I drove onto the Tin Star today and found twin fawns perturbed that I had interrupted their play. After momentary pause, I watched their game of "tag" until they disappeared into a cedar hideout.
I then eased to my pond to find that a small hawk was as disappointed as I to see it has gone dry? The local oldtimers tell me that if I dig the silt out that has washed down the creek over the years, the pond has a spring that will feed it water the year round. Now if the oldtimers would just loan me the money to hire the bulldozer and operator?
A bit later, I flushed a pair of bobwhite quail. This was a special treat to me for two reasons. One is that I don't recall seeing quail actually on my land before. The other reason is because it reminded me of Grandaddy.
As a youngster, I clearly remember Grandaddy owning and training pointers (dogs) to hunt quail. I also know that he hunted with a Belgium made Browning Sweet Sixteen semiautomatic shotgun (later lost by Curtis at a hock shop) and toted his prized game in a canvas hunting vest (which I now have courtesy of Grandaddy). I can remember a time or two seeing Grandaddy and JRM cleaning quail in Gandaddy's back yard in WC so I have always assumed that they would on occasion hunt together.
There was never any doubt that Grandaddy loved to hunt quail and only stopped when he could no longer hold up to the walking required. Because of his passion for this small game bird, I pray that a pair or two will continuously nest on my land as a constant reminder of a special person in my life.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
FIFTEEN POUNDS
Hooray and hallelujah!
Down to 183 today and that is 15 pounds off since January 2nd.
Look out 179 because here I come!
Down to 183 today and that is 15 pounds off since January 2nd.
Look out 179 because here I come!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
UNEMPLOYMENT
Baby Sister retired near two months ago after 32 years of faithful service to a single employer.
After a visit with her last week, I have detected remarkable changes in my youthful sibling:
* No frowns and no "crows feet" around the eyes, just a relaxed perpetual smile
* Jokes, light hearted conversation, and focus on all the fun things in the future
* A prance in her step, a saucy direct gaze at the world, and an eagerness to greet each new day
* Complete satisfaction in a job well done, a rewarding career, and well earned leisure
If there is ever a contest for the retirement "poster girl", I wish to at this time to formally nominate CAROLYN JEAN!
Have patience and wait for me little one, ole fat bro will join you one day soon in the eternal bliss of permanent unemployment.
After a visit with her last week, I have detected remarkable changes in my youthful sibling:
* No frowns and no "crows feet" around the eyes, just a relaxed perpetual smile
* Jokes, light hearted conversation, and focus on all the fun things in the future
* A prance in her step, a saucy direct gaze at the world, and an eagerness to greet each new day
* Complete satisfaction in a job well done, a rewarding career, and well earned leisure
If there is ever a contest for the retirement "poster girl", I wish to at this time to formally nominate CAROLYN JEAN!
Have patience and wait for me little one, ole fat bro will join you one day soon in the eternal bliss of permanent unemployment.
Monday, June 23, 2008
SELF INDULGENCE
I recently read an article about a genre that includes literary offerings that are precisely six words in length. No more, no less.
As an example, Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “For sale. Baby shoes. Never used.” The details that one could infer in this short story are limitless? Hemingway was reported to have said that this was his best work.
I decided to try to my hand at this so, yeah, this means ya'll will just have to suffer my "six word" self indulgence.
Self indulgence: A blog's true reward.
Wright City conceives country souls. Forever.
Casinos devour cash, reaping conscientious consistency.
Epitaph: Hold my beer. Watch this!
Future physician. Abandoned school. Healed self.
Want marital freedom? It's lonely, dammit!
Adults only. Naughty - nice? Dessert first!
Slippery path? Hell's waitin'! More grease?
Nice suit. Buried cold. Ashes warm?
Human suffering without charitable grace. Tragic.
They meet. Hearts melt. Grandkids? Maybe!
Times hurtles forward. Avoid the rush.
Third eye remains undisciplined. Metamucil blamed.
I'm right - when she says so.
Turned right. Direction void? Nothing left!
Coal claims discrimination. Diamonds seek immunity.
Grim reaper denies manic depressive rumor.
I wrote all I knew, quickly.
Ain't this enough? (lazy blogger pled)
BS detector patented. Ranch Hand retires.
As an example, Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “For sale. Baby shoes. Never used.” The details that one could infer in this short story are limitless? Hemingway was reported to have said that this was his best work.
I decided to try to my hand at this so, yeah, this means ya'll will just have to suffer my "six word" self indulgence.
Self indulgence: A blog's true reward.
Wright City conceives country souls. Forever.
Casinos devour cash, reaping conscientious consistency.
Epitaph: Hold my beer. Watch this!
Future physician. Abandoned school. Healed self.
Want marital freedom? It's lonely, dammit!
Adults only. Naughty - nice? Dessert first!
Slippery path? Hell's waitin'! More grease?
Nice suit. Buried cold. Ashes warm?
Human suffering without charitable grace. Tragic.
They meet. Hearts melt. Grandkids? Maybe!
Times hurtles forward. Avoid the rush.
Third eye remains undisciplined. Metamucil blamed.
I'm right - when she says so.
Turned right. Direction void? Nothing left!
Coal claims discrimination. Diamonds seek immunity.
Grim reaper denies manic depressive rumor.
I wrote all I knew, quickly.
Ain't this enough? (lazy blogger pled)
BS detector patented. Ranch Hand retires.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
THE FUTURE
My employer sponsors a summer youth program that has the goal of encouraging middle school age children to continue their education and start to think about careers. Virtually all of the invited attendees are from foster homes, have exhibited behavioral problems, or have dysfunctional families.
During the summer, each term of the program lasts one week and at noon each day there is a speaker to talk about various professional careers to the kiddos. Today I was the featured speaker.
I have spoken to youth groups on many occasions and tend to focus on the value of education, the importance of personal choice, and the rewards for hard work. The questions that follow these discussions are never related to what I talk about. The kids almost always ask things like do I have a gun or have I ever shot anyone.
The group of kids today wanted information about things that really got my attention. After reflection, I know that their curiosity is based on things they have actually witnessed in their neighborhoods and families. Their posers included:
1. When you shoot someone, are you a good enough shot to shoot them in the head? (notice they assumed that I shoot people, they just wondered about my accuracy)
2. Have you ever handled a hostage situation? (I have never had a kid ask me this in 38 years of law enforcement)
3. Have you ever been afraid? (another new question)
4. Have you ever "wet" your pants? (wow, that one blew me away, but I answered honestly that I almost did a time or two due to being scared or really startled)
5. Can a person make a million dollars any way other than dealing dope? (another issue created by their environment)
At the conclusion of my part in the program, I sincerely thanked the adults that were coordinating the program and promised to help them in any future way I can.
We should all remember that the kids I talked to today are the future of our world, one way or the other.
During the summer, each term of the program lasts one week and at noon each day there is a speaker to talk about various professional careers to the kiddos. Today I was the featured speaker.
I have spoken to youth groups on many occasions and tend to focus on the value of education, the importance of personal choice, and the rewards for hard work. The questions that follow these discussions are never related to what I talk about. The kids almost always ask things like do I have a gun or have I ever shot anyone.
The group of kids today wanted information about things that really got my attention. After reflection, I know that their curiosity is based on things they have actually witnessed in their neighborhoods and families. Their posers included:
1. When you shoot someone, are you a good enough shot to shoot them in the head? (notice they assumed that I shoot people, they just wondered about my accuracy)
2. Have you ever handled a hostage situation? (I have never had a kid ask me this in 38 years of law enforcement)
3. Have you ever been afraid? (another new question)
4. Have you ever "wet" your pants? (wow, that one blew me away, but I answered honestly that I almost did a time or two due to being scared or really startled)
5. Can a person make a million dollars any way other than dealing dope? (another issue created by their environment)
At the conclusion of my part in the program, I sincerely thanked the adults that were coordinating the program and promised to help them in any future way I can.
We should all remember that the kids I talked to today are the future of our world, one way or the other.
Monday, June 16, 2008
INSIDE JOB
I just looked at weather.com and learned it should hit 103 degrees today and 102 tomorrow. That kinda got me thinking.
The road in front of my childhood home was constructed of a dirt and crude oil mix that was packed into a hard surface. We didn't have a thermometer, but during the summer it would get so hot that the oil in the road would boil to the surface as an iridescent film.
As we never wore shoes in the summers, the steaming roads became a navigation issue. I can remember running on the road a piece, then jumping onto a roadside tuft of grass to let my fiery feet cool. Then back down the road to the next oasis of balming weeds. (That memory is a incredible to me given that now days I can step barefoot on a piece of lint on the floor and near founder?)
As a teen, I would haul hay from the fields and stack it in barns. These ancient structures had no ventilation and were likely near the limits of human endurance in terms of ambient air temperature.
After high school I worked in the East Texas oil field on work-over units. Leases in the North Kilgore field were "flowing" wells. This meant there was sufficient gas pressure in the wells to push the oil out of the ground without need for mechanical pumping.
Now imagine you are working on a concrete floor under a steel 80 foot tall derrick in the middle of a pasture. You are next to a gargantuan steel "pulling unit" that is radiating enough heat to boil water. In addition, there is a large engine on the rig that is blasting its exhaust while creating combustion heat. The crowning touch is that the wells invariably began to "flow" while working on them, which meant you would stand under a two inch shower of crude oil all day.
My point: For the most part of the last 38 years I have had the ability to at least periodically retreat to a heated or air conditioned space to survive whatever outside weather occurred. Many is the time that I have listened to a co-worker complain and sincerely replied, "At least we have an inside job".
The road in front of my childhood home was constructed of a dirt and crude oil mix that was packed into a hard surface. We didn't have a thermometer, but during the summer it would get so hot that the oil in the road would boil to the surface as an iridescent film.
As we never wore shoes in the summers, the steaming roads became a navigation issue. I can remember running on the road a piece, then jumping onto a roadside tuft of grass to let my fiery feet cool. Then back down the road to the next oasis of balming weeds. (That memory is a incredible to me given that now days I can step barefoot on a piece of lint on the floor and near founder?)
As a teen, I would haul hay from the fields and stack it in barns. These ancient structures had no ventilation and were likely near the limits of human endurance in terms of ambient air temperature.
After high school I worked in the East Texas oil field on work-over units. Leases in the North Kilgore field were "flowing" wells. This meant there was sufficient gas pressure in the wells to push the oil out of the ground without need for mechanical pumping.
Now imagine you are working on a concrete floor under a steel 80 foot tall derrick in the middle of a pasture. You are next to a gargantuan steel "pulling unit" that is radiating enough heat to boil water. In addition, there is a large engine on the rig that is blasting its exhaust while creating combustion heat. The crowning touch is that the wells invariably began to "flow" while working on them, which meant you would stand under a two inch shower of crude oil all day.
My point: For the most part of the last 38 years I have had the ability to at least periodically retreat to a heated or air conditioned space to survive whatever outside weather occurred. Many is the time that I have listened to a co-worker complain and sincerely replied, "At least we have an inside job".
Sunday, June 15, 2008
DADDY'S BOY
Today is Father's Day, 2008, so I am naturally cogitating a bit about my Dad.
My Dad was my all-time best friend and strongest supporter. I would give anything to have him available again to hear his country wisdom, jokes, and views about the world at large.
To commemorate his life, I think I will simply list a few things about him:
He could do one-armed chins/pullups all day long.
He could sit backwards on the handlebars of a bicycle and ride better than most folks otherwise.
He could put a standard transmission in reverse, spin the tires, and then put the transmission in low gear and spin the tires forward without scratching the gears or causing the engine to miss a beat.
He could cook superb pinto beans and cornbread.
He could never finish telling jokes he thought were hilarious because of his own laughter and tears running down his cheeks.
He sang bits of country western songs, but never got the words right.
He spoke the absolute truth and reality about any situation in plain language regardless of who was present.
If he loved you, he would give you anything he owned and fist fight to defend you.
He loved Lou's dachshund, Abby, but wouldn't admit it to anyone.
Meticulous in his appearance, he shaved every day of his adult life.
He gave every person he ever met a nickname and only called them by his chosen name.
He could quickly and easily remove a tire from a rim and replace it with another tire (you can't really appreciate this one unless you have tried it).
He could perform near miracles with small engine repair.
He would routinely walk up to chained "vicious" dogs and pet them like they were lambs.
He would "knock-down, drag out" fight any man on earth, but loved and catered to every child he encountered.
Although he was in every way the toughest man I have ever known, he honored his Mother by calling himself, "a Mama's boy".
In short, Dad was special to all who had the privilege to know him.
I love you Dad and want you to know that your "Daddy's boy" misses you with all his heart.
My Dad was my all-time best friend and strongest supporter. I would give anything to have him available again to hear his country wisdom, jokes, and views about the world at large.
To commemorate his life, I think I will simply list a few things about him:
He could do one-armed chins/pullups all day long.
He could sit backwards on the handlebars of a bicycle and ride better than most folks otherwise.
He could put a standard transmission in reverse, spin the tires, and then put the transmission in low gear and spin the tires forward without scratching the gears or causing the engine to miss a beat.
He could cook superb pinto beans and cornbread.
He could never finish telling jokes he thought were hilarious because of his own laughter and tears running down his cheeks.
He sang bits of country western songs, but never got the words right.
He spoke the absolute truth and reality about any situation in plain language regardless of who was present.
If he loved you, he would give you anything he owned and fist fight to defend you.
He loved Lou's dachshund, Abby, but wouldn't admit it to anyone.
Meticulous in his appearance, he shaved every day of his adult life.
He gave every person he ever met a nickname and only called them by his chosen name.
He could quickly and easily remove a tire from a rim and replace it with another tire (you can't really appreciate this one unless you have tried it).
He could perform near miracles with small engine repair.
He would routinely walk up to chained "vicious" dogs and pet them like they were lambs.
He would "knock-down, drag out" fight any man on earth, but loved and catered to every child he encountered.
Although he was in every way the toughest man I have ever known, he honored his Mother by calling himself, "a Mama's boy".
In short, Dad was special to all who had the privilege to know him.
I love you Dad and want you to know that your "Daddy's boy" misses you with all his heart.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
LAVA SOAP
A comedian named Jeff Foxworthy made a gozillion bucks with jokes about rednecks. His jokes started out with, "You might be a redneck if..........".
I doubt it will net me a gozillion, but it occurs to me that the same logic might apply to my home town. Here goes.
You might be from Wright City if:
You have turned off the light in your living room by holding the electricity wire and receptacle hanging from the ceiling and twisting the bulb.
You can sit inside your house and see outside by looking between the wall boards.
Every time rain causes the roof to leak, you nail on a patch of different color roll roofing.
You have not painted the outside of your house for 30 years.
Your hot water heater sits exposed between the commode and the bathtub in your bathroom.
You have never locked your house in your life because there is nothing in it worth stealing.
You are too poor to own chickens.
The only rooms in the house that are heated are the living room and bathroom.
You put an old upright piano in your living room and the legs break thru the wooden floor.
A window next to your bed breaks during winter and it is repaired by stuffing an old sheet in it.
There is only one small closet in your entire house.
Your bath towels come from an oil field rag box.
Your dish washing cloths are oil field "red" rags.
Until you are in high school, all of your shirts and boxer shorts are made by your mother from chicken feed sacks.
You get only one pair of new shoes per year.
Your bath soap includes a brand called Lava.
You have eaten beans and taters every meal for several weeks in a row.
You have eaten fried spam or salt pork.
You drink iced tea from a peach or coffee can.
You burn your household trash in a 55 gallon metal drum in the back yard.
You periodically intentionally get fired from your job in order to draw unemployment checks.
In your entire childhood you never visit a doctor, not even once.
You have completely overhauled an automatic transmission on your dining room table while drinking catalpa wine.
You have had 5-10 vehicles repossessed due to nonpayment.
You repair your own flat tires.
You have put tires on your car that you found in a trash dump.
You know what recap tires are.
You have never had vehicle insurance in your life.
You have driven more years without a driver license than with one.
You have more drunk driving arrests than most people have speeding tickets.
You have regularly visited a bootlegger.
You don't have any of your original teeth left in your mouth.
You have bought groceries on credit for multiple years in a row.
I could go on for a couple hundred more "You might be from Wright City if..." lines since all of the above pertain to my family, but you get the idea.
Don't get me wrong, we didn't have such a bad life in WC. It was just "memorable".
It also taught us not to judge folks by their relatives and that the world is a simpler place if you plow around the stumps.
I doubt it will net me a gozillion, but it occurs to me that the same logic might apply to my home town. Here goes.
You might be from Wright City if:
You have turned off the light in your living room by holding the electricity wire and receptacle hanging from the ceiling and twisting the bulb.
You can sit inside your house and see outside by looking between the wall boards.
Every time rain causes the roof to leak, you nail on a patch of different color roll roofing.
You have not painted the outside of your house for 30 years.
Your hot water heater sits exposed between the commode and the bathtub in your bathroom.
You have never locked your house in your life because there is nothing in it worth stealing.
You are too poor to own chickens.
The only rooms in the house that are heated are the living room and bathroom.
You put an old upright piano in your living room and the legs break thru the wooden floor.
A window next to your bed breaks during winter and it is repaired by stuffing an old sheet in it.
There is only one small closet in your entire house.
Your bath towels come from an oil field rag box.
Your dish washing cloths are oil field "red" rags.
Until you are in high school, all of your shirts and boxer shorts are made by your mother from chicken feed sacks.
You get only one pair of new shoes per year.
Your bath soap includes a brand called Lava.
You have eaten beans and taters every meal for several weeks in a row.
You have eaten fried spam or salt pork.
You drink iced tea from a peach or coffee can.
You burn your household trash in a 55 gallon metal drum in the back yard.
You periodically intentionally get fired from your job in order to draw unemployment checks.
In your entire childhood you never visit a doctor, not even once.
You have completely overhauled an automatic transmission on your dining room table while drinking catalpa wine.
You have had 5-10 vehicles repossessed due to nonpayment.
You repair your own flat tires.
You have put tires on your car that you found in a trash dump.
You know what recap tires are.
You have never had vehicle insurance in your life.
You have driven more years without a driver license than with one.
You have more drunk driving arrests than most people have speeding tickets.
You have regularly visited a bootlegger.
You don't have any of your original teeth left in your mouth.
You have bought groceries on credit for multiple years in a row.
I could go on for a couple hundred more "You might be from Wright City if..." lines since all of the above pertain to my family, but you get the idea.
Don't get me wrong, we didn't have such a bad life in WC. It was just "memorable".
It also taught us not to judge folks by their relatives and that the world is a simpler place if you plow around the stumps.
Friday, June 13, 2008
BUGLE MOUTH BASS
Dad did not often eat fish or angle for them. He did, however, enjoy fishing under the right circumstances.
Most people were interested in catfish, bass, crappy, or bream. Dad was always kinda different in all things including fishing. His interest was in what he called "bugle mouth bass" (carp).
Dad and a friend would go to Striker Creek and spend a day and a night on occasion. They would build a fire, cook a few groceries, and drink copious amounts of Budweiser.
Preparing bait for carp involved taking bran cereal like Wheaties, wetting it with orange or red soda water, and making a small gummy "ball". Once pressed onto a treble hook and allowed to dry just a bit, the "bait" would stay on the hook forever. Dad would then just cast into the creek and relax while waiting for a strike.
The carp Dad caught ranged in size from 5 pounds up to 25 pounds. They would fight like angry bulls and Dad loved to feel the line and rod throbbing during "fights" that would last for up to 20 minutes.
When Dad would end his carp safari, he would throw some in the trunk (he called it the"turtle hull") of his car, go to Carlisle, and offer the "treasure" to the Medford family (his African-American friends). Mama Medford would gut and gill the fish and then put them in a pressure cooker. After the flesh was cooked from the bones, she would make the fish into patties and let it swim it in a bath of hot lard in her iron skillet. As Dad didn't like eating fish anyway, I'm very confident he never sampled his "catch".
Most people were interested in catfish, bass, crappy, or bream. Dad was always kinda different in all things including fishing. His interest was in what he called "bugle mouth bass" (carp).
Dad and a friend would go to Striker Creek and spend a day and a night on occasion. They would build a fire, cook a few groceries, and drink copious amounts of Budweiser.
Preparing bait for carp involved taking bran cereal like Wheaties, wetting it with orange or red soda water, and making a small gummy "ball". Once pressed onto a treble hook and allowed to dry just a bit, the "bait" would stay on the hook forever. Dad would then just cast into the creek and relax while waiting for a strike.
The carp Dad caught ranged in size from 5 pounds up to 25 pounds. They would fight like angry bulls and Dad loved to feel the line and rod throbbing during "fights" that would last for up to 20 minutes.
When Dad would end his carp safari, he would throw some in the trunk (he called it the"turtle hull") of his car, go to Carlisle, and offer the "treasure" to the Medford family (his African-American friends). Mama Medford would gut and gill the fish and then put them in a pressure cooker. After the flesh was cooked from the bones, she would make the fish into patties and let it swim it in a bath of hot lard in her iron skillet. As Dad didn't like eating fish anyway, I'm very confident he never sampled his "catch".
Thursday, June 12, 2008
SNAKE DOCTORS
One of the unmitigated joys of growing up in Wright City included almost unlimited access to the ponds of relatives.
Ponds were the 50's (poor boy) equivalent of having the internet, ipods, cell phones, a mall, and a zoo (all rolled into one with no cost!)
You could swim or skip rocks on a glass-like surface. You could marvel at dragonflies (we called them "snake doctors") as they helicoptered to and fro with gossamer wings shimmering rainbow colors. Water snakes (we called them "moccasins") made occasional curious approach to liven our day. Bugs, spiders, nutria (we called them "beavers"), birds and all of God's creatures eventually came to the pond to drink from its life giving waters.
And there were fish. I dare say I have known no more pure and relaxing pleasure in my life than days a mere 45-50 years ago that I spent fishing in WC ponds.
Hattie's pond was in the pasture behind Grandmother's house. With a cane pole, a bit of fishing line, a cork and a hook, I would walk to the pond catching grasshoppers along the way for bait. The vast majority of the "catch" was bream, or a rare catfish. Feeling the electricity of those fish pulsing thru the bamboo pole was excitement in its purest form.
When I was nigh unto 12, Buddy gave me a "rod and reel". The rod was steel with the guides held on with wrappings of steel wire and the handle softened by cork. The reel was a level wind variety with direct drive (no clutch "drag" to ease the stress on the line). The line on the reel was black braided stuff that I guess was strong enough to tow a car if need be?
Many days I would hop on my bicycle with that rod/reel and go to Charlies "old" pond to fish (kids weren't allowed at the "new" pond as he had stocked it with channel catfish). I would tie a hook and a weight on my line, bait with either earth worms or trusty grasshoppers and cast as far a possible into the pond (likely not more than 25 yards). I would then use green sticks to pin the rod/reel to the ground so the anticipated piscatorial monster wouldn't drag it to the watery depths. All that remained was to wait for the inevitable "STRIKE".
I was never disappointed. It's my belief that on every trip I would return home with 15-20 bream and a few "mudcats" for the skillet.
When I was near 15-16, Buddy gave me a flyrod. I must have looked hilarious trying to cast that puppy effectively, but it worked. About that time, I was allowed to fish in the Lyles pond (catch and release only) and I near bout wore out that flyrod on the bass they were growing.
The neatest thing about all this: For the life of me, I can't remember a time I was fishing back then that I had a care, worry, fret, or even gave two hoots about anything negative whatsoever. Those times were when the world was a marvelous place and I couldn't see how things could get any better.
I gotta get back to fishing, and soon.
Ponds were the 50's (poor boy) equivalent of having the internet, ipods, cell phones, a mall, and a zoo (all rolled into one with no cost!)
You could swim or skip rocks on a glass-like surface. You could marvel at dragonflies (we called them "snake doctors") as they helicoptered to and fro with gossamer wings shimmering rainbow colors. Water snakes (we called them "moccasins") made occasional curious approach to liven our day. Bugs, spiders, nutria (we called them "beavers"), birds and all of God's creatures eventually came to the pond to drink from its life giving waters.
And there were fish. I dare say I have known no more pure and relaxing pleasure in my life than days a mere 45-50 years ago that I spent fishing in WC ponds.
Hattie's pond was in the pasture behind Grandmother's house. With a cane pole, a bit of fishing line, a cork and a hook, I would walk to the pond catching grasshoppers along the way for bait. The vast majority of the "catch" was bream, or a rare catfish. Feeling the electricity of those fish pulsing thru the bamboo pole was excitement in its purest form.
When I was nigh unto 12, Buddy gave me a "rod and reel". The rod was steel with the guides held on with wrappings of steel wire and the handle softened by cork. The reel was a level wind variety with direct drive (no clutch "drag" to ease the stress on the line). The line on the reel was black braided stuff that I guess was strong enough to tow a car if need be?
Many days I would hop on my bicycle with that rod/reel and go to Charlies "old" pond to fish (kids weren't allowed at the "new" pond as he had stocked it with channel catfish). I would tie a hook and a weight on my line, bait with either earth worms or trusty grasshoppers and cast as far a possible into the pond (likely not more than 25 yards). I would then use green sticks to pin the rod/reel to the ground so the anticipated piscatorial monster wouldn't drag it to the watery depths. All that remained was to wait for the inevitable "STRIKE".
I was never disappointed. It's my belief that on every trip I would return home with 15-20 bream and a few "mudcats" for the skillet.
When I was near 15-16, Buddy gave me a flyrod. I must have looked hilarious trying to cast that puppy effectively, but it worked. About that time, I was allowed to fish in the Lyles pond (catch and release only) and I near bout wore out that flyrod on the bass they were growing.
The neatest thing about all this: For the life of me, I can't remember a time I was fishing back then that I had a care, worry, fret, or even gave two hoots about anything negative whatsoever. Those times were when the world was a marvelous place and I couldn't see how things could get any better.
I gotta get back to fishing, and soon.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
THE 170'S
OK sports fans, it's time for another exciting chronicle of the "Lardasses and Legends" saga.
The last time we checked in on the aging ranch hand he was rejoicing at the latest flash (186) from his trusted home fat-0-meter.
For the uninitiated: January 2, 2008 = 198 pounds for the gray haired fat boy.
(drum roll please) Tadaaaaaaaaa! June 10, 2008 = 185 pounds!!!!!!!!!!!!
Our daring rural hero will now continue his never ending quest for fame, fortune, 8mm film stardom and the holy grail of ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY NINE pounds (euphemistically to be known as, "The 170's"!!!!!
Cheers to all and pass the salad.
The last time we checked in on the aging ranch hand he was rejoicing at the latest flash (186) from his trusted home fat-0-meter.
For the uninitiated: January 2, 2008 = 198 pounds for the gray haired fat boy.
(drum roll please) Tadaaaaaaaaa! June 10, 2008 = 185 pounds!!!!!!!!!!!!
Our daring rural hero will now continue his never ending quest for fame, fortune, 8mm film stardom and the holy grail of ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY NINE pounds (euphemistically to be known as, "The 170's"!!!!!
Cheers to all and pass the salad.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
STEWED POTATOES
Everyone takes the ability to read for granted. No exceptions.
We have done it for so long that we just "do it", and don't think about the complicated cerebral process that is occurring or the information exchange that transpires.
Neither my Dad nor my Mom's Dad could read or write. Mom's Dad, Papuh, told me that he went to the first day of first grade, decided he didn't like it, so never went to school again. He said his family's only reaction was gratitude for having another full time field hand to help with their crops. (I remember that he signed his name with an "X")
Dad had dyslexia so severe that you could write the word "cat" on a piece of paper and he could not copy the word directly underneath the letters. His version would be disjointed lines that did not connect and went in odd directions. Unfortunately, that's the way his brain interpreted written visual cues. Dyslexia was not known when he was a child. As a result, his problems with reading/writing in school were interpreted as "stubbornness" which caused his father to beat him with a razor strop every day after school. The educational system at that time was also not prepared to deal with a child who was obviously of above average intelligence, but who could not read/write at any level. Accordingly, he was moved from the first grade to the sixth grade without ever reading a word. After sixth grade, he dropped out to work on drilling rigs in the oil field at age 14 (a boy working with grown men).
Dad eventually became a "rod and tubing rig operator". He was responsible for a substantial piece of machinery that performed work on oil wells and he supervised and hired/fired a crew of three men. At the end of each day, Dad had to prepare and submit a detailed written report of the lease/well he worked on, what he had done with documentation (number of rods, etc.), hours worked, and crew members. The East Texas oil field is 12 miles wide and 43 miles long and includes hundreds, if not thousands, of oil wells. To be successful, Dad had to memorize the lease names and well locations of nearly all. During the work day, he would commit to memory all that occurred that day. Each night, he and Mom would sit at our kitchen table while Dad verbally recalled all the pertinent information so that Mom could transcribe it to the reports that Dad had to submit. I am amazed to this day the he could keep so much information in his head.
However, Dad's frustration at illiteracy ran deep through his soul. He knew what he was capable of doing professionally, but could never progress beyond a certain level. Still, Dad being Dad, he maintained a certain sense of humor about it.
One time Dad and Papuh went on an errand. When they returned to Papuh's house, the women and children had gone somewhere and left a handwritten note attached to the door explaining their absence. Dad said he and Papuh looked at the note and Papuh said, "They left us a note." Dad replied, "They sure did." Then they went into the house without another word, leaving the note on the door?
Dad usually ate at a small town cafe close to wherever he was working at noon time. He and his crew would each "look" at menus which listed the home style meals for the day. Dad would let the others go first, listen to what they ordered, and order something he heard them say. Sometimes he would ask the waitress what was "good" and just order that. One day his crew had all brought sack lunches so Dad went to the cafe alone. As he was "looking" at the menu, he asked the waitress what was "good"? The waitress said it was all "good". Dad said, "OK, I'll have some of this, some of this, and some of this", pointing to items on the menu. The waitress looked at him a moment and asked, "You want fried potatoes, mashed potatoes, and stewed potatoes?" Dad told that story like it was hilarious.
Dad's eventually got to the point that his vision prevented him from doing what he called "tejus" (tedious) work with small items. I prevailed upon him to let me take him to Tyler, see an optometrist, and buy him some glasses for up close work. As Dad sat in the chair to start the exam, he immediately demanded to know if getting glasses would allow him to read the newspaper? The eager optometrist told him that he guaranteed Dad could read the paper with the new spectacles he would provide. Dad said, "Good, I ain't never been able to read a damn word in my life and I think it time!"
Regarding newspapers, Dad once told me that every night just before bed he like to read the Arp newspaper. Curiosity got the best of me so I asked, "Why?" He said, "So I can go to sleep without a damn thing on my mind."
Anyway, you get the point. Dad had a life long struggle with a daunting handicap, but he did the best he could with it and never lost his sense of humor about it.
As you may guess, my Dad was a special kind of guy, my best friend ever, and someone that I miss every day. Thanks Dad, for being such a wonderful part of my life.
We have done it for so long that we just "do it", and don't think about the complicated cerebral process that is occurring or the information exchange that transpires.
Neither my Dad nor my Mom's Dad could read or write. Mom's Dad, Papuh, told me that he went to the first day of first grade, decided he didn't like it, so never went to school again. He said his family's only reaction was gratitude for having another full time field hand to help with their crops. (I remember that he signed his name with an "X")
Dad had dyslexia so severe that you could write the word "cat" on a piece of paper and he could not copy the word directly underneath the letters. His version would be disjointed lines that did not connect and went in odd directions. Unfortunately, that's the way his brain interpreted written visual cues. Dyslexia was not known when he was a child. As a result, his problems with reading/writing in school were interpreted as "stubbornness" which caused his father to beat him with a razor strop every day after school. The educational system at that time was also not prepared to deal with a child who was obviously of above average intelligence, but who could not read/write at any level. Accordingly, he was moved from the first grade to the sixth grade without ever reading a word. After sixth grade, he dropped out to work on drilling rigs in the oil field at age 14 (a boy working with grown men).
Dad eventually became a "rod and tubing rig operator". He was responsible for a substantial piece of machinery that performed work on oil wells and he supervised and hired/fired a crew of three men. At the end of each day, Dad had to prepare and submit a detailed written report of the lease/well he worked on, what he had done with documentation (number of rods, etc.), hours worked, and crew members. The East Texas oil field is 12 miles wide and 43 miles long and includes hundreds, if not thousands, of oil wells. To be successful, Dad had to memorize the lease names and well locations of nearly all. During the work day, he would commit to memory all that occurred that day. Each night, he and Mom would sit at our kitchen table while Dad verbally recalled all the pertinent information so that Mom could transcribe it to the reports that Dad had to submit. I am amazed to this day the he could keep so much information in his head.
However, Dad's frustration at illiteracy ran deep through his soul. He knew what he was capable of doing professionally, but could never progress beyond a certain level. Still, Dad being Dad, he maintained a certain sense of humor about it.
One time Dad and Papuh went on an errand. When they returned to Papuh's house, the women and children had gone somewhere and left a handwritten note attached to the door explaining their absence. Dad said he and Papuh looked at the note and Papuh said, "They left us a note." Dad replied, "They sure did." Then they went into the house without another word, leaving the note on the door?
Dad usually ate at a small town cafe close to wherever he was working at noon time. He and his crew would each "look" at menus which listed the home style meals for the day. Dad would let the others go first, listen to what they ordered, and order something he heard them say. Sometimes he would ask the waitress what was "good" and just order that. One day his crew had all brought sack lunches so Dad went to the cafe alone. As he was "looking" at the menu, he asked the waitress what was "good"? The waitress said it was all "good". Dad said, "OK, I'll have some of this, some of this, and some of this", pointing to items on the menu. The waitress looked at him a moment and asked, "You want fried potatoes, mashed potatoes, and stewed potatoes?" Dad told that story like it was hilarious.
Dad's eventually got to the point that his vision prevented him from doing what he called "tejus" (tedious) work with small items. I prevailed upon him to let me take him to Tyler, see an optometrist, and buy him some glasses for up close work. As Dad sat in the chair to start the exam, he immediately demanded to know if getting glasses would allow him to read the newspaper? The eager optometrist told him that he guaranteed Dad could read the paper with the new spectacles he would provide. Dad said, "Good, I ain't never been able to read a damn word in my life and I think it time!"
Regarding newspapers, Dad once told me that every night just before bed he like to read the Arp newspaper. Curiosity got the best of me so I asked, "Why?" He said, "So I can go to sleep without a damn thing on my mind."
Anyway, you get the point. Dad had a life long struggle with a daunting handicap, but he did the best he could with it and never lost his sense of humor about it.
As you may guess, my Dad was a special kind of guy, my best friend ever, and someone that I miss every day. Thanks Dad, for being such a wonderful part of my life.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
LUCKY
One of the many things I love about the Tin Star Ranch is the "nature sightings". These have included wild turkey chicks, newborn fawns, foxes, and all manner of other surprises from the animal world.
Today I was shredding weeds with Big Dawg (my Kubota tractor) at the pond. I looked under a cedar tree where no grass was growing and saw a red eared slider turtle that measures about 12 inches from stem to stern.
The female was very slowly using her back feet to laboriously dig a hole in the ground. Each time I made a round on the tractor, I would check on her progress.
When the hole was of the prescribed depth/size, mama turtle began to lay leathery looking, sticky eggs in the hole. When she finished, she then began to slowly move her back legs to cover the eggs with dirt.
When she started creeping away from the nest, it amazed me that it was difficult to know where the hole had been dug. The only hint was that the soil was a bit wet looking over her chosen spot. Otherwise, she had perfectly disguise the clutch of reptilian ova.
To save the new mom some effort after her "delivery", I picked her up and carried her to the edge of the pond.
If I was expecting a thank you, it didn't happen as she quickly scooted into the water and went under with a bouquet of rising bubbles.
OK sports fans, this is the second time I have watched a turtle dig a hole and lay eggs on the Tin Star. AIN'T I LUCKY!!
Today I was shredding weeds with Big Dawg (my Kubota tractor) at the pond. I looked under a cedar tree where no grass was growing and saw a red eared slider turtle that measures about 12 inches from stem to stern.
The female was very slowly using her back feet to laboriously dig a hole in the ground. Each time I made a round on the tractor, I would check on her progress.
When the hole was of the prescribed depth/size, mama turtle began to lay leathery looking, sticky eggs in the hole. When she finished, she then began to slowly move her back legs to cover the eggs with dirt.
When she started creeping away from the nest, it amazed me that it was difficult to know where the hole had been dug. The only hint was that the soil was a bit wet looking over her chosen spot. Otherwise, she had perfectly disguise the clutch of reptilian ova.
To save the new mom some effort after her "delivery", I picked her up and carried her to the edge of the pond.
If I was expecting a thank you, it didn't happen as she quickly scooted into the water and went under with a bouquet of rising bubbles.
OK sports fans, this is the second time I have watched a turtle dig a hole and lay eggs on the Tin Star. AIN'T I LUCKY!!
Friday, June 6, 2008
GRANDADDY'S COWS
Grandaddy always had a few cows on his small acreage. I never learned squat about cows, as we were too poor to own one, but I do have a few memories of Slim Waller's herd.
The Auction
When I was 7-8 years old, Grandaddy took me to the Henderson sale barn where he was going to sell/buy cows. I'd never been to a live auction before and remember being mesmerized by all the people, action, and the auctioneer's challenge chant to the bidders.
Grandaddy solemnly warned me prior to, and during the auction, to sit perfectly still and not say anything. He assured me any sound or movement on my my part would signal the auctioneer that I was bidding and I would end up owing a cow as a result.
Yeah, I sat there afraid to scratch my nose for fear those men would expect me to pay up after I had indicated intention to buy some mangy heifer?
I wonder tho, do ya'll think Grandaddy might have had some other agenda for warning me about inadvertently bidding?
Bull Loading
I happened to be at Grandaddy's after he sold his bull to another man. Grandaddy asked my help in getting the beast in his stock trailer so he could take it to the new owner.
The bull was a huge magnificent creature. He also matched, if not exceeded, Grandaddy in "bull headedness". No matter how we coaxed, prodded, or worked, the leviathan would not enter the narrow trailer. Grandaddy's frustration could be measured by the steady increasing volume of his commands to the bull and the intensity of his "pokes" on the recalcitrant with a 4 foot length of 1/2 inch iron oil well rod he held in his hand.
Finally, the animal started into the trailer. It put its front two feet in and started to bring its back feet in. Grandaddy picked that instant to step up and push on its substantial backside to encourage it to go all the way in. For whatever reason, the bull moved backward and its rear hoof plumb mashed Grandaddy's foot.
(Now if you have ever seen a little dab of Grandaddy's TEMPER, you might know what happened next.)
Brother Waller went totally ballistic. His eyes flashed, his face turned red, his hair stood on end, steam started coming out of his ears, and demented raging profanity starting spewing from curled lips. (I swear a set of horns sprouted?)
As Mt Vesuvius erupted, he commenced to poundin' on that bovine with the iron rod till hell wouldn't have it. He whupped that puppy till they were both staggering around the pasture. (while my eyes got big as cantaloupes and I concentrated on not wetting my pants!)
Both me and the bull survived that round, but the new owner had to wonder why his stately, macho breeding stock ran to the other end of the pasture and jumped the fence every time he approached with anything resembling an iron rod in his hand?
Horns
Dad and I were driving from Wright City to Turnertown on Highway 64 one day when we noticed Grandaddy on the side of the road standing by his vehicle and trailer.
The trailer was cattywampus on the grass and Grandaddy had a look on his face like he wasn't sure who he was or what he was doing.
Seems he loaded a few cows in his stock trailer that morning to take to auction in Henderson. In attaching the trailer to his pickup, he apparently failed to latch the hitch. He started down the highway and at about 45 MPH, the trailer had come unhitched. It rolled a time or two, and stopped upright on the side of the road with the cows still in it (the trailer had a iron rod top to it).
The animals were all wide eyed, mooing, and had bumps/bruise/scrapes from one end to the other. Who knows what internal injuries they may have had?
We helped to rehitch the trailer properly and Grandaddy said all he could do was go on to the sale and hope to unload them at hamburger prices.
Later, Grandaddy stopped by Dad's house with a grin from ear to ear. He said that as he pulled into the sale barn yard, a man immediately walked up and started talking about how cows with horns always tore each other up when transported in a trailer. After he "poor mouthed" horned critters a bit, he offered a price that matched what Grandaddy had hoped to get at the auction. They loaded the stock in the dude's trailer and the deal was done.
Grandaddy was adamant, "I didn't lie to the man, I just let him talk and then let him have what he asked for."
The Auction
When I was 7-8 years old, Grandaddy took me to the Henderson sale barn where he was going to sell/buy cows. I'd never been to a live auction before and remember being mesmerized by all the people, action, and the auctioneer's challenge chant to the bidders.
Grandaddy solemnly warned me prior to, and during the auction, to sit perfectly still and not say anything. He assured me any sound or movement on my my part would signal the auctioneer that I was bidding and I would end up owing a cow as a result.
Yeah, I sat there afraid to scratch my nose for fear those men would expect me to pay up after I had indicated intention to buy some mangy heifer?
I wonder tho, do ya'll think Grandaddy might have had some other agenda for warning me about inadvertently bidding?
Bull Loading
I happened to be at Grandaddy's after he sold his bull to another man. Grandaddy asked my help in getting the beast in his stock trailer so he could take it to the new owner.
The bull was a huge magnificent creature. He also matched, if not exceeded, Grandaddy in "bull headedness". No matter how we coaxed, prodded, or worked, the leviathan would not enter the narrow trailer. Grandaddy's frustration could be measured by the steady increasing volume of his commands to the bull and the intensity of his "pokes" on the recalcitrant with a 4 foot length of 1/2 inch iron oil well rod he held in his hand.
Finally, the animal started into the trailer. It put its front two feet in and started to bring its back feet in. Grandaddy picked that instant to step up and push on its substantial backside to encourage it to go all the way in. For whatever reason, the bull moved backward and its rear hoof plumb mashed Grandaddy's foot.
(Now if you have ever seen a little dab of Grandaddy's TEMPER, you might know what happened next.)
Brother Waller went totally ballistic. His eyes flashed, his face turned red, his hair stood on end, steam started coming out of his ears, and demented raging profanity starting spewing from curled lips. (I swear a set of horns sprouted?)
As Mt Vesuvius erupted, he commenced to poundin' on that bovine with the iron rod till hell wouldn't have it. He whupped that puppy till they were both staggering around the pasture. (while my eyes got big as cantaloupes and I concentrated on not wetting my pants!)
Both me and the bull survived that round, but the new owner had to wonder why his stately, macho breeding stock ran to the other end of the pasture and jumped the fence every time he approached with anything resembling an iron rod in his hand?
Horns
Dad and I were driving from Wright City to Turnertown on Highway 64 one day when we noticed Grandaddy on the side of the road standing by his vehicle and trailer.
The trailer was cattywampus on the grass and Grandaddy had a look on his face like he wasn't sure who he was or what he was doing.
Seems he loaded a few cows in his stock trailer that morning to take to auction in Henderson. In attaching the trailer to his pickup, he apparently failed to latch the hitch. He started down the highway and at about 45 MPH, the trailer had come unhitched. It rolled a time or two, and stopped upright on the side of the road with the cows still in it (the trailer had a iron rod top to it).
The animals were all wide eyed, mooing, and had bumps/bruise/scrapes from one end to the other. Who knows what internal injuries they may have had?
We helped to rehitch the trailer properly and Grandaddy said all he could do was go on to the sale and hope to unload them at hamburger prices.
Later, Grandaddy stopped by Dad's house with a grin from ear to ear. He said that as he pulled into the sale barn yard, a man immediately walked up and started talking about how cows with horns always tore each other up when transported in a trailer. After he "poor mouthed" horned critters a bit, he offered a price that matched what Grandaddy had hoped to get at the auction. They loaded the stock in the dude's trailer and the deal was done.
Grandaddy was adamant, "I didn't lie to the man, I just let him talk and then let him have what he asked for."
Thursday, June 5, 2008
THE CHORE LIST
My Grandaddy was always a busy, hardworking man (every day except Sunday). When he could not personally do the work in later life, he made a career out of thinking up "chores" for Dad to do each day. Dad wasn't real thrilled about it, but most of the time he did it anyway. In his own way, Dad realized that Grandaddy was just trying to feel useful at a difficult stage of his life.
One time I went by to visit Dad and he said that Grandaddy was insisting that Dad drive him to a graveyard on the other side of Henderson. Seems that Grandaddy had visited the grave of a long lost relative and was distressed that the tombstone was dirty and black with mold.
This "chore" was complicated by the fact that Dad didn't have a driver license and couldn't read the names on the stones. Add to this Grandaddy's failing vision due to glaucoma, and Dad just couldn't see anything good coming out of the adventure.
Enter grandson frankie.
I (reluctantly) agreed to drive Grandaddy to the cemetery, take some soaps and brushes, and do the deed.
When we arrived at our destination, Grandaddy identified the target grave marker and sure enough, it was in sorry shape.
Loyal grandson then set about to wash, scrub, brush and generally polish the commemorative stone until it fairly gleamed (did I mention it was hot, humid and not especially pleasant work).
As I stood back and admired my accomplishment, I asked Grandaddy, "How were you related to (NAME)?" Grandaddy said, "I couldn't say because I don't know anybody by that name?"
Yeah, you guessed it, the actual tombstone for Grandaddy's relative was in pristine condition. However, somewhere there was a departed soul smiling as its long neglected earthly marker got spiffied up compliments of Granvil Waller's chore list.
One time I went by to visit Dad and he said that Grandaddy was insisting that Dad drive him to a graveyard on the other side of Henderson. Seems that Grandaddy had visited the grave of a long lost relative and was distressed that the tombstone was dirty and black with mold.
This "chore" was complicated by the fact that Dad didn't have a driver license and couldn't read the names on the stones. Add to this Grandaddy's failing vision due to glaucoma, and Dad just couldn't see anything good coming out of the adventure.
Enter grandson frankie.
I (reluctantly) agreed to drive Grandaddy to the cemetery, take some soaps and brushes, and do the deed.
When we arrived at our destination, Grandaddy identified the target grave marker and sure enough, it was in sorry shape.
Loyal grandson then set about to wash, scrub, brush and generally polish the commemorative stone until it fairly gleamed (did I mention it was hot, humid and not especially pleasant work).
As I stood back and admired my accomplishment, I asked Grandaddy, "How were you related to (NAME)?" Grandaddy said, "I couldn't say because I don't know anybody by that name?"
Yeah, you guessed it, the actual tombstone for Grandaddy's relative was in pristine condition. However, somewhere there was a departed soul smiling as its long neglected earthly marker got spiffied up compliments of Granvil Waller's chore list.
OASIS CIGARETTES
One day Dad came home with a 1936 Ford pickup.
Naw, not the antique rusty rag you would expect an oil field hand to buy. This was a restored piece of art.
Seems Dad had an ole drinkin' buddy name of Elrod who was a career oil field entrepreneur (slant hole wells and the whole nine yards). His enterprising friend was in a legal bind and sold his classic ride to Dad for the princely sum of $1,000.
Hell, Dad likely didn't have $10, much less $1,000, but he went to Arp State Bank and asked Mills Parker for the dough. Parker agreed, but said Dad had to bring the truck by the bank so he could see how a 1936 vehicle could be worth that much.
Someone had taken the vintage Ford and dropped a 1957 Corvette engine in it. In addition to being powerful, the engine chrome included the air breather, valve covers, generator, and air conditioner compressor (imagine having an air conditioner in a vehicle back then!) The interior of the truck was red and white, roll and pleat leather with a white leather headliner. The dashboard had been replaced with a finished piece of beautifully grained wood with chromed gauges inset. It had a racing type steering wheel and the gear shifter was on the floor with a large chrome ball to hold onto.
The exterior included multiple layers of black paint complimented by white rubber running boards, chromed tear drop head lamps on the fenders, and chrome "flipper" hubcaps.
...and it would FLY down the road.
As I recall, the speedometer only went to 120 MPH, so Dad would just put the speedometer needle against the 120 mark and just keep mashin' down harder on the accelerator until he ran out of road.
I don't recall how long Dad had the truck, but at some point Dad's brother Buddy fell in love with it. Buddy's infatuation actually coincided with Dad beginning to realize that his economic status in life and expensive "toys" probably weren't totally compatible. Thus began a "dickering dance" between Dad and "bud drawers" over the rate of exchange for the truck.
Dad wanted his $1,000 back, plus????
Buddy agreed to the $1,000 and threw in a Sear and Roebuck motorcycle (that he bought on the credit and hadn't paid for). As the negotiations extended over a period of days/weeks, Boudreaux sweetened the offer with an engine timing light, some tools, a lawn mower, etc.
Finally, one day Buddy told Dad, I give you $1,000, all the other stuff I've mentioned, and my last pack of Oasis cigarettes. Dad's sense of humor kicked in about then and he took the deal based on getting his baby brother's last cigarette.
Dad bought, built, and abused a lot of cheap, junk vehicles in his lifetime. I am thankful to the good Lord, that for a brief period of time, he had the privilege of owning a beautiful hotrod classic.
Naw, not the antique rusty rag you would expect an oil field hand to buy. This was a restored piece of art.
Seems Dad had an ole drinkin' buddy name of Elrod who was a career oil field entrepreneur (slant hole wells and the whole nine yards). His enterprising friend was in a legal bind and sold his classic ride to Dad for the princely sum of $1,000.
Hell, Dad likely didn't have $10, much less $1,000, but he went to Arp State Bank and asked Mills Parker for the dough. Parker agreed, but said Dad had to bring the truck by the bank so he could see how a 1936 vehicle could be worth that much.
Someone had taken the vintage Ford and dropped a 1957 Corvette engine in it. In addition to being powerful, the engine chrome included the air breather, valve covers, generator, and air conditioner compressor (imagine having an air conditioner in a vehicle back then!) The interior of the truck was red and white, roll and pleat leather with a white leather headliner. The dashboard had been replaced with a finished piece of beautifully grained wood with chromed gauges inset. It had a racing type steering wheel and the gear shifter was on the floor with a large chrome ball to hold onto.
The exterior included multiple layers of black paint complimented by white rubber running boards, chromed tear drop head lamps on the fenders, and chrome "flipper" hubcaps.
...and it would FLY down the road.
As I recall, the speedometer only went to 120 MPH, so Dad would just put the speedometer needle against the 120 mark and just keep mashin' down harder on the accelerator until he ran out of road.
I don't recall how long Dad had the truck, but at some point Dad's brother Buddy fell in love with it. Buddy's infatuation actually coincided with Dad beginning to realize that his economic status in life and expensive "toys" probably weren't totally compatible. Thus began a "dickering dance" between Dad and "bud drawers" over the rate of exchange for the truck.
Dad wanted his $1,000 back, plus????
Buddy agreed to the $1,000 and threw in a Sear and Roebuck motorcycle (that he bought on the credit and hadn't paid for). As the negotiations extended over a period of days/weeks, Boudreaux sweetened the offer with an engine timing light, some tools, a lawn mower, etc.
Finally, one day Buddy told Dad, I give you $1,000, all the other stuff I've mentioned, and my last pack of Oasis cigarettes. Dad's sense of humor kicked in about then and he took the deal based on getting his baby brother's last cigarette.
Dad bought, built, and abused a lot of cheap, junk vehicles in his lifetime. I am thankful to the good Lord, that for a brief period of time, he had the privilege of owning a beautiful hotrod classic.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
YA'LL GONNA HAVE TO 'SCUSE ME
The Asbury Cemetery lies between Wright City and Overton on county road 2089.
I don't know the condition of those catacombs today, but for many years it was cleaned up only one time per year in order to get it ready for the annual "picnic". The picnic brought together the families of those who had loved ones buried in the cemetery. It also served as a fund raiser to try to get donations that would pay to maintain those entombed.
For a number of years, Dad was paid a one time fee to do the Asbury clean up job. On occasion, I would help him.
Talk about tackling a vicious jungle? That East Texas sand and spring rain would make the weeds, grass burrs, and thistles grow like fairy tale bean stalks! Dad's ancient lawn mowers and weed-eater would be challenged to the limit to slowly whack back the encroachment of Mother Nature. Surely, this was a hot, tough, brutal job that no sane person would have accepted. No one except Dad, that is.
Dad took jobs like this for two reasons:
1. He needed the money fairly desperately to survive.
2. Dad had a deep and abiding respect for the departed souls therein.
Each time Dad would start a cleanup of the crypts, he would walk to the gate of the Garden of Rest and declare in a loud voice, "Ya'll gonna have to 'scuse me now cause I gotta clean you up." This was Dad's way of asking forgiveness for walking on the graves of the loved ones of others. I saw it as a measure of unparalleled respect for those he said had "gone on down amongst 'em".
Dad also had a year round (monthly salary) job taking care of the cemetery that was on county road 2110, West of where the Lyles family lived.
Dad kept this mausoleum immaculate for many years. During the grass growing season, he worked like a Trojan. During drought and winter, he just "piddled" while the check kept coming (I think it was $50 per month?).
This was a very old (as evidenced by the dates on some tombstones) private cemetery. Many of the graves had six inch concrete borders around the plots. This was useful to define the grave site, but the devil's own mischief if you were mowing the grass. I would have killed the mower, pulled it over the concrete border, and restarted the mower (over and over). Dad didn't have time for that crap. He would just use his incredible hand/wrist/arm strength and flip the running mower up in the air and over the barrier. He'd then quickly mow the plot and reverse his aerial lawn mower show to get the sharp spinning blade back into action.
As mentioned, this was an old boneyard. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" means that we all eventually return to Mother Earth in a more pure form. For Dad, this meant that occasionally he would be merrily pushing his weed whacking machine in the old section of the cemetery and one of his legs would break thru the soil. This was promptly followed by said leg falling into the ground a few feet where the casket beneath had deteriorated to dust.
Now picture that you are in the country, all alone in a cemetery. Suddenly the specter of death reaches from the grave to grab your leg and jerk you into its subterranean resting place. Yeah, kinda dramatic, but it scared the sh_t out of Dad every time it happened!
Another interesting aspect of cemetery maintenance is that it requires miles of weed-eater line. The sharp edges of the granite tombstones cut the line at every turn. Add to this the fact that as you work around a tombstone to edge the weeds, you are turning in a circle. Now do this circle several hundred times in a row while holding the weight of a weed-eater out in front of you and see how you feel?
My favorite story of Dad and graveyards has to do with planting flowers. Dad hated flowers planted permanently at the graveyard as they created additional work for him.
One day a couple of elderly ladies approached Dad at the cemetery. They asked if he thought the rose bushes they had brought would grow if they planted them adjacent to their loved one's grave. Dad solemnly told them the roses would not grow there. The ladies replied they would plant them regardless and hope for the best.
The ladies left after the planting and as Dad was spraying Roundup (herbicide) on the roses he said, "I told those ladies these roses wouldn't grow here?"
I don't know the condition of those catacombs today, but for many years it was cleaned up only one time per year in order to get it ready for the annual "picnic". The picnic brought together the families of those who had loved ones buried in the cemetery. It also served as a fund raiser to try to get donations that would pay to maintain those entombed.
For a number of years, Dad was paid a one time fee to do the Asbury clean up job. On occasion, I would help him.
Talk about tackling a vicious jungle? That East Texas sand and spring rain would make the weeds, grass burrs, and thistles grow like fairy tale bean stalks! Dad's ancient lawn mowers and weed-eater would be challenged to the limit to slowly whack back the encroachment of Mother Nature. Surely, this was a hot, tough, brutal job that no sane person would have accepted. No one except Dad, that is.
Dad took jobs like this for two reasons:
1. He needed the money fairly desperately to survive.
2. Dad had a deep and abiding respect for the departed souls therein.
Each time Dad would start a cleanup of the crypts, he would walk to the gate of the Garden of Rest and declare in a loud voice, "Ya'll gonna have to 'scuse me now cause I gotta clean you up." This was Dad's way of asking forgiveness for walking on the graves of the loved ones of others. I saw it as a measure of unparalleled respect for those he said had "gone on down amongst 'em".
Dad also had a year round (monthly salary) job taking care of the cemetery that was on county road 2110, West of where the Lyles family lived.
Dad kept this mausoleum immaculate for many years. During the grass growing season, he worked like a Trojan. During drought and winter, he just "piddled" while the check kept coming (I think it was $50 per month?).
This was a very old (as evidenced by the dates on some tombstones) private cemetery. Many of the graves had six inch concrete borders around the plots. This was useful to define the grave site, but the devil's own mischief if you were mowing the grass. I would have killed the mower, pulled it over the concrete border, and restarted the mower (over and over). Dad didn't have time for that crap. He would just use his incredible hand/wrist/arm strength and flip the running mower up in the air and over the barrier. He'd then quickly mow the plot and reverse his aerial lawn mower show to get the sharp spinning blade back into action.
As mentioned, this was an old boneyard. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" means that we all eventually return to Mother Earth in a more pure form. For Dad, this meant that occasionally he would be merrily pushing his weed whacking machine in the old section of the cemetery and one of his legs would break thru the soil. This was promptly followed by said leg falling into the ground a few feet where the casket beneath had deteriorated to dust.
Now picture that you are in the country, all alone in a cemetery. Suddenly the specter of death reaches from the grave to grab your leg and jerk you into its subterranean resting place. Yeah, kinda dramatic, but it scared the sh_t out of Dad every time it happened!
Another interesting aspect of cemetery maintenance is that it requires miles of weed-eater line. The sharp edges of the granite tombstones cut the line at every turn. Add to this the fact that as you work around a tombstone to edge the weeds, you are turning in a circle. Now do this circle several hundred times in a row while holding the weight of a weed-eater out in front of you and see how you feel?
My favorite story of Dad and graveyards has to do with planting flowers. Dad hated flowers planted permanently at the graveyard as they created additional work for him.
One day a couple of elderly ladies approached Dad at the cemetery. They asked if he thought the rose bushes they had brought would grow if they planted them adjacent to their loved one's grave. Dad solemnly told them the roses would not grow there. The ladies replied they would plant them regardless and hope for the best.
The ladies left after the planting and as Dad was spraying Roundup (herbicide) on the roses he said, "I told those ladies these roses wouldn't grow here?"
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
FAT, DUMB, AND HAPPY
If you been payin' attention, you know the ole ranch hand don't know diddly bout computers. I don't have a clue about hardware, software, firmware, or terabytes. I couldn't define DOS, UNIX, or MAC OS, if you spotted me a microprocessor, threw in bundled shareware, and donated a Linux kernel.
I don't get it, don't understand it, and likely never will.
(Historical note: In 1983, the DPS computer division offered to loan me an IBM AT computer. Seems they had been trying to get the Highway Patrol Chief to move to the cyberspacial age and he was resisting. They needed a mullet to take the bait. In walks the new Headquarters Highway Patrol Lieutenant. They offered the machine and my innocent/naive butt took it. My boss came in my office, saw the IBM. and promptly threw a fit. He called it a toy and said all I was going to do was "play" on it all day long. I prevailed with tales of how productive it would make me, but his final word was that it would be thrown in the hallway if my work level declined. In the long run, I kept the computer and became the first Texas Highway Patrol Trooper in history to officially utilize a computer for police work) (I later found out that others in distant duty stations were previously using computers, they just kept it a secret from the Chief)
With the above confession of ignorance now public, go back in time with me to 1995. I was fat, dumb, and happy as an Assistant Division Chief at DPS headquarters. My responsibilities included things like the law enforcement training academy, a 3,000 vehicle fleet of
Trooper cars, and statewide construction projects.
One day while snug and secure in the comfort of my office, the DPS Lieutenant Colonel (Dudley) came into my office, sat in a chair, and propped his feet up on my desk. Dudley allowed as how he had just fired the head of the DPS computer division (I was not surprised). He then paused and stated that effective immediately I would be the acting computer division jefe in charge of two mainframe computers, a huge client-server network, statewide data processing operations, and development of a digital driver license project.
I only asked one question, "For how long?" He replied, "Until I tell you different".
I thought about saying something really profound like, "Holy Sh_t!", but instead said, "Looks like an opportunity to succeed." As Dudley walked out. I sat there and tried to get my brain to stop spinning like a WD-40 slot machine after a lightning strike.
From that day, I spent the next year working seven days per week under as much stress as I had ever experienced on the job while trying to manage development of the multimillion dollar driver license project, keep the legacy systems intact, and trying to wrangle
the herd of cats that represented themselves as software programmers.
The Texas driver license you now carry in your pocket/purse was my baby. I survived the year pretending to be a computer guru, and at the end of the year I was promoted to full Division Chief supervising a major division of the DPS.
The good news: I happen to know that Linux is an operating system used by a family of Unix systems.
The bad news: Linus Torvalds invented this system 17 years ago. In an age where the technology changes by the hour, I concede that I am hopelessly behind the learning curve and foster no hope of ever catching up?
I don't get it, don't understand it, and likely never will.
(Historical note: In 1983, the DPS computer division offered to loan me an IBM AT computer. Seems they had been trying to get the Highway Patrol Chief to move to the cyberspacial age and he was resisting. They needed a mullet to take the bait. In walks the new Headquarters Highway Patrol Lieutenant. They offered the machine and my innocent/naive butt took it. My boss came in my office, saw the IBM. and promptly threw a fit. He called it a toy and said all I was going to do was "play" on it all day long. I prevailed with tales of how productive it would make me, but his final word was that it would be thrown in the hallway if my work level declined. In the long run, I kept the computer and became the first Texas Highway Patrol Trooper in history to officially utilize a computer for police work) (I later found out that others in distant duty stations were previously using computers, they just kept it a secret from the Chief)
With the above confession of ignorance now public, go back in time with me to 1995. I was fat, dumb, and happy as an Assistant Division Chief at DPS headquarters. My responsibilities included things like the law enforcement training academy, a 3,000 vehicle fleet of
Trooper cars, and statewide construction projects.
One day while snug and secure in the comfort of my office, the DPS Lieutenant Colonel (Dudley) came into my office, sat in a chair, and propped his feet up on my desk. Dudley allowed as how he had just fired the head of the DPS computer division (I was not surprised). He then paused and stated that effective immediately I would be the acting computer division jefe in charge of two mainframe computers, a huge client-server network, statewide data processing operations, and development of a digital driver license project.
I only asked one question, "For how long?" He replied, "Until I tell you different".
I thought about saying something really profound like, "Holy Sh_t!", but instead said, "Looks like an opportunity to succeed." As Dudley walked out. I sat there and tried to get my brain to stop spinning like a WD-40 slot machine after a lightning strike.
From that day, I spent the next year working seven days per week under as much stress as I had ever experienced on the job while trying to manage development of the multimillion dollar driver license project, keep the legacy systems intact, and trying to wrangle
the herd of cats that represented themselves as software programmers.
The Texas driver license you now carry in your pocket/purse was my baby. I survived the year pretending to be a computer guru, and at the end of the year I was promoted to full Division Chief supervising a major division of the DPS.
The good news: I happen to know that Linux is an operating system used by a family of Unix systems.
The bad news: Linus Torvalds invented this system 17 years ago. In an age where the technology changes by the hour, I concede that I am hopelessly behind the learning curve and foster no hope of ever catching up?
Monday, June 2, 2008
TOOTHLESS TURKEYS
Surviving life in Wright City didn't require rhino hide, but I often wished I had it?
For starters, we had what we called "salt water" mosquitoes. They were kinda gray/black with zebra stripes and so big they could stand flat footed on the ground and slap the teeth out of a full grown turkey. I remember black clouds of them that would make a high pitched whine when their wings flapped near your ear.
Sometimes we would see one "suckin" our life juices from an extremity and just sit there and watch. We didn't know about blood borne pathogens and well, it was kinda boring in WC. Obviously we would do near bout anything to make the time pass faster. Them suckas would swell up while gorging on our blood until they couldn't fly away. Being still bored, we would "pop" them to see how much blood would splatter?
WC was also likely the world champion breeding ground for fleas, ticks and chiggers. I have walked across a pasture and looked down to see a brown carpet of seed ticks or fleas on my pant legs. I have itched/scratched for many a day due to the indelicate location of millions of chigger bites. And I have tried all manner of country remedy to get ticks unstuck from my carcass. (campho phenique, nail polish, and red hot sewing needle to name a few)
However, I believe that the absolute bane of my time in Wright City was poison ivy or poison oak!
As just one example, I was in the creek bottom between our house and Grandmother and I spied a host of ripe muscadine grapes in the top of a tree. The tree didn't have any limbs for the first 30 feet, but the WC possum just "shinned" the tree. I wrapped my arms and legs around the trunk and inched up to the first limbs (wearing a tee shirt and cut off jeans). The good Lord only knows what the poison ivy growing on that tree trunk did to the inside of my extremities, my face, my stomach, etc. Mom doctored me up to look like my sorry butt had been dipped in a barrel of pink calamine lotion, but I near bout cratered over that one anyway?
All this was brought back to me when I bought the Tin Star. I used Dad's old machete to whack down brush (and whatever) for months on end. After felling the offending foliage, I would wrap my arms around a big bundle, hug it to my chest, and deposit it in a pile to be burned later.
Sure enough, every dang time I turned around I was breaking out with progressively worse poison ivy reaction. What I learned from my research was that you don't develop an immunity, you just get more sensitive.
It seems like every year I am more coming full circle while experiencing once more the things that brought me to this stage of my life?
For starters, we had what we called "salt water" mosquitoes. They were kinda gray/black with zebra stripes and so big they could stand flat footed on the ground and slap the teeth out of a full grown turkey. I remember black clouds of them that would make a high pitched whine when their wings flapped near your ear.
Sometimes we would see one "suckin" our life juices from an extremity and just sit there and watch. We didn't know about blood borne pathogens and well, it was kinda boring in WC. Obviously we would do near bout anything to make the time pass faster. Them suckas would swell up while gorging on our blood until they couldn't fly away. Being still bored, we would "pop" them to see how much blood would splatter?
WC was also likely the world champion breeding ground for fleas, ticks and chiggers. I have walked across a pasture and looked down to see a brown carpet of seed ticks or fleas on my pant legs. I have itched/scratched for many a day due to the indelicate location of millions of chigger bites. And I have tried all manner of country remedy to get ticks unstuck from my carcass. (campho phenique, nail polish, and red hot sewing needle to name a few)
However, I believe that the absolute bane of my time in Wright City was poison ivy or poison oak!
As just one example, I was in the creek bottom between our house and Grandmother and I spied a host of ripe muscadine grapes in the top of a tree. The tree didn't have any limbs for the first 30 feet, but the WC possum just "shinned" the tree. I wrapped my arms and legs around the trunk and inched up to the first limbs (wearing a tee shirt and cut off jeans). The good Lord only knows what the poison ivy growing on that tree trunk did to the inside of my extremities, my face, my stomach, etc. Mom doctored me up to look like my sorry butt had been dipped in a barrel of pink calamine lotion, but I near bout cratered over that one anyway?
All this was brought back to me when I bought the Tin Star. I used Dad's old machete to whack down brush (and whatever) for months on end. After felling the offending foliage, I would wrap my arms around a big bundle, hug it to my chest, and deposit it in a pile to be burned later.
Sure enough, every dang time I turned around I was breaking out with progressively worse poison ivy reaction. What I learned from my research was that you don't develop an immunity, you just get more sensitive.
It seems like every year I am more coming full circle while experiencing once more the things that brought me to this stage of my life?
Sunday, June 1, 2008
ROLLIN' BLUBBER
Here we go world.
On January 2, 2008, I publicly bared my soul by proclaiming that I had hit the all time high of 198 pounds of rollin' blubber. I regret to say that I looked like three pounds of ugly in a two pound sack.
I been steady fighting it with diet, exercise, and a few backslides along the way?
For the record: I am now a rock steady 186 (TWELVE POUNDS DOWN) and in a regular routine of sensible eating (although I treat myself now and again). As an example, I have developed a craving for lowfat frozen yogurt a couple times per week.
Also, the bride and I try to walk every day after work (without getting a heat stroke) for relaxation and exercise.
I am now focused on having the magical 170's in my life again (179?)
Now if I can just find me a pair of suspenders to hold up my pants, I'll be walkin' in high cotton.
On January 2, 2008, I publicly bared my soul by proclaiming that I had hit the all time high of 198 pounds of rollin' blubber. I regret to say that I looked like three pounds of ugly in a two pound sack.
I been steady fighting it with diet, exercise, and a few backslides along the way?
For the record: I am now a rock steady 186 (TWELVE POUNDS DOWN) and in a regular routine of sensible eating (although I treat myself now and again). As an example, I have developed a craving for lowfat frozen yogurt a couple times per week.
Also, the bride and I try to walk every day after work (without getting a heat stroke) for relaxation and exercise.
I am now focused on having the magical 170's in my life again (179?)
Now if I can just find me a pair of suspenders to hold up my pants, I'll be walkin' in high cotton.
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