SURGEON OR BUTCHER?

An artist often faces a taunting blank canvas while yearning to evolve artistry for future beholders.

An artist I ain't. I have, however, spent the last three or four Saturdays "whacking" on the trees in my front yard. I'd like to think I have created a landscape masterpiece. My perfect yard image includes woven threads of color, composition, and dimension of true curb appeal. Imagine an arboreal wonderland. More likely I have created a likeness to the butcher job haircuts I used to get for 50 cents in Wright City????

I can testify that the immediate result has been that one old fat ranch hand has tuckered himself to the point of exhaustion while wielding the saw and dragging the limbs to a pile. Yeah, I know, when ya wallow with pigs ya gotta expect to get dirty, but this project has got had me busier that a borrowed mule?

Besides that, a tree is kinda like a milk cow, they don't stay milked. Them dang limbs will start growing next spring like a linebacker on steroids and to some extent, I will have it to do over again?

I reckon evaluation of the artistic aspect of my labors must be left to others less emotionally involved in the process.

SIMPLE PLEASURE

Yesterday I put 350 pounds of additional corn in my TSR deer feeders. I also put out a couple of protein blocks for the nutritional advantage of my "pet" deer.

A few days ago I blogged about the pleasure of the "process" of deer hunting. I reckon I am in that same vein as I truly enjoy the "process" of venison season.

I have hunted on the ranch for four seasons. I have taken one shot that harvested a nine point buck to display on my office wall. I have enjoyed the voyeur perspective of watching hundreds of deer traversing my special paradise as I gave no thought of bustin' the primer on a shell.

I humbly acknowledge that I have no words for the simplistic joy of the "process" of deer "hunting".

I simply aver that I find it soul satisfying, basic to the nature of man, and a pleasure that might rival any other for its fortitude to my sense of well being.

TSR POSSE

Last month I boasted of moving the location for our humble ranch abode for the (SEVENTH) last time prior to starting the building process.

Loyal fan(s), I must report that yesterday we moved that sucka again?????

We are now in the EIGHTH iteration of slab movement in that it will be 12 feet to the North of our last report in July.

I gotta git my butt in gear and pour some concrete or this house will be wore out from fidgetin' before we can move in?

Stay tuned for more excitin' progress reports of the Tin Star Ranch bunk house and the continuing adventure of the TSR posse.

ALMS

The silence is deafening.

I issued a heart felt, soul sobbing, cry in the cyberspacial darkness for pinto bean prestidigitation. I have heard exactly nothing?

This is serious. One's life long legacy can be many things, negative and positive. What more noble history could one leave to their heirs than the olympic GOLD for bean cookin'?

If you feel moved, if you are charitable, if you are gaseously inclined, help the ole ranch hand to consistently proffer melodious fruit of the pinto variety in a manner that makes one's tongue beat their tonsils in anticipation of culinary glory.

ALMS FOR YOUR RECIPES!

TATER PLANTING

OK, I put my reputation on the line for my cornbread. Now I'm gonna do the pinto bean thing. Pretty courageous, huh?

Yeah, I know, you think you have the best "red" bean culinary style. Naw, this will blow you outta the water.

1. Put yore dried pintos in a pot with water and soak til they don't need soakin' no mo'.

2 Pour off that nasty "soaking" water (too much electrolytes, free radicals, and "stuff")

3. Put fresh water on them hydrated beans. (No, not that dang bottled stuff, just plain old tap water)

4. Dice some extra sweet onion (Noonday spring onions would be delicious)

5. Salt and pepper to taste.

6. Sliver some salt pork in that mess 'o blessed manna (black peppered maple syrup bacon would "do" as well)

7. Here is where we can get creative: add beer, salsa, rotel, garlic, jalapeno, or tomato, you choose

8. Cook "it" til done.

Sound too simple to be true? IT IS.

Some folks (my mom, grandmother, mother-in-law) can do this and it beats ice cream. Some days I do it right and it is great. Some days I do it and it is just OK (OK being unacceptable for anyone from Wright City who is a bean cooker). Where is the magic???

I know, you plant a tater and you get a tater. I start out being a non-cook and I end up being a maker of mediocre?

Now hard sayin' not knowin', but I always figgered there was more ways to choke a dawg than feed him peanut butter. If any of my thousands of loyal readers (I meant to address the one lonely soul) has a foolproof recipe for such a simple task, let me know (seasoning, cooking time, all tidbits appreciated?)(Yeah, I feel retarded being from WC and not being an accomplished red bean cooker?).

MODESTY

Can anyone imagine a texture, taste, concept, visual, or aroma more pleasurable than cornbread?

It is at once sustenance, soul satisfying salivary joy, and proof of life.

Did I mention that I make it better than anyone on planet earth????

Yeah I know, there are pretenders to the "throne". There are fools who include (ugh) sugar in the recipe. There are sycophants who think it is not complete without the receding flow of melting butter (gotta hide the taste o' your corn pone?)(I seen one miscreant soul put grape jelly on it???).

I AIN'T GONNA TELL YA'LL NO SECRETS. END OF STORY. DONE DEAL (but, I may share a hint or two of preparing the finest confection one might imagine)

1. Take out yo' mama's 50 year old black iron skillet (lovingly seasoned since Moby Dick was a minner). (here is some the hint part: wash that sucka, but never, NEVER dry it with a rag. Put it on the fire and heat it to evaporate the moisture and while still HOT, lovingly slather some vegetable oil, bacon grease, or WD40 in the pores). Aint got no FIFTY YEAR OLD SKILLET? (quit reading and go sit in the corner and bawl your regretful eyes out I guess?)

2. One cup of SIFTED flour, one cup of corn meal, one (how much easier could "one" of ever thing be???) egg, a pinch of baking soda, a pinch of salt (NO DAMMIT, DON'T PUT SUGAR IN IT OR YUR ARM WILL FALL OFF AND THE CORN BREAD WILL STINK!) and enuff BUTTERMILK, BUTTERMILK, BUTTERMILK (put any other kind of milk in it and I will make yur arm fall off!@) to make the mix perfect.

3. Put yur oven on 450 degrees fair-n-height (real hot or whatever you want, just watch the stuff)

4. Cook near bout 15 minutes, it could be 25 minutes (WATCH the potion because variables make time relevant to the importance of the occasion)(if you is trying to impress someone with your "pone", the spirits will conspire to "mess it up")

5. Five is most important: JUST SURRENDER BECAUSE YOU CAN NEVER BEAT THE ranch hand AT CORN BREAD SO JUS' QUIT YUR TRYIN". I AM THE CHAMPEEN AND ALWAYS WILL BE!

(should have told ya'll I am eternally modest)

COMFORT FOOD

I'm not sure if I've written bout this afore, but it's my dang blog so I'll repeat myself as often as alzheimer facilitates.

My Dad always had a natural gas cook stove. Older models had a "pilot light". The pilot light was a small flame that burned all the time to ignite the stove top burners. The metal part of the stove top over the flame stayed warm at all times.

Dad also had an old aluminum percolator coffee pot. You know, the kind that had a clear hollow glass ball in the lid where you could see the coffee "perking" up and down. The guts of that java machine included a metal basket with small holes that allowed you to place ground coffee where heated water could flow over and through to flavor your morning pick-me-up.

Now to the point of all this scintillating information. Dad cooked bacon darn near every morning (before daylight). After the browned pork belly slabs were extracted, Dad would lift the lid on that old percolator. He'd pour the aromatic, sizzlin' bacon grease into the metal basket to filter out anything not pure unadulterated taste ticklin'.

As the magic grease pot remained parked over the pilot light, the golden goodness within maintained the perfect viscosity for pouring.

Dad slathered this soul satisfying seasoning on everything in sight. I'm talking beans, taters, and fried termaters. He poured it on soups, salads, souffles and sorbets. He slicked up baking pans, window fans, his own hands and beach tans.

All the medico sawbones tell us that rendered hawg fat is the root of many evils and a first cousin to most (cholesterol, heart disease, fatbuttaticus). The ranch hand is here to tell you that it's the only thing I know likely to make Blue Belle Ice Cream taste even better.

I ain't saying I ingest that sweet elixir anymore. I'm just saying Dad's bacon grease was a simple country pleasure that gave credence to the label "comfort food". Everything just seemed to taste better when it got a donation from that ole greasy pot.

FOREMAN

I been saddled with a number of monikers in my life, but jury foreman ain't been one of them - until today.

Yeah, I been ordered to jury duty a number of times in my life, but lawyers lettin' cops on juries is about as rare as a rockin' horse turd? Something about how we ignore the BS and judge the case according to the facts I'm thinking?

When I got my latest jury summons, I figgered it wouldn't amount to much more than a wasted day and the hassle of parking in downtown Austin.

I was wrong. I was selected for the jury and my fellow panelists elected me foreman faster than a chicken can peck a june bug.

After due deliberation, we found the defendant guilty in less than one minute.

Maybe the dang lawyers was right about me, but I confess to enjoying performing my civic duty today (and adjudicating the maximum penalty for that guilty SOB) .

MY BEST FRIEND

My bride is a special being. At once delicate, in a moment ethereal, more often mysterious (at least to her husband).

The true love of a woman is precious and rare. To attempt to describe it would be pointless, to try to manufacture it would be futile, to ignore it would be plain stupid.

Fully describing why I love my bride so overwhelmingly would be an impossible task. I think, however, that a part of the explanation can be found in her professional endeavors. Last Friday, the woman I love completed 25 years of government service and thus begins her well deserved reward (retirement).

Consider the following:

1. All who have known her throughout her career have marveled at the depth and hilarity of her special sense of humor.

2. She has been known by all in her workplace throughout her career, as ever fashionable, while remaining the essence of feminine beauty for every occasion.

3. She has remained forever honest, ethical, dedicated, and reliable.

4. She is smart, perceptive, hard working, and has been a valued member of any team.

Likely, country singer Don Williams said it best in one of his songs:

You're my bread when I'm hungry
You're my shelter from troubled winds
You're my anchor in life's ocean
But most of all, you're my best friend

I LOVE YOU SMOKY!

THE PROCESS

Deer hunting implies deer killing. Although that is often the outcome, deer hunting is so much more.

Today my friend and I went to the ranch. We tuned up the automatic deer feeders and loaded them with 200 pounds of corn (it will take about 400 pounds more to fill them). We discussed strategy for the coming deer season and we talked about additional protein sources for the deer.

My friend's 13 year old son was with us. He is ever eager, full of questions, and all boy. Seeing the preparation process through his eyes make the experience that much more interesting.

Later we shot several guns at targets before retiring to the local mexican food restaurant for lunch.

As the season nears over the next two months, we will no doubt continue to do things related to hunting that do not put venison on the table. However, it is all part of the process and is really what hunting has become for me. It is about the process more than the final result.

Relaxing, fun times, that make a day well spent and pleasurable.

GENTLE KINDNESS

Bein' poor has any number of connotations.

Hand-me-down clothes, holes in your shoes, beans and taters, ragged cars, and whatever your memory provides.

I would NEVER imply that memories of being economically poor are bad memories. My childhood recollections are of a loving family and an enjoyable environment. Well hell, I maybe could blog a couple or three issues, but that would be for another time?

My point is that growing up poor provides a different perspective from - hell if I know - because I did not experience anything else??????

Point in fact: Like most poor country folk, we "canned" vegetables to eat during the "hard times". The more affluent "poor" folk grew their vegetables. We, however, lacked enough ground to grow anything but weeds (and didn't always have a mower to cut them).

At our level of economic advantage, we acquired vegetables on the "half". This meant that we would travel to a local farm that grew tomatoes, peas, beans, okra, squash, or you name it? For whatever the family "picked", you got to keep half with no charge. Pick a bushel of tomatoes for the farm owner and you could pick a bushel to keep for yourself.

Awesome advantage for adults trying to feed a family. Hell on earth for a kid that just wanted to run barefoot and cavort all summer.

I remember sitting in the shade of the elm tree on the south side of our house for many a day shelling peas, "snapping" beans, coring tomatoes, cutting okra pods, and generally becoming a mental zombie from the routine of the chore.

Fortunately, I also remember the incredible flavor of those garden veggies when winter dawned. I remember tomato juice that had streamed flavor stronger than train smoke. I remember green beans and new potatoes cooked with bacon that to this day makes my mouth water with the memory. I remember jellies, jams, jars, and juices that fairly shouted to be consumed with their summer sun blessed goodness and extreme flavor.

But most of all, I now "remember" the hard, hot, dirty work that my mother endured to provide that bounty for our nutrition and our enjoyment. Mom didn't have money in any form, but she had more love for her children than my words can impart. That devotion made her drive to feed us stronger that any force you can imagine.

I love you more each day Mother, and thank you from my heart for your love, understanding, and gentle kindness in all things.

FENCE GAPS

In Wright City, you could only enter a pasture through a barbed wire fence "gap".

Said "gap" was a hand constructed "gate" made from barbed wire.

Lots of folks constructed their fence "gaps" so that it was a relatively "easy" task to unlatch the gate, lay it down, and allow passage. I now think that to really know country folks, ya didn't look at their houses, ya eyeballed their fences.

I don't think the thought of "easy" ever entered my Grandaddy's head. When building his barbed wire pasture fences, he would string the galvanized concertina precisely spaced at a tension that would rival a bow fiddle. Given that propensity for tightness, why would he slack off on the "gap"?

If the space was 12 feet between the main "gap" posts, Grandaddy would naturally make his barbed wire gate no more than 11 feet. That meant that a boy knee high to a grasshopper would grunt, groan, and sputter to latch that sucka.

It weren't purty if them "gaps" didn't stay latched cuz Granvil would swat yor behind with a watermelon rind. Unlatched fence "gaps" meant Grandaddy's cows got out (Next thing to Armageddon!)(If we weren't so damn poor, I'm thinking we would have duct taped them gates??)

Take a full grown pickup, add three males. Now see the fight to over who got to drive and who sat in the middle of the seat. All that was left for the unlucky soul was the "shotgun" seat on the right passenger side. That would be the unfortunate mullet who had to get out, open and close Grandaddy's fence gaps, and pray for more fortunate seat placement on the next trip?

Ain't it sweet how a simple life can allow such simple memories?

GRASSHOPPERS MEMORIES

One of my youth memories is of walking across hay fields and encountering billowing waves of grasshoppers. These undulating clouds of voracious ruminants caused shimmering sun reflection as their gossamer wings foretold the evolution of helicopter transport.

They would pelt against me from head to toe and come in tidal wave proportion for as long as I chose to traverse a cultivated field.

I remember capturing reluctant coastal bermuda soldiers and having their brown digestive juices "spit" upon my hands from prehistoric mandible jaws. I caressed their saw-blade hind legs and wondered at the intuitive wave of their cerebral antennae.

As an angler, I callously impaled their segmented abdomens with my barbed hooks to safari with red eared bream.

Those were times before I knew of locust pestilence that stripped nutritional fields of all sustenance. Likely I was not cognizant of biblical plagues or other omens of hard times.

I only knew that the sun was on my face, I was free from worry, and Panell's pond was on the horizon.

Would that I be able to recapture those days of incredibly simple excitement, joy of being alive, wonder of nature, and the sheer joy of things as simple as grasshoppers.

CLOSURE

I participated in the burial of one of my employees today. Not a stranger, not a casual acquaintance. A living, breathing person that I hired, mentored and attempted to lead.

He passed away four days ago. Attempting to attend to details and be a comfort to his family during this time of extreme emotional need has been a necessary, but challenging time for me.

The good news is that I have served in this role literally hundreds of times. Another words, I feel I can provide as much comfort and sanity as a layman can provide in such an emotionally devastating situation.

The less than good news is that it does not become routine, rote, or lacking sensitivity. It is cumulative. The more one bears the weight of the grief of others, the heavier the burden becomes.

I have comforted the loved ones of the newly deceased for more than 38 years as an employer of others. I accept and appreciate the gravity, solemnity, and spiritual obligation of the role. I simply have not discerned how to make it an easier burden for me to bear. I care, I mutually grieve, and I pray to my Lord for words of comfort to the bereaved.

The conclusion of today's services allowed me a sigh of relief, a time for quiet reflection, and closure.

Today we ended one chapter in a long book and opened the page of the next chapter.

Lord, I pray that you will allow me to be a facilitating comfort to all in need during their time of loss. Lord, I also selfishly pray that my time as a small humble source of that comfort include the blessing of Your strength to help me endure the burden of the grief of others.

TOMORROW

One of my employees died of a heart attack early this morning. He was 41.

He leaves a wife and two small children.

I know that we have no promise of tomorrow. We only have today.

Today, I resolve to live each day as though it is my last. I am not going to put off things I deem important until tomorrow, for tomorrow may never come.

I resolve to tell all I love that I love them at every opportunity for I may not have the opportunity tomorrow.

I resolve to aggressively live, laugh, and be the best person and servant to my Lord that I can possibly be, because we have no promise of tomorrow.

Thank you Lord, for the blessing of today and all that is good in my life.

BLOGGING

Ya know, this blogging thing is a bit of a catharsis.

It allows the ranch hand to vent, range ethereal, and blather with the mindless zombiness of intellectual vacuum.

That last part is likely my personal space.

If ya read my semi-daily dribble once, bless ya, and know that you have my everlasting apology.

If ya read this cyberspacial spittle more than once, you are on your own with no apologies.

It ain't Nobel and it ain't often intelligible so just suffer with me.

Yours Truly,

The Tin Star Ranch Hand Himself

RAT TEETH

Ya know, I ain't griped about draggin' sprinkler hose around my yard since - well - not long ago.

Just wanted to publicly announce that I still place that privilege near the elitism of a rat with a gold tooth. Nother words, who cares except the grass.

Ain't no nuggets of knowledge in this one. Just my continued frustration with "town living" that seems to include keeping a yard at a minimum level of prosperity.

Oh Lord, I yearn for the days when a seared brown yard is in harmony with the nature of the local terrain (and who cares that the neighbor's pasture is equally brown?)

AWESOME STUFF

I ain't never custom built a house for me and mine. Never.

During the last year, my sister-law, brother-law, and mom-law have either occupied or are in the process of building a custom nest.

Me and the bride been "feeding" an architect to make that happen (over $3,000 at last count) and we are so close to startin' that I can smell it!

I'm thinkin' a reasonable goal will be to "break ground" in about 90 days. I am further cogitatin' that we can move in round bout 10 months from now. That's my butt talkin' cuz my brain tells me to add 60 to 90 days to anything the ranch hand prognosticates?

Wow, I can't think of the words to express how incredible it will be to actually live our dream of living full time on the TIN STAR RANCH.

Pretty awesome stuff!

SAINTHOOD AND ICE CUBES

My mom-in-law was a guest for the last few days. She is a "saint". If she thinks you are in need, and she has the capacity to provide, you will be blessed. Don't matter if you are family, friend, or stranger. Her charity to those in need is only limited by her time and resources.

Did I mention she is a bit "deef". Nother words, she judges my hearing by the level of her hearing (yells a lot). As a bonus, (and to get my attention?) she starts every sentence by yelling, "HEY". I been wantin' to tell her that words that soak into your ears are whispered, not YELLED! Did I mention her "sainthood"?

Did I mention she is obsessed with watching the national news to be instantly alerted to any tragedy? I always figgered that most of the stuff people worry about ain't never gonna happen anyway. I'm startin' to think that she considers the stuff that don't happen as a major disappointment. Did I mention her "sainthood"?

Did I mention she lives in mortal terror of interstate highways? Now I admit fear to snakes, heights, and dry counties, but damn, this "saint" will drive from Austin to North of Dallas and back to Austin to stay on the back roads.

Ever known anyone that obsesses for ice cubes? My personal "saint" wants her tea colder than a witch's titty in a brass bra doin' push-ups in the snow? She will NOT travel ten miles unless she has at least ten pounds of ice cubes in a cooler in the back seat. When she vacates my abode, she "vacates" the tray for my refrigerator ice maker to fill her road cooler for her chosen beverage of the day.

I could go on with this diatribe for the rest of the day, but I'll grant my reader(s?) blessed relief by simply saying, "DON'T JUDGE FOLKS BY THEIR RELATIVES" (meaning ME of course, as I would never be critical of an honest to goodness SAINT).

PROGRESS???

In my less affluent days I would trim the trees in my yard with a pole saw. Yeah, hold a long pole with a blade on the end up in the air and push and pull on it until a limb was severed.

This high tech methodology was alternated with some low tech stacking of the limbs to either burn or bundle to be hauled away. It was slow at its best, but the job eventually got done.

I now am the proud owner of a $617 Stihl motorized pole saw. It weighs roughly 20 times what my trusted manual model weighed. It also cost about 25 times what the old one cost.

I got out this morn in the front yard and with trembling arms (heavy saw) whacked down more limbs in an hour than I will be able to pick up during the rest of the week.

If the new tool weighs 20 times more and cost 25 time more (20X25=500), I guess that explains why I am feeling about 500 times dumber for changing the process?

SUBMARINE SCREENS

Committing personal errors used to grieve me beyond belief.

I would kick my own figurative butt from one side to the other and then do it again.

Aging/maturity ain't all bad.

I think I am finally figgering out that to err is simply human. Those who are a tad smarter than others tend to learn from their SNAFU's. Those that ain't tend to repeat history. I know this is kinda like putting gas in a car I done wrecked, but at least it's an improvement (right?)

I'm at a stage where I'm infinitely more forgiving of myself. I expect to screw up, but I feel it is OK as long as I learn. In other words, I try with all my might to not make the same mistakes twice.

It seems to be working, although some days I feel like I am trying to put a screen on a submarine?

I done figgered out that if I live to be 100, I might eventually have a modicum of common sense, or not?

THE HARD PART

Today, like most weekends, we drove to Andice to spend some time on the ranch.

My bride's mom, brother, and baby sister all have a house within a few miles of our place. When we move to the ranch, visiting and holidays will be a snap.

After checking up on the family, we went to the ranch and looked around a bit. We have a wooden bench sitting where our front porch will be. We love to sit on the bench in the shade, let the breeze waft around us as we listen to the birds, and watch billowy clouds scud by.

Today a deer continually snorted at us while hidden in the trees. For now, we are the trespassers.

After relaxing for a bit, we had to once again do the hard part. The hard part is driving back to Austin. After we have become one with the land and totally relaxed, we want to stand up and just walk into the house. Driving back to Austin always diminishes the relaxed glow we achieve.

In about 30-45 days we plan to start a process that we hope will result in us being settled on the ranch in less than a year from today.

Then "the hard part" will be be a mere distant memory.

GENE GENES

Bout 1973 I bought my neighbor's 1959 Willis Jeep.

It had the original four cylinder engine and would run a respectable 45 MPH up hill and down hill.

Dumbutt me took it out on the interstate one morn and ran it 70 MPH. The motor unwound and melted to scrap iron.

Being forever genetically linked to my Dad, I set about turning the smoking carcass into what Gene called a "hoopee".

I installed a V-8 Chevy engine and linked it to a Chevy transmission and drive shaft. Took me a full year to "engineer" this masterpiece in my spare time.

After I finished "bastardizing" the Willis, I backed it out onto the highway, revved the engine, and popped the clutch. I immediately figgered out I had sold my mule to buy a plow because the inverse power/weight ratio caused the front wheels to come about three feet off the ground. (Gene would have loved it, but I knew it would hurt me eventually. Any idjit can fly, but the landing will kill you).

I sold my "brain child" without ever driving it again and moved on to JRM's black jewel Chevy truck.

All this to say that I kinda had a hankerin' for a spell to buy another Jeep.

I'm just trying to figger if that would make me happier than a possum in a corn crib with the dawg tied up, or if it would just turn loose more of them "Gene genes" and lead to another mechanical monster?

ENOUGH

How much is "enough"?

As of today, I have plied my chosen profession for 38 years, 5 month, and 23 days.

I knew from childhood that when someone asked how I made my living, I wanted to be proud of my answer. I also knew from my teens that I wanted to look back on my personal "body of work" and feel I had made a positive difference in the world. But, how much is enough?

I knew from "middle age" that I wanted a degree of financial security in my dotage. But, how much is enough?

I now know that I want to have a significant number of years away from my profession. I want years where I can relax, sleep a full night, and not feel responsible for the population at large. I want decades to be able to work my land, enjoy my hobbies, and travel as desired. But, how much is enough?

It's a basic math ratio. The longer I remain employed, the fewer number of years I can enjoy not being employed. But how much is enough?

I humbly pray to know the Lord's will and for my own good judgement in this matter.

Pray that I have enough.

IDJITS AND SKUNKS

I hate hosting garage sales.

They are proof that one should never get into an argument with an idjit (idiot). You'll just lower to their level and then get beat with superior experience.

My bride and baby girl cogitated up a whomping size sale for today. After much moaning/groaning from the ranch hand, they provided assurances that I would not be a participant in any way - NOT!!!!

For six hours, yours truly was Mr. Step-N-Fetchit while interfacing at random with the local idjits.

Here's a sample of my day:

1. You take a new looking pair of ostrich cowboy boots and put a $10 price tag on them. Immediately some idjit wants to know if you will take $2.

2. Figger that 80% won't (or chose not to) speak English. Not just talking bout Spanish here. Talking bout folks from India, Pakistan, and wherever (some in their native dress). I appreciated the diversity, but hope they had appreciation for the challenge to commerce. The barter mostly included gestures, grunts, and makin' faces?

3. I'm a sucka for little kids. If they picked up anything and the parent said, "no", I just gave it to the kid free.

4. When it got too hot to tango, we just sacked the remaining up and headed to the local Goodwill Store. That beat filling the trash can.

All in all the venture went OK, but its kinda like a skunk. No matter what you do, it still stinks in my book?

BUICKS

The "american dream" ain't built on paunchy adipose corpulence.

Yeah, I know, fat people are harder to kidnap, but none of us want that furniture disease where our chest falls in our drawers?

Toward that end, the ole fat boy been steady wheedlin" blubbery lard suet from his diet since the New Year dawned. This humble blog has chronicled my chrysalis transformation from having a butt like a forty dollar mule to a reedy attenuation of my former self.

OK, that last part is pure BS, but the bottom line in that this morning my ever truthful electronic load analyzer (bathroom scale) proclaimed that I have once again achieved the magical mystical realm of the ONE SEVENTIES!

179 and counting down to 175!

Stay tuned for more exciting chapters in the never ending saga as the ranch hand steers his rearend away from looking like two Buicks fighting for a parking place.