Men wouldn't want it told around, but likely they are as fussy about their hairdo as women?
As a result, having to change barbers can be a tedious affair. Over the years, my job caused me to move around Texas a bit. With each move came the inevitable task of finding a new barber who would not cause me public humiliation through his hair whacking methods.
When I moved to Austin, I foundered around a bit until I found Sherman. Sherman gave old fashioned one of a kind haircuts for 45 years. "One of a kind" meant you got what he gave you, no questions asked. Oh, you could give him as much detail instruction as you liked, but he would just nod his head and give you the same "do" that everyone else received for $12.
Sherman administered a decent cut and he filled the communication bill as well. By that, I mean he talked enough, but didn't blabber too much to his audience that was held captive in the chair with half finished haircuts. He always had a bawdy joke to tell or a fishing/hunting story and he made you relax in his chair. I might also mention that he was blunt. Sherman came from a long lineage of Germans in Lano, Texas and if you asked his opinion, he didn't put no window dressing on it.
After 25 years as my barber, Sherman announced one day that he was cutting my hair for the last time as he was retiring at age 78. Through shock and mortification I asked what I was going to do about getting my hair cut. In typical Sherman fashion he said, "Just become a damn hippie I guess?"
Well my journey to find my next barber would rival the search for the Holy Grail. First of all, old fashioned barber shops are a dying breed. You got your Sports Cuts, half nekkid women and beer haircut joints, salons, spas, and parlors. Some them places I felt like a sissy going in and most places I came out looking like a refugee from a weedeater test facility (after paying as much as $25).
Finally I found my present barber ($14). He is maybe 25, but he barbers in an honest to goodness old fashion barber shop that is frequented by old men (like me) in an old neighborhood. He gives an excellent, fast haircut and he sufficiently limits conversation while I am captive in his chair. All is well in the haircut arena once again.
(Now if I can just get past the fact that he is QUEER as a three dollar bill, maybe I can get to the "relax" part of haircuts?)
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
BARBARIANS
My Grandaddy was a country barber. His credentials included a tall wooden stool for the victim (I mean haircut recipient) to sit on, a pair of hair clippers, and the willingness to whack on people's mane and then just grin at the result. (Grandaddy was what my Dad called "high tempered", so most folks didn't challenge him on much of anything including butchered haircuts)
His "clippers" were a cheap old fashioned implement that worked by squeezing the handles with your hand to move the cutting heads back and forth. Trust me when I tell you that this half cut and half pulled the hair out!
Put a kid on the stool (me), start cutting/pulling his hair (ouch), let the prisoner (me again) start fidgeting, and you got the makings for Grandaddy to start THUMPING you on the noggin by cocking his forefinger behind his thumb and pulling the trigger (I can still feel that pain).
Best I remember, I always ended up looking like a mangy dog that had fallen under a lawn mower?
Grandaddy eventually secured some 'lectric shears for hair cutting. Dad being fascinated by machinery, he had the divine inspiration that he would personally administer my coif with the new fangled equipment (lucky me again). Dad would butcher on one side a bit, then mangle the other side to "even it up". This continued until my head looked like a ripe (hairless) persimmon.
Finally, Dad took the notion to start sending me to the barber in Wright City (and my lucky streak just kept rollin'). The resident barber in WC had a one room tin shack that was just big enough inside for a barber chair and a three drawer filing cabinet. Although his antique rusty "tools" were only exceeded in grunge by his personal hygiene, the public humiliation he administered cost a mere 50 cents.
I'd walk out of that chop shop and look like I fell out of an ugly tree and hit ever branch on the way down. Hell, they had to start tying a pork chop round my neck to get the dog to play with me after my latest "do" scared it so bad one time?
The barber had another interesting challenge in that he was a stone cold alcoholic. During each haircut, his hands would begin to shake to the point that he would be vibrating my head. Periodically he would halt my torture, open a drawer of the file cabinet, take a long pull from his Old Crow whiskey, and then start root plowing my demoralized follicles again.
At some point Dad granted my convict soul mercy and started taking me to Turnertown to see Mr. Wicks. Mr. Wicks was one of the oldest people I had ever seen and his breath always smelled like the peppermint candy he sucked on all day. As a small matter, he was blind as a bat. I'm talking, "couldn't find his rear with either hand" blind. His feeble attempt to make a living was accomplished while cutting unsuspecting victims' hair by "feel". Naturally Dad always sat me in Mr. Wicks' chair because there was no wait to get started (Damned if I can imagine why people weren't lined up?)
From age 13 to 18, I came full circle because the football coaches made us buzz all our hair off down to the scalp (remember the ripe persimmon look?). At least I kinda fit in with the other boys rather than being a reluctant hair fashion maven.
Anywho, all this history to set the framework for my question: Has it occurred to anyone besides me that the term "barber" inevitably derived from the word BARBARIAN?
His "clippers" were a cheap old fashioned implement that worked by squeezing the handles with your hand to move the cutting heads back and forth. Trust me when I tell you that this half cut and half pulled the hair out!
Put a kid on the stool (me), start cutting/pulling his hair (ouch), let the prisoner (me again) start fidgeting, and you got the makings for Grandaddy to start THUMPING you on the noggin by cocking his forefinger behind his thumb and pulling the trigger (I can still feel that pain).
Best I remember, I always ended up looking like a mangy dog that had fallen under a lawn mower?
Grandaddy eventually secured some 'lectric shears for hair cutting. Dad being fascinated by machinery, he had the divine inspiration that he would personally administer my coif with the new fangled equipment (lucky me again). Dad would butcher on one side a bit, then mangle the other side to "even it up". This continued until my head looked like a ripe (hairless) persimmon.
Finally, Dad took the notion to start sending me to the barber in Wright City (and my lucky streak just kept rollin'). The resident barber in WC had a one room tin shack that was just big enough inside for a barber chair and a three drawer filing cabinet. Although his antique rusty "tools" were only exceeded in grunge by his personal hygiene, the public humiliation he administered cost a mere 50 cents.
I'd walk out of that chop shop and look like I fell out of an ugly tree and hit ever branch on the way down. Hell, they had to start tying a pork chop round my neck to get the dog to play with me after my latest "do" scared it so bad one time?
The barber had another interesting challenge in that he was a stone cold alcoholic. During each haircut, his hands would begin to shake to the point that he would be vibrating my head. Periodically he would halt my torture, open a drawer of the file cabinet, take a long pull from his Old Crow whiskey, and then start root plowing my demoralized follicles again.
At some point Dad granted my convict soul mercy and started taking me to Turnertown to see Mr. Wicks. Mr. Wicks was one of the oldest people I had ever seen and his breath always smelled like the peppermint candy he sucked on all day. As a small matter, he was blind as a bat. I'm talking, "couldn't find his rear with either hand" blind. His feeble attempt to make a living was accomplished while cutting unsuspecting victims' hair by "feel". Naturally Dad always sat me in Mr. Wicks' chair because there was no wait to get started (Damned if I can imagine why people weren't lined up?)
From age 13 to 18, I came full circle because the football coaches made us buzz all our hair off down to the scalp (remember the ripe persimmon look?). At least I kinda fit in with the other boys rather than being a reluctant hair fashion maven.
Anywho, all this history to set the framework for my question: Has it occurred to anyone besides me that the term "barber" inevitably derived from the word BARBARIAN?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
GIGGIN'
East Texas stock ponds are a natural breeding ground for bull frogs (rana catesbeiana). As bull frogs are extremely proficient leapers, wits have often speculated that if they had wings, they wouldn't bust their butts when they landed. They also employ a loud guttural bellow like bulls when advertising their mating call or to make predators think they are larger.
Some folks think the legs of the frogs are an exquisite dining experience when they are battered and lightly fried.
To capture said frogs for culinary uses, one would need to go out at night (dark moonless nights were the best). Mr. frog's hunting style is to more or less just sit and wait until something eatable comes along that will fit in his mouth. Therefore, they are usually found on the bank of a pond at the water's edge.
While on a nocturnal safari for flipper drumsticks, you use a flashlight to shine around and try to see the reflection of the frog's eyes to locate them. After being located, the idea is to "sneak" up on the frog and "gig" them.
A "gig" is a metal device that resembles a set of claws. The claws can be pulled apart to a locked position, and then slammed together by the force of a spring when shoved against a frog. If successful, this holds the frog in the gig until the "hunter" can transfer the delicacy to a sack or other temporary storage.
Dad and I would on occasion decide it was time to pursue the ever elusive quarry (usually after consumption of some not so elusive Budweiser). We would make the rounds of the neighborhood ponds while kicking aside the water moccasins.
It never failed that we would be tempted (remember the alcohol imbibement) to "gig" a water moccasin. Neat trick, except now we would have several pounds of an extremely agitated fang poppin' critter stuck in the jaws of our frog collection devices. Gettin' them puppies ungigged was always the special treat of the evening.
If we had a boat, the ole ranch hand preferred to sit in the front of the boat and catch the frogs by hand (more sport, more fear - remember the ever present snakes - and so more adrenalin rush)(OK, likely preceded by a Budweiser "rush").
Baby Sister tells a story bout going with Dad one hooched up night and having the flashlight grow dim due to battery failure. Dad being Dad, he just threw their only light into the middle of the pond. Dad/daughter then had the privilege of negotiating through the night critters in the pitch dark back to the house?
The day after a successful harvest of web foot water denizens, we would painstakingly prepare the feast. I'd take Mom's old black iron skillet and carefully ease the crisco (lard) toward the perfect sauteing temperature as the miniature drumsticks languished luxuriously in flour and seasoning. I would then delicately slide the critters' knee bone connected calf/thigh into the bubbling grease spa and gently bring them to a golden brown.
An anomaly of frog fryin' is that while achieving cooked status, the severed limbs will for a spell, "jump". I reckon it is the nerves in the appendage that makes it kick, but it is a bit unnerving when ya first see the phenomenon?
Anywho, our wildlife prize would be a beautiful sight to behold when plated artfully on our least chipped platter.
Then the eyeballin' would start. Dad would look at me, I would look at Dad, an Dad would look back. Who was gonna start gnawin' on them suckers first? We would chew a bit (and sometimes swaller). The trouble was that as we masticated the appendages, we were rememberin' the entire acquatic creature with its green spotted skin, baleful eyes, and long sticky red tongue?
Realizin' that some huntin' pleasures were heavier on the "pursuit" side and lighter on the "consumption" side, we would usually resolve to not go giggin' again (but then the Budweiser would cleverly numb our memory/judgement and we would once again launch a night time foray for fun and country groceries)?
Some folks think the legs of the frogs are an exquisite dining experience when they are battered and lightly fried.
To capture said frogs for culinary uses, one would need to go out at night (dark moonless nights were the best). Mr. frog's hunting style is to more or less just sit and wait until something eatable comes along that will fit in his mouth. Therefore, they are usually found on the bank of a pond at the water's edge.
While on a nocturnal safari for flipper drumsticks, you use a flashlight to shine around and try to see the reflection of the frog's eyes to locate them. After being located, the idea is to "sneak" up on the frog and "gig" them.
A "gig" is a metal device that resembles a set of claws. The claws can be pulled apart to a locked position, and then slammed together by the force of a spring when shoved against a frog. If successful, this holds the frog in the gig until the "hunter" can transfer the delicacy to a sack or other temporary storage.
Dad and I would on occasion decide it was time to pursue the ever elusive quarry (usually after consumption of some not so elusive Budweiser). We would make the rounds of the neighborhood ponds while kicking aside the water moccasins.
It never failed that we would be tempted (remember the alcohol imbibement) to "gig" a water moccasin. Neat trick, except now we would have several pounds of an extremely agitated fang poppin' critter stuck in the jaws of our frog collection devices. Gettin' them puppies ungigged was always the special treat of the evening.
If we had a boat, the ole ranch hand preferred to sit in the front of the boat and catch the frogs by hand (more sport, more fear - remember the ever present snakes - and so more adrenalin rush)(OK, likely preceded by a Budweiser "rush").
Baby Sister tells a story bout going with Dad one hooched up night and having the flashlight grow dim due to battery failure. Dad being Dad, he just threw their only light into the middle of the pond. Dad/daughter then had the privilege of negotiating through the night critters in the pitch dark back to the house?
The day after a successful harvest of web foot water denizens, we would painstakingly prepare the feast. I'd take Mom's old black iron skillet and carefully ease the crisco (lard) toward the perfect sauteing temperature as the miniature drumsticks languished luxuriously in flour and seasoning. I would then delicately slide the critters' knee bone connected calf/thigh into the bubbling grease spa and gently bring them to a golden brown.
An anomaly of frog fryin' is that while achieving cooked status, the severed limbs will for a spell, "jump". I reckon it is the nerves in the appendage that makes it kick, but it is a bit unnerving when ya first see the phenomenon?
Anywho, our wildlife prize would be a beautiful sight to behold when plated artfully on our least chipped platter.
Then the eyeballin' would start. Dad would look at me, I would look at Dad, an Dad would look back. Who was gonna start gnawin' on them suckers first? We would chew a bit (and sometimes swaller). The trouble was that as we masticated the appendages, we were rememberin' the entire acquatic creature with its green spotted skin, baleful eyes, and long sticky red tongue?
Realizin' that some huntin' pleasures were heavier on the "pursuit" side and lighter on the "consumption" side, we would usually resolve to not go giggin' again (but then the Budweiser would cleverly numb our memory/judgement and we would once again launch a night time foray for fun and country groceries)?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
SAINT VITUS
Saint Vitus's dance originally referred to the frenzied movements of religious fanatics who during the middle ages journeyed to the healing shrine of St. Vitus. Medical scientist later applied this moniker to acute disturbance of the central nervous system characterized by involuntary muscular movements of the face and extremities.
I'm confident my Dad didn't know such esoteric information and likely didn't care. However, he was fond of characterizing any excessive/involuntary scared butt jumping around as a "Saint Vitus dance". There just ain't no telling where he picked up this phrase?
Dad told an interesting tale of his own Saint Vitus dance. Seems one day a harmless, but rather elongated snake managed to climb the outside sill on the front door to his house. Brother Snake had a comfortable vantage point until Brother Gene decide to go out his front door.
As Dad opened the screen door, the snake was dislodged and fell on Dad (wrapping its length in coils around Dad's neck!).
According to Dad, Saint Vitus couldn't hold a candle to the yard stompin', twirl whirlin', hootin' holler, arm flingin' cotillion he staged on his lawn that day.
And the (innocent?) snake?? Dad allowed as how he stomped it to jelly once he unfurled his dance partner from his around his goozle.
Saint Vitus would have been proud!
I'm confident my Dad didn't know such esoteric information and likely didn't care. However, he was fond of characterizing any excessive/involuntary scared butt jumping around as a "Saint Vitus dance". There just ain't no telling where he picked up this phrase?
Dad told an interesting tale of his own Saint Vitus dance. Seems one day a harmless, but rather elongated snake managed to climb the outside sill on the front door to his house. Brother Snake had a comfortable vantage point until Brother Gene decide to go out his front door.
As Dad opened the screen door, the snake was dislodged and fell on Dad (wrapping its length in coils around Dad's neck!).
According to Dad, Saint Vitus couldn't hold a candle to the yard stompin', twirl whirlin', hootin' holler, arm flingin' cotillion he staged on his lawn that day.
And the (innocent?) snake?? Dad allowed as how he stomped it to jelly once he unfurled his dance partner from his around his goozle.
Saint Vitus would have been proud!
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT
I went to visit Dad one day and found him sitting on the steps of the front porch. He looked kinda "funny" so I asked what he was doing.
"Waiting to see if I'm gonna die", he said rather matter-of-factly?
Seems that Dad had just gone around to the side of the house and reached down to turn on an outside water faucet. When he brought his hand back, he noticed a copper head snake hanging from his thumb by one fang! Sure 'nuff, Dad had a puncture wound on the side of his thumb.
The story had a good ending as apparently the slithering satan had elected to not envenomate Dad (no doubt Dad's tough hide and questionable taste influenced the decision?)
Question is, how many people do you know who could be bitten by a poisonous snake and just calmly sit down on the porch to see what happens next?
"Waiting to see if I'm gonna die", he said rather matter-of-factly?
Seems that Dad had just gone around to the side of the house and reached down to turn on an outside water faucet. When he brought his hand back, he noticed a copper head snake hanging from his thumb by one fang! Sure 'nuff, Dad had a puncture wound on the side of his thumb.
The story had a good ending as apparently the slithering satan had elected to not envenomate Dad (no doubt Dad's tough hide and questionable taste influenced the decision?)
Question is, how many people do you know who could be bitten by a poisonous snake and just calmly sit down on the porch to see what happens next?
Monday, May 26, 2008
SNOW CONE WEATHER
Last deer season I spent a number of days hunting that were colder than a brass toilet seat on the shady side of an iceberg.
I remember a day in particular when I got to shaking so hard my eyes were vibrating. I couldn't feel my feet and my nose near froze and broke off.
Yeah, I am at a stage in life where I can afford to buy high dollar insulated long johns, heavy coats, and such, but I ain't yet at an age where I got 'nuff brains to stay home when I should. Least not when the "buck fever" stirs my soul.
I always get to the ranch an hour before dawn and either climb the ladder to my tree stand, or ease into the ground blind. Either way, that time before the sun creates a rather exquisite cold that settles in bones that are aged near 12 lustrums.
At those moments of weakness, I longed for the balm of warmer weather.
Well hell, I got my wish in spades lately. Its been so hot you could sweat 150 pounds of fat off a 125 pound pig. I'm talkin' wipe your butt with a snow cone weather.
Ever time this ole fat boy tries to do some yard/ranch work, I near bout faint. I used to giggle at the fools that bought them plastic bottles of water. Now I suck 'em down like they was the nectar of the valley.
Anywho sports fans, I'm sure deer season will be here before we know it so I can "enjoy" a splendid crop of goose bumps again?
I remember a day in particular when I got to shaking so hard my eyes were vibrating. I couldn't feel my feet and my nose near froze and broke off.
Yeah, I am at a stage in life where I can afford to buy high dollar insulated long johns, heavy coats, and such, but I ain't yet at an age where I got 'nuff brains to stay home when I should. Least not when the "buck fever" stirs my soul.
I always get to the ranch an hour before dawn and either climb the ladder to my tree stand, or ease into the ground blind. Either way, that time before the sun creates a rather exquisite cold that settles in bones that are aged near 12 lustrums.
At those moments of weakness, I longed for the balm of warmer weather.
Well hell, I got my wish in spades lately. Its been so hot you could sweat 150 pounds of fat off a 125 pound pig. I'm talkin' wipe your butt with a snow cone weather.
Ever time this ole fat boy tries to do some yard/ranch work, I near bout faint. I used to giggle at the fools that bought them plastic bottles of water. Now I suck 'em down like they was the nectar of the valley.
Anywho sports fans, I'm sure deer season will be here before we know it so I can "enjoy" a splendid crop of goose bumps again?
Sunday, May 25, 2008
TOUGHNESS
Dad used to do ranch work for Ed in the bottom below the old gasoline plant in Wright City.
He would talk about getting there before daylight and sitting on the tractor cursing the sun for not rising so he could do his planned work for the day.
During one period, Dad was using Ed's ancient Massey Ferguson tractor to shred waist high weeds in a field. About the middle of the patch, Dad became engulfed in bumble bees that fogged out of a ground nest and completely shrouded the tractor and driver.
Now that old M-F diesel was powerful, but it don't take long to figger out that a tractor will not outrun a bumble bee. Wasn't nuthin' for Dad to do but jump from the tractor with it moving and "run for the hills" while flailing like a one armed man in a fistfight.
After about 100 yards on a sweltering humid day, Dad just laid down and waited to die. He later related that he didn't know if it would be heat stroke, heart attack, or bee stings, but he figgered the end was near either way.
After a bit, the bees decided to move away from Dad, so he sat up and took inventory. Course the tractor was still chugging along in granny gear with a diminishing number of bees attacking it.
Dad being Dad, he eventually walked down the tractor and got on it again. He then would ride the tractor till it was near the bee nest, get off it, and walk in a big circle to recapture his iron steed after the bees quit swarming it. Another words, he finished the job that he started.
Back at the casa, Dad sat outside in the sun while Lou used tweezers to pull the bee stingers from his scalp (about 30 as I recall).
There are any number of stories about how TOUGH my Dad was, but I reckon this one ranks up there near the top?
He would talk about getting there before daylight and sitting on the tractor cursing the sun for not rising so he could do his planned work for the day.
During one period, Dad was using Ed's ancient Massey Ferguson tractor to shred waist high weeds in a field. About the middle of the patch, Dad became engulfed in bumble bees that fogged out of a ground nest and completely shrouded the tractor and driver.
Now that old M-F diesel was powerful, but it don't take long to figger out that a tractor will not outrun a bumble bee. Wasn't nuthin' for Dad to do but jump from the tractor with it moving and "run for the hills" while flailing like a one armed man in a fistfight.
After about 100 yards on a sweltering humid day, Dad just laid down and waited to die. He later related that he didn't know if it would be heat stroke, heart attack, or bee stings, but he figgered the end was near either way.
After a bit, the bees decided to move away from Dad, so he sat up and took inventory. Course the tractor was still chugging along in granny gear with a diminishing number of bees attacking it.
Dad being Dad, he eventually walked down the tractor and got on it again. He then would ride the tractor till it was near the bee nest, get off it, and walk in a big circle to recapture his iron steed after the bees quit swarming it. Another words, he finished the job that he started.
Back at the casa, Dad sat outside in the sun while Lou used tweezers to pull the bee stingers from his scalp (about 30 as I recall).
There are any number of stories about how TOUGH my Dad was, but I reckon this one ranks up there near the top?
Saturday, May 24, 2008
DOPEY
Dad only mentioned one dog from his youth, Dopey.
According to Dad, Dopey was smarter than most people and tough as a peach orchid boar.
On the "tough" part, Dad said Dopey waged many a battle with other dogs in his life and never failed to win the upper hand.
Dad also talked about Grandaddy instructing the dog to "guard" the smaller children when they were outside or in the field with the family. According to the story, the Dopey would faithfully guard the child from all hazard of any kind.
Dad also swore that they dog had a capacious vocabulary. He said that he or Grandaddy could tell the dog to bring a tool or other object to them, and the dog would find the sought item and bring it shortly.
Dad's favorite such story had to do with him making repairs to the roof of Grandaddy's barn. Dad had climbed a ladder to get on top of the barn, but forgot to bring a hammer. He whistled for Dopey and told him to bring the hammer. Dad got busy on the roof, but in a bit he turned around and there was Dopey on the barn roof with the hammer in his mouth. To Dad's amazement, the dog had negotiated the ladder with no difficulty. Dad didn't say how Dopey got back down on the ground?
According to Dad, Dopey was smarter than most people and tough as a peach orchid boar.
On the "tough" part, Dad said Dopey waged many a battle with other dogs in his life and never failed to win the upper hand.
Dad also talked about Grandaddy instructing the dog to "guard" the smaller children when they were outside or in the field with the family. According to the story, the Dopey would faithfully guard the child from all hazard of any kind.
Dad also swore that they dog had a capacious vocabulary. He said that he or Grandaddy could tell the dog to bring a tool or other object to them, and the dog would find the sought item and bring it shortly.
Dad's favorite such story had to do with him making repairs to the roof of Grandaddy's barn. Dad had climbed a ladder to get on top of the barn, but forgot to bring a hammer. He whistled for Dopey and told him to bring the hammer. Dad got busy on the roof, but in a bit he turned around and there was Dopey on the barn roof with the hammer in his mouth. To Dad's amazement, the dog had negotiated the ladder with no difficulty. Dad didn't say how Dopey got back down on the ground?
RIN TIN TIN
In 1918 a World War I soldier found a German Shepherd puppy in a bombed out animal shelter in France. The soldier brought the puppy back to the U.S. with him, named it RIN TIN TIN, and raised it to maturity.
After a degree of training, Rin Tin Tin was used in various movies. At the peak of the dog's popularity, the studios received as many as 10,000 letters per day addressed to the canine star.
The bloodline of Rin Tin Tin continues to this day. On June 23, 2007, the latest "heir" to this legacy was born.
All this to say that the only dog in my life that belonged to only me was named Rin Tin Tin. The name was inspired by the dog I watched on our black/white television on the Rin Tin Tin show . I called him "Rinty", but we both knew his full moniker.
I don't remember how long Rinty lived, but he was my faithful companion for his entire life. If I rode my bicycle all day, Rinty never, ever stopped running behind me. If I went swimming in the creek, Rinty went swimming in the creek. At the same time, if any other dog tried to pay me too much attention, they were in for a butt whippin' from Rinty.
Rinty never asked anything of me except my companionship and scraps from our dining table. I suspicion he hunted a bit on his own because we mostly ate every "scrap" that was put on the table.
I guess there are a variety of reasons that I never had another dog, but if I am destined to only have one in my life, I'm grateful for my memories of Rin Tin Tin.
After a degree of training, Rin Tin Tin was used in various movies. At the peak of the dog's popularity, the studios received as many as 10,000 letters per day addressed to the canine star.
The bloodline of Rin Tin Tin continues to this day. On June 23, 2007, the latest "heir" to this legacy was born.
All this to say that the only dog in my life that belonged to only me was named Rin Tin Tin. The name was inspired by the dog I watched on our black/white television on the Rin Tin Tin show . I called him "Rinty", but we both knew his full moniker.
I don't remember how long Rinty lived, but he was my faithful companion for his entire life. If I rode my bicycle all day, Rinty never, ever stopped running behind me. If I went swimming in the creek, Rinty went swimming in the creek. At the same time, if any other dog tried to pay me too much attention, they were in for a butt whippin' from Rinty.
Rinty never asked anything of me except my companionship and scraps from our dining table. I suspicion he hunted a bit on his own because we mostly ate every "scrap" that was put on the table.
I guess there are a variety of reasons that I never had another dog, but if I am destined to only have one in my life, I'm grateful for my memories of Rin Tin Tin.
PET PIGS
Dad never owned a pig, except once.
When I was near 6 or 7, Dad brought home a baby porker and I promptly named my new "pet" Bobby.
Bobby was placed in a pen on the back side of our place and daily fed his "slop" until he became a fine specimen of porcine pulchritude.
Best I remember, Bobby was my first of only two pets in my life, the other being my faithful dog, Rin Tin Tin.
One night we were eating one of Mom's delicious meals which consisted of a pork concoction. I chose that opportune time to inquire as to where my pet, Bobby, was as I hadn't seen him in a day or two.
Dad matter of factly told me we were eating Bobby. I stress "were eating" as I didn't finish that meal and likely shied from pork for a day or two.
Simple moral to this story: Don't name a pig folks plan to eat!
When I was near 6 or 7, Dad brought home a baby porker and I promptly named my new "pet" Bobby.
Bobby was placed in a pen on the back side of our place and daily fed his "slop" until he became a fine specimen of porcine pulchritude.
Best I remember, Bobby was my first of only two pets in my life, the other being my faithful dog, Rin Tin Tin.
One night we were eating one of Mom's delicious meals which consisted of a pork concoction. I chose that opportune time to inquire as to where my pet, Bobby, was as I hadn't seen him in a day or two.
Dad matter of factly told me we were eating Bobby. I stress "were eating" as I didn't finish that meal and likely shied from pork for a day or two.
Simple moral to this story: Don't name a pig folks plan to eat!
OIL PATCH KIDS
Mercury poisoning is the ill effects the human nervous system and other bodily systems due to the over-exposure of mercury. Mercury is a neurotoxin, meaning it affects the nervous system. Not that it will do that much to ya, well other than personality changes, nervousness, trembling, and dementia (all of which I have had at times), or death.
Point being, we grew up in the East Texas oil field. The oil field included oil/gas related equipment going every which way. A common oil field strategy of the time was to use mercury switches for various purposes.
I don't know if mercury had a significant resale value (theft) back then, but I do know that folks would obtain (steal) it as a novelty. One reason it was a novelty was because a small bottle of it was extremely heavy. Another characteristic was that if you rubbed a silver coin with it, the coin would looked like it had been "chromed" like the bumper of a car. As kids, we would "play" with the mercury, including coating a coin (if on rare occasion we had one). Naturally we would carry the coin in our pocket as a souvenir.
I don't really think that my "personality, nervousness, trembling, or dementia" at times is mercury related, but I doubt my exposure increased my life span by much either?
Another childhood treat of the oil patch included the oil well pumping units. They rocked up and down like a great iron horse as they pumped oil from the wells. What a great free ride for an adventurous child. Never mind that they would remove any appendage placed in their way without nary a bump. They were just there as too much temptation.
We help gather and poor "drip" gasoline, and slopped it all over us. We would siphon the gas thru a hose and swaller it. We would clean engines, tools, and our hands with it. Never mind that it was a carcinogen (we would have just said we never heard of that model car?).
Anywho, I guess I have sufficiently framed my question: How did oil patch kids ever manage to grow to adults?
Point being, we grew up in the East Texas oil field. The oil field included oil/gas related equipment going every which way. A common oil field strategy of the time was to use mercury switches for various purposes.
I don't know if mercury had a significant resale value (theft) back then, but I do know that folks would obtain (steal) it as a novelty. One reason it was a novelty was because a small bottle of it was extremely heavy. Another characteristic was that if you rubbed a silver coin with it, the coin would looked like it had been "chromed" like the bumper of a car. As kids, we would "play" with the mercury, including coating a coin (if on rare occasion we had one). Naturally we would carry the coin in our pocket as a souvenir.
I don't really think that my "personality, nervousness, trembling, or dementia" at times is mercury related, but I doubt my exposure increased my life span by much either?
Another childhood treat of the oil patch included the oil well pumping units. They rocked up and down like a great iron horse as they pumped oil from the wells. What a great free ride for an adventurous child. Never mind that they would remove any appendage placed in their way without nary a bump. They were just there as too much temptation.
We help gather and poor "drip" gasoline, and slopped it all over us. We would siphon the gas thru a hose and swaller it. We would clean engines, tools, and our hands with it. Never mind that it was a carcinogen (we would have just said we never heard of that model car?).
Anywho, I guess I have sufficiently framed my question: How did oil patch kids ever manage to grow to adults?
Thursday, May 22, 2008
SMART ENOUGH
Dad and I used to cook a dab (in between beer drankin') when I would visit Wright City.
When yellow squash was in season, we'd cut them puppies into silver dollar size and roll them in a bit of corn meal, flour, and seasoning. We'd heat grease in a pan with a wire basket in it and drop a double handful of the garden morsels in to get golden brown. Our "trick" was that we would eat the first batches til we were full, then start putting squash on the platter to take in the house to company.
On a day that we had figgered for bar b que, we managed to accidental on purpose kill a raccoon.
Now you would need to know that if you can swaller enough Budweiser in one day, it will make you brilliant (or at least smart enough to think you can cook and eat a raccoon?)
Anywho, Dad and I skinned that 'coon, put him on the smoker pit bout 10AM, and drank another beer. As the day progressed, we periodically basted the prize meat with sauce, and drank another beer. We would think about slicing off a tender morsel of that nocturnal nicety, and drink another beer.
I reckon that after bout 8 hours on the smoker (and 80 beers) we finally got the (courage?) to sample our delicacy. But just to be sure, we drank another beer.
Dad took a hunk and I took a hunk. We eyeballed each other a while with nervous grins and then sank our teeth gum deep into that varmit.
Well sir, we chewed, and chewed, and chewed some more, but that shoe leather just kept getting bigger in our mouths (and greasier?)
Wasn't long before we just up and spit it on the ground (and drank another beer).
Seems that beer had made us smart enough, but it just hadn't made us drunk enough to gnaw the hindquarter of a masked barnyard bandit?
When yellow squash was in season, we'd cut them puppies into silver dollar size and roll them in a bit of corn meal, flour, and seasoning. We'd heat grease in a pan with a wire basket in it and drop a double handful of the garden morsels in to get golden brown. Our "trick" was that we would eat the first batches til we were full, then start putting squash on the platter to take in the house to company.
On a day that we had figgered for bar b que, we managed to accidental on purpose kill a raccoon.
Now you would need to know that if you can swaller enough Budweiser in one day, it will make you brilliant (or at least smart enough to think you can cook and eat a raccoon?)
Anywho, Dad and I skinned that 'coon, put him on the smoker pit bout 10AM, and drank another beer. As the day progressed, we periodically basted the prize meat with sauce, and drank another beer. We would think about slicing off a tender morsel of that nocturnal nicety, and drink another beer.
I reckon that after bout 8 hours on the smoker (and 80 beers) we finally got the (courage?) to sample our delicacy. But just to be sure, we drank another beer.
Dad took a hunk and I took a hunk. We eyeballed each other a while with nervous grins and then sank our teeth gum deep into that varmit.
Well sir, we chewed, and chewed, and chewed some more, but that shoe leather just kept getting bigger in our mouths (and greasier?)
Wasn't long before we just up and spit it on the ground (and drank another beer).
Seems that beer had made us smart enough, but it just hadn't made us drunk enough to gnaw the hindquarter of a masked barnyard bandit?
BLOOD KIN
I never heard music played in the Wright City Assembly of God (WCAG) church. I confess that I don't know if the dearth of musicality was due to religious belief or lack of instruments/talent?
Whether anyone tickled the ivory keys or not, "sangin" ruled the day at church time.
Church goin' by the ole ranch hand allowed memorization and performance of such golden oldies as "This Little Light of Mine", "Jesus Loves Me", and "If You Are Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands". Obviously, this was before the American Idol show as I did not make the top ten tour? (and I would have busted Simon Cowell in the mouth if he had 'dissed my rendition of "Jesus Loves the Little Children"!!!!!!!!)
One of my favorite memories is of my Grandmother (Ola Mae) and her sisters Hattie Lee and Flossie Bell. They were an ecclesiastical picture for sure. Long hair twisted up and piled as tall "buns" on top of their heads, no make up (that I knew of), and dresses with the collar up to the neck, long sleeves, and long hems.
This angelic trio (OK, I'm taking poetic license to the hilt by including Hattie in that description) would sing ancient hymn after hymn acappella while in perfect harmony. "Rock of Ages" and "The Old Rugged Cross" never had it so good.
One day 25 years later, I was talking about the three "sisters" in this vein to my Dad. Dad dutiful asked, "Why are you calling Flossie Lyles a sister?". My reply, "She was my Aunt Flossie".
Imagine my surprise that it took me about four decades to know that Flossie was no relation whatsoever, just a family friend? I felt like something important had been stolen from me?
Oh well, blood may be thicker than water, but it took 40 years to wash the Waller "blood" off Aunt Flossie?
Whether anyone tickled the ivory keys or not, "sangin" ruled the day at church time.
Church goin' by the ole ranch hand allowed memorization and performance of such golden oldies as "This Little Light of Mine", "Jesus Loves Me", and "If You Are Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands". Obviously, this was before the American Idol show as I did not make the top ten tour? (and I would have busted Simon Cowell in the mouth if he had 'dissed my rendition of "Jesus Loves the Little Children"!!!!!!!!)
One of my favorite memories is of my Grandmother (Ola Mae) and her sisters Hattie Lee and Flossie Bell. They were an ecclesiastical picture for sure. Long hair twisted up and piled as tall "buns" on top of their heads, no make up (that I knew of), and dresses with the collar up to the neck, long sleeves, and long hems.
This angelic trio (OK, I'm taking poetic license to the hilt by including Hattie in that description) would sing ancient hymn after hymn acappella while in perfect harmony. "Rock of Ages" and "The Old Rugged Cross" never had it so good.
One day 25 years later, I was talking about the three "sisters" in this vein to my Dad. Dad dutiful asked, "Why are you calling Flossie Lyles a sister?". My reply, "She was my Aunt Flossie".
Imagine my surprise that it took me about four decades to know that Flossie was no relation whatsoever, just a family friend? I felt like something important had been stolen from me?
Oh well, blood may be thicker than water, but it took 40 years to wash the Waller "blood" off Aunt Flossie?
THE DEVIL'S SPIT WADS
On days that my Mom couldn't escort me to the Wright City Assembly of God (WCAG) church, Grandmother and Grandaddy were "kind" enough to come to our house near Turnertown and take me with them.
Imagine my joy at getting to dress up (my best patched jeans and homemade shirt) and sit still and quiet in church while some old guy yelled about eternal damnation?
To say that Grandaddy was a bit of a stern disciplinarian would be like saying a rented mule don't git much love. His boys used to testify to his razor strop and his temper when administering a specialized brand of child care.
For the the most part, my exposure to Grandaddy's wrath merely consisted of him cocking his index finger behind his thumb in order to "thump" me on the noggin for squirming beside him in the pew. I figger that "act of contrition" sounded mostly like an overripe watermelon that had been popped with drum stick. Best I can remember, that pain lasted about 15 minutes before it quit throbbing.
When I was likely 9 or 10 years old, I somehow convinced Grandaddy to let me sit near the back row of pews (My grandparents always sat near the front)? I soon spied another kid a few rows in front of me. The damned devil entered my soul that day and he (not "I") chewed up a piece of the church program, reared back, and flung it against the noggin of the boy in front of me.
Imagine my HORROR when the preacher stopped in mid-sentence to point his long bony finger at me and lecture bout how such does not occur in the House of the Lord. Now find my juvenile brain trying to interpret if that look Grandaddy was giving me included only strippin' my hide off or if I was about to receive a death sentence? Now see my TERRIFIED face as Grandaddy took strides that covered 20 feet each to the back of the church to drag my sinful self outside. Now imagine the church being deathly quiet so they could enjoy the sound of Grandaddy's Sunday finest leather belt playing Dixie on my sinning ways (butt).
Gosh, no wonder I have such "fond" memories of the WCAG?
Imagine my joy at getting to dress up (my best patched jeans and homemade shirt) and sit still and quiet in church while some old guy yelled about eternal damnation?
To say that Grandaddy was a bit of a stern disciplinarian would be like saying a rented mule don't git much love. His boys used to testify to his razor strop and his temper when administering a specialized brand of child care.
For the the most part, my exposure to Grandaddy's wrath merely consisted of him cocking his index finger behind his thumb in order to "thump" me on the noggin for squirming beside him in the pew. I figger that "act of contrition" sounded mostly like an overripe watermelon that had been popped with drum stick. Best I can remember, that pain lasted about 15 minutes before it quit throbbing.
When I was likely 9 or 10 years old, I somehow convinced Grandaddy to let me sit near the back row of pews (My grandparents always sat near the front)? I soon spied another kid a few rows in front of me. The damned devil entered my soul that day and he (not "I") chewed up a piece of the church program, reared back, and flung it against the noggin of the boy in front of me.
Imagine my HORROR when the preacher stopped in mid-sentence to point his long bony finger at me and lecture bout how such does not occur in the House of the Lord. Now find my juvenile brain trying to interpret if that look Grandaddy was giving me included only strippin' my hide off or if I was about to receive a death sentence? Now see my TERRIFIED face as Grandaddy took strides that covered 20 feet each to the back of the church to drag my sinful self outside. Now imagine the church being deathly quiet so they could enjoy the sound of Grandaddy's Sunday finest leather belt playing Dixie on my sinning ways (butt).
Gosh, no wonder I have such "fond" memories of the WCAG?
THE GOSPEL
In 1963, Dad purchased the Wright City Assembly of God parsonage for the magnificent sum of $500.
The "parsonage" was an old oil field house where the church allowed preachers to live rent free. I reckon the parishioners economic need overcame charitable inclinations. I find irony in the fact that the decades of preachers were displaced by Gene Waller, but you would have to have known Dad to enjoy the humor.
Anywho, to the point of this epistle. The former parsonage was about 20 feet from the back of the church. My Grandmother, Grandfather, mother, and other family members attended that church. Being in such close proximity, we naturally walked the 20 feet on Sunday morn, Sunday night, and for Wednesday night prayer meeting. If you are not familiar with services at an Assembly of God church, think SHOUTING, HOLLERING, and more SHOUTING! Really, it was a hoot?
Being a typical 13 year old boy, I figgered that was twice as much religion as needed, but I wasn't given a choice. Imagine my chagrin when revival came to town.
Revival meant a visiting preacher who traveled from town to town to preach (SHOUT) the Word. In Wright City, revival also meant church three times per day (morning, afternoon, and night) seven days per week.
Yep, my sinful butt got drug into that church 21 times per week til the revival went down the road to the next town. As I obviously can't blame being a mortal sinner on lack of preaching in my early life, I'll just continue asking the Lord's forgiveness and saving grace for my human failings.
The site of that house and church are just vacant pasture now, but I really feel that if I stood at that location, closed my eyes and drifted away, I could still hear the Gospel blasting the rafters.
The "parsonage" was an old oil field house where the church allowed preachers to live rent free. I reckon the parishioners economic need overcame charitable inclinations. I find irony in the fact that the decades of preachers were displaced by Gene Waller, but you would have to have known Dad to enjoy the humor.
Anywho, to the point of this epistle. The former parsonage was about 20 feet from the back of the church. My Grandmother, Grandfather, mother, and other family members attended that church. Being in such close proximity, we naturally walked the 20 feet on Sunday morn, Sunday night, and for Wednesday night prayer meeting. If you are not familiar with services at an Assembly of God church, think SHOUTING, HOLLERING, and more SHOUTING! Really, it was a hoot?
Being a typical 13 year old boy, I figgered that was twice as much religion as needed, but I wasn't given a choice. Imagine my chagrin when revival came to town.
Revival meant a visiting preacher who traveled from town to town to preach (SHOUT) the Word. In Wright City, revival also meant church three times per day (morning, afternoon, and night) seven days per week.
Yep, my sinful butt got drug into that church 21 times per week til the revival went down the road to the next town. As I obviously can't blame being a mortal sinner on lack of preaching in my early life, I'll just continue asking the Lord's forgiveness and saving grace for my human failings.
The site of that house and church are just vacant pasture now, but I really feel that if I stood at that location, closed my eyes and drifted away, I could still hear the Gospel blasting the rafters.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
TEXAS FAIRY TALES
As an aside, my family would tell you that I have told the same stories so many times, for so long, that they use them to play bingo. When I tell all the stories on their "story bingo card" that line up in a straight row, someone wins and yells, "BINGO"! (If you know another male in my extended family who fits this description as well, then just keep it to yourself as us "story tellers" tend to be on the sensitive side?)
With that said, this is my damn blog and I will tell the same story as many times as I like (knowing all the while that my inadvertent senility will blow my cover as a "mental midget")?
Now to today's fascinating blog:
My dear Dad was a binge drinker. He would go for a month and not touch a drop of alcohol. However, when he got his whistle primed, he would drink for a month without drawing a breath. During what he called the "drankin" times, some pretty outrageous things would happen.
I remember getting up one morning and finding Dad asleep behind the wheel of his truck in the side yard right up next to our house. Only thing out of the ordinary was that the front bumper and grill of his truck was wrapped in a "U" shape around the tree. I guess Dad wanted to save his brakes for an emergency and just used the handy pecan tree?
Dad's distillery adventures also seemed to cultivate a collection of unusual animals. One time he brought home a snow white bulldog. It was the kind with the HUGE head and tiny butt. It had large front feet that turned in and a small curly tail. (Can't remember what happened to that varmit, but all Dad's beer menagerie disappeared after he sobered)
He brought home a tame squirrel one time and a horse the next. Course, Dad didn't let the fact that we had no pen, no pasture, and no saddle slow his equine husbandry in the least?
I could go on with a list that would rival Noah's challenge, but I'll cut to the chase and gab about my favorite.
Dad showed up at the house one day and to quote him, he was "higher than a Georgia pine". As he parked in the yard (for some reason he couldn't seem to find the driveway when inebriated?) he signaled me to come over (THAT WAS ALWAYS A SURE SIGN TO BE ON GUARD!).
I eased over and Dad produced a black chicken snake that measured just over SIX FEET long. Dad had found it on the road somewhere and decided it was his new best friend????
As we visited, Dad lit an unfiltered Camel cigarette, pried the snakes mouth open, and let the snake relax its mouth on the burning cigarette. Dad just held the snake a foot or two behind its head and let the snake move its head around with the smoking Camel in its mouth. It was HILARIOUS!
After Mr. Snake had his nicotine fix, Dad would periodically open its mouth, put his finger in the corner of the mouth to hold it open, and pour some Budweiser down the snakes throat.
Dad kept that snake with him for at least three days as he visited every soul he knew so he could first, scare the crap out of them, and then show off his smoking/drinking buddy.
Dad eventually let that snake go, but I would give anything to have been able to hear it relating his epic adventure to his slitherin' pals about his few days with Dad. I'm bettin' that snake is why yankees think all Texas Fairy Tales start out with, "Now this ain't no sh_t"!
With that said, this is my damn blog and I will tell the same story as many times as I like (knowing all the while that my inadvertent senility will blow my cover as a "mental midget")?
Now to today's fascinating blog:
My dear Dad was a binge drinker. He would go for a month and not touch a drop of alcohol. However, when he got his whistle primed, he would drink for a month without drawing a breath. During what he called the "drankin" times, some pretty outrageous things would happen.
I remember getting up one morning and finding Dad asleep behind the wheel of his truck in the side yard right up next to our house. Only thing out of the ordinary was that the front bumper and grill of his truck was wrapped in a "U" shape around the tree. I guess Dad wanted to save his brakes for an emergency and just used the handy pecan tree?
Dad's distillery adventures also seemed to cultivate a collection of unusual animals. One time he brought home a snow white bulldog. It was the kind with the HUGE head and tiny butt. It had large front feet that turned in and a small curly tail. (Can't remember what happened to that varmit, but all Dad's beer menagerie disappeared after he sobered)
He brought home a tame squirrel one time and a horse the next. Course, Dad didn't let the fact that we had no pen, no pasture, and no saddle slow his equine husbandry in the least?
I could go on with a list that would rival Noah's challenge, but I'll cut to the chase and gab about my favorite.
Dad showed up at the house one day and to quote him, he was "higher than a Georgia pine". As he parked in the yard (for some reason he couldn't seem to find the driveway when inebriated?) he signaled me to come over (THAT WAS ALWAYS A SURE SIGN TO BE ON GUARD!).
I eased over and Dad produced a black chicken snake that measured just over SIX FEET long. Dad had found it on the road somewhere and decided it was his new best friend????
As we visited, Dad lit an unfiltered Camel cigarette, pried the snakes mouth open, and let the snake relax its mouth on the burning cigarette. Dad just held the snake a foot or two behind its head and let the snake move its head around with the smoking Camel in its mouth. It was HILARIOUS!
After Mr. Snake had his nicotine fix, Dad would periodically open its mouth, put his finger in the corner of the mouth to hold it open, and pour some Budweiser down the snakes throat.
Dad kept that snake with him for at least three days as he visited every soul he knew so he could first, scare the crap out of them, and then show off his smoking/drinking buddy.
Dad eventually let that snake go, but I would give anything to have been able to hear it relating his epic adventure to his slitherin' pals about his few days with Dad. I'm bettin' that snake is why yankees think all Texas Fairy Tales start out with, "Now this ain't no sh_t"!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
WORM NOODLIN'
Our son, Weston, posted the following blog today:
Squirrel fishing is the sporting practice of “catching” squirrels and attempting to lift them into the air using a peanut tied to a string or fishing line, and optionally some kind of fishing pole.
In most cases, squirrels playfully tug and grapple with the nuts, while the human participant skillfully angles with his or her quarry. A delicate approach is required in squirrel fishing. Anyone can pull a nut from the hands of a squirrel, but the adept “squirrel fisher” must hone his craft, maintaining balance between himself and the squirrel, and eventually rewarding the squirrel for his valiant competition by ceding the nut.
Although Carolyn and Frank will be most interested in Weston's squirrel blog, it reminded me of a form of worm noodlin' we used to do in Wright City.
Now you first have to understand the premise that we didn't have toys, money, or any place to "go". Now add to that knowledge the fact that kids will generally figger out their own entertainment if left alone long enough.
Eventually, we noticed there were small holes in the ground at certain times of the year. We discovered that if you poked a long round piece of grass stem down into the hole, brother worm would start to push the stem back out of his home.
By "worm", I don't mean the brown slimy things that we used for fish bait. I don't know what genre of worm this was, but they had a white smooth skin and an ugly head with a set of pinching jaws that could near bout bite the grass stem in two. I reckon they were a form of larvae that metamorphosed into a beautiful frog or something, but what do kids care?
As the worm would push the intruder up, we would grab the stem and jerk it out of the hole. The more professional/sporting among us would simultaneously drag out the worm while it was still viciously biting on the end of our irresistible "bait".
Repeat this pastime a sufficient number of times and one would be automatically be compelled to find a patch of sand with some inverted cone shapes so that the glorious game of "Doodle Bug" could be played (but that is doubtless a future blog).
Squirrel fishing is the sporting practice of “catching” squirrels and attempting to lift them into the air using a peanut tied to a string or fishing line, and optionally some kind of fishing pole.
In most cases, squirrels playfully tug and grapple with the nuts, while the human participant skillfully angles with his or her quarry. A delicate approach is required in squirrel fishing. Anyone can pull a nut from the hands of a squirrel, but the adept “squirrel fisher” must hone his craft, maintaining balance between himself and the squirrel, and eventually rewarding the squirrel for his valiant competition by ceding the nut.
Although Carolyn and Frank will be most interested in Weston's squirrel blog, it reminded me of a form of worm noodlin' we used to do in Wright City.
Now you first have to understand the premise that we didn't have toys, money, or any place to "go". Now add to that knowledge the fact that kids will generally figger out their own entertainment if left alone long enough.
Eventually, we noticed there were small holes in the ground at certain times of the year. We discovered that if you poked a long round piece of grass stem down into the hole, brother worm would start to push the stem back out of his home.
By "worm", I don't mean the brown slimy things that we used for fish bait. I don't know what genre of worm this was, but they had a white smooth skin and an ugly head with a set of pinching jaws that could near bout bite the grass stem in two. I reckon they were a form of larvae that metamorphosed into a beautiful frog or something, but what do kids care?
As the worm would push the intruder up, we would grab the stem and jerk it out of the hole. The more professional/sporting among us would simultaneously drag out the worm while it was still viciously biting on the end of our irresistible "bait".
Repeat this pastime a sufficient number of times and one would be automatically be compelled to find a patch of sand with some inverted cone shapes so that the glorious game of "Doodle Bug" could be played (but that is doubtless a future blog).
PIGSKINS AND PIGPENS
I loved playing football. There was something about the smell of the grass, the team effort, and the chance to run into someone at full tilt that gave me joy.
My senior year playing football in high school was the finest. I knew that every game drew me closer to my last game, so I played my heart out and enjoyed every minute.
All good things seem to come to an end eventually, and so it was with my favorite sport. I played my last game in Jefferson, Texas.
Near as I could tell, Jefferson was in its monsoon season. It had been raining there for a week and it rained the night of the game so hard that we could not see more than 30 yards. Another interesting feature was that there did not appear to be a blade of grass on the field, only an ocean of slimy mud.
As no one could get up too much speed, there wasn't as much chance of getting hurt as there was of getting drowned. Everytime I ended up on the bottom of the "pile" on my stomach, my face was under water. Now I don't mean the kind of water that comes out of your lavatory faucet, I mean gritty, brown soup with dead grass for texture.
I don't remember what color jerseys either team wore that night, but after five minutes we all looked the same: chocolate (uniforms, faces, feet, and faceguards). That gets kinda confusing when you are not sure who to block, tackle, or slap on the butt?
Jefferson had a tailback named Ronny T. Ronny was about 6'2" and 220 pounds of hard steel. He later played for a small school in Austin referred to as the University of Texas. Jefferson ran only two plays all night long. Ronny T. ran over left tackle or he ran over right tackle, nuthin' else. Now when I say "ran over" left tackle, you better believe it.
The defensive tackle on the opposite side of the line was 5 foot, nuthin' and weighed 150 pounds. Everytime Jefferson's battering ram would hit the valiant defender, ole lightweight would end up flat on his back with his head pointing toward the opponents goal line.
I'm not gonna snitch as to who the punchin' bag was, but ole frankie finished that game with both eyes almost swelled shut from the beating.
I played my last "pigskin" game in a "pigpen", and we lost, but I finished my career that night with a feeling of satisfaction knowing I had given it all I had on every play that year, and I didn't drown in a mudhole in Jefferson Texas.
My senior year playing football in high school was the finest. I knew that every game drew me closer to my last game, so I played my heart out and enjoyed every minute.
All good things seem to come to an end eventually, and so it was with my favorite sport. I played my last game in Jefferson, Texas.
Near as I could tell, Jefferson was in its monsoon season. It had been raining there for a week and it rained the night of the game so hard that we could not see more than 30 yards. Another interesting feature was that there did not appear to be a blade of grass on the field, only an ocean of slimy mud.
As no one could get up too much speed, there wasn't as much chance of getting hurt as there was of getting drowned. Everytime I ended up on the bottom of the "pile" on my stomach, my face was under water. Now I don't mean the kind of water that comes out of your lavatory faucet, I mean gritty, brown soup with dead grass for texture.
I don't remember what color jerseys either team wore that night, but after five minutes we all looked the same: chocolate (uniforms, faces, feet, and faceguards). That gets kinda confusing when you are not sure who to block, tackle, or slap on the butt?
Jefferson had a tailback named Ronny T. Ronny was about 6'2" and 220 pounds of hard steel. He later played for a small school in Austin referred to as the University of Texas. Jefferson ran only two plays all night long. Ronny T. ran over left tackle or he ran over right tackle, nuthin' else. Now when I say "ran over" left tackle, you better believe it.
The defensive tackle on the opposite side of the line was 5 foot, nuthin' and weighed 150 pounds. Everytime Jefferson's battering ram would hit the valiant defender, ole lightweight would end up flat on his back with his head pointing toward the opponents goal line.
I'm not gonna snitch as to who the punchin' bag was, but ole frankie finished that game with both eyes almost swelled shut from the beating.
I played my last "pigskin" game in a "pigpen", and we lost, but I finished my career that night with a feeling of satisfaction knowing I had given it all I had on every play that year, and I didn't drown in a mudhole in Jefferson Texas.
Monday, May 19, 2008
SWEET VICTORY
Janie Elliott ran the Hut Cafe in Turnertown and Dad spent a lot of time there.
I played in the band and played all sports year round at London Schools. Dad never attended a single event, until my senior year. For some reason, Dad decided to attend 100% of my football games, both home and away.
One week, Dad and Janie decided to bet on the outcome of my football game. After sufficient motor mouthin', they agreed on a $10 bet.
Sure nuff, Dad won the bet and waited to crow around Janie about his win.
Never to be bested, Janie handed Dad his "winnings" in front of a large crowd of Dad's cronies at the Hut.
The "winnings" were in a Prince Albert cigar box and the box was uncharacteristically heavy.
Janie had put 1,000 pennies in the box and covered them with maple syrup.
All had a laugh and Dad had "sweet victory".
I played in the band and played all sports year round at London Schools. Dad never attended a single event, until my senior year. For some reason, Dad decided to attend 100% of my football games, both home and away.
One week, Dad and Janie decided to bet on the outcome of my football game. After sufficient motor mouthin', they agreed on a $10 bet.
Sure nuff, Dad won the bet and waited to crow around Janie about his win.
Never to be bested, Janie handed Dad his "winnings" in front of a large crowd of Dad's cronies at the Hut.
The "winnings" were in a Prince Albert cigar box and the box was uncharacteristically heavy.
Janie had put 1,000 pennies in the box and covered them with maple syrup.
All had a laugh and Dad had "sweet victory".
BROWNIE
Dad and I jointly drove JRM's truck til the odometer turned over multiple times (my feeble brain thinks it was near to 300,000 miles?)
It finally became so "smooth mouth" (Dad's word for worn out) that it would go no mo'.
Dad got to shopping the world wide web vehicle market (Wright City back roads) and found a 1968 pickup with a decent engine that would bolt to the 1964 jewel without any modification. The only thing wrong with the '68 was that it had been first rolled over in a wreck, and then later hit by a train in a wreck.
I supplied the cash and Dad supplied the work/time to put the '68 engine into the '64 pickup and all was well for JRM's prize wheels.
Dad being Dad, there was nuthin' for him to do but put the "smooth mouth" 1964 engine into the old brown 1968 pile of rusty, warped, twisted, and distorted carnage. Again, Dad being Dad, he had a nickname for everything and the 1968 was dubbed, "Brownie".
Dad used an acetylene torch to cut off the fenders and doors and he finished knocking all the glass out of it. Naturally, the muffler had to go or else it would not run loud enough (as if Hattie needed more to gripe about?). He left the bed on Brownie for practical uses, although it was kinda bent in a "U" shape (trains have a way of doing that?). Add four slick tires, hook up the horn, add a radio to the equation and dad had created a WC masterpiece (eyesore?).
Dad and I had a blast with Brownie while driving at break neck speed across the pastures, plowing into the creeks, and just generally treating it like it was an army tank and we were back-road warriors.
My favorite memory of Brownie is one day when Dad and I were stopped on the road between his house and Grandmother's looking at something or the other beside the road. An oncoming car stopped and the driver was obviously extremely excited/distraught? With stuttering and fear he sincerely asked, "Is anybody hurt?" Dad and I looked at each other and then at the gentleman and intelligently replied, "Whut?". He said, more urgently now, "Was anybody hurt when you had this wreck?"
Dad and I nearly fell out of the truck laughing as the good Samaritan drove away doubtless thinking we were nuts, or delirious from the "crash"?
The poor soul will never know that we were just doing what comes natural to the native sons of Wright City.
It finally became so "smooth mouth" (Dad's word for worn out) that it would go no mo'.
Dad got to shopping the world wide web vehicle market (Wright City back roads) and found a 1968 pickup with a decent engine that would bolt to the 1964 jewel without any modification. The only thing wrong with the '68 was that it had been first rolled over in a wreck, and then later hit by a train in a wreck.
I supplied the cash and Dad supplied the work/time to put the '68 engine into the '64 pickup and all was well for JRM's prize wheels.
Dad being Dad, there was nuthin' for him to do but put the "smooth mouth" 1964 engine into the old brown 1968 pile of rusty, warped, twisted, and distorted carnage. Again, Dad being Dad, he had a nickname for everything and the 1968 was dubbed, "Brownie".
Dad used an acetylene torch to cut off the fenders and doors and he finished knocking all the glass out of it. Naturally, the muffler had to go or else it would not run loud enough (as if Hattie needed more to gripe about?). He left the bed on Brownie for practical uses, although it was kinda bent in a "U" shape (trains have a way of doing that?). Add four slick tires, hook up the horn, add a radio to the equation and dad had created a WC masterpiece (eyesore?).
Dad and I had a blast with Brownie while driving at break neck speed across the pastures, plowing into the creeks, and just generally treating it like it was an army tank and we were back-road warriors.
My favorite memory of Brownie is one day when Dad and I were stopped on the road between his house and Grandmother's looking at something or the other beside the road. An oncoming car stopped and the driver was obviously extremely excited/distraught? With stuttering and fear he sincerely asked, "Is anybody hurt?" Dad and I looked at each other and then at the gentleman and intelligently replied, "Whut?". He said, more urgently now, "Was anybody hurt when you had this wreck?"
Dad and I nearly fell out of the truck laughing as the good Samaritan drove away doubtless thinking we were nuts, or delirious from the "crash"?
The poor soul will never know that we were just doing what comes natural to the native sons of Wright City.
JOHN DEERE
Ever been stuck in the mud in your vehicle?
In 1980, I was stationed in Marshall and had the privilege of being part of a deer lease between Marshall and Beckville. The lease was off Highway 43 and adjacent to the Sabine River so it was heavy with trees, brush, and every varmit known to mankind.
I killed the heaviest deer with the best antlers in my life on that lease one year. However, in 1980, my luck turned sour. I hunted many days that year, but I did not see a buck to shoot.
On the last day of the season, I vowed to burrow into the bowels of that river bottom before daylight and a stay til plumb graveyard dark. My plan was to make one last valiant effort to collect some venison and horns. I was the only person hunting on the lease that day, but true to my word, I stayed til the sun was swallered by the hunger of the West horizon.
Unless you have been in a river bottom on a moonless night, you have no idea what dark is. You can wave your hand two inches in front of your eyes and see no movement. I might mention that your hearing mysteriously becomes more acute (either that or the "scary" creatures start crankin' up their choir practice bout then?)
I climbed down from my deer stand and walked to the Chevy pickup that I "inherited" from JRM. I cranked that trusty puppy and started easing my way out of the river bottom along a pipeline right-of-way cut thru the woods. Imagine my surprise when I drove into a bog-hole (think quicksand with a "suck") and promptly ceased forward movement.
Now being natural born country, I expertly spun the rear tires backward and forward for a bit to try to get it un-stuck. No luck. The frame and bottom of the pickup body were flat against the mud from front to back. Hell, both bumpers were against the ground and sinking!
My next bright idea was to dig out the mud from in front of the tires, put some limbs there, and triumphantly drive out of the quagmire, NOT! The only thing I accomplished was to smear black sticky sh_t starting from the top of my head, over the entirety of my camouflage hunting clothes, and to cause my boots to weigh about 40 pounds each.
Now reality is beginning to set in. I am 15 miles from the edge of town, it is a dark as a witches heart, and I look like Rambo after a pig wrestling match (which I lost!) Another words, what person in their right mind is going to pick me up hitch-hiking thru the river bottom? I think about then was when I started fantasizing about inventing a small, wireless, battery operated phone that would work off the signal of multiple communication towers (Naw, no one would ever have a use for something like that?)
Wasn't nothing to do but walk out to the road (you would have to be there to hear all the hoots, screechin', screams, coming out of them woods that night as I walked)(No, I didn't carry my deer rifle as would have sealed the deal of no one giving me a ride on the highway)(And no, I didn't have a flashlight with me as that would have implied some sort of preparedness on my part?)
Just as I was feeling my way near the pasture gate, I thought I heard a small engine "chugging"??? Then I saw some small, dim headlamps that were close together approaching. Finally, the guy who had leased the land for his cattle came along on his tractor. Seems he was looking for a lost cow, otherwise he NEVER came to that part of the river.
Mr. Farmer obligingly pulled me from the maelstrom of mud, but not before my misadventure took one last turn. His old John Deere had a round hay bale spear protruding about 3 feet from the back of his tractor. I tied a tow line to the embedded truck and directed the tractor to back toward me. As the line was short, he had to back close to the bumper. At the last minute his foot slipped off the tractor clutch and that centurion sword (hay spear) came to within an inch of piercing my chest and poking a hole in the radiator of JRM's pride and joy. (Me and JRM would have both been disappointed with that outcome.
Bottom line, the Lord was with me, but he wanted to teach me a lesson in humility, survival, route selection, and the value of John Deere tractors.
In 1980, I was stationed in Marshall and had the privilege of being part of a deer lease between Marshall and Beckville. The lease was off Highway 43 and adjacent to the Sabine River so it was heavy with trees, brush, and every varmit known to mankind.
I killed the heaviest deer with the best antlers in my life on that lease one year. However, in 1980, my luck turned sour. I hunted many days that year, but I did not see a buck to shoot.
On the last day of the season, I vowed to burrow into the bowels of that river bottom before daylight and a stay til plumb graveyard dark. My plan was to make one last valiant effort to collect some venison and horns. I was the only person hunting on the lease that day, but true to my word, I stayed til the sun was swallered by the hunger of the West horizon.
Unless you have been in a river bottom on a moonless night, you have no idea what dark is. You can wave your hand two inches in front of your eyes and see no movement. I might mention that your hearing mysteriously becomes more acute (either that or the "scary" creatures start crankin' up their choir practice bout then?)
I climbed down from my deer stand and walked to the Chevy pickup that I "inherited" from JRM. I cranked that trusty puppy and started easing my way out of the river bottom along a pipeline right-of-way cut thru the woods. Imagine my surprise when I drove into a bog-hole (think quicksand with a "suck") and promptly ceased forward movement.
Now being natural born country, I expertly spun the rear tires backward and forward for a bit to try to get it un-stuck. No luck. The frame and bottom of the pickup body were flat against the mud from front to back. Hell, both bumpers were against the ground and sinking!
My next bright idea was to dig out the mud from in front of the tires, put some limbs there, and triumphantly drive out of the quagmire, NOT! The only thing I accomplished was to smear black sticky sh_t starting from the top of my head, over the entirety of my camouflage hunting clothes, and to cause my boots to weigh about 40 pounds each.
Now reality is beginning to set in. I am 15 miles from the edge of town, it is a dark as a witches heart, and I look like Rambo after a pig wrestling match (which I lost!) Another words, what person in their right mind is going to pick me up hitch-hiking thru the river bottom? I think about then was when I started fantasizing about inventing a small, wireless, battery operated phone that would work off the signal of multiple communication towers (Naw, no one would ever have a use for something like that?)
Wasn't nothing to do but walk out to the road (you would have to be there to hear all the hoots, screechin', screams, coming out of them woods that night as I walked)(No, I didn't carry my deer rifle as would have sealed the deal of no one giving me a ride on the highway)(And no, I didn't have a flashlight with me as that would have implied some sort of preparedness on my part?)
Just as I was feeling my way near the pasture gate, I thought I heard a small engine "chugging"??? Then I saw some small, dim headlamps that were close together approaching. Finally, the guy who had leased the land for his cattle came along on his tractor. Seems he was looking for a lost cow, otherwise he NEVER came to that part of the river.
Mr. Farmer obligingly pulled me from the maelstrom of mud, but not before my misadventure took one last turn. His old John Deere had a round hay bale spear protruding about 3 feet from the back of his tractor. I tied a tow line to the embedded truck and directed the tractor to back toward me. As the line was short, he had to back close to the bumper. At the last minute his foot slipped off the tractor clutch and that centurion sword (hay spear) came to within an inch of piercing my chest and poking a hole in the radiator of JRM's pride and joy. (Me and JRM would have both been disappointed with that outcome.
Bottom line, the Lord was with me, but he wanted to teach me a lesson in humility, survival, route selection, and the value of John Deere tractors.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
THE REWARD
We have owned the Tin Star Ranch for four years now.
Thousands of hours, blood, sweat, and worry have gone into our Gabriel Mills Garden of Eden.
Along the way we have discovered "treasures" on the land in the form of ancient soda and beer bottles, rusty 7up (steel) cans, metal quart oil cans, and various old iron tools (all displayed with pride in our barn).
We have seen wet newborn fawns, moving brown fluffs that became wild turkey chicks, and brilliant green colored snakes that were pursued by sprinting road runners.
We have watched wild turkey toms swell their plumage and strut back and forth like kings holding court in an effort to impress hens.
We have spied a tortoise as it dug a hole with its back feet and laid wet sticky eggs in the hole.
We have discovered cedar lizards that are HUGE and are so aggressive that when you find one, they don't run away, they charge you like an angry rhino!
We have watched a luxurious fox walk to the edge of our pond, drink his fill, and disappear back into the brush as tho he were an apparition.
We have discovered the incredibly clarity of the moon and the stars that can only be found when one leaves the city lights behind and allows the velvet of total darkness to occur.
We have watched lightning pitchfork across the horizon, huge black crowds rumble their warning, sunrises, sunsets, and the silver glory of brilliant heavy frost.
We have felt the ever present gentle Southeast breeze in summer, the biting chill from the North in winter, the sloshing mud in April, and the baking soil in August.
We've heard the birds sing, the squirrel chatter, the turkeys call, the doves coo, the coyotes howl, and the deer snort.
We have marveled at a 15 acres blanket of wildflowers growing naturally, an inhospitable spiny cactus covered in delicate yellow blossoms, yucca with red spears reaching toward heaven, the spring sprout of agaves, brown pollen clouds from cedar, and the stampede of thistle.
We've watched the night horizon and wondered how far the light of the distant radio towers might be? We've heard the cicada and wondered how many shells they would leave? We've marveled at the number of fire ant hills, scratched from chiggers, pulled cactus spine from tender places, brushed off bugs, and swatted mosquitos.
But most of all, we have thanked our Lord and Savior each day for the bountiful reward and privilege of sharing in the spirit and soul of the Tin Star Ranch.
Thousands of hours, blood, sweat, and worry have gone into our Gabriel Mills Garden of Eden.
Along the way we have discovered "treasures" on the land in the form of ancient soda and beer bottles, rusty 7up (steel) cans, metal quart oil cans, and various old iron tools (all displayed with pride in our barn).
We have seen wet newborn fawns, moving brown fluffs that became wild turkey chicks, and brilliant green colored snakes that were pursued by sprinting road runners.
We have watched wild turkey toms swell their plumage and strut back and forth like kings holding court in an effort to impress hens.
We have spied a tortoise as it dug a hole with its back feet and laid wet sticky eggs in the hole.
We have discovered cedar lizards that are HUGE and are so aggressive that when you find one, they don't run away, they charge you like an angry rhino!
We have watched a luxurious fox walk to the edge of our pond, drink his fill, and disappear back into the brush as tho he were an apparition.
We have discovered the incredibly clarity of the moon and the stars that can only be found when one leaves the city lights behind and allows the velvet of total darkness to occur.
We have watched lightning pitchfork across the horizon, huge black crowds rumble their warning, sunrises, sunsets, and the silver glory of brilliant heavy frost.
We have felt the ever present gentle Southeast breeze in summer, the biting chill from the North in winter, the sloshing mud in April, and the baking soil in August.
We've heard the birds sing, the squirrel chatter, the turkeys call, the doves coo, the coyotes howl, and the deer snort.
We have marveled at a 15 acres blanket of wildflowers growing naturally, an inhospitable spiny cactus covered in delicate yellow blossoms, yucca with red spears reaching toward heaven, the spring sprout of agaves, brown pollen clouds from cedar, and the stampede of thistle.
We've watched the night horizon and wondered how far the light of the distant radio towers might be? We've heard the cicada and wondered how many shells they would leave? We've marveled at the number of fire ant hills, scratched from chiggers, pulled cactus spine from tender places, brushed off bugs, and swatted mosquitos.
But most of all, we have thanked our Lord and Savior each day for the bountiful reward and privilege of sharing in the spirit and soul of the Tin Star Ranch.
THE DOWN PAYMENT
Dad bought five acres next to his place in Wright City one time. It was covered with brush so thick a rabbit couldn't wiggle thru it.
Dad being Dad, he didn't own a power tool for land clearing. He owned a machete that he kept "sharp as a razoo" (to quote him), behind the seat in his pickup.
Dad started in on one corner of his property, and using the machete, whittled his way along the land a small patch at a time. He told me he would make make a pile of green brush, set it on fire with diesel, and then add to the pile as he swung the machete. I don't know how long it took Dad to clear the five acres this way, but time had no meaning to him then. He "worried" the brush off that place, one machete swing at a time.
When I bought the Tin Star Ranch, it was covered in all manner of undesirable things:
1. Rusty iron (pipe, rebar, buckets, rolls of barb wire and hogwire)
2. Beverage cans and bottles
3. Rocks, rocks, and more rocks
4. Old dry brush piles twice as big as my truck
Being Gene's boy (and having only Dad's 50 year old machete and a set of cheap Home Depot limb loppers), I set out to tame the place a small piece at a time.
The brush piles were so large that I had to carefully pick a windless, wet day to light just one and pray that I would not set fire to the countryside. After they were burned, I started creating brush piles of my own.
I bought the place in July so think HOT! I would arrive at the front gate at dawn and wait for enough light to see. Then I would swing that machete and drag brush to pile until no later than noon. By that time, it was all I could do to crawl into my truck and drive home to lick my wounds. This routine went on for about two years as I went to the Ranch 3-4 days per week to cut brush, pick up trash, or pile rocks.
Pile rocks meant bend over, put them in my truck, drive to my rock pile, and pick them puppies up again to throw them on the pile. My country lava droppings ranged in size from a softball to just about the max that I could lift.
About the time I got the brush "semi" under control, I was able to purchase a Stihl chain saw. I used that bad boy to start attacking the trees. We have hundreds of oaks and elms on the place and years+neglect had allowed the limbs to grow down to the ground. I spent near six months holding that chain saw in front of me or over my head to get the trees trimmed enough that I could look across the land and mostly see from one end to the other in places.
During the course of this two and one half years of fun and frolic, I collected a lifetime of cuts, scrapes, bruises, bites, (poison ivy every other week!!!!), crap in my eyes, and sunburn from hell.
But you know what, the truth is that I merely considered my labor the real "down payment" on the place. It allowed me to psychologically make the place my own thru an investment of blood, sweat, and tears that no money could replace.
Oh yeah, after 30 months of "bustin" my rear to clear all, I bought a new diesel tractor with implements. I kinda put the horse after the cart on that one, but who can predict when the money train will come around?
Dad being Dad, he didn't own a power tool for land clearing. He owned a machete that he kept "sharp as a razoo" (to quote him), behind the seat in his pickup.
Dad started in on one corner of his property, and using the machete, whittled his way along the land a small patch at a time. He told me he would make make a pile of green brush, set it on fire with diesel, and then add to the pile as he swung the machete. I don't know how long it took Dad to clear the five acres this way, but time had no meaning to him then. He "worried" the brush off that place, one machete swing at a time.
When I bought the Tin Star Ranch, it was covered in all manner of undesirable things:
1. Rusty iron (pipe, rebar, buckets, rolls of barb wire and hogwire)
2. Beverage cans and bottles
3. Rocks, rocks, and more rocks
4. Old dry brush piles twice as big as my truck
Being Gene's boy (and having only Dad's 50 year old machete and a set of cheap Home Depot limb loppers), I set out to tame the place a small piece at a time.
The brush piles were so large that I had to carefully pick a windless, wet day to light just one and pray that I would not set fire to the countryside. After they were burned, I started creating brush piles of my own.
I bought the place in July so think HOT! I would arrive at the front gate at dawn and wait for enough light to see. Then I would swing that machete and drag brush to pile until no later than noon. By that time, it was all I could do to crawl into my truck and drive home to lick my wounds. This routine went on for about two years as I went to the Ranch 3-4 days per week to cut brush, pick up trash, or pile rocks.
Pile rocks meant bend over, put them in my truck, drive to my rock pile, and pick them puppies up again to throw them on the pile. My country lava droppings ranged in size from a softball to just about the max that I could lift.
About the time I got the brush "semi" under control, I was able to purchase a Stihl chain saw. I used that bad boy to start attacking the trees. We have hundreds of oaks and elms on the place and years+neglect had allowed the limbs to grow down to the ground. I spent near six months holding that chain saw in front of me or over my head to get the trees trimmed enough that I could look across the land and mostly see from one end to the other in places.
During the course of this two and one half years of fun and frolic, I collected a lifetime of cuts, scrapes, bruises, bites, (poison ivy every other week!!!!), crap in my eyes, and sunburn from hell.
But you know what, the truth is that I merely considered my labor the real "down payment" on the place. It allowed me to psychologically make the place my own thru an investment of blood, sweat, and tears that no money could replace.
Oh yeah, after 30 months of "bustin" my rear to clear all, I bought a new diesel tractor with implements. I kinda put the horse after the cart on that one, but who can predict when the money train will come around?
Saturday, May 17, 2008
THE GAMBLE
I retired from state employment February 2003. Shortly thereafter, the beautiful bride and I decided that we wanted to purchase a piece of property in NW Williamson County to build a house on one day.
Our wish list included in no particular order of priority:
1. Lots of trees with minimum cedar
2. A live creek or pond
3. A distant view
4. Privacy from neighbors due to acreage, trees, hills, whatever worked
5. Wildlife (deer, birds, squirrels, etc.)
6. About five affordable acres ($25,000 or less)
7. Country living, no traffic, and few people
As I was retired, I had time to get a map of Williamson County and spend a day or two per week driving the county roads in my pickup. When I traveled the length of a road, I would use a yellow marker on the map line to commemorate my journey.
Early on in this quest, I found an interesting piece of property (15 acres) that had all the requisite specifications, plus a few extra bonuses:
1. It was at the intersection of two PAVED county roads (much of the property I viewed was on dusty caliche roads).
2. With the exception of an adjacent 15 acre tract with a residence on it, the property of my interest was surrounded on all sides by 200 to 600 acre ranches with no other houses.
3. The property was relatively square so that a residence built in the middle would have an excellent buffer of trees and space between anything outside the house.
Only one problem, the $250,000 asking price was TEN TIMES my proposed budget.
I wrote off that option and continued the search for my future retirement home in other areas. My search (which included day long internet searches for real estate) lasted for six months as I grew increasingly frustrated with land that was without trees, or was shaped like a long, thin cigarette, or had a dump/junk yard next door, etc.
During all this time, I kept coming back to the gate of the "perfect" 15 acres I had found initially.
Finally, I told my bride that we were going to a real estate agent and ask to view the land. On the day we met the agent at the "promise land", we walked every step of the place. This wasn't an easy chore as it was grown up with brush and brambles like a jungle, but I had to be sure of what I was contemplating.
After an hour of walking, I told M that with her blessing, I proposed to make a ridiculous offer and see how the seller would react. M agreed and I told the agent I wanted to offer a contract in the amount of $120.000 (less than half the asking price). The agent balked at such a ridiculous amount, but I insisted (I didn't figger the agent planned to contribute much to the monthly mortgage)(and $120K kinda scared a retiree, so no amount of courage could make me offer higher).
The agent wrote the contract with a promise to offer it to the seller. The bride and I left and got on a plane the next day to fly to Nashville for a week of vacation.
In a cab on the way from the Nashville airport to the hotel, the agent called me to incredulously say that the seller had accepted my offer.
The rest is history and we have spent the last four years grooming our little piece of heaven, and future home, into our beloved TIN STAR RANCH!
Our wish list included in no particular order of priority:
1. Lots of trees with minimum cedar
2. A live creek or pond
3. A distant view
4. Privacy from neighbors due to acreage, trees, hills, whatever worked
5. Wildlife (deer, birds, squirrels, etc.)
6. About five affordable acres ($25,000 or less)
7. Country living, no traffic, and few people
As I was retired, I had time to get a map of Williamson County and spend a day or two per week driving the county roads in my pickup. When I traveled the length of a road, I would use a yellow marker on the map line to commemorate my journey.
Early on in this quest, I found an interesting piece of property (15 acres) that had all the requisite specifications, plus a few extra bonuses:
1. It was at the intersection of two PAVED county roads (much of the property I viewed was on dusty caliche roads).
2. With the exception of an adjacent 15 acre tract with a residence on it, the property of my interest was surrounded on all sides by 200 to 600 acre ranches with no other houses.
3. The property was relatively square so that a residence built in the middle would have an excellent buffer of trees and space between anything outside the house.
Only one problem, the $250,000 asking price was TEN TIMES my proposed budget.
I wrote off that option and continued the search for my future retirement home in other areas. My search (which included day long internet searches for real estate) lasted for six months as I grew increasingly frustrated with land that was without trees, or was shaped like a long, thin cigarette, or had a dump/junk yard next door, etc.
During all this time, I kept coming back to the gate of the "perfect" 15 acres I had found initially.
Finally, I told my bride that we were going to a real estate agent and ask to view the land. On the day we met the agent at the "promise land", we walked every step of the place. This wasn't an easy chore as it was grown up with brush and brambles like a jungle, but I had to be sure of what I was contemplating.
After an hour of walking, I told M that with her blessing, I proposed to make a ridiculous offer and see how the seller would react. M agreed and I told the agent I wanted to offer a contract in the amount of $120.000 (less than half the asking price). The agent balked at such a ridiculous amount, but I insisted (I didn't figger the agent planned to contribute much to the monthly mortgage)(and $120K kinda scared a retiree, so no amount of courage could make me offer higher).
The agent wrote the contract with a promise to offer it to the seller. The bride and I left and got on a plane the next day to fly to Nashville for a week of vacation.
In a cab on the way from the Nashville airport to the hotel, the agent called me to incredulously say that the seller had accepted my offer.
The rest is history and we have spent the last four years grooming our little piece of heaven, and future home, into our beloved TIN STAR RANCH!
Friday, May 16, 2008
WHOA
One night South of San Antonio, Jimmy T and I were patrolling the stretches of US 281 to make the world a safer place for Mom, the flag, apple pie, and the American way.
The dispatcher called to say there was report of a one car roll-over accident with the vehicle burning and the occupants trapped inside.
I was driving so J.T. whipped out our trusty county map to find the backwoods lane where the wreck was reported. The county road turned out to be an unfamiliar narrow cow path. It was "paved" with fine sand at least six inches deep. I drove at maximum possible speed with a billowing cloud of silica behind us and asked my partner to look at the map for sharp curves ahead.
Jimmy rather nonchalantly said that we were approaching a "T" intersection where we would have to turn either left or right..........AND WE WERE INSTANTLY IN THE INTERSECTION!
I was looking eyeball to barbwire with a row of cedar posts that separated the cows from the road. Didn't have much more than a blink to react so I turned the steering wheel all the way to the right and pushed the accelerator to the floor to try to make the turn.
My forward progress didn't slow, but the black/white smokey car did obligingly turn sidewise in order to put the wire/posts on my side of the ride.
We slid thru the posts shearing them off at the ground (putting real efficient dents evenly spaced on the sheet metal side panels). The wire mostly broke, but the top strand went over the roof (tight enough to play like a fiddle string) while the points of the barbs dug past the paint into the metal. These mortal scars were also evenly spaced across the roof in a cruel pattern.
We kept slidin' like a greased banana peel til enough cow pasture sand bent the rims on the left side and piled a sand dune half way up my driver door.
As we sat there wondering if it was the radiator (or our bladders) that had sprung a leak, Jimmy looked at me and very calmly said, "Whoa".
The dispatcher called to say there was report of a one car roll-over accident with the vehicle burning and the occupants trapped inside.
I was driving so J.T. whipped out our trusty county map to find the backwoods lane where the wreck was reported. The county road turned out to be an unfamiliar narrow cow path. It was "paved" with fine sand at least six inches deep. I drove at maximum possible speed with a billowing cloud of silica behind us and asked my partner to look at the map for sharp curves ahead.
Jimmy rather nonchalantly said that we were approaching a "T" intersection where we would have to turn either left or right..........AND WE WERE INSTANTLY IN THE INTERSECTION!
I was looking eyeball to barbwire with a row of cedar posts that separated the cows from the road. Didn't have much more than a blink to react so I turned the steering wheel all the way to the right and pushed the accelerator to the floor to try to make the turn.
My forward progress didn't slow, but the black/white smokey car did obligingly turn sidewise in order to put the wire/posts on my side of the ride.
We slid thru the posts shearing them off at the ground (putting real efficient dents evenly spaced on the sheet metal side panels). The wire mostly broke, but the top strand went over the roof (tight enough to play like a fiddle string) while the points of the barbs dug past the paint into the metal. These mortal scars were also evenly spaced across the roof in a cruel pattern.
We kept slidin' like a greased banana peel til enough cow pasture sand bent the rims on the left side and piled a sand dune half way up my driver door.
As we sat there wondering if it was the radiator (or our bladders) that had sprung a leak, Jimmy looked at me and very calmly said, "Whoa".
Thursday, May 15, 2008
WHAT'S MISSING?
My oldest memory of being sick dates to a pre-school age. Don't have a clue what my particular brand of illness was, but I remember my sick bed was a pallet in the living room (next to mom/dad's bedroom). I know it was Christmas time, because through blurry vision, I could tell that brightly colored lights were on a tree in the corner. Unfortunately, my "illness" lasted through the holiday season with my feverish brain retaining no memory but the weird noel in the living room.
When I was near the first grade, my entire family got "food poisoning". We all laid around like zombies feeling near death with any movement bringing waves of nausea.
With three kids in the house, we all got the childhood diseases at the same time. These maladies included chicken pox and measles which covered us from head to toe with bumps, scabs, and itchy-scaly skin. To complete the ensemble, Mom would take a cotton ball and daub us end to end with pink calamine lotion. I don't remember the calamine accomplishing anything, but we looked like aliens from Mars for a few days. That dried lotion made our hair stick out nice and spiky as well?
Mumps were fun with swollen glands making us look like baboons.
We had the flu, viruses, rip-roarin' diarrhea, ear aches, serious mashed fingers in car doors, and even fire crackers that decided to implode our sweaty palms.
We also enjoyed our share of country "wounds". I stepped on a board one time that had a rusty nail sticking up. The nailed pierced the sole of my shoe and then the top of my shoe (guess what choice filet was between those two sections?) That fiasco resulted in getting my foot soaked in a basin of kerosene (at least it was a semi-refined carcinogen?).
I got a "black eye" one time that swelled the entire side of my face and turned purple. That earned a bit of cold round steak applied to the puckered/bruised flesh that obliterated my eye.
On one fated day, I was on the top of a steel ladder that was braced upright in the middle of someones yard. The bracing was angle iron pieces held together with clamps. The clamps slipped, the steel edifice crashed, and the ladder whacked across the top of one of my feet like an elephant squashin' a bug. My foot swelled the size of a football. That resulted in merely laying around on the couch for a few days while enjoying the bounty of our single channel (Tyler) on the black/white TV in our living room.
I could go on a bit with bugs, diseases, wounds, and such, but this is as good a time as any to ask, "What's missing?"
Answer: Not so much as one time in the 19 years that I lived with my parents were any of us EVER taken to a doctor for any reason.
OK, now this wasn't for lack of parental love or caring. Our folks never had medical insurance. They had no money for anything but a few groceries. And likely, they had a bit of mistrust for the medical profession that extremely poor people seem to engender?
Bottom line, my sisters and I not only survived the lack of Rx in our lives, we thrived and did well. I guess as long as "the good Lord" ain't the answer to, "What's missing?" in one's life, a body can survive near bout anything?
When I was near the first grade, my entire family got "food poisoning". We all laid around like zombies feeling near death with any movement bringing waves of nausea.
With three kids in the house, we all got the childhood diseases at the same time. These maladies included chicken pox and measles which covered us from head to toe with bumps, scabs, and itchy-scaly skin. To complete the ensemble, Mom would take a cotton ball and daub us end to end with pink calamine lotion. I don't remember the calamine accomplishing anything, but we looked like aliens from Mars for a few days. That dried lotion made our hair stick out nice and spiky as well?
Mumps were fun with swollen glands making us look like baboons.
We had the flu, viruses, rip-roarin' diarrhea, ear aches, serious mashed fingers in car doors, and even fire crackers that decided to implode our sweaty palms.
We also enjoyed our share of country "wounds". I stepped on a board one time that had a rusty nail sticking up. The nailed pierced the sole of my shoe and then the top of my shoe (guess what choice filet was between those two sections?) That fiasco resulted in getting my foot soaked in a basin of kerosene (at least it was a semi-refined carcinogen?).
I got a "black eye" one time that swelled the entire side of my face and turned purple. That earned a bit of cold round steak applied to the puckered/bruised flesh that obliterated my eye.
On one fated day, I was on the top of a steel ladder that was braced upright in the middle of someones yard. The bracing was angle iron pieces held together with clamps. The clamps slipped, the steel edifice crashed, and the ladder whacked across the top of one of my feet like an elephant squashin' a bug. My foot swelled the size of a football. That resulted in merely laying around on the couch for a few days while enjoying the bounty of our single channel (Tyler) on the black/white TV in our living room.
I could go on a bit with bugs, diseases, wounds, and such, but this is as good a time as any to ask, "What's missing?"
Answer: Not so much as one time in the 19 years that I lived with my parents were any of us EVER taken to a doctor for any reason.
OK, now this wasn't for lack of parental love or caring. Our folks never had medical insurance. They had no money for anything but a few groceries. And likely, they had a bit of mistrust for the medical profession that extremely poor people seem to engender?
Bottom line, my sisters and I not only survived the lack of Rx in our lives, we thrived and did well. I guess as long as "the good Lord" ain't the answer to, "What's missing?" in one's life, a body can survive near bout anything?
ROAD CHICKEN
In 1968, I graduated high school at about 155 pounds, By 1969, I had ballooned to 190 pounds of blubber.
Come February 1970, I started Highway Patrol School (also known as Marine Corp boot camp on steroids) and by the conclusion of that curricula, had lost down to a hard 160 pounds of fighting machine.
Over the next ten years, I managed to scarf down enough gravy and mash pertaters to get back to a round mound of obesity and once again snuck up on 190 pounds.
Near the end of June 1980 (at age 30), I was assigned to be the Platoon Sergeant for a Highway Patrol School in Austin. I resolved that I would "lead" the class of recruits in all things, including physical training.
In addition to close analysis of my dietary regimen, I chose a tortuous three mile route that circled from my house and vowed that every time I "ran" the circuit, I would improve my time. I started out running a short distance and walking the remainder. I finally was able to run the entire route, but more like a road tortoise than a road chicken (chaparral)
I don't remember, my final time for the three miles, but I kept my promise to ME to run faster every time and I lost down to 160 pounds of gazelle-like fleetness.
Every night, I also laid in the floor of my living room and did sit-ups and pushups until I was a quivering mass of muscle cramps.
When the Highway Patrol class started, I led the exercise warm ups at 5AM every morning. On our best day, we did 1,000 sit-ups with no rest break (all the way up and all the way down). At 30, the young Trooperettes thought of me as an ancient. Imagine their amazement that I could work 'em down in the exercising regimen.
After about 30 minutes of non-stop exercising, we always ran a 1 1/2 mile course. I let everyone start ahead of me each morning. The deal was that everyone I beat had to run the course again. When we started, I beat about 3/4 of them. By the end of the school, the kids would take off ahead of me, and I would not see them again until I crossed the finish line (back to the road tortoise category).
I left my Platoon Sergeant gig as once again, lean and mean.
Now comes 28 years later, and DAMMIT, my bathroom scale said 190 pounds this morn.
OK, don't even think any running is going to happen (and dang few jumpin' jacks). However, I promise ME once again that I am going to get rid of this "gut" and get as close to that 160 again as I can.
PRAY FOR ME CAUSE I'M GONNA NEED THE HELP.
Come February 1970, I started Highway Patrol School (also known as Marine Corp boot camp on steroids) and by the conclusion of that curricula, had lost down to a hard 160 pounds of fighting machine.
Over the next ten years, I managed to scarf down enough gravy and mash pertaters to get back to a round mound of obesity and once again snuck up on 190 pounds.
Near the end of June 1980 (at age 30), I was assigned to be the Platoon Sergeant for a Highway Patrol School in Austin. I resolved that I would "lead" the class of recruits in all things, including physical training.
In addition to close analysis of my dietary regimen, I chose a tortuous three mile route that circled from my house and vowed that every time I "ran" the circuit, I would improve my time. I started out running a short distance and walking the remainder. I finally was able to run the entire route, but more like a road tortoise than a road chicken (chaparral)
I don't remember, my final time for the three miles, but I kept my promise to ME to run faster every time and I lost down to 160 pounds of gazelle-like fleetness.
Every night, I also laid in the floor of my living room and did sit-ups and pushups until I was a quivering mass of muscle cramps.
When the Highway Patrol class started, I led the exercise warm ups at 5AM every morning. On our best day, we did 1,000 sit-ups with no rest break (all the way up and all the way down). At 30, the young Trooperettes thought of me as an ancient. Imagine their amazement that I could work 'em down in the exercising regimen.
After about 30 minutes of non-stop exercising, we always ran a 1 1/2 mile course. I let everyone start ahead of me each morning. The deal was that everyone I beat had to run the course again. When we started, I beat about 3/4 of them. By the end of the school, the kids would take off ahead of me, and I would not see them again until I crossed the finish line (back to the road tortoise category).
I left my Platoon Sergeant gig as once again, lean and mean.
Now comes 28 years later, and DAMMIT, my bathroom scale said 190 pounds this morn.
OK, don't even think any running is going to happen (and dang few jumpin' jacks). However, I promise ME once again that I am going to get rid of this "gut" and get as close to that 160 again as I can.
PRAY FOR ME CAUSE I'M GONNA NEED THE HELP.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
MY BRIDE
Guess I'm wondering if I have made it sufficiently clear to the universe of the blogging world and all (1 or 2) of my loyal readers concerning one extremely important point?
My beautiful bride, Melinda Ann, is a precious, incredible, beautiful, FUNNY, loving, supportive, interesting, provocative, innovative, talented, fashionable, lover that I find more desirable every day of my life. She is my soul, my very being, and my reason for continuing on.
I love you so much sweet darling.
And now the cyberspacial world knows as well!
f
My beautiful bride, Melinda Ann, is a precious, incredible, beautiful, FUNNY, loving, supportive, interesting, provocative, innovative, talented, fashionable, lover that I find more desirable every day of my life. She is my soul, my very being, and my reason for continuing on.
I love you so much sweet darling.
And now the cyberspacial world knows as well!
f
PROMISE
Bout 1959, Dad cabbaged onto an old Cushman motorscooter.
It was old as dirt, likely was cheap as dirt, but it had wheels and a motor and I was in love.
To start that puppy, one had to raise a "kick start" lever on the front of the engine. I reckon grown men could just rest their weight on the "kick start" lever, but 8-9 year old slim butt boys had to jump as high as they could in the air and POUND down on the metal arm sticking out to depress it sufficiently to crank the engine.
I now know that the Cushmans had an inherent design defect in that the flywheel would crack from heat stress and not produce the necessary spark to crank and run the engine.
All I knew back then was that if if could make that puppy start, I could ride like a king with the wind in my hair, with my troubles (what the hell "troubles" could a kid have?) behind me.
Now see ole ponchito, yeah all 40 pounds of me, jumping all day long on that starting lever and trying to ignite that magnificent (red) machine.
I remember that the bottom of my foot would get so sore from jumping on the metal lever that I didn't want a powder puff to touch it? But it didn't deter me from my fated mission of a NASA launch.
Some days I got that sucka started and rode it in circles until it ran out of fuel. Some days I just laid in the shade with my tongue hanging out from the exhaustion of Olympic leaping on the start lever?
Regardless, it represented a "promise". If I put in the requisite amount of hope, ambition, and good ole fashion work, there existed the possibility of reward.
What can I say? Bust your butt (all day, every day), give it all ya got, and who knows, maybe you will have the thrill of the ride, the wind in your hair, and the unadulterated joy of mobility (or whatever your heart's desire may be)!
It was old as dirt, likely was cheap as dirt, but it had wheels and a motor and I was in love.
To start that puppy, one had to raise a "kick start" lever on the front of the engine. I reckon grown men could just rest their weight on the "kick start" lever, but 8-9 year old slim butt boys had to jump as high as they could in the air and POUND down on the metal arm sticking out to depress it sufficiently to crank the engine.
I now know that the Cushmans had an inherent design defect in that the flywheel would crack from heat stress and not produce the necessary spark to crank and run the engine.
All I knew back then was that if if could make that puppy start, I could ride like a king with the wind in my hair, with my troubles (what the hell "troubles" could a kid have?) behind me.
Now see ole ponchito, yeah all 40 pounds of me, jumping all day long on that starting lever and trying to ignite that magnificent (red) machine.
I remember that the bottom of my foot would get so sore from jumping on the metal lever that I didn't want a powder puff to touch it? But it didn't deter me from my fated mission of a NASA launch.
Some days I got that sucka started and rode it in circles until it ran out of fuel. Some days I just laid in the shade with my tongue hanging out from the exhaustion of Olympic leaping on the start lever?
Regardless, it represented a "promise". If I put in the requisite amount of hope, ambition, and good ole fashion work, there existed the possibility of reward.
What can I say? Bust your butt (all day, every day), give it all ya got, and who knows, maybe you will have the thrill of the ride, the wind in your hair, and the unadulterated joy of mobility (or whatever your heart's desire may be)!
THUMPIN'
I truly want to keep this a "G" rated, mostly family blog, but I reckon I will step outside the bounds just a tad and tell this 'un. (Put the ear muffs and blinders on my granchillun?)
One night, me and the bride was watching TV (somethin' totally captivating no doubt) as all TV is these days (kinda like watchin' a pot of water boil?)
All the sudden, we began to hear a distinct thumpin' on the roof. I grabbed Mr. Flashlight, went outside to confront the "enemy" in my typical cop paranoid style, and in my trusty lantern's illuminating beam saw that a boar coon was procreating with Ms. Coon (thus the "thump" sound?)
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor in matters of the heart, I retired to my invaluable TV program.
Not to be. The infatuated woodland varmits was "THUMPIN" a hole in the roof.
Finally had enough and got my trusty Daisy air rifle out and proceeded to "pop" their butts to run them off.
Worked to perfection, except they just went to the other side of the roof peak. Once inside, I commenced to hear the "THUMP, THUMP, THUMP" again like the drums of African Zulu.
Went back out with fresh resolve (praise the Lord and pass the ammunition) and shot their butts again. Yep, ran to the other side and resumed doin' what was natural in the grand scheme of the Garden of Eden.
This little artillery waltz went on a bit until they finally realized that Romeo, I was not. They departed, with a bit of chagrin on their (raccoon) faces (the black masks tend to confuse their true emotions don't you think?)
I suspicion Mother Nature just don't cotton to Nielson ratings, prime time television programming, or grouchy butt, fat, old, gray haired men who don't much cotton to roof THUMPIN' as a musical ode repast?
One night, me and the bride was watching TV (somethin' totally captivating no doubt) as all TV is these days (kinda like watchin' a pot of water boil?)
All the sudden, we began to hear a distinct thumpin' on the roof. I grabbed Mr. Flashlight, went outside to confront the "enemy" in my typical cop paranoid style, and in my trusty lantern's illuminating beam saw that a boar coon was procreating with Ms. Coon (thus the "thump" sound?)
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor in matters of the heart, I retired to my invaluable TV program.
Not to be. The infatuated woodland varmits was "THUMPIN" a hole in the roof.
Finally had enough and got my trusty Daisy air rifle out and proceeded to "pop" their butts to run them off.
Worked to perfection, except they just went to the other side of the roof peak. Once inside, I commenced to hear the "THUMP, THUMP, THUMP" again like the drums of African Zulu.
Went back out with fresh resolve (praise the Lord and pass the ammunition) and shot their butts again. Yep, ran to the other side and resumed doin' what was natural in the grand scheme of the Garden of Eden.
This little artillery waltz went on a bit until they finally realized that Romeo, I was not. They departed, with a bit of chagrin on their (raccoon) faces (the black masks tend to confuse their true emotions don't you think?)
I suspicion Mother Nature just don't cotton to Nielson ratings, prime time television programming, or grouchy butt, fat, old, gray haired men who don't much cotton to roof THUMPIN' as a musical ode repast?
BACK DOORS
I went to Houston, Texas, as the rawest (and youngest) Highway Patrol Sergeants in the history of DPS.
I had 19 Troopers in my command on the North side of Houston and my office was in the community of Humble. All my Troops were older than me and had more time as Troopers than me.
The area around Humble was nuthin' but rough and tumble with every kind of crook, thief, ragtag and idiot on earth. Every time we went on the road we were in fist fights, wild chases, and totally outrageous situations that boggled my mind, even now? I was near bout kilt several times in my law enforcement career, but two of the times was in that den of inequity.
I had been on the ground in H-town maybe a week when my "loyal" Troops informed me we needed to "check out" a local Hispanic beer joint. (What the neophyte Sergeant didn't know was that a long standing tradition was to take "rookies" to the bar and tell them to "watch" the back door. The other Troopers would then run into the front door, causing the crowded bar patrons to charge like mad bulls, YEP, out the back door!)
I dutifully went to the dark back side of the bar and planted my resolute soul in front of the unpainted, beat up back door. I resolved that any single "runner" who tried to escape our raid would be quickly "sacked" by me and my Troops would admire my efficiency.
Imagine my surprise when near bout 25 hysterical souls poured out that door (and absolutely plumb trampled over the top of me in their hasty escape)
Only took me bout 1/10 second to figger that I had been "had" and to sheepishly meet with my Troops on the floor of the bar.
Guess I passed their "test" as I enjoyed a fair amount of loyalty while stationed there?
I had 19 Troopers in my command on the North side of Houston and my office was in the community of Humble. All my Troops were older than me and had more time as Troopers than me.
The area around Humble was nuthin' but rough and tumble with every kind of crook, thief, ragtag and idiot on earth. Every time we went on the road we were in fist fights, wild chases, and totally outrageous situations that boggled my mind, even now? I was near bout kilt several times in my law enforcement career, but two of the times was in that den of inequity.
I had been on the ground in H-town maybe a week when my "loyal" Troops informed me we needed to "check out" a local Hispanic beer joint. (What the neophyte Sergeant didn't know was that a long standing tradition was to take "rookies" to the bar and tell them to "watch" the back door. The other Troopers would then run into the front door, causing the crowded bar patrons to charge like mad bulls, YEP, out the back door!)
I dutifully went to the dark back side of the bar and planted my resolute soul in front of the unpainted, beat up back door. I resolved that any single "runner" who tried to escape our raid would be quickly "sacked" by me and my Troops would admire my efficiency.
Imagine my surprise when near bout 25 hysterical souls poured out that door (and absolutely plumb trampled over the top of me in their hasty escape)
Only took me bout 1/10 second to figger that I had been "had" and to sheepishly meet with my Troops on the floor of the bar.
Guess I passed their "test" as I enjoyed a fair amount of loyalty while stationed there?
Monday, May 12, 2008
SMOKES
Bout 1960, Bobby Sparks lived in a Sinclair gasoline refinery house with his grandparents. I never knew where his parents lived and never met them.
Bobby's Grandmother saved 50 cent pieces. I'm thinking that was a fairly common trait among women of the time (1950-60's) as Hattie had a house moved to the corner of Highway 64 and paid Leroy Gilley with coffee cans full of half dollars for the job (wow, think about what those solid silver half dollars would be worth now)?
Anyway, Bobby was a common every day thief. He would take his Grandmother's money from the cans and buy *oh my goodness* cigarettes. At the time, it was "manna" from heaven. Bobby would buy them ciggyboos, (we never heard of cancer). Forget that we now know of the carcinogen effect of tobacco, we thought, it was heaven sent that Bobby always had a full pack of Winstons for us to "feel grown-up" while "coughing" and doing what the "men" would do.
Dang I'm glad that near bout the age of 21 I decided that smoking "cancer sticks" was an extremely stoopid way to shorten my life. I haven't always made good decisions, but dumping those cigarettes has to be one of my all time good 'uns?
Bobby's Grandmother saved 50 cent pieces. I'm thinking that was a fairly common trait among women of the time (1950-60's) as Hattie had a house moved to the corner of Highway 64 and paid Leroy Gilley with coffee cans full of half dollars for the job (wow, think about what those solid silver half dollars would be worth now)?
Anyway, Bobby was a common every day thief. He would take his Grandmother's money from the cans and buy *oh my goodness* cigarettes. At the time, it was "manna" from heaven. Bobby would buy them ciggyboos, (we never heard of cancer). Forget that we now know of the carcinogen effect of tobacco, we thought, it was heaven sent that Bobby always had a full pack of Winstons for us to "feel grown-up" while "coughing" and doing what the "men" would do.
Dang I'm glad that near bout the age of 21 I decided that smoking "cancer sticks" was an extremely stoopid way to shorten my life. I haven't always made good decisions, but dumping those cigarettes has to be one of my all time good 'uns?
PINBALL WHIZARD
Bout 1958, there was a decrepit, broken down, tired, old building across the street from the HUT Cafe in Turnertown that attracted a few folks because among other things it had, pinball machines (I'm also thinking they had a coffee pot, and not much else?).
Pinball machines were the precursor of computer games (about 1,000 years afore?). They cost one NICKEL (5 cents) for a play. A "play" was five steel balls that caromed about the table top of the machine (one ball at a time) with bells ringing, lights flashing, and the "player" hitting a button on each side of the electromechanical (think computerized, NOT) machine that activated a couple of "flippers" to put the steel ball back into play when gravity inevitably drew the ball to the bottom of the tilted table top.
Putting "english" on the machine meant bumping it with your hips, or in the ultimate, putting the front legs of the game on the tops of your shoes so you could have a more level playing field (think, "cheat").
At the ripe old age of likely 8 or 9, said self proclaimed child professional, frankie, would be put at the machine by Dad (Gene) and allowed to perform for the men folk (gratuitous nickels on Dad, of course). If I remember correctly, I was something of a prodigy and the grown men folk were a bit impressed that a young boy with so many patches on his jeans could keep that steel ball "alive" for so long on the machine.
Don't know that anything meaningful whatsoever came of that male testosterone laden experience, but, it is a part of my completely unsheltered childhood that helped to make me the strange person that I am?
Go figger, children of mine?
Pinball machines were the precursor of computer games (about 1,000 years afore?). They cost one NICKEL (5 cents) for a play. A "play" was five steel balls that caromed about the table top of the machine (one ball at a time) with bells ringing, lights flashing, and the "player" hitting a button on each side of the electromechanical (think computerized, NOT) machine that activated a couple of "flippers" to put the steel ball back into play when gravity inevitably drew the ball to the bottom of the tilted table top.
Putting "english" on the machine meant bumping it with your hips, or in the ultimate, putting the front legs of the game on the tops of your shoes so you could have a more level playing field (think, "cheat").
At the ripe old age of likely 8 or 9, said self proclaimed child professional, frankie, would be put at the machine by Dad (Gene) and allowed to perform for the men folk (gratuitous nickels on Dad, of course). If I remember correctly, I was something of a prodigy and the grown men folk were a bit impressed that a young boy with so many patches on his jeans could keep that steel ball "alive" for so long on the machine.
Don't know that anything meaningful whatsoever came of that male testosterone laden experience, but, it is a part of my completely unsheltered childhood that helped to make me the strange person that I am?
Go figger, children of mine?
A LABOR OF LOVE
Right before we lost Dad, I went to visit him in Wright City.
When I arrived, Dad was sitting behind his house on a two foot section of wood that had been cut from the trunk of an oak tree. Piled near him was maybe a hundred other such sections of oak.
While sitting on the piece of oak, Dad would stand another piece on its end, place a hatchet against the wood, and then pound on the hatchet with a hammer in order to split the wood into smaller (usually four) pieces. Think slow, hard work.
By this stage, Dad was barely able to walk and could do very little work due to the condition of his heart, so I asked him how many logs did he split per day. He said usually one and sometimes two.
Dad then paused for a moment and told me very quietly that he wanted Lou to have a cord of split and seasoned firewood for the next winter and he didn't feel he would be around to do it for her.
Dad died on December 7, 1999. After the funeral I went behind Dad's house to "touch" some of his things and I saw neatly stacked a full cord of split seasoned oak firewood to carry Lou thru the winter.
I doubt that anyone knew how difficult it was for Dad to create that "wealth of warmth", but I viewed it as a true labor of love for Lou.
When I arrived, Dad was sitting behind his house on a two foot section of wood that had been cut from the trunk of an oak tree. Piled near him was maybe a hundred other such sections of oak.
While sitting on the piece of oak, Dad would stand another piece on its end, place a hatchet against the wood, and then pound on the hatchet with a hammer in order to split the wood into smaller (usually four) pieces. Think slow, hard work.
By this stage, Dad was barely able to walk and could do very little work due to the condition of his heart, so I asked him how many logs did he split per day. He said usually one and sometimes two.
Dad then paused for a moment and told me very quietly that he wanted Lou to have a cord of split and seasoned firewood for the next winter and he didn't feel he would be around to do it for her.
Dad died on December 7, 1999. After the funeral I went behind Dad's house to "touch" some of his things and I saw neatly stacked a full cord of split seasoned oak firewood to carry Lou thru the winter.
I doubt that anyone knew how difficult it was for Dad to create that "wealth of warmth", but I viewed it as a true labor of love for Lou.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
HUMMING BIRDS
Anyone who ever knew my Mother, always told me that she was a sweet gentle soul, who loved and cared for her children as much as anyone could imagine. I have never had a reason to doubt them.
My Aunt Bill once wrote, "Right after your Mother died, I was sitting on my back porch listening to my water fountain and a little humming bird came and visited the fountain for a long time and I was sitting right next to it. I dubbed that little bird, "Thelda". Now when a humming bird flies near me, I say "Hello Thelda". What an awesome tribute to be compared to the beauty and delicate nature of one of God's most treasured creatures!
Somewhere there is a picture of my Mother sitting outdoors on a cement, backless bench on the front lawn of New London High School. She is 15 or 16 years old, dressed in her finest, and her hair is carefully coiffed in the style of the day. Everything about her in that picture looks relaxed and carefree as though she did not have a care in the world.
Shortly after that picture, she dropped out of school, married my Dad and started a life-long adventure: living in Wright City married to Gene Waller, while raising three children.
It would be an understatement to say that we did not have a lot of things that money might provide in our early lives. I know that now, I didn't know it then. Mother fed us three meals per day that tasted as good as anything I have had anywhere in my life. We got up each morn and put on clean clothes that may have had a patch or two, but they matched what other local kids wore.
AND WE WERE LOVED! Mother spent her life eternally doing all those things that make a child know in their heart that they are loved and cherished. I know I can never approach her facility for loving and nourishing children, but I try.
We lost Mother in 1977 to cancer. Her battle with this monster tore the heart out of her children. But through her pain and suffering, she never stopped thinking of us.
Mother, I miss you so much every day that it makes my soul ache. Please know that your life, which gave me life, was not in vain. I have spent every day since your passing trying to merit the blessing of your existence.
May God bless and keep you forever and forever as you rest in the knowledge that your children worship your memory.
My Aunt Bill once wrote, "Right after your Mother died, I was sitting on my back porch listening to my water fountain and a little humming bird came and visited the fountain for a long time and I was sitting right next to it. I dubbed that little bird, "Thelda". Now when a humming bird flies near me, I say "Hello Thelda". What an awesome tribute to be compared to the beauty and delicate nature of one of God's most treasured creatures!
Somewhere there is a picture of my Mother sitting outdoors on a cement, backless bench on the front lawn of New London High School. She is 15 or 16 years old, dressed in her finest, and her hair is carefully coiffed in the style of the day. Everything about her in that picture looks relaxed and carefree as though she did not have a care in the world.
Shortly after that picture, she dropped out of school, married my Dad and started a life-long adventure: living in Wright City married to Gene Waller, while raising three children.
It would be an understatement to say that we did not have a lot of things that money might provide in our early lives. I know that now, I didn't know it then. Mother fed us three meals per day that tasted as good as anything I have had anywhere in my life. We got up each morn and put on clean clothes that may have had a patch or two, but they matched what other local kids wore.
AND WE WERE LOVED! Mother spent her life eternally doing all those things that make a child know in their heart that they are loved and cherished. I know I can never approach her facility for loving and nourishing children, but I try.
We lost Mother in 1977 to cancer. Her battle with this monster tore the heart out of her children. But through her pain and suffering, she never stopped thinking of us.
Mother, I miss you so much every day that it makes my soul ache. Please know that your life, which gave me life, was not in vain. I have spent every day since your passing trying to merit the blessing of your existence.
May God bless and keep you forever and forever as you rest in the knowledge that your children worship your memory.
Friday, May 9, 2008
PRICELESS
T.A. was a part time preacher, full time Sinclair gasoline plant employee, and "almost" Wright
City rancher.
I say "almost" rancher because even at my tender age, I could see that his operation was a bit ragged as compared to the way Grandaddy kept up his pens, fences, and well...everything.
Course, I will admit that compared to Grandaddy, the Garden of Eden may have felt a bit slighted in the care given to each agricultural detail?
When I was bout 11 year old, T.A. offered to pay me the magnanimous sum of 50 cents per hour to shuck dried corn in his corn bin, run the corn thru a hand powered sheller, and feed the corn to his hogs.
Imagine my blessed feeling to keep falling into these "cash cow" deals?
Anywho, it was winter, but the corn was in a (I would guess, old chicken coop?). All I had to do was sit in that building on a mountain of dried corn (all day) and pull the dried shucks off (did I mention that there were more rats in that corn than ears of corn?)
I swear I can't remember how long that gig lasted (not more than a week), but I think about then I began to realize that my life's occupation had to be a bit more intellectually stimulating than pullin' dried shucks from corn??? (sorry hawgs?)
A side story is that T.A. went to his eternal reward (took a long dirt nap) and his bride asked Dad if he would like to buy his shotgun. Dad didn't know guns from biscuits, but he asked, "how much?" T.A.'s wife said, "how bout $10?"
Dad looked at the gun (it was a J.C. Higgins, double barrel, .410 shotgun in new condition) and Dad said, "No ma'am, but I will give you $20!"
More than 30 years later, I still have T.A.'s shotgun. I have never shot it, but I treasure the memory of the ole WC farmer who toted it, his bride, and my Dad who bought it for me without having a clue what it's value could be?
My research indicates its worth at about $150 today, but because it belonged to one of my first employers, because it is a Wright City relic, and because my Dad bought it for me, it is PRICELESS!
City rancher.
I say "almost" rancher because even at my tender age, I could see that his operation was a bit ragged as compared to the way Grandaddy kept up his pens, fences, and well...everything.
Course, I will admit that compared to Grandaddy, the Garden of Eden may have felt a bit slighted in the care given to each agricultural detail?
When I was bout 11 year old, T.A. offered to pay me the magnanimous sum of 50 cents per hour to shuck dried corn in his corn bin, run the corn thru a hand powered sheller, and feed the corn to his hogs.
Imagine my blessed feeling to keep falling into these "cash cow" deals?
Anywho, it was winter, but the corn was in a (I would guess, old chicken coop?). All I had to do was sit in that building on a mountain of dried corn (all day) and pull the dried shucks off (did I mention that there were more rats in that corn than ears of corn?)
I swear I can't remember how long that gig lasted (not more than a week), but I think about then I began to realize that my life's occupation had to be a bit more intellectually stimulating than pullin' dried shucks from corn??? (sorry hawgs?)
A side story is that T.A. went to his eternal reward (took a long dirt nap) and his bride asked Dad if he would like to buy his shotgun. Dad didn't know guns from biscuits, but he asked, "how much?" T.A.'s wife said, "how bout $10?"
Dad looked at the gun (it was a J.C. Higgins, double barrel, .410 shotgun in new condition) and Dad said, "No ma'am, but I will give you $20!"
More than 30 years later, I still have T.A.'s shotgun. I have never shot it, but I treasure the memory of the ole WC farmer who toted it, his bride, and my Dad who bought it for me without having a clue what it's value could be?
My research indicates its worth at about $150 today, but because it belonged to one of my first employers, because it is a Wright City relic, and because my Dad bought it for me, it is PRICELESS!
TIN HATS
The male side of my kin mostly paid for groceries by slaving in the East Texas oil field around Turnertown, Kilgore, Gladewater, Joinerville, etc.
They worked on drilling rigs, workover rigs, and pulling units (mostly tired old pieces of junk). They also toiled as lease pumpers, oil pump renters, and gasoline refinery workers.
They shared some commons traits of this trade:
1. Economic deprivation (the money train didn't stop at their house often)
2. A life of grease and grime, with their rears constantly exposed to the elements (rain, ice, heat, humidity)
3. Injuries (crooked limbs, missing digits, scars, hernias, and bad backs)
4. No job security and no retirement (with frequent trips to the unemployment office)
5. Great sun tans (at least on their arms and faces, damn they had white bellies and legs!)
At the minimum age (17) to legally enter this lucrative profession, I started out on a pulling unit working for Dad at Major and Garvin's in Turnertown.
I was awarded the magnificent wage of $1.25 per hour and Dad "loaned" me his round brim, domed, aluminum hard-hat to wear while working. I say, "loaned" because Dad said in no uncertain terms that he wanted his sombrero back. Seems when Dad was 14 (1946), he went to work on a drilling rig near Wright City. On the first day, the driller "gave" him a new "tin hat" to wear (Dad learned on payday that they took $1.50 out of his check to pay for the hat). Dad wore only that tin hat in the oil field, except for the time I had it on loan. (I scratched my initials in it cause they all looked alike)
I learned a myriad of lessons in the oil field.
1. There was the never ending filth of grit/grime/grease/dirt.
2. With all this work being outside, there were the unyielding elements of weather (with no place to escape for a breather).
3. It was all about muscle and endurance, lift more than anyone could imagine, more times than you believe can, and do it every day.
4. And there was the danger.
Oil wells produce, yeah, oil. Oil is flammable (duh!). All oil field workers are periodically COVERED and soaked in oil (think fires and carcinogens). Natural gas comes from these same wells in varying quantities. Now bring together the wells, the internal combustion engines powering the engines that work on the wells, and mix in the iron things around well work that bang together to make sparks. If you think a long tail cat in a room full of rockin' chairs is skittish, try oil field work for a day.
Add to the carcinogen/fire issue the fact that some very heavy iron in various shapes and size is constantly in motion in an around the oil field work. Hence the crooked and missing stuff on oil field worker bodies.
There were other somewhat annoying issues. When I worked for Kitty Barber in Kilgore, he had a ragged outfit that didn't float much capital. Each payday when we would get our checks, it was a race to his bank to cash them. The bank teller would deduct each cashed check from Kitty's balance and when the "well went dry", she would tell the rest of us we could leave? Kitty finally had to pay in cash as no one would work for him anymore.
All this is to say that when my companions on the Texas Highway Patrol griped about our job, I would always tell them, "At least the checks cash", and "Yeah, but its clean work".
To remind me of "where I came from", I have on the desk in my office Dad's 62 year old tin hat. It is sitting on a walnut stand I made with a brass plate inscribed, "GENE WALLER, East Texas Oil Field, 1946 - 1974".
Thanks Dad. Your hat reminds me every day that I have "a good job", and "the checks cash".
They worked on drilling rigs, workover rigs, and pulling units (mostly tired old pieces of junk). They also toiled as lease pumpers, oil pump renters, and gasoline refinery workers.
They shared some commons traits of this trade:
1. Economic deprivation (the money train didn't stop at their house often)
2. A life of grease and grime, with their rears constantly exposed to the elements (rain, ice, heat, humidity)
3. Injuries (crooked limbs, missing digits, scars, hernias, and bad backs)
4. No job security and no retirement (with frequent trips to the unemployment office)
5. Great sun tans (at least on their arms and faces, damn they had white bellies and legs!)
At the minimum age (17) to legally enter this lucrative profession, I started out on a pulling unit working for Dad at Major and Garvin's in Turnertown.
I was awarded the magnificent wage of $1.25 per hour and Dad "loaned" me his round brim, domed, aluminum hard-hat to wear while working. I say, "loaned" because Dad said in no uncertain terms that he wanted his sombrero back. Seems when Dad was 14 (1946), he went to work on a drilling rig near Wright City. On the first day, the driller "gave" him a new "tin hat" to wear (Dad learned on payday that they took $1.50 out of his check to pay for the hat). Dad wore only that tin hat in the oil field, except for the time I had it on loan. (I scratched my initials in it cause they all looked alike)
I learned a myriad of lessons in the oil field.
1. There was the never ending filth of grit/grime/grease/dirt.
2. With all this work being outside, there were the unyielding elements of weather (with no place to escape for a breather).
3. It was all about muscle and endurance, lift more than anyone could imagine, more times than you believe can, and do it every day.
4. And there was the danger.
Oil wells produce, yeah, oil. Oil is flammable (duh!). All oil field workers are periodically COVERED and soaked in oil (think fires and carcinogens). Natural gas comes from these same wells in varying quantities. Now bring together the wells, the internal combustion engines powering the engines that work on the wells, and mix in the iron things around well work that bang together to make sparks. If you think a long tail cat in a room full of rockin' chairs is skittish, try oil field work for a day.
Add to the carcinogen/fire issue the fact that some very heavy iron in various shapes and size is constantly in motion in an around the oil field work. Hence the crooked and missing stuff on oil field worker bodies.
There were other somewhat annoying issues. When I worked for Kitty Barber in Kilgore, he had a ragged outfit that didn't float much capital. Each payday when we would get our checks, it was a race to his bank to cash them. The bank teller would deduct each cashed check from Kitty's balance and when the "well went dry", she would tell the rest of us we could leave? Kitty finally had to pay in cash as no one would work for him anymore.
All this is to say that when my companions on the Texas Highway Patrol griped about our job, I would always tell them, "At least the checks cash", and "Yeah, but its clean work".
To remind me of "where I came from", I have on the desk in my office Dad's 62 year old tin hat. It is sitting on a walnut stand I made with a brass plate inscribed, "GENE WALLER, East Texas Oil Field, 1946 - 1974".
Thanks Dad. Your hat reminds me every day that I have "a good job", and "the checks cash".
Thursday, May 8, 2008
MADE RITE
In the summer of 1966, I got a job loading trucks at the Made Rite bottling plant in Longview. My "shift" was from 6PM til 6AM (five days per week).
Made Rite "manufactured" and sold Dr. Pepper and several other "flavors" of soda pop such as orange, grape, root beer, and "red". Yeah, I know "red" ain't a flavor, but that is what the people in my world called that particular bottled drink.
I say "bottle" drink because in the golden age of my 16th year, all soda came in glass bottles, no aluminum cans, no plastic bottles, just glass containers. Also, you had to pay a "deposit" of a few cents, in addition to the cost of the "sodie pop". I think this was more so they could get the bottles back, rather than an environmental issue?
The drinks were bottled COLD on the assembly line and while at work, we could drink all we wanted from the assembly line FREE. Now you would have to know that poor folks in East Texas didn't all have their "ice boxes" stuffed with soft drinks. On the rare occasion you got to drink one, it was usually a single purchase at a gasoline station (like Uncle Reggie's Sinclair, where they used to cost a nickel, if you left the bottle there after finishing the treat).
Anyway, I thought I was in heaven while swiggin' that sweet nectar all day long. In fact, my feeling of elation lasted for at least a week. Didn't take too long before I got plumb overloaded with the bounty and couldn't even think about drinking them thangs?
The bottles were placed in wooden crates that held 24 bottles each. There was no plastic rings to hold 6 together, there was no cardboard containers to hold 12 together. They were sold to retailers 24 to a wooden case.
As the 24 bottle wooden cases came off the assembly line, we would stack 24 of the cases on a wooden pallet. When the pallet was full, we would mount a motorized fork lift, pick up the pallet, and move it to a designated location. (don't tell the boss, but we had drag races on those fork lifts in the warehouse at night after the managers left for the day).
The "designated place" for the pallets was against the wall of this huge warehouse. Naturally, the same flavor would be stacked in its own line. The pallets with 24 cases of 24 bottles each would be stacked 3 pallets high (1,728 bottles in a stack, remember this as it will be important later on). Then a stack of 3 more pallets, and so forth as the line of stacked pallets got longer. Now imagine MOUNTAINS of glass towering in neat rows along the East and West walls of the warehouse.
When the delivery trucks would come in after a day of delivering to the grocery stores, etc., us peons would get the driver's order form for the next day and load his truck with his order (25 cases of this, 12 cases of that, etc.)
To get the needed flavor, we would hop back on a fork lift and head toward the MOUNTAIN. As the flavors would be needed in unequal quantities, some stack lines would be 40 yards long while others would be 10 yards long.
Now imagine the flavor you need is 10 yards long while the flavors on either side are each 40 yards long. Ease your butt between the long rows that tower over your head to get to the needed flavor on the short row. Now look around and up!!!!!!!!!! Holy Moly!!!!!!!
Think about being in that canyon of glass where there are 1,728 bottles in every stack and there are hundreds of stacks adjacent to you (meaning there are about a gazillion that are unsecured around and over your frail butt)? Now imagine running the boom of that fork lift as high as it will go to the roof of the warehouse to GINGERLY (while not breathing) pick up the pallet on top and ease back without that pallet of drinks falling. We didn't have helmets, the fork lift had no top (and some them looser stacks were downright wobblers).
When the needed pallet was on ground level, all you had to do was back out about 30 yards to get out of the canyon and get to the appropriate truck (easy, right?)
Now comes the actual loading of the truck. Today they would just use the fork lift to sit the whole pallet in a side bay of the truck. Not so over four decades ago (8 lustrums?)
The trucks at that time had metal rails that ran from side to side that the wooden pallet would ride on. I would pick up a wooden case of 24 drinks (at least 25-30 pounds), put it at the entrance to the rail, and push it in. Pick up the next case and repeat. The rails started from about waist high and went up. As the rails got higher, I would bend over to get a case off the pallet, and eventually have to lift it over my head, and then SHOVE harder as the rail filled with the drinks. The trucks all had a solid sheet of metal on top with rails as well, but with a metal support strap running about two feet over the top from the front of the truck to the back.
For that roof top load, I would bend over and grab the case of drinks, hold it over my head, and then THROW IT at the roof while trying to land it in the rails, but with low enough trajectory to go under the front to back metal strap. Most times I did it successfully. Sometimes I was short and 24 glass bottles of sticky pop rained in my face (along with the sharp slivers).
Now repeat the above mentioned "cakewalk" (with no break for anything) for a 12 hour shift, all night long, when you would normally be a sleeping teenager.
I survived that summer with one reminder that I carry to this day. We were loading the roof of a truck and I got on the roof to straighten up some cases that were awry. One of my buddies reared back and slung a case my way, but its trajectory was too high. The necks of 24 bottles hit the metal strap running over the roof and sheared them clean, followed by a mass of glass shrapnel hitting me.
I was OK, for the most part, but one piece put a slice in my arm that went to the bone. Think much blood and a gaping wound of maybe 5 inches long.
I went straight to our nurse station (the two cleaning ladies who tidied up the manager's offices at night) and sought their advice. There wasn't even so much as a band aid in that entire warehouse, but there was a large metal can of Watkins course ground black pepper in the manager's break room.
Those surgical saviors (janitors) poured the entire contents of that Watkins pepper can into my wound and bound it with a semi-clean dish cloth they hunted up. The bleeding immediately stopped, no infection occurred, and I ended up with a clean, neat scar that looked like it had been treated at the Mayo clinic.
And last, but not least, I went into the warehouse and finished my shift. Hell they was paying me $1.15 per hour (no overtime), so my 60 hours per week (after taxes, social security, FICA, whatever) netted me at least a whopping $45!!!!!!!!!!! Thank the Lord for free enterprise!
Made Rite "manufactured" and sold Dr. Pepper and several other "flavors" of soda pop such as orange, grape, root beer, and "red". Yeah, I know "red" ain't a flavor, but that is what the people in my world called that particular bottled drink.
I say "bottle" drink because in the golden age of my 16th year, all soda came in glass bottles, no aluminum cans, no plastic bottles, just glass containers. Also, you had to pay a "deposit" of a few cents, in addition to the cost of the "sodie pop". I think this was more so they could get the bottles back, rather than an environmental issue?
The drinks were bottled COLD on the assembly line and while at work, we could drink all we wanted from the assembly line FREE. Now you would have to know that poor folks in East Texas didn't all have their "ice boxes" stuffed with soft drinks. On the rare occasion you got to drink one, it was usually a single purchase at a gasoline station (like Uncle Reggie's Sinclair, where they used to cost a nickel, if you left the bottle there after finishing the treat).
Anyway, I thought I was in heaven while swiggin' that sweet nectar all day long. In fact, my feeling of elation lasted for at least a week. Didn't take too long before I got plumb overloaded with the bounty and couldn't even think about drinking them thangs?
The bottles were placed in wooden crates that held 24 bottles each. There was no plastic rings to hold 6 together, there was no cardboard containers to hold 12 together. They were sold to retailers 24 to a wooden case.
As the 24 bottle wooden cases came off the assembly line, we would stack 24 of the cases on a wooden pallet. When the pallet was full, we would mount a motorized fork lift, pick up the pallet, and move it to a designated location. (don't tell the boss, but we had drag races on those fork lifts in the warehouse at night after the managers left for the day).
The "designated place" for the pallets was against the wall of this huge warehouse. Naturally, the same flavor would be stacked in its own line. The pallets with 24 cases of 24 bottles each would be stacked 3 pallets high (1,728 bottles in a stack, remember this as it will be important later on). Then a stack of 3 more pallets, and so forth as the line of stacked pallets got longer. Now imagine MOUNTAINS of glass towering in neat rows along the East and West walls of the warehouse.
When the delivery trucks would come in after a day of delivering to the grocery stores, etc., us peons would get the driver's order form for the next day and load his truck with his order (25 cases of this, 12 cases of that, etc.)
To get the needed flavor, we would hop back on a fork lift and head toward the MOUNTAIN. As the flavors would be needed in unequal quantities, some stack lines would be 40 yards long while others would be 10 yards long.
Now imagine the flavor you need is 10 yards long while the flavors on either side are each 40 yards long. Ease your butt between the long rows that tower over your head to get to the needed flavor on the short row. Now look around and up!!!!!!!!!! Holy Moly!!!!!!!
Think about being in that canyon of glass where there are 1,728 bottles in every stack and there are hundreds of stacks adjacent to you (meaning there are about a gazillion that are unsecured around and over your frail butt)? Now imagine running the boom of that fork lift as high as it will go to the roof of the warehouse to GINGERLY (while not breathing) pick up the pallet on top and ease back without that pallet of drinks falling. We didn't have helmets, the fork lift had no top (and some them looser stacks were downright wobblers).
When the needed pallet was on ground level, all you had to do was back out about 30 yards to get out of the canyon and get to the appropriate truck (easy, right?)
Now comes the actual loading of the truck. Today they would just use the fork lift to sit the whole pallet in a side bay of the truck. Not so over four decades ago (8 lustrums?)
The trucks at that time had metal rails that ran from side to side that the wooden pallet would ride on. I would pick up a wooden case of 24 drinks (at least 25-30 pounds), put it at the entrance to the rail, and push it in. Pick up the next case and repeat. The rails started from about waist high and went up. As the rails got higher, I would bend over to get a case off the pallet, and eventually have to lift it over my head, and then SHOVE harder as the rail filled with the drinks. The trucks all had a solid sheet of metal on top with rails as well, but with a metal support strap running about two feet over the top from the front of the truck to the back.
For that roof top load, I would bend over and grab the case of drinks, hold it over my head, and then THROW IT at the roof while trying to land it in the rails, but with low enough trajectory to go under the front to back metal strap. Most times I did it successfully. Sometimes I was short and 24 glass bottles of sticky pop rained in my face (along with the sharp slivers).
Now repeat the above mentioned "cakewalk" (with no break for anything) for a 12 hour shift, all night long, when you would normally be a sleeping teenager.
I survived that summer with one reminder that I carry to this day. We were loading the roof of a truck and I got on the roof to straighten up some cases that were awry. One of my buddies reared back and slung a case my way, but its trajectory was too high. The necks of 24 bottles hit the metal strap running over the roof and sheared them clean, followed by a mass of glass shrapnel hitting me.
I was OK, for the most part, but one piece put a slice in my arm that went to the bone. Think much blood and a gaping wound of maybe 5 inches long.
I went straight to our nurse station (the two cleaning ladies who tidied up the manager's offices at night) and sought their advice. There wasn't even so much as a band aid in that entire warehouse, but there was a large metal can of Watkins course ground black pepper in the manager's break room.
Those surgical saviors (janitors) poured the entire contents of that Watkins pepper can into my wound and bound it with a semi-clean dish cloth they hunted up. The bleeding immediately stopped, no infection occurred, and I ended up with a clean, neat scar that looked like it had been treated at the Mayo clinic.
And last, but not least, I went into the warehouse and finished my shift. Hell they was paying me $1.15 per hour (no overtime), so my 60 hours per week (after taxes, social security, FICA, whatever) netted me at least a whopping $45!!!!!!!!!!! Thank the Lord for free enterprise!
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