirement occurs, I reckon I will sure 'nuff enjoy it as I shall never again look at Monday with anything other than relief that the working folks are back on the job and out of my business.
In 1981, I was promoted to Lieutenant and began a string of Monday-Friday weeks with weekends off that lasted for 22 years. Yep, I developed a genuine dislike for MONDAY. The weekend was over, the job/stress was inevitable, and invariably I was tired from working/playing too hard.
In 2003, I retired and found a new meaning for Monday. Monday was when all the people in the stores, on the roads and wherever I wanted to be were at work where they were not in my way. The neighborhood was quiet again and my grocery store had empty aisles and plenty of carts to haul my "stuff" in. All was good with the world and I basked in the peace and tranquility.
Two years ago in a moment of profound weakness I agreed to once again accept employment in a Mon-Fri job.
Dang if I ain' t relearned to hate Mondays! Sunday night comes and I usually had so much fun on the weekend that I don't want it to end. Also, like the past, I am usually so tired come Monday morning that I wish I had an extra day to rest from the weekend?
Well, one more working Monday is over and I survived. When my second retirement occurs, I reckon I will sure 'nuff enjoy it as I shall never again look at Monday with anything other than relief that the working folks are back on the job and out of my business.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
SILENCE
My beautiful young bride flew to Lubbock this weekend for a visit with the baby girl at Texas Tech. I love that woman with all my heart and soul and miss her every minute.
But it's confession time.
I am with people so much that I sometimes forget what it is like to be alone and just enjoy the silence. Alone with my thoughts, alone with my emotions, just alone. And, just between us: I highly recommend it on occasion.
This weekend I intentionally avoided human contact/communication. After two days with no homo sapien interaction, I feel that I have accomplished a significant amount of:
1. Talking out loud to myself
2. Flipping the TV channel changer until it is near "smooth mouth" (dad's phrase) worn out
3. Naps
4, Snacking
Best of all, I have won all arguments, got my own way in every case, and got to pick the menu at every meal.
OK, enough of being the lord and master of all I survey, I'm ready for M to come back home.
But it's confession time.
I am with people so much that I sometimes forget what it is like to be alone and just enjoy the silence. Alone with my thoughts, alone with my emotions, just alone. And, just between us: I highly recommend it on occasion.
This weekend I intentionally avoided human contact/communication. After two days with no homo sapien interaction, I feel that I have accomplished a significant amount of:
1. Talking out loud to myself
2. Flipping the TV channel changer until it is near "smooth mouth" (dad's phrase) worn out
3. Naps
4, Snacking
Best of all, I have won all arguments, got my own way in every case, and got to pick the menu at every meal.
OK, enough of being the lord and master of all I survey, I'm ready for M to come back home.
STUMPS IV
OK sports fans, yesterday marked day three of the everlasting "stump wars".
The ole ranch hand spent another six hours in mortal combat with them nasty, heavy, obnoxious puppies rollin' in the mud/blood/beer trying to get them on the burn pile.
The good news is that I put the match to the pile bout 8:30A and it burned baby burned all day and reduced to some mighty fine coals over the day. The less than good news is that I still likely have 50 stumps left to grunt, struggle, and manhandle onto that burn spot.
I SHALL PREVAIL (this task is not for the faint of heart)(OK, not for 58 year old fat boys either).
Stay tuned for the next exciting episode of this serial listing of self inflicted pain and suffering.
The ole ranch hand spent another six hours in mortal combat with them nasty, heavy, obnoxious puppies rollin' in the mud/blood/beer trying to get them on the burn pile.
The good news is that I put the match to the pile bout 8:30A and it burned baby burned all day and reduced to some mighty fine coals over the day. The less than good news is that I still likely have 50 stumps left to grunt, struggle, and manhandle onto that burn spot.
I SHALL PREVAIL (this task is not for the faint of heart)(OK, not for 58 year old fat boys either).
Stay tuned for the next exciting episode of this serial listing of self inflicted pain and suffering.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
NEKKID DELIVERANCE
The Austin newspaper today had an article done by the outdoor fishin'/huntin' guy name of Leggett that kindled a memory for me. He was recollectin' bout one time when he was growin' up in the DEEP backwoods in an inbred/backward/confederate stronghold (just quoting the author now folks) called Panola County. His daddy was a Baptist preacher who loved to hunt/fish and just generally enjoy the outdoors.
They got an invite to some property owned by a rare visitor to the church to do a bit of squirrel hunting. Young Leggett recounted that when they finally eased their considerable way back into the brush and sloughs around Murval Lake near Carthage, they came to an ancient shack holding itself together with spit and hope. On the porch, with the obligatory hound dawgs underneath, was the male members of the family (resplendent in their overalls - no shirt, no shoes, no socks - just overalls)(frankie is bettin' they had 'em some gimme hats somewhere?)
Them accomodatin' folks proceeded to treat the preacher's family to a "guided" hunt in pursuit of the ever elusive cat/fox squirrel population for the bulk of the day. At the end of the day, they were invited for supper. (Now ya gotta be from that "neck" of the woods to know that to follow a hunt invite with a supper refusal was an unforgiveable sin. The preacher/sons stayed and were "pleasured" to feast on onion soup (onions, water, salt, pepper + the preachers blessing, but little else)(Now, ya would have to have lived in Wright City for a spell to appreciate that groceries that were tasty and eliminated hunger were just plain larupping good and nuthin' else, never mind consideration of cuisine)
Now, to the "nekkid" portion of this alzheimer reconstruction.
When the ole ranch hand was near bout 12, my Wright City neighbor, Jerry Ward, invited me to go with him and his dad to fish in some backwood sloughs down near Recklaw (ain't that far from Carthage sports fans). Being obsessed at the time with fishing, I eagerly jumped at the chance.
We meet the Ward clan at the designated swamp/slough/jungle and after they jawed a bit, the adults decided it was time to fish.
Everyone, EXCEPT FRANKIE, promptly shucked their clothes. I'm talking Garden of Eden, buckass nekkid (scared my mule) NUDE!
Author aside: The movie "Deliverance" ain't even been imagined yet, but it was going thru my mind like a dose of "epsom salts" thru a widow woman.
Now imagine all looking at me like I was the proverbial bug on the busted windshield like, "Boy, you got a problem??????"
Wasn't no way out of this fix, except to shed them earthly garments like they was the Garden of Eden plague and jump into the (muddy, snake/turtle/monster? infested swamp)(with my precious "stuff" exposed": ) and act NONCHALANT like I did this ever day (yeah right!!!!)
Well, I honestly don't remember if anyone caught fish, caught pneumonia or caught a life long case of homophobia, but I do remember LUNCH.
After the idyllic tour of the Recklaw swamp, the now less than virginal 12 year old WC lad was driven to the mansion (broken down hovel) of the "clan" and introduced to the blushing extended family. (Also known as the poster children for birth defects, circus quality teeth, warts from hell, and plum butt scary) .
Could be that my appetite was less than whetted that day, but them creatures commenced to dig out the most pans of bisquits I have ever seen (and best tasting) in my life. They had massive shallow pans of a fried meat(?) swimming in their own juices (yeah GREASE)(don't even want to know what I "et" that day) and all washed down by grape "polly pop" (Koolade).
I need ya'll to know that when I got home that day my juvenile perspective was that I had literally escaped with my "life". I now tend to think that those kuntry folk took in a stranger and treated me like I was a family kid and shared their meager wealth with me as an honored guest.
Bottom line: Don't immediately look at nekkid deliverance as a travesty, it might just be the Lord hinting that all his creatures have their own way of showing His love.
They got an invite to some property owned by a rare visitor to the church to do a bit of squirrel hunting. Young Leggett recounted that when they finally eased their considerable way back into the brush and sloughs around Murval Lake near Carthage, they came to an ancient shack holding itself together with spit and hope. On the porch, with the obligatory hound dawgs underneath, was the male members of the family (resplendent in their overalls - no shirt, no shoes, no socks - just overalls)(frankie is bettin' they had 'em some gimme hats somewhere?)
Them accomodatin' folks proceeded to treat the preacher's family to a "guided" hunt in pursuit of the ever elusive cat/fox squirrel population for the bulk of the day. At the end of the day, they were invited for supper. (Now ya gotta be from that "neck" of the woods to know that to follow a hunt invite with a supper refusal was an unforgiveable sin. The preacher/sons stayed and were "pleasured" to feast on onion soup (onions, water, salt, pepper + the preachers blessing, but little else)(Now, ya would have to have lived in Wright City for a spell to appreciate that groceries that were tasty and eliminated hunger were just plain larupping good and nuthin' else, never mind consideration of cuisine)
Now, to the "nekkid" portion of this alzheimer reconstruction.
When the ole ranch hand was near bout 12, my Wright City neighbor, Jerry Ward, invited me to go with him and his dad to fish in some backwood sloughs down near Recklaw (ain't that far from Carthage sports fans). Being obsessed at the time with fishing, I eagerly jumped at the chance.
We meet the Ward clan at the designated swamp/slough/jungle and after they jawed a bit, the adults decided it was time to fish.
Everyone, EXCEPT FRANKIE, promptly shucked their clothes. I'm talking Garden of Eden, buckass nekkid (scared my mule) NUDE!
Author aside: The movie "Deliverance" ain't even been imagined yet, but it was going thru my mind like a dose of "epsom salts" thru a widow woman.
Now imagine all looking at me like I was the proverbial bug on the busted windshield like, "Boy, you got a problem??????"
Wasn't no way out of this fix, except to shed them earthly garments like they was the Garden of Eden plague and jump into the (muddy, snake/turtle/monster? infested swamp)(with my precious "stuff" exposed": ) and act NONCHALANT like I did this ever day (yeah right!!!!)
Well, I honestly don't remember if anyone caught fish, caught pneumonia or caught a life long case of homophobia, but I do remember LUNCH.
After the idyllic tour of the Recklaw swamp, the now less than virginal 12 year old WC lad was driven to the mansion (broken down hovel) of the "clan" and introduced to the blushing extended family. (Also known as the poster children for birth defects, circus quality teeth, warts from hell, and plum butt scary) .
Could be that my appetite was less than whetted that day, but them creatures commenced to dig out the most pans of bisquits I have ever seen (and best tasting) in my life. They had massive shallow pans of a fried meat(?) swimming in their own juices (yeah GREASE)(don't even want to know what I "et" that day) and all washed down by grape "polly pop" (Koolade).
I need ya'll to know that when I got home that day my juvenile perspective was that I had literally escaped with my "life". I now tend to think that those kuntry folk took in a stranger and treated me like I was a family kid and shared their meager wealth with me as an honored guest.
Bottom line: Don't immediately look at nekkid deliverance as a travesty, it might just be the Lord hinting that all his creatures have their own way of showing His love.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
THE GOOD OLE DAYS
Lisa blogged yesterday concerning the shock of paying $3.26 per gallon for gasoline. She then reminisced longlingly for the "good ole days" when gas was only $ .78 per gallon and putting $5 bucks worth in her truck would make it good to go!
At the risk of showing my age, I'll add some perspective to the concept of generation based knowledge of inflation.
Ole frankie remembers when Kilgore would have "gas wars" at the (we called them "filling stations" or "service stations")("Service" as in they would always clean your windshield, vacumn or "blow out" the floorboards of your car, check the engine fluid levels and the pressure in your tires AND they pumped the gas for you!). It was common to pay 15 to 16 CENTS per gallon. Gasoline was never over maybe 24 cents per gallon?
The only thing for a teen kid to do in Wright City was to go to the "drive in picture show" in Turnertown (50 cents per person entry fee)(and this included a cartoon)! A coke was about 15 cents and some fresh cut/fresh cooked french fries was 25 cents.
Bottom line: a "date" with a girl would include maybe four gallons of gas, two tickets to the "drive in", a couple of cokes and one order of fries for a grand total of LESS than $3 bucks!!!!!
Now imagine how the 50's generation views gasoline that cost MORE than $3 per gallon?
Lisa, your daddy longs for the "good ole days" too!
At the risk of showing my age, I'll add some perspective to the concept of generation based knowledge of inflation.
Ole frankie remembers when Kilgore would have "gas wars" at the (we called them "filling stations" or "service stations")("Service" as in they would always clean your windshield, vacumn or "blow out" the floorboards of your car, check the engine fluid levels and the pressure in your tires AND they pumped the gas for you!). It was common to pay 15 to 16 CENTS per gallon. Gasoline was never over maybe 24 cents per gallon?
The only thing for a teen kid to do in Wright City was to go to the "drive in picture show" in Turnertown (50 cents per person entry fee)(and this included a cartoon)! A coke was about 15 cents and some fresh cut/fresh cooked french fries was 25 cents.
Bottom line: a "date" with a girl would include maybe four gallons of gas, two tickets to the "drive in", a couple of cokes and one order of fries for a grand total of LESS than $3 bucks!!!!!
Now imagine how the 50's generation views gasoline that cost MORE than $3 per gallon?
Lisa, your daddy longs for the "good ole days" too!
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
STUMPS III
As per previous blogs, ya'll know that I have been fighting the "stump wars" on my beloved Tin Star Ranch.
Yesterday was the second day in a row that I spent an entire day wrasslin' them puppies into the bucket of my tractor (BIG DAWG) to stack for burning.
You would need to know that the wood you see on top of the ground for a stump is just the tip of the iceberg. When it is removed from its multi-year residence, there is a mass of roots which brings up dirt and rocks that are next to possible to dislodge. Hence, most of my stumps are 3 to 4 feet across at the bottom and weigh at the maximum of my lifting/rolling/grunting limit. (At this point they are also testing the limit of my expletive vocabulary)
So the routine is that I put the tractor bucket on the ground (under the stump as much as possible) and then gray haired lard butt groans and tugs until it is in the bucket enough to be picked up without falling out. Some of the stumps are so big all I can do is chain them to the bucket and hope for the best. Others are small enough that I can actually pick them up an put them in the bucket. When the bucket is full (no more than three stumps) I ease slowly to the stump burn pile I am creating, then go back for more.
REPEAT THE ABOVE TIL YOU FALL OVER FROM WEARINESS FOR TWO DAYS IN A ROW AND YOU WILL UNDERSTAND THE DEPTH OF THIS CHALLENGE FOR AN OLD FAT MAN.
For the present I am stocking up the Ibupropen and liniment and buying lotto tickets (gozillions hire out this stuff while watching the work from the porch!)
Stay tuned for more exciting episodes in this Woodsmen of the World executive ecological series
Yesterday was the second day in a row that I spent an entire day wrasslin' them puppies into the bucket of my tractor (BIG DAWG) to stack for burning.
You would need to know that the wood you see on top of the ground for a stump is just the tip of the iceberg. When it is removed from its multi-year residence, there is a mass of roots which brings up dirt and rocks that are next to possible to dislodge. Hence, most of my stumps are 3 to 4 feet across at the bottom and weigh at the maximum of my lifting/rolling/grunting limit. (At this point they are also testing the limit of my expletive vocabulary)
So the routine is that I put the tractor bucket on the ground (under the stump as much as possible) and then gray haired lard butt groans and tugs until it is in the bucket enough to be picked up without falling out. Some of the stumps are so big all I can do is chain them to the bucket and hope for the best. Others are small enough that I can actually pick them up an put them in the bucket. When the bucket is full (no more than three stumps) I ease slowly to the stump burn pile I am creating, then go back for more.
REPEAT THE ABOVE TIL YOU FALL OVER FROM WEARINESS FOR TWO DAYS IN A ROW AND YOU WILL UNDERSTAND THE DEPTH OF THIS CHALLENGE FOR AN OLD FAT MAN.
For the present I am stocking up the Ibupropen and liniment and buying lotto tickets (gozillions hire out this stuff while watching the work from the porch!)
Stay tuned for more exciting episodes in this Woodsmen of the World executive ecological series
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