After the construction of Hiway 64 and Tx 42, the Turnertown population clustered around the intersection. With the discovery of oil in 1930, Turnertown became one of the near-mythical boomtowns. In the mid 1930s the population reached its zenith of 1,500. Reality set in, however, and when it did, the decline was steep. In the early 1940s it had dropped to a mere 350. By the mid-1960s it was 150 and has since declined to the a last census count of 76.
The ranch hand became road legal in 1964 when at the ripe old age of 14 he was the proud recipient of a Texas Drivers License. Who in the hell decided back then that a 14 year old testosterone fueled male could own a guiding license on public highways is beyond me, but I made the most of it.
Course, having a license to cruise didn't automatically put one in the driver's seat. Obstacles? Well lets start with no car, no money, and no real place to go, but hell, when you are 14 you can fantasize like nobody's business.
On rare occasion, Dad would loan me the family 1953 Chevy pickup on a Saturday night. The rusty truck was Dad's work truck (as well as our family transportation). In order to make it presentable, I would have to get some "coal oil", soak down a rag, and wipe the East Tx oil field grease off of the seats. I would then get a whisk broom and attack a few inches of red sand accumulated by Dad's roughneck crew's boots. After a labor of love to spiff it up, it looked like a royal chariot to me (except for the coal oil smell).
Gas was less than twenty cents per gallon and Turnertown was less than five miles away. Compared to Wright City, it was a booming metropolis with a two cafes, a gas station, a country grocery store, and a DRIVE-IN OUTDOOR THEATER.
As memory serves me, the drive-in was fifty cents. Accordingly, a few dollars would garner a gallon or two of gas, entrance into the movie, and a coke. What more could one ask? Oh yeah, a date????
I honestly don't remember actually watching a single movie at the drive in. I was always too preoccupied with my buddies or the unfortunate female soul who agreed to accompany the country bumpkin for a high dollar "date".
OK, nuff blabbin' so I will get to the point. I don't normally go to the movies anymore, but today I had the pleasure of going to the indoor sit-down variety with my beautiful bride. It was a pleasure ($21) and the popcorn and coke ($13) was devine.
Truth be known, I don't think anything going today can compare with the experience of growing up visiting a country drive-in theater.
Guess ya just had to have been there?
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Armistice
The ole fat ranch hand fell out by the front gate early this morn to unplug the mail box and replant it "closer" to the road per the request of the U.S. government.
Yep, chunked that rock bar at the ground til the eyes got blurry and fainting didn't seem too dang remote an idea. Finally managed to peck out a shallow hole (again), mix some concrete (again), and plant that puppy (again).
Was the third time the charm?
Got a piece of junk mail in the box a couple hours later and the postal ninja had written on the envelope, "Thank you".
Not sure if that was "thank you" for providing endless entertainment like a trained monkey, or thank you for not hunting down that mail totin' cretin and puttin' some mail where the sun don't shine for causing me to jump thru so many hoops.
All ya'll pray the postal wars are over because your humble scribe ain't got many of them rock bar ground pound holes left in him.
Yep, chunked that rock bar at the ground til the eyes got blurry and fainting didn't seem too dang remote an idea. Finally managed to peck out a shallow hole (again), mix some concrete (again), and plant that puppy (again).
Was the third time the charm?
Got a piece of junk mail in the box a couple hours later and the postal ninja had written on the envelope, "Thank you".
Not sure if that was "thank you" for providing endless entertainment like a trained monkey, or thank you for not hunting down that mail totin' cretin and puttin' some mail where the sun don't shine for causing me to jump thru so many hoops.
All ya'll pray the postal wars are over because your humble scribe ain't got many of them rock bar ground pound holes left in him.
Friday, June 26, 2009
BUDDY
Rest in the LORD, and wait patiently for him: fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass. Cease from anger, and forsake wrath: fret not thyself in any wise to do evil. For evildoers shall be cut off: but those that wait upon the LORD, they shall inherit the earth. For yet a little while, and the wicked shall not be: yea, thou shalt diligently consider his place, and it shall not be.
But the meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace. (Psalms 37:7-11)
Grandmother proudly named him Alvin Louis, but the world called him "Buddy".
Course my Dad ain't never called anybody by their proper front name in his life so he naturally called his baby brother "Bud-Drawers"? Go figger, we all label people in one way or the other. Dad just did it with monikers.
In later life, Bud-Drawers weren't much more than a pile of bones loosely gathered in a tanned jerky sack of skin that was framed by a perpetual semi-toothless grin. Stick a smoldering Lucky Strike in that picture and ya got a classic view of what a lifetime in the East Tex oil field can do to a man.
As a visual spectacle, he was in pretty sad shape. Viewed from the depth of his kind, loving soul, he was gentle, kind, and meek toward all others.
To have known him was to have loved him. Likely you couldn't be proud of some of his choices in life, but forgiving him just seemed to come natural.
Buddy "passed down amongst us" in years past, but he still lives in the ranch hand's memory as a blessing.
If the "meek" inherit the earth as per the scripture of Psalms, count me as the first to want to once again see ole Buddy's semi-toothless grin, hug his skinny butt, and tell him how much he meant to me during earth bound existence.
Rest in peace dear friend, I miss you more than I know how to say.
But the meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace. (Psalms 37:7-11)
Grandmother proudly named him Alvin Louis, but the world called him "Buddy".
Course my Dad ain't never called anybody by their proper front name in his life so he naturally called his baby brother "Bud-Drawers"? Go figger, we all label people in one way or the other. Dad just did it with monikers.
In later life, Bud-Drawers weren't much more than a pile of bones loosely gathered in a tanned jerky sack of skin that was framed by a perpetual semi-toothless grin. Stick a smoldering Lucky Strike in that picture and ya got a classic view of what a lifetime in the East Tex oil field can do to a man.
As a visual spectacle, he was in pretty sad shape. Viewed from the depth of his kind, loving soul, he was gentle, kind, and meek toward all others.
To have known him was to have loved him. Likely you couldn't be proud of some of his choices in life, but forgiving him just seemed to come natural.
Buddy "passed down amongst us" in years past, but he still lives in the ranch hand's memory as a blessing.
If the "meek" inherit the earth as per the scripture of Psalms, count me as the first to want to once again see ole Buddy's semi-toothless grin, hug his skinny butt, and tell him how much he meant to me during earth bound existence.
Rest in peace dear friend, I miss you more than I know how to say.
Heaven On Earth
Work like you don't need the money.
Love like you've never been hurt.
Dance like nobody's watching.
Sing like nobody's listening.
Live like it's heaven on earth.
(Mark Twain)
The ole ranch hand toiled for 33 years in the salt mines of state government and was blessed with a tolerable retirement rate that allowed sufficient groceries and entertainment. Given an opportunity to "work" a bit more, he has spent the last three years with the true blessing provided by "work like you don't need the money"....a situation that allows for true expression of opinion and will without concern for the future. Ya don't need the money so ya just do the right thing for the right reason at the right time, every time, and the hell with everything else!
Love like ya never been hurt. Tough one? Helps to find the perfect soul mate that personifies all that is good in the world. Lucky me as I'm there.
Dance like nobody is watching. This fat boy didn't dance a lick til 40 years of age. Just plain bashful, self-conscious, and left footed. At 40, I decided that I would learn the damn stuff and then would NOT do it out of choice rather than intimidation. Damn.....I learned I like/enjoy it, and in my humble opinion, ain't half bad at the process? Go figger?????
Live like it is heaven on earth. Still working on that one, but the Tin Star is darn close.
Thanks be to my Lord and Savior for all that is good in my life.....salvation, friends, family, opportunity, and cold beer!
Love like you've never been hurt.
Dance like nobody's watching.
Sing like nobody's listening.
Live like it's heaven on earth.
(Mark Twain)
The ole ranch hand toiled for 33 years in the salt mines of state government and was blessed with a tolerable retirement rate that allowed sufficient groceries and entertainment. Given an opportunity to "work" a bit more, he has spent the last three years with the true blessing provided by "work like you don't need the money"....a situation that allows for true expression of opinion and will without concern for the future. Ya don't need the money so ya just do the right thing for the right reason at the right time, every time, and the hell with everything else!
Love like ya never been hurt. Tough one? Helps to find the perfect soul mate that personifies all that is good in the world. Lucky me as I'm there.
Dance like nobody is watching. This fat boy didn't dance a lick til 40 years of age. Just plain bashful, self-conscious, and left footed. At 40, I decided that I would learn the damn stuff and then would NOT do it out of choice rather than intimidation. Damn.....I learned I like/enjoy it, and in my humble opinion, ain't half bad at the process? Go figger?????
Live like it is heaven on earth. Still working on that one, but the Tin Star is darn close.
Thanks be to my Lord and Savior for all that is good in my life.....salvation, friends, family, opportunity, and cold beer!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Porch Yellin'
All ya'll know the humble ranch hand has of late engaged in something of a "war" over zip codes with our beloved U.S. Postal bureaucrats.
"War" ain't exactly correct because the United States Postal Service alleges clearing more than $1 BILLION dollars profit for each of the last several years (as we wonder why the rates continue to increase?). In order for a "war" to be fought, the opposing side (me) would need to have at least 1/1000th of the resources available to the competition (NOT!).
Therefore, resistance to date has been a mere token of protest. BUT.......the excrement has done hit the oscillator as the Rural Delivery War begins now in earnest!!!!!!
Historical information (and perhaps genetic influence?) began with Grandaddy. Seems his East Texas delivery person had a penchant for "brushing" the mailbox with his vehicle when delivering mail. This resulted in the mailbox being at a constant "tilt". If you knew my Grandaddy, you would know that anything on his property that was not tight, painted, and perfectly aligned was not acceptable.
After straightening up the mailbox post multiple times, Granvil obtained a 10 inch, 7 foot length of steel pipe. He then proceeded to cement about 4 feet of it into the ground and grin like a possum waiting for his "victim" to rub against the post again.
Nope, the full force of Uncle Sam's might rose up and instead of mail in the box, G-pa found only an indignant note. The carefully worded ultimatum stated either he replace the steel hazard with something less stalwart or the mail would not be delivered. Again, if you knew Grandaddy, you already guessed he had a LOUD, redfaced cuss fight with the hapless postal person, but to no avail. The Gov-mint won, Granvil lost, and the wooden post went back in the ground.
Now comes the next generation. My Pa (Gene) despised junk mail. Dad could not read/write anyway, and the extra "junk" just complicated his life more. To that end, Gene began a "war" with the rural postal delivery minion to stop the crap from being placed in his box.
Dad started out OK with just a friendly roadside chat....no luck? He then escalated to just leaving it in the box until the box was STUFFED....he got told that ALL delivery would cease until he started "acting right"? His final act of protest lasted from that time until he "passed on down amongst them".
For years, each time Dad would see the mail delivery occurring, he would "go postal" and step to the door of his house to yell, "You better not leave any of that damn junk mail"! It didn't change anything, but I think he felt better as a result of the process?
The ranch hand ain't never laid claim to an abnormal amount of intelligence (or resistance to genetic propensities) so he naturally just fell into the same damn gov-mint traps.
After a white flag surrender over the zip code difugalties, we changed our address to an RFD route (which required yours truly to plant a mail box post at the front gate). No step for a "stepper", unless you know that the Tin Star sits on solid limestone with just a thin veneer of soil. Accordingly, the ole fat boy chose an early Saturday morning and attacked an area adjacent to our gate with a 40 pound rock bar.
A rock bar (instrument of excruciating torture) requires the operator to grasp the shaft of the 6 foot steel chisel, hoist it over the head, and hurl it back to earth (while yelling some oriental karate word for Holy Crap?). The next 500 steps are simple.....repeat the first step until the operator: A. faints B. dirties his drawers C. "passes on down amongst them"????
Finally got it done and to "cement" the deal, added a 50 pound sack of concrete around the post for a life time guarantee.
Found out that one person's "lifetime" may vary from another's interpretation of that time frame??? After placing the mail box, we added a culvert in the ditch next to the road. Big Brother Fed promptly allowed as how the box was too close to the end of the culvert and was therefore not accessible.
OK, I need to move the box (remember the 50 pounds of "glue" on the end of that steel pipe)? I beat/banged on the post to get it out of its limestone grave and then beat/banged on the ground down range with the rock bar in order to create the latest planting site. All this, secure in the knowledge that I would NEVER again in my life have to deal with postal crap (WRONG)!
I have in my possession an O-fish-al document duly delivered to yours truly which states that I have until July 7th to move the box closer to the road or mail delivery will stop for all of eternity for me and anyone even remotely genetically related?????????
I figger I got several options:
1. Deliver an O-fish-al document in return stating I wish to secede from the postal part of the Union and forgo delivery (especially bills) for the remainder of my days.
2. Move the damn thing closer to the road, but use a 36 inch steel pipe that is set 40 feet in the ground.
3. Scream vile vitritude at the delivery person until I feel I have made Grandaddy proud.
4. Comply, but stand on the porch and YELL at the bastard ever time he delivers.
Naw, all that's been tried already by the ancestors so I guess I'll just vent with this blog.
Thanks for listening.
"War" ain't exactly correct because the United States Postal Service alleges clearing more than $1 BILLION dollars profit for each of the last several years (as we wonder why the rates continue to increase?). In order for a "war" to be fought, the opposing side (me) would need to have at least 1/1000th of the resources available to the competition (NOT!).
Therefore, resistance to date has been a mere token of protest. BUT.......the excrement has done hit the oscillator as the Rural Delivery War begins now in earnest!!!!!!
Historical information (and perhaps genetic influence?) began with Grandaddy. Seems his East Texas delivery person had a penchant for "brushing" the mailbox with his vehicle when delivering mail. This resulted in the mailbox being at a constant "tilt". If you knew my Grandaddy, you would know that anything on his property that was not tight, painted, and perfectly aligned was not acceptable.
After straightening up the mailbox post multiple times, Granvil obtained a 10 inch, 7 foot length of steel pipe. He then proceeded to cement about 4 feet of it into the ground and grin like a possum waiting for his "victim" to rub against the post again.
Nope, the full force of Uncle Sam's might rose up and instead of mail in the box, G-pa found only an indignant note. The carefully worded ultimatum stated either he replace the steel hazard with something less stalwart or the mail would not be delivered. Again, if you knew Grandaddy, you already guessed he had a LOUD, redfaced cuss fight with the hapless postal person, but to no avail. The Gov-mint won, Granvil lost, and the wooden post went back in the ground.
Now comes the next generation. My Pa (Gene) despised junk mail. Dad could not read/write anyway, and the extra "junk" just complicated his life more. To that end, Gene began a "war" with the rural postal delivery minion to stop the crap from being placed in his box.
Dad started out OK with just a friendly roadside chat....no luck? He then escalated to just leaving it in the box until the box was STUFFED....he got told that ALL delivery would cease until he started "acting right"? His final act of protest lasted from that time until he "passed on down amongst them".
For years, each time Dad would see the mail delivery occurring, he would "go postal" and step to the door of his house to yell, "You better not leave any of that damn junk mail"! It didn't change anything, but I think he felt better as a result of the process?
The ranch hand ain't never laid claim to an abnormal amount of intelligence (or resistance to genetic propensities) so he naturally just fell into the same damn gov-mint traps.
After a white flag surrender over the zip code difugalties, we changed our address to an RFD route (which required yours truly to plant a mail box post at the front gate). No step for a "stepper", unless you know that the Tin Star sits on solid limestone with just a thin veneer of soil. Accordingly, the ole fat boy chose an early Saturday morning and attacked an area adjacent to our gate with a 40 pound rock bar.
A rock bar (instrument of excruciating torture) requires the operator to grasp the shaft of the 6 foot steel chisel, hoist it over the head, and hurl it back to earth (while yelling some oriental karate word for Holy Crap?). The next 500 steps are simple.....repeat the first step until the operator: A. faints B. dirties his drawers C. "passes on down amongst them"????
Finally got it done and to "cement" the deal, added a 50 pound sack of concrete around the post for a life time guarantee.
Found out that one person's "lifetime" may vary from another's interpretation of that time frame??? After placing the mail box, we added a culvert in the ditch next to the road. Big Brother Fed promptly allowed as how the box was too close to the end of the culvert and was therefore not accessible.
OK, I need to move the box (remember the 50 pounds of "glue" on the end of that steel pipe)? I beat/banged on the post to get it out of its limestone grave and then beat/banged on the ground down range with the rock bar in order to create the latest planting site. All this, secure in the knowledge that I would NEVER again in my life have to deal with postal crap (WRONG)!
I have in my possession an O-fish-al document duly delivered to yours truly which states that I have until July 7th to move the box closer to the road or mail delivery will stop for all of eternity for me and anyone even remotely genetically related?????????
I figger I got several options:
1. Deliver an O-fish-al document in return stating I wish to secede from the postal part of the Union and forgo delivery (especially bills) for the remainder of my days.
2. Move the damn thing closer to the road, but use a 36 inch steel pipe that is set 40 feet in the ground.
3. Scream vile vitritude at the delivery person until I feel I have made Grandaddy proud.
4. Comply, but stand on the porch and YELL at the bastard ever time he delivers.
Naw, all that's been tried already by the ancestors so I guess I'll just vent with this blog.
Thanks for listening.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Stretch Marks
God is great,
Beer is good,
People are crazy
(Billy Cunningham)
I'm not sure if my sense of humor is getting more warped by the day or if people are getting goofier by the minute?
My mom-law will not have moles removed because she says her "roots are too deep"?
Our president decided (without asking me) that the American taxpayer would purchase 60% of General Motors in order to "help" the economy? How the hell does this help my "economy"?
The World Health Organization has declared swine flu a "pandemic" due to being reported around the globe. At the same time the medicos declare that it is "mild" in form and does not routinely require medical attention. Why are we panicking?
Of course, all you need to start an asylum is an empty room and the right kind of people, but damn? I finally got to "greener" pastures and now my old fat ass has to climb over a mountain of idiots every day?
Now I know that life ain't fair (or men would have stretch marks), but whatever hits the fan will be eventually be evenly distributed over the landscape.
Accordingly, here's to God, cold beer, and the proliferation of nut jobs that will forever inspire blogs.
Beer is good,
People are crazy
(Billy Cunningham)
I'm not sure if my sense of humor is getting more warped by the day or if people are getting goofier by the minute?
My mom-law will not have moles removed because she says her "roots are too deep"?
Our president decided (without asking me) that the American taxpayer would purchase 60% of General Motors in order to "help" the economy? How the hell does this help my "economy"?
The World Health Organization has declared swine flu a "pandemic" due to being reported around the globe. At the same time the medicos declare that it is "mild" in form and does not routinely require medical attention. Why are we panicking?
Of course, all you need to start an asylum is an empty room and the right kind of people, but damn? I finally got to "greener" pastures and now my old fat ass has to climb over a mountain of idiots every day?
Now I know that life ain't fair (or men would have stretch marks), but whatever hits the fan will be eventually be evenly distributed over the landscape.
Accordingly, here's to God, cold beer, and the proliferation of nut jobs that will forever inspire blogs.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Yo-Yo Fishing
Caddo Lake is a 25,400 acre lake and wetland located on the border between Texas and Louisiana.
The lake is named after the Southeastern culture of Native Americans called Caddo or Caddoans, who lived in the area from the 16th century until their expulsion in the 19th century. It is the largest natural fresh water lake in the South, and the largest Cypress forest in the world. It used to be Texas' only natural lake until it was artificially dammed in the 1900s.
In 1977, the ole ranch hand landed in Marshall, Texas and immediately "inherited" the fishing buddies of the last feller that held the job I occupied there.
Shortly thereafter, my "fishin' buddies" introduced me to Caddo Lake.
Just my opinion, but I think the producers of Jurassic Park "missed the boat" by not filming there. I never visited the place that I didn't truly expect some prehistoric monster to rise from the water and ROAR at my intrusion? The cypress trees with their dangling lace of moss caressing the surface of the water, the green blankets of Lily pads, and the limited sight view offered by the waterlogged forest truly lent itself to anyone with imagination.
As far as my memories:
It was an absolute labyrinth of almost imperceptible water trails that trapped the casual visitor into hopeless wandering (I spent one entire night LOST on Caddo as I couldn't find my way back to the dock until the morning sun and a heap of luck pointed the way?).
It provided a wealth of "trash fish" unique to the area for one's angling pleasure such as gaspergou , chain pickerel, carp, and all manner of gar.
It allowed one to regularly experience the frustration of being stuck "high center" in a flat bottom aluminum boat on top of a submerged cypress stump.
It exposed one to a brand of folks that gave new meaning to the word "backwoods" because Caddo Lake natives were truly as "rural" and 'clannish" as ever existed (and would stomp you in a heartbeat if trifled with in the least).
My fondest memories are of "yo-yo" fishing on Caddo. A fishing yo-yo (now illegal) was a mechanical spring loaded device that would set the hook and hold tension on the line when an unsuspecting catfish would hit the bait. We would find a clearing amid a cypress grove and within the circle of trees tie the "yo-y0's" to tree limbs. Then we would sit in the darkness (sucking down cold adult beverage) and wait to hear the metal ratchet of the fish catchers working in and out to the tune of the fighting prey.
The companionship, conversation, cool breezes, and adrenalin of hearing those "yo-yo's" talking across the amplification of the lake's surface are a treasured memory that almost competes with the savored succulence of those pan fried fillets.
Aah, heaven surely has a Caddo for the blessed souls within?
The lake is named after the Southeastern culture of Native Americans called Caddo or Caddoans, who lived in the area from the 16th century until their expulsion in the 19th century. It is the largest natural fresh water lake in the South, and the largest Cypress forest in the world. It used to be Texas' only natural lake until it was artificially dammed in the 1900s.
In 1977, the ole ranch hand landed in Marshall, Texas and immediately "inherited" the fishing buddies of the last feller that held the job I occupied there.
Shortly thereafter, my "fishin' buddies" introduced me to Caddo Lake.
Just my opinion, but I think the producers of Jurassic Park "missed the boat" by not filming there. I never visited the place that I didn't truly expect some prehistoric monster to rise from the water and ROAR at my intrusion? The cypress trees with their dangling lace of moss caressing the surface of the water, the green blankets of Lily pads, and the limited sight view offered by the waterlogged forest truly lent itself to anyone with imagination.
As far as my memories:
It was an absolute labyrinth of almost imperceptible water trails that trapped the casual visitor into hopeless wandering (I spent one entire night LOST on Caddo as I couldn't find my way back to the dock until the morning sun and a heap of luck pointed the way?).
It provided a wealth of "trash fish" unique to the area for one's angling pleasure such as gaspergou , chain pickerel, carp, and all manner of gar.
It allowed one to regularly experience the frustration of being stuck "high center" in a flat bottom aluminum boat on top of a submerged cypress stump.
It exposed one to a brand of folks that gave new meaning to the word "backwoods" because Caddo Lake natives were truly as "rural" and 'clannish" as ever existed (and would stomp you in a heartbeat if trifled with in the least).
My fondest memories are of "yo-yo" fishing on Caddo. A fishing yo-yo (now illegal) was a mechanical spring loaded device that would set the hook and hold tension on the line when an unsuspecting catfish would hit the bait. We would find a clearing amid a cypress grove and within the circle of trees tie the "yo-y0's" to tree limbs. Then we would sit in the darkness (sucking down cold adult beverage) and wait to hear the metal ratchet of the fish catchers working in and out to the tune of the fighting prey.
The companionship, conversation, cool breezes, and adrenalin of hearing those "yo-yo's" talking across the amplification of the lake's surface are a treasured memory that almost competes with the savored succulence of those pan fried fillets.
Aah, heaven surely has a Caddo for the blessed souls within?
Papuh
My best bud "T" related a story this morn bout his G-Pa spittin' snuff juice out frontards car windows and it blowin' in the backards windows quickern it went out onto unsuspecting passengers.
That story got me to thinkin' bout my Papuh. Mom's Dad craved Brown Mule chaw tobaccy all day every day. He would take his old Barlow folding knife and whittle off a fair plug and deposit that precious morsel between his cheek and gums.
As if that wasn't enuff raw nicotine being pipelined, he would then drag out a square brown glass bottle of Garrett snuff. Papuh would uncork the bottle and pull back his lip/cheek. Daintily placing a "pinch" of the snuff wasn't on his agenda. Papuh would turn the bottle up and shake a brown cloud into his mouth as dressing for the Brown Mule.
He rarely "spit", but when he did it made East Texas Crude oil pale in comparison. That ebony black syrup was strong enough to take the rust off cast iron. If not outside, Papuh used an old coffee can as a "spittoon".
Looking down into the depths of that spittoon was akin to looking into the depths of hell at poor souls doomed to an eternity of foul corruption.
Now kids being kids, guess how often that damn can got kicked over. Guess again who got the privilege of cleaning putrefied toxic waste off the floor.
Now tell me that performing that duty a time or two wouldn't be effective for keeping younguns off tobacco products?
That story got me to thinkin' bout my Papuh. Mom's Dad craved Brown Mule chaw tobaccy all day every day. He would take his old Barlow folding knife and whittle off a fair plug and deposit that precious morsel between his cheek and gums.
As if that wasn't enuff raw nicotine being pipelined, he would then drag out a square brown glass bottle of Garrett snuff. Papuh would uncork the bottle and pull back his lip/cheek. Daintily placing a "pinch" of the snuff wasn't on his agenda. Papuh would turn the bottle up and shake a brown cloud into his mouth as dressing for the Brown Mule.
He rarely "spit", but when he did it made East Texas Crude oil pale in comparison. That ebony black syrup was strong enough to take the rust off cast iron. If not outside, Papuh used an old coffee can as a "spittoon".
Looking down into the depths of that spittoon was akin to looking into the depths of hell at poor souls doomed to an eternity of foul corruption.
Now kids being kids, guess how often that damn can got kicked over. Guess again who got the privilege of cleaning putrefied toxic waste off the floor.
Now tell me that performing that duty a time or two wouldn't be effective for keeping younguns off tobacco products?
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Texas Beef
Jesse Roach was an Austin lawyer with a vehicle insurance business when he first traveled to the Ft. Worth stockyards. Seeing there were any number of cattle trucks bringing bovines to the stockyards, he opted to buy a vacant lot on which to build an insurance office. Jesse eventually utilized a portion of the land to build the Cattleman's Steak House.
The rest is history as the business has survived for likely a gozillion pounds of marbled goodness as a thriving business.
Today is Father's Day in America, USA.
The humble ranch hand and his child bride journeyed to the cattle drive terminal city yesterday to celebrate with her Dad. On a lark, the bride suggested lunch at the Cattleman's Steak House. All agreed and we sojourned at length for iced tea, hot rolls, and Texas beef.
Bout half way through the repast, the Dad-law mentioned that he and his betrothed had last had a meal at the Cattleman's some 40 years past. Upon inquiring as to the occasion, he allowed that it was the day of their marriage following the wedding ceremony at the local church (and they had not dined at this eatery since).
The ranch hand reckons it would be fortuitous to mention at this point a long felt conviction that some things are preordained to occur long before we have knowledge of their occurrence.
We had no clue of the relevant family history of this beef emporium. We had no agenda in returning the septuagenarian couple to their threshold of four decades of faithful marital devotion.
We were simply hungry and looking for a unique experience.
Now try to tell me "fate" doesn't have a sense of romance and that there are no predestined future events?
The rest is history as the business has survived for likely a gozillion pounds of marbled goodness as a thriving business.
Today is Father's Day in America, USA.
The humble ranch hand and his child bride journeyed to the cattle drive terminal city yesterday to celebrate with her Dad. On a lark, the bride suggested lunch at the Cattleman's Steak House. All agreed and we sojourned at length for iced tea, hot rolls, and Texas beef.
Bout half way through the repast, the Dad-law mentioned that he and his betrothed had last had a meal at the Cattleman's some 40 years past. Upon inquiring as to the occasion, he allowed that it was the day of their marriage following the wedding ceremony at the local church (and they had not dined at this eatery since).
The ranch hand reckons it would be fortuitous to mention at this point a long felt conviction that some things are preordained to occur long before we have knowledge of their occurrence.
We had no clue of the relevant family history of this beef emporium. We had no agenda in returning the septuagenarian couple to their threshold of four decades of faithful marital devotion.
We were simply hungry and looking for a unique experience.
Now try to tell me "fate" doesn't have a sense of romance and that there are no predestined future events?
Friday, June 12, 2009
SAPS
Trust me, this could have happened or may happen in the future.....????
Seems Carolyn was cruising (with dirt, dust and rocks flying) on her turbo charged riding mower on the back forty one fine Tijeras day. The weather was beautiful and C was in her finest Indy form with custom leather racing gloves, polarized goggles and a "I (heart) Walmart" cap.
As she passed the garden plot, a brown furry missile shot from under a squash plant and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of her. This was her chance!!!!!!
At long last she could exact long sought revenge for the rodent's purloining of garden delights. She tightened her grip on the wheel, jammed down the throttle and launched the whirling blades of death forward.....until the beady eyed varmit emitted a primal scream, leaped into the air, and landed squarely in the middle of our illustrious fighter pilot jockey.
Sports fans, that bushy tailed demon set about settlin' the score with a pain inflicted notch for each .22 bullet tallied to date in the harvest of furred garden raider brothers. The like of snarling, hissing, and attack had never been seen before as clothes, skin, and expletives flew thru the air like a drunken flock of lost geese? (That little tornado was doing some damage!!!!)
Never one to surrender easily, the Allstate flash knew that speed was an ally. She pushed that Sears antique to full throttle and set across the landscape with the wheels only hitting the ground about every ten feet (the way she normally mows the grass). Holding the evil mutant squirrel of death by the tail while whirling it over her head she.....hit a stump at max travel and nosed plowed into the ground.
This unceremonious cessation set her Nazi menace tormentor (who was now wearing the gloves and eyeballing her goggles) to uncontrolled giggling.
Fortunately for our heroine, it was at that moment the green chili stew scraps the fuzzy gargoyle had eaten from the Camino del Arriba trash kicked in for his minuscule digestive system.
Yep, gastrointestinal elimination of epic proportion both caused the untimely demise of this woodland creature, and gave impetus to the SQUIRREL ATTACK PREVENTION SOCIETY (SAPS).
And now my loyal reader knows how Carolyn managed to leave such a profound legacy for all to admire!!!!!!!!
Seems Carolyn was cruising (with dirt, dust and rocks flying) on her turbo charged riding mower on the back forty one fine Tijeras day. The weather was beautiful and C was in her finest Indy form with custom leather racing gloves, polarized goggles and a "I (heart) Walmart" cap.
As she passed the garden plot, a brown furry missile shot from under a squash plant and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of her. This was her chance!!!!!!
At long last she could exact long sought revenge for the rodent's purloining of garden delights. She tightened her grip on the wheel, jammed down the throttle and launched the whirling blades of death forward.....until the beady eyed varmit emitted a primal scream, leaped into the air, and landed squarely in the middle of our illustrious fighter pilot jockey.
Sports fans, that bushy tailed demon set about settlin' the score with a pain inflicted notch for each .22 bullet tallied to date in the harvest of furred garden raider brothers. The like of snarling, hissing, and attack had never been seen before as clothes, skin, and expletives flew thru the air like a drunken flock of lost geese? (That little tornado was doing some damage!!!!)
Never one to surrender easily, the Allstate flash knew that speed was an ally. She pushed that Sears antique to full throttle and set across the landscape with the wheels only hitting the ground about every ten feet (the way she normally mows the grass). Holding the evil mutant squirrel of death by the tail while whirling it over her head she.....hit a stump at max travel and nosed plowed into the ground.
This unceremonious cessation set her Nazi menace tormentor (who was now wearing the gloves and eyeballing her goggles) to uncontrolled giggling.
Fortunately for our heroine, it was at that moment the green chili stew scraps the fuzzy gargoyle had eaten from the Camino del Arriba trash kicked in for his minuscule digestive system.
Yep, gastrointestinal elimination of epic proportion both caused the untimely demise of this woodland creature, and gave impetus to the SQUIRREL ATTACK PREVENTION SOCIETY (SAPS).
And now my loyal reader knows how Carolyn managed to leave such a profound legacy for all to admire!!!!!!!!
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Mud Cats
My goodness, I don't know how to begin to explain how much I enjoyed fishin' in my younger days.
It was my narcotic, my nirvana, my earthly salvation, and produced my most thrilling moments.
From my earliest memories, until about 30 years old, I lived for the experience of piscatorial adventure.
Then I quit.
I'm still trying to figger out why my priorities have not included getting back to that most sincere of nature pursuits?
I reveled in the glory of bream (red ear, blue gill, and hybrid) and "mud cats" at Uncle Charlie's pond. I spent endless hours of glory at Caddo Lake and Lake Texarkana pulling channel catfish into the boat. I cherish the memory of "monster" bass caught and released at Flossie Lyles tank.
Why did this endless pleasure end? Hell if I know. I just know that I have to rekindle that ever so pleasurable fire and find a place to watch the bobber "bob", feel the surge of a bait taken, and watch the bend of the rod.
Damn JRM, I miss fishin'!
It was my narcotic, my nirvana, my earthly salvation, and produced my most thrilling moments.
From my earliest memories, until about 30 years old, I lived for the experience of piscatorial adventure.
Then I quit.
I'm still trying to figger out why my priorities have not included getting back to that most sincere of nature pursuits?
I reveled in the glory of bream (red ear, blue gill, and hybrid) and "mud cats" at Uncle Charlie's pond. I spent endless hours of glory at Caddo Lake and Lake Texarkana pulling channel catfish into the boat. I cherish the memory of "monster" bass caught and released at Flossie Lyles tank.
Why did this endless pleasure end? Hell if I know. I just know that I have to rekindle that ever so pleasurable fire and find a place to watch the bobber "bob", feel the surge of a bait taken, and watch the bend of the rod.
Damn JRM, I miss fishin'!
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Fruit of the Vine
Blessed are the children who walk in the Lord. Blessings and joy shall be theirs. Theirs is the bounty, the fruit of the vine. (Psalm 128)
Man harvests, plunders, or takes from nature according to each his own. Nature, in its inimitable style, rejuvenates at an exhilarating pace. That which is taken away is quickly replaced with new growth or future generations of wildlife.
During the last year the humble ranch hand witnessed countless casualties (deer) along the surrounding roads as vehicles took their toll of the local population. Throughout the deer hunting season there were daily shots ringing from the hill country ranches as hunters collected venison for their tables at an astonishing pace.
But there is a time of replenishment.
Today while driving Big Dawg to shred weeds along the South fence line, a tiny delicate fawn stumbled from the brush under the barb wire. The spots on its coat were brilliant in the sunlight as it tottered on spindly legs to the edge of the brush. It's life had just begun minutes before the intrusion of machinery on its tenuous world.
Blessed are the children of man, and we are blessed by the "children" of wildlife.
Man harvests, plunders, or takes from nature according to each his own. Nature, in its inimitable style, rejuvenates at an exhilarating pace. That which is taken away is quickly replaced with new growth or future generations of wildlife.
During the last year the humble ranch hand witnessed countless casualties (deer) along the surrounding roads as vehicles took their toll of the local population. Throughout the deer hunting season there were daily shots ringing from the hill country ranches as hunters collected venison for their tables at an astonishing pace.
But there is a time of replenishment.
Today while driving Big Dawg to shred weeds along the South fence line, a tiny delicate fawn stumbled from the brush under the barb wire. The spots on its coat were brilliant in the sunlight as it tottered on spindly legs to the edge of the brush. It's life had just begun minutes before the intrusion of machinery on its tenuous world.
Blessed are the children of man, and we are blessed by the "children" of wildlife.
Friday, June 5, 2009
All God's Creatures
And God made all the animals...and God saw it was good. (Genesis 1:25)
There are special moments on the Tin Star that neither love nor money could buy.
Today I was watching a doe at the East feeder about 110 yards from the back porch. The varmit sated its dried corn desire and moseyed to the adjacent protein block to lick the rough molasses flavored mass.
After ingesting 18% protein conglomeration, the obviously pregnant doe started to amble....toward me.
At 25 yards, I figgered it would panic and flee to cover like Lucifer was devouring its tail.
At five yards, I thought....OK, I'm dreamin'.
As the forest ruminant stopped at the bottom step of the porch, the experience became as unique as only nature can provide.
We stared unblinkingly into each other's brown eyes, wondering at the oddity of the moment....and then my blessed companion abruptly fled to the near brush.
Such are the blessings of our Lord and Savior.
There are special moments on the Tin Star that neither love nor money could buy.
Today I was watching a doe at the East feeder about 110 yards from the back porch. The varmit sated its dried corn desire and moseyed to the adjacent protein block to lick the rough molasses flavored mass.
After ingesting 18% protein conglomeration, the obviously pregnant doe started to amble....toward me.
At 25 yards, I figgered it would panic and flee to cover like Lucifer was devouring its tail.
At five yards, I thought....OK, I'm dreamin'.
As the forest ruminant stopped at the bottom step of the porch, the experience became as unique as only nature can provide.
We stared unblinkingly into each other's brown eyes, wondering at the oddity of the moment....and then my blessed companion abruptly fled to the near brush.
Such are the blessings of our Lord and Savior.
Buffalo Marksmanship
Ya can't roller skate in a buffalo herd
Ya can't roller skate in a buffalo herd
Ya can't roller skate in a buffalo herd
But you can be happy if you've a mind to.
(Roger Miller)
Today we were driving through the narrow ranchland backroads from Gabriel Mills to Liberty Hill when we spied a sign on a fence that said, "Missing Buffalo, call xxx-xxxx"?
Now being a speculative feller, I naturally began to cogitate on the meanin' of that message???
If a buffalo was "missing" someone, should it call the number?
If your shootin' iron just couldn't seem to slay the beast, phone fer help?
If bison have decided to start shooting back, but can't master the intricacies of firearms.....
If ya had driven US 79 from one end to the other and couldn't find Buffalo, Texas???
If dwindling herds have lessened the frequency of sighting great beasts and ya wanted to start a breeding program......
If the nomadic grazer, commonly known to travel in herds, is looking for company and/or a romantic interlude?
If shaggy roller skatin' in Williamson county is your thang.......well
HERE'S YOUR SIGN
Ya can't roller skate in a buffalo herd
Ya can't roller skate in a buffalo herd
But you can be happy if you've a mind to.
(Roger Miller)
Today we were driving through the narrow ranchland backroads from Gabriel Mills to Liberty Hill when we spied a sign on a fence that said, "Missing Buffalo, call xxx-xxxx"?
Now being a speculative feller, I naturally began to cogitate on the meanin' of that message???
If a buffalo was "missing" someone, should it call the number?
If your shootin' iron just couldn't seem to slay the beast, phone fer help?
If bison have decided to start shooting back, but can't master the intricacies of firearms.....
If ya had driven US 79 from one end to the other and couldn't find Buffalo, Texas???
If dwindling herds have lessened the frequency of sighting great beasts and ya wanted to start a breeding program......
If the nomadic grazer, commonly known to travel in herds, is looking for company and/or a romantic interlude?
If shaggy roller skatin' in Williamson county is your thang.......well
HERE'S YOUR SIGN
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Weekend Eve
Tomorrow is Friday.
I toiled at my chosen profession for 33 years and each week treasured Friday as it was emblematic of weekend eve. Come quittin' time on the 6th day of the week, a body's soul could look forward to rest, relaxation, and adult beverage cooled to a level of delight.
Then came "retirement". One soon learned to feel regret at Fridays. Friday meant that the poor working slobs would be crowding the roadways, teeming in the stores, and generally messing up the ambiance. Your faithful ranch hand would just sulk in the shadows and wistfully long for Monday when the poor cretins would return to their chosen salt mine leaving the neighborhood a quite Garden of Eden once again.
But, trouble always seems to seek out paradise? Your humble erudite scribe inexplicably returned to the workplace and has for tres anos endeavored to persevere at gainful employment.
Tomorrow is Friday.
Aaah the sweet bliss of it all!
I toiled at my chosen profession for 33 years and each week treasured Friday as it was emblematic of weekend eve. Come quittin' time on the 6th day of the week, a body's soul could look forward to rest, relaxation, and adult beverage cooled to a level of delight.
Then came "retirement". One soon learned to feel regret at Fridays. Friday meant that the poor working slobs would be crowding the roadways, teeming in the stores, and generally messing up the ambiance. Your faithful ranch hand would just sulk in the shadows and wistfully long for Monday when the poor cretins would return to their chosen salt mine leaving the neighborhood a quite Garden of Eden once again.
But, trouble always seems to seek out paradise? Your humble erudite scribe inexplicably returned to the workplace and has for tres anos endeavored to persevere at gainful employment.
Tomorrow is Friday.
Aaah the sweet bliss of it all!
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