There was a time when I would watch Dad stir around a bit and not be able to figger out what he was trying to accomplish. I would eventually ask his aim and he would say he was just "piddlin".
Took me a while to learn the soothing, pharmacological balm of "piddlin", but I think I finally got it down to an exact science?
I went to my barn this morn, spent about four hours motivatin', and didn't accomplish spit. Thing is, I was relaxed, focused on my task (nuthin'), and generally walked away with a sense of peace.
OK, I "arranged" my auto mechanic tools in their respective drawers, hung up some "stuff" on hooks on the walls, and sipped my beverage of choice while standing back and cogitating the source of metaphysical nectar (vegged).
I'm thinking a post graduate degree in PIDDLIN might be a worthwhile endeavor at this point in my storied life?
Just wonderin' out loud?
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Ankle Biters
Siblings ain't always of the same generation.
My beautiful bride is a 50's treasure. Her baby sister is from the 70's era. Sometimes the Lord's plan for family plannin' don't track our own?
Anyway, we raise our own families and take appropriate pride in their accomplishments, grieve at their losses, and generally enjoy the process.
The thing is, if there is a sufficient age gap, we have the privilege of experiencing similar emotions with siblings. Our chests swell with their progressive academic and professional credentials. We brag to our friends about their new job, promotion, or status with a Fortune 500 company. And best of all, we cry tears of joy at the birth of their children who we adore as nieces and nephews.
The rubber that meets this country road is that we got us a PEACH. The bride's baby sister is a brilliant, professionally accomplished go-getter who also happens to birth the world's most precious ankle biters/rug rats that Gabriel Mills ever spawned.
Now if we can just teach 'em to yell "HEY" at the beginning of every phone conversation?
My beautiful bride is a 50's treasure. Her baby sister is from the 70's era. Sometimes the Lord's plan for family plannin' don't track our own?
Anyway, we raise our own families and take appropriate pride in their accomplishments, grieve at their losses, and generally enjoy the process.
The thing is, if there is a sufficient age gap, we have the privilege of experiencing similar emotions with siblings. Our chests swell with their progressive academic and professional credentials. We brag to our friends about their new job, promotion, or status with a Fortune 500 company. And best of all, we cry tears of joy at the birth of their children who we adore as nieces and nephews.
The rubber that meets this country road is that we got us a PEACH. The bride's baby sister is a brilliant, professionally accomplished go-getter who also happens to birth the world's most precious ankle biters/rug rats that Gabriel Mills ever spawned.
Now if we can just teach 'em to yell "HEY" at the beginning of every phone conversation?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Mondays
Dad always said, "Poor people got poor ways." He meant that those lacking financial means to do things normally figgered out ways to get by otherwise (or did without).
I say all that to say this: I treasure weekends on the Tin Star Ranch. It is my Eden of peace and serenity that no other balm can provide. My soul longs for the time that I can abide there at the length and breadth of my choosing with never ending tranquility, and no thought of pending responsibility.
Such is not quite yet so. My sense of sound fiscal management and provision for future plans suggests that I continue in gainful employment for a bit more.
Alas, the morn is Monday and the ranch hand's sorry butt will rise at 5A and trudge with heavy heart to the distant city to toil at the J-O-B with the forlorn acceptance of a rented mule?
What the hell, "Poor people got poor ways?"
I say all that to say this: I treasure weekends on the Tin Star Ranch. It is my Eden of peace and serenity that no other balm can provide. My soul longs for the time that I can abide there at the length and breadth of my choosing with never ending tranquility, and no thought of pending responsibility.
Such is not quite yet so. My sense of sound fiscal management and provision for future plans suggests that I continue in gainful employment for a bit more.
Alas, the morn is Monday and the ranch hand's sorry butt will rise at 5A and trudge with heavy heart to the distant city to toil at the J-O-B with the forlorn acceptance of a rented mule?
What the hell, "Poor people got poor ways?"
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Ole Hickory
Dad was inspecting Ed's pecan orchard one day when he noticed a fox squirrel approaching. The varmit crawled to within a couple of inches of Dad's boot so Dad just naturally said, "Howdy".
Well, that must have suited the tree rodent cause it proceeded to crawl up Dad's overalls until it was sitting on his shoulder. Dad didn't know whether to slap it off or just wait to see what happened next. He wasn't particularly busy that morn so he decided to just see how things would flow?
Dad pulled a couple of paper shell Mahans from his Dickey's bib pocket, cracked 'em, and offered his new friend some sustenance. This sealed the "bond" so Dad eased over to his pickup and treated the hickory nut harvester to his first road trip.
Hell, riding around just suited the furry shotgun rider so much that Dad opted to offer him a "bed and breakfast" deal at Gene's Wright City beans and taters emporium.
Dad and his woodland companion rocked along for several days as they no doubt shared endless thoughts on philosophy, wimmen folk, and other esoteric mysteries. (Mostly the squirrel developed a nicotine addiction due to the constant fog created by unfiltered Camels being consumed.)
Sadly, Dad's little buddy eventually fell under the devil's curse of "drink" after a daily regimen of sharing Budweiser laced with a dash of rim salt. During one such brew sojourn, ole Hickory decided to crawl around on Dad til he wore his welcome out. For reasons unexplained, Dad picked up a wooden clothes pin laying nearby and put it on the offending parties bushy tail.
What happened next is still hard to believe? That puppy was hit with a pure bolt of motivation as it began to circumnavigate the room at a blur, knocking down everything in its path. Pictures hit the floor and busted. Lamps fell to the side. Curtains got plumb shredded. All the while we was hunkered down with our hands covering our heads wonderin' if Armageddon had done been unleashed in furry minuscule form?
Well sir, the clothes pin eventually fell off and Hickory calmed a mite, but that started him looking down the barrel of exit. Seems he tended to be nocturnal, meaning he "rummaged" around in the house at night. Dad finally put him outside and bid him farewell.
Hickory hung around in the pecan tree by the living room window for a few days. It was obvious he was trying to suck some smoke from them Camels through the screen into his nicotine starved lungs. Ever once in a while, I swear it looked like he was making a paw motion like using a salt shaker to plead for one more ration of Bud?
All such things eventually end and so it was with this visitor as he moved on for other adventure.
I will always wondered what kind of tall tales he told his buddies over the years about his week living with Gene in Wright City?
Well, that must have suited the tree rodent cause it proceeded to crawl up Dad's overalls until it was sitting on his shoulder. Dad didn't know whether to slap it off or just wait to see what happened next. He wasn't particularly busy that morn so he decided to just see how things would flow?
Dad pulled a couple of paper shell Mahans from his Dickey's bib pocket, cracked 'em, and offered his new friend some sustenance. This sealed the "bond" so Dad eased over to his pickup and treated the hickory nut harvester to his first road trip.
Hell, riding around just suited the furry shotgun rider so much that Dad opted to offer him a "bed and breakfast" deal at Gene's Wright City beans and taters emporium.
Dad and his woodland companion rocked along for several days as they no doubt shared endless thoughts on philosophy, wimmen folk, and other esoteric mysteries. (Mostly the squirrel developed a nicotine addiction due to the constant fog created by unfiltered Camels being consumed.)
Sadly, Dad's little buddy eventually fell under the devil's curse of "drink" after a daily regimen of sharing Budweiser laced with a dash of rim salt. During one such brew sojourn, ole Hickory decided to crawl around on Dad til he wore his welcome out. For reasons unexplained, Dad picked up a wooden clothes pin laying nearby and put it on the offending parties bushy tail.
What happened next is still hard to believe? That puppy was hit with a pure bolt of motivation as it began to circumnavigate the room at a blur, knocking down everything in its path. Pictures hit the floor and busted. Lamps fell to the side. Curtains got plumb shredded. All the while we was hunkered down with our hands covering our heads wonderin' if Armageddon had done been unleashed in furry minuscule form?
Well sir, the clothes pin eventually fell off and Hickory calmed a mite, but that started him looking down the barrel of exit. Seems he tended to be nocturnal, meaning he "rummaged" around in the house at night. Dad finally put him outside and bid him farewell.
Hickory hung around in the pecan tree by the living room window for a few days. It was obvious he was trying to suck some smoke from them Camels through the screen into his nicotine starved lungs. Ever once in a while, I swear it looked like he was making a paw motion like using a salt shaker to plead for one more ration of Bud?
All such things eventually end and so it was with this visitor as he moved on for other adventure.
I will always wondered what kind of tall tales he told his buddies over the years about his week living with Gene in Wright City?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Free Enterprise
My Dad lived a couple of miles down an East Texas oil field road from a 40 acre pecan orchard. The orchard was a old as anyone could remember, but about every third year it would yield a bumper crop of pecans.
The owner of the trees would let people pick them up on the "half". Half of the pecans you harvested went to the owner and the picker got to keep half.
Dad was always in need of some "shange" (cash) so he would pick up 200-300 pounds of the squirrel delights. He would then acquire brown paper sacks of appropriate size and package them in five pound quantities.
Dad determine how much "five pounds" amounted to by using an old spring loaded grocery scale. He would take an unopened flour or sugar sack, examine the weight printed on the side, and place it on his scale. He then would "tune" the scale adjustment until it matched the stated weight of the grocery product.
Dad would write "5#" on the side of the sack and then add pecans until the scale reached the 5 pound mark. He would then add one additional pecan because, well, because Dad was Dad. I can't think of any other reason? Dad sold his gatherings for $1 per pound or $5 per five pound bag.
The point of all this is Dad's marketing strategy. He would put the grocery sack pecans in his 1953 Chevy pickup and go to Kilgore to the beer joints where his buddies hung out. Dad would sit down and jaw with them awhile. Eventually he would pull a couple of pecans out of his overalls pockets and make a big show out of cracking them in his hands and slowly savoring their taste and firmness as he chewed.
Now these "bait" pecans weren't just any pecans. They were carefully selected for their size, color, and weight (to be sure the hull was full of meat).
Without fail, his drinkin' buds would see his groceries and start mouthing about how they would buy all the pecans they could get their hands on it they were available. Dad would oblige.
One time a fella took the five pound sack and asked Dad, "How do I know this is five pounds." Dad replied, "It don't make a damn, because the sack will cost you $5 either way".
God bless free enterprise!
The owner of the trees would let people pick them up on the "half". Half of the pecans you harvested went to the owner and the picker got to keep half.
Dad was always in need of some "shange" (cash) so he would pick up 200-300 pounds of the squirrel delights. He would then acquire brown paper sacks of appropriate size and package them in five pound quantities.
Dad determine how much "five pounds" amounted to by using an old spring loaded grocery scale. He would take an unopened flour or sugar sack, examine the weight printed on the side, and place it on his scale. He then would "tune" the scale adjustment until it matched the stated weight of the grocery product.
Dad would write "5#" on the side of the sack and then add pecans until the scale reached the 5 pound mark. He would then add one additional pecan because, well, because Dad was Dad. I can't think of any other reason? Dad sold his gatherings for $1 per pound or $5 per five pound bag.
The point of all this is Dad's marketing strategy. He would put the grocery sack pecans in his 1953 Chevy pickup and go to Kilgore to the beer joints where his buddies hung out. Dad would sit down and jaw with them awhile. Eventually he would pull a couple of pecans out of his overalls pockets and make a big show out of cracking them in his hands and slowly savoring their taste and firmness as he chewed.
Now these "bait" pecans weren't just any pecans. They were carefully selected for their size, color, and weight (to be sure the hull was full of meat).
Without fail, his drinkin' buds would see his groceries and start mouthing about how they would buy all the pecans they could get their hands on it they were available. Dad would oblige.
One time a fella took the five pound sack and asked Dad, "How do I know this is five pounds." Dad replied, "It don't make a damn, because the sack will cost you $5 either way".
God bless free enterprise!
Detail Devils
Having the wealth of experience provided by building a single house, I figgered I had this sticks and bricks thing down to a science. Little did my neophyte rear end know that frustration has many faces.
We journey each day to the job site and examine details with a critical eye. This ritual resulted most recently in finding all door hardware installed (it was just the wrong finish). Licked that stamp and next day the door hardware was 100% changed to the right finish (oil rubbed bronze). Only problem, about half of the door handles were not the correct style/model???? Two of our french doors had one style on one door and the other style on the companion door? HOW COULD THE TRIM FOLKS NOT SEE THIS???? We shall now go back to the well for the third time and see if we can get the door hardware OK without strangling somebody?
Next issue: We paid high dollar to have a tile mural placed on the backsplash behind the cooktop granite counter (longhorn head, surrounded by tile with barbed wire look, and accented by three dimension five point stars on each side). After install, we immediately notice that two of the "barbed wire" tiles have a gray background while all the rest are an off-white. That revelation was immediately followed by the observation that one of the star tiles was glued on one tile OFF of its correct position. DAMMIT, ARE WE THE ONLY CRETINS WHO CAN SEE THESE THINGS? Pull the crap off and start over, NOW!
I reckon half of being smart is knowing what you are dumb at, but on the other hand, THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS~!
We journey each day to the job site and examine details with a critical eye. This ritual resulted most recently in finding all door hardware installed (it was just the wrong finish). Licked that stamp and next day the door hardware was 100% changed to the right finish (oil rubbed bronze). Only problem, about half of the door handles were not the correct style/model???? Two of our french doors had one style on one door and the other style on the companion door? HOW COULD THE TRIM FOLKS NOT SEE THIS???? We shall now go back to the well for the third time and see if we can get the door hardware OK without strangling somebody?
Next issue: We paid high dollar to have a tile mural placed on the backsplash behind the cooktop granite counter (longhorn head, surrounded by tile with barbed wire look, and accented by three dimension five point stars on each side). After install, we immediately notice that two of the "barbed wire" tiles have a gray background while all the rest are an off-white. That revelation was immediately followed by the observation that one of the star tiles was glued on one tile OFF of its correct position. DAMMIT, ARE WE THE ONLY CRETINS WHO CAN SEE THESE THINGS? Pull the crap off and start over, NOW!
I reckon half of being smart is knowing what you are dumb at, but on the other hand, THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS~!
Friday, February 13, 2009
America's Freedoms
Today I was in a restaurant waiting for a table to become vacant so we could be seated. A lady walked in assisting a very elderly gentleman and put him in a chair while she went back to park her car away from just outside the restaurant door.
It appeared that due to extreme age the man's senses were significantly dulled as he merely sat silent and stared into space without focus. As I watched him, I notice that his cap had the name of a navy ship on the front. Along the side was stitched, "Pearl Harbor", and the dates of World War II.
I could not help but ponder the terrifying memories he must possess. Somewhere in his psyche is indelibly etched a maelstrom of sound, fury, and devastation that few others can understand or conceive.
The weight of experiencing and remembering world war from a battle field perspective was laying like a heavy stifling mantle on his face and stooped shoulders.
I can only pray that our Lord will at the given time give this warrior peace and his well deserved reward for his part in allowing me to enjoy America's freedoms.
It appeared that due to extreme age the man's senses were significantly dulled as he merely sat silent and stared into space without focus. As I watched him, I notice that his cap had the name of a navy ship on the front. Along the side was stitched, "Pearl Harbor", and the dates of World War II.
I could not help but ponder the terrifying memories he must possess. Somewhere in his psyche is indelibly etched a maelstrom of sound, fury, and devastation that few others can understand or conceive.
The weight of experiencing and remembering world war from a battle field perspective was laying like a heavy stifling mantle on his face and stooped shoulders.
I can only pray that our Lord will at the given time give this warrior peace and his well deserved reward for his part in allowing me to enjoy America's freedoms.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Tough Enough
When we started the new bunkhouse, I reared on my hind legs and roared in a manly fashion that I would make all major decisions. I followed that edict with the DEMAND that the house have a floor, four walls, and a roof. I graciously have allowed the wife to make all the "minor" decisions since that time.
Until today?
Thinking it might be time to again assert my obvious "authority" as head of the household, I announced I would begin participating in specification decision meetings.
Don't know why I didn't just whop my toe with a hammer instead?
We spent TWO HOURS this morning choosing fricken grout color for the backsplash tile!!!!!!!!!!! By the end of thirty minutes, I worked up a marvelous twitch. At the end of an hour my nerves began to crumble into idle bits of static electricity. At 90 minutes I started wishin' I had a dawg so I could kick it! Before we left I was droolin' spit down my shirt and onto my shoes?
Rest assured that I am now properly meek and silent regarding all future house building decisions. I just ain't tough enough to carry that load.
Until today?
Thinking it might be time to again assert my obvious "authority" as head of the household, I announced I would begin participating in specification decision meetings.
Don't know why I didn't just whop my toe with a hammer instead?
We spent TWO HOURS this morning choosing fricken grout color for the backsplash tile!!!!!!!!!!! By the end of thirty minutes, I worked up a marvelous twitch. At the end of an hour my nerves began to crumble into idle bits of static electricity. At 90 minutes I started wishin' I had a dawg so I could kick it! Before we left I was droolin' spit down my shirt and onto my shoes?
Rest assured that I am now properly meek and silent regarding all future house building decisions. I just ain't tough enough to carry that load.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Solid Gold
The television experience of my youth included a small black and white set which only received channel 7 (Tyler). Imagine the time saved not channel hopping or arguing over what program to watch? Hell, we didn't even have to think since the network moguls decided our visual/auditory fare in their media vacuum.
Weather, sun spots or whatever would sometimes add some blur or "snow" to our video. That required the high tech solution of going outside to the aluminum TV pole that held up the TV reception wire. The pole was mounted beside the house in such a way that your could put a pipe wrench on it and turn it left or right to try to maximize the TV signal from Tyler. Someone inside the house would yell, "worse" or "better" depending on how the rotation changed the TV picture.
Best I remember, the TV station "signed off" and stopped broadcasting around midnight. It would then crank back off around 5A or 6A the next morning?
No DVDs, no surround-sound, not nothin'. Just pure unadulterated escape from the day to day humdrum of life in Wright City.
Now to the point of this historical drivel:
Me and the bride went TV shopping at Walmart this fine day. I'm here to tell you that you can actually drown in the amount of "stuff" them salesmen throw at ya? You got your pixels, plasma, panel, LCD, HD, Hz, Tivo, and DVR. The suckas chunked crap at me like aspect ratio, response time, spectral contrast engine, ASV, viewing angles, HDMI, and V chip??? And least I forget, some are Energy Star rated and have an AQUOS link (and may the Lord forgive you if you choose a 790 over a 1080).
Then when I was sufficiently bedazzled with the lingo, they sadistically pointed out that I would need to choose a flush, angle, or swivel mount and acquire appropriate cat 5.
They might as well have been talking Chinese to me because I don't know what one single thing I just mentioned refers to?
I think I'm gonna just decide which one had the most "purty" picture, which fits my pocketbook, and just take that puppy to the ranch for better or worse. If it will show black and white reruns of Gunsmoke, Wagon Train, and Bonanza, it will be solid gold in my book.
(and now I'm getting headache as I just realized I have to wade off in the satellite TV jungle as we don't have cable access at the ranch - CRAP!)
Weather, sun spots or whatever would sometimes add some blur or "snow" to our video. That required the high tech solution of going outside to the aluminum TV pole that held up the TV reception wire. The pole was mounted beside the house in such a way that your could put a pipe wrench on it and turn it left or right to try to maximize the TV signal from Tyler. Someone inside the house would yell, "worse" or "better" depending on how the rotation changed the TV picture.
Best I remember, the TV station "signed off" and stopped broadcasting around midnight. It would then crank back off around 5A or 6A the next morning?
No DVDs, no surround-sound, not nothin'. Just pure unadulterated escape from the day to day humdrum of life in Wright City.
Now to the point of this historical drivel:
Me and the bride went TV shopping at Walmart this fine day. I'm here to tell you that you can actually drown in the amount of "stuff" them salesmen throw at ya? You got your pixels, plasma, panel, LCD, HD, Hz, Tivo, and DVR. The suckas chunked crap at me like aspect ratio, response time, spectral contrast engine, ASV, viewing angles, HDMI, and V chip??? And least I forget, some are Energy Star rated and have an AQUOS link (and may the Lord forgive you if you choose a 790 over a 1080).
Then when I was sufficiently bedazzled with the lingo, they sadistically pointed out that I would need to choose a flush, angle, or swivel mount and acquire appropriate cat 5.
They might as well have been talking Chinese to me because I don't know what one single thing I just mentioned refers to?
I think I'm gonna just decide which one had the most "purty" picture, which fits my pocketbook, and just take that puppy to the ranch for better or worse. If it will show black and white reruns of Gunsmoke, Wagon Train, and Bonanza, it will be solid gold in my book.
(and now I'm getting headache as I just realized I have to wade off in the satellite TV jungle as we don't have cable access at the ranch - CRAP!)
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Eight Cylinders
I've never spent the night in a hospital. Well, except for last night after a bit of neurosurgeon artistry.
Interesting place. They give you meds, put you in a nice warm bed, and admonish you to get lots of "rest"? Then they spend the entire night coming in to take your "vitals", make you arise and walk up and down the hall (in a backless table cloth), and prove you can "pee"????
Not sure what that last part had to do with spine surgery, but surely it was related in some way???
Not much to it. Three inch scalpel whack across the neck and shove all inside to the side and duct tape it to the bedpost. Then pry out a vertebra or two and slap them puppies on a Black and Decker belt sander to smooth 59 years of calcium build-up. Cram 'em back in the hole and spin the cordless drill on four titanium screws to weld the "Atlantis Shield" (????) to "fuse" the adjoining offenders. What could be more simple???
Course there is the minor matter of all them guts/stuff between the incision and the vertebra being mortally pissed off at the intrusion. Makes a feller learn to appreciate ice packs, hydro codeine, and a dark, quiet room.
Anywho, the ole ranch hand is on the mend with confidence of hitting on eight cylinders by next week. Til then:
Happy trails
Interesting place. They give you meds, put you in a nice warm bed, and admonish you to get lots of "rest"? Then they spend the entire night coming in to take your "vitals", make you arise and walk up and down the hall (in a backless table cloth), and prove you can "pee"????
Not sure what that last part had to do with spine surgery, but surely it was related in some way???
Not much to it. Three inch scalpel whack across the neck and shove all inside to the side and duct tape it to the bedpost. Then pry out a vertebra or two and slap them puppies on a Black and Decker belt sander to smooth 59 years of calcium build-up. Cram 'em back in the hole and spin the cordless drill on four titanium screws to weld the "Atlantis Shield" (????) to "fuse" the adjoining offenders. What could be more simple???
Course there is the minor matter of all them guts/stuff between the incision and the vertebra being mortally pissed off at the intrusion. Makes a feller learn to appreciate ice packs, hydro codeine, and a dark, quiet room.
Anywho, the ole ranch hand is on the mend with confidence of hitting on eight cylinders by next week. Til then:
Happy trails
Friday, February 6, 2009
Dem Bones
Dem bones, dem bones gon-na walk a-roun'
Dem bones, dem bones gon-na walk a-roun'
Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk a-roun'
Oh hear the word of the Lord!
The above refrain was written by James Weldon Johnson and the lyrics are based on Ezekiel 37:1-14, where the prophet visits the Valley of Dry Bones and brings them to life by mentioning God's name.
The story of Ezekiel has special meaning for the ranch hand today. Seems a couple of dem neck bones done been walkin' roun' and mashin' a nerve like a shoat churning a mud hole.
My reader likely knows that aging ain't for sissies. Ya gotta cowboy up, grit your teeth, and just live your live regardless of the challenges.
In spite of being an old fat man, the ranch hand has mostly been doing that, til lately.
Nuff said bout that 'cept yours truly will trust a fancy sawbones today to slit his guzzle, fumble around on the back side, and use a belt sander on the offending calcium edifices.
Hell, six weeks I figger I'll be good as new ('cept for the old fat man part).
Anyway, offer a prayer if ya have a moment, and the ranch hand will return to ride the dusty blogging range at a future date.
(Hmmm, I bet I can cogitate some humdinger blogs out of this experience?)
Dem bones, dem bones gon-na walk a-roun'
Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk a-roun'
Oh hear the word of the Lord!
The above refrain was written by James Weldon Johnson and the lyrics are based on Ezekiel 37:1-14, where the prophet visits the Valley of Dry Bones and brings them to life by mentioning God's name.
The story of Ezekiel has special meaning for the ranch hand today. Seems a couple of dem neck bones done been walkin' roun' and mashin' a nerve like a shoat churning a mud hole.
My reader likely knows that aging ain't for sissies. Ya gotta cowboy up, grit your teeth, and just live your live regardless of the challenges.
In spite of being an old fat man, the ranch hand has mostly been doing that, til lately.
Nuff said bout that 'cept yours truly will trust a fancy sawbones today to slit his guzzle, fumble around on the back side, and use a belt sander on the offending calcium edifices.
Hell, six weeks I figger I'll be good as new ('cept for the old fat man part).
Anyway, offer a prayer if ya have a moment, and the ranch hand will return to ride the dusty blogging range at a future date.
(Hmmm, I bet I can cogitate some humdinger blogs out of this experience?)
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