WEEKENDS

Ya work your whole life and at times, seem to live for the "weekend".

Leisure time, chores around the house, bonding with the "fam".

Then ya retire, and the weekend is when the workin' folk are on the roads and in the stores "in the way" while you may want to shop?

Go back to a job after "retirement" and ya start to live for the weekends again??? (and Monday mornings renewed as a butt pain of monumental proportions?)

The ole fat boy done been on both ends of that "stick" and is here to tell ya that the retired part of the equation is the WINNER.

The Warrior

From teen years the old ranch hand knew he wanted to do some welding.

Mr. Holmes had an oil field welding shop in Turnertown and it fascinated a dumass country boy to see things fabricated from steel and welded into their final design.

Wanting the "stuff" to weld and prioritizing it with family and such delayed any equipment acquisition until about 1984. Yep, the ole fat boy waltzed into Montgomery Ward's and purchased their finest (cheapest) "popcorn" welder to take to the ranchito in Wright City.

Course, knew Dad was a bit of a welding "dauber" himself so he would naturally be "borrowing" the new "prize" from time to time.

"Time to time" turned into immediate "planting" in Dad's backyard (where it resided until his demise 15 years later?)

The Ward's warrior is currently in the ranch barn in an honored capacity commemorating its long years of service to Dad.

This fine day, the ranch hand cranked his newly acquired gasoline engine welder-nator contraption and spent eight of the finest hours one could imagine "daubing" flux coated, sputtering, steel rods applied to a project that your humble scribe prays Mr. Holmes and Dad would be proud of?

Yeah Dad, I knew I wouldn't have the time to fire up that Monkey Wards machine when I bought it, but I also knew you would wear its butt out with a vengeance.

Kuntry Butt Kickin'

The old fat boy decided this last fine weekend to make the ranch brush bow down and ask forgiveness for its encroachment.

Bad mistake.

Worked two days in the magnificent Texas heat and humidity with scarcely a break...and dang near foundered?

Cuttin' and stackin' that stuff is the devil's own punishment in heat as it wipes out an old fat man quicker than mercury will shine a dime?

Bottom line: missed work today at the town job as too dad-gum tuckered to drive in?

Brush "1" and ranch hand "0", AGAIN?????

Wouldn't ya think a dumass from Wright City would learn sooner or later??????

Ephiphany

Your humble scribe of this blog is somewhat below the level of the amoeba in intelligence, but above the average in "wannabe"?

Included in this quotation is the desire to be something of a photographer????

Done learned that equipment has a degree of importance, and sure, skill has its proverbial input, but....dadgum...luck is ever so prevalent in any "shoot"?

This ole fat boy "spied" his resident backyard rat snake a'slitherin' crossed the backyard this day and managed to capture his image on the digital NIKON?

Who would a' figgered....captured the picture taker in the eye of the beast as well...

Ya gotta love epiphanies that ya had no part in an can't reproduce under any circumstance??

Things Undone

The ranch hand has achieved a bit more than twelve lustrums.

Bein' across half way to the century mark has the ole fat boy cogitatin' on "things undone".

It's mostly trivial, worldly crap, but just the same it is "stuff" that has been long neglected in order to appropriately foster family, groceries, etc.

For likely 50 year, your humble scribe has coveted a gas engine driven welder to, well "create"? Always the same story.....too much other obligation to indulge such a trivial desire.

Today one of the "things undone" on the bucket list got "done". The neophyte wannabe "welder" ordered delivery of a gen-u-ine Miller Wildcat 200 with appropriate accoutrement's therein.

Hell, life is so damn good these days that a big steel bar-b-que smoker can't be far down the road?

Fidouche

Courage is a tenuous thing.

Most folks want to believe they have the capacity to exhibit moral fortitude as required, but the real deal don't manifest itself til the excrement hits the oscillator in real life.

Which brings the ranch hand to his dawg. El fido would not be your normal country reared, junk yard, testosterone variety of mutt. He mostly is shy, he is not intrusive other than wanting constant assurance of acceptance and human affection, and he don't bark with an excess of enthusiasm or frequency; until today.

Your humble scribe parked at the ranch house following his nominal "tour of duty" on the town job and promptly heard the resident canine "alpha" barking like the Apocalypse reincarnated at the rear of the casa?

Wasn't nuthin to do but "investigate" and yours truly found the following forensic scene:

1. Sir fido was "ears back", "tail down" an barkin' like the devil his-self was crawlin' up his rear? No amount of "sic 'em" or "come here" was productive in the least?

2. A wild-ass feral cat was sittin" on the back porch in front of mr. macho's dawg house. Yelling at that dumass cat fearin' cretin was like telling a teenager to stop "texting" at the dinner table.

3. Ever time the feline quivered/flinched, the dawg near bout pooped with fear????

4. The conquering hero (tom-cat) eventually got bored and "vacated"?????

5. The fragile "ego" of fidouche may be forever splintered by the encountered?

Lessons learned:

1. Dawgs are the same as men; neither one understands why anyone could ever justify the existence of cats?

2. A dawg's mother-in- law will never visit you (OK, that is manufactured bull shit, but the ole fat boy likes the conceptual question?)

3. Ya call (or yell) at a cat, they are instantly deaf; call a dawg's name (hell, any name) and your dawg will act like he heard the angels sing (unless the idiot is steroidally focused on a barnyard mouser)?

4. Canine varmits obviously "practice" acting excited when ya git home, but ya instantly know the hysterical barking gig is less than heartfelt when ya hear the same lines YELLED in fear?

5. It's a cinch that if dawgs could talk it would take all the fun out of owning one!

HOMESICK

When the ranch hand was near seven year old, Aunt Rubye blessed his deprived country self by allowing a stay with her and family in Ft. Worth for a couple of weeks.

A "couple of weeks" don't sound like no step for a "stepper", but for a first grade neophyte away from home for the first time....that turned into a bit of a challenge.

Seems the Wright City kid developed a serious case of "homesick"...yeah, missed his mama, dad, sisters, and whatever.....Sweet aunt Rubye understood and cut the visit short to take the mama's boy home early...bless her soul!

Forty years ago, a naive, know-nuthin bumpkin started Texas Highway Patrol school and found no challenge whatsoever...the physical training...the academics....the mental pressure so expertly applied by the platoon sergeants...nothing...EXCEPT the "homesick" part started to eat away at the soul felt resolve to succeed............?

The good news is that the ole fat boy prevailed and lasted forty years in his chosen profession.

The "interesting" news: Your humble scribe has sit his butt in Huntsville Texas all week for some mandatory po-leese training and he would readily confess to all as to being "homesick"?

Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home, and that fact shall never change!

Memory Leviathans

There is always music amongst the trees in the garden, but our hearts must be very quiet to hear it. (Minnie Aumonier)

The ranch hand spent his pup years in deep East Texas where tall bull pine trees ruled the landscape.

These glorious green giants most often stood with stately grace serving as scribes creating a literature that was testament to serenity. Yet, on occasion, they glorified in raging storms with swirling arms of enthusiasm that fairly shouted the joy of life.

The shaggy bark conifers provided a cornucopia of sustenance to the resident varmits. They lavished a brown carpet of sweet smelling needles on the forest floor....and they shaded our sorry butts with shelter from the summer sun.

The many years your humble blogger spent absent from the long leaf and lob lolly evergreens of youthful endeavor in Wright City have been years of longing for the passion of youth, a time of care free days, and thoughts associated with family and friends.

This week has been spent in the city of Huntsville, Texas. Huntsville is blessed with a myriad of the 60-70 foot tall leviathans of past memories.

The moments spent this week simply gazing at their majesty and remember times past have been a therapy that is priceless.

Thank you, oh Lord, for your grace and wisdom in the creation of this magnificent blessing in our daily lives. May we be forever grateful for the genius of Your creations and the bounty they provide.

The Prodigal Son

Mom's Dad told me once that he went to the initial day of first grade and didn't like it so he never went back to school. He was a treasured memory of the ranch hand's childhood, but (bless his soul) he could not read or write one lick.

The ranch hand's Dad had his own challenges and joined Paphu in not knowing "a" from "z".

Then comes the prodigal son.

Sometimes ya wonder if a vacuum on one side creates a tidal pool (or tsunami) on the other?

This ole fat boy been suckin' in ed-u-ma-ca-tion for nigh on 1957 til present day (53 years for the math majors in the crowd).

Dad used to say his onliest son must be the dumest sum-bitch on earth for schoolin' for so long? Amongst friends, I confess to being embarassed and never could even fathom an answer to Dad's perpetual comment????

After three college degrees, four professional certifications, and a P-H-D from the school of hard knocks (including kicking natural downhome ass as a member of the constabulary in every venue imaginable.....and having same done to ones self in every major city in Texas) , one would begin to think Dad had an extremely valid point?

Bottom line: The gospel of Luke tells us that a father counsels his son, "You are always with me and everything I have is yours" (Luke 15-32)

I can think of no finer tribute to my forefathers than gratitude for their part in making me what I am and to feel incredible gratitude for their contribution to who I am...

Road Warrior

The ranch hand has toiled in the same profession for a bit more than 40 years now.

Like all licensed professions, periodic "schoolin" is required to continue being licensed.

This ole fat boy is planted in Huntsville for the entire week to study up on "stuff" due to a mandatory training requirement that has come due.

Being in the extreme twilight of a waning career, one has to wonder if this is the "Swan Song" for an old road warrior who has almost run his race to its conclusion.

Nuthin deep here, just contemplating a lifetime of trying to master the knowledge required to do a job half decent and realizing that it will soon be time to let the young lions take up the chase with one less member in the pack?

Bob War Juice

East Texas was geometrically criss-crossed with bob war (barbed wire).

The prickly stuff was just a natural decoration on the landscape and folks didn't pay it that much attention.

Some was stretched til ya could tune it like a fiddle (Grandaddy's) and some was less tight wound like their owners.

On rare occasion one would happen upon a fence with regular wire (no barbs) that was attached to metal posts with a plastic holder. Anybody of "normal" curiosity would approach and grab hold that strange contraption....ONE TIME!

Them puppies was juiced by a fence charger that would near "kill" ya with surprise when some unknown volume of electricity would trickle thru your veins.

At first it was a hazard to be avoided at all costs. Then, boys being boys, it was as challenge to "explore".

Exploration included touching the menace with various items to test it's conductive qualities. Dry sticks, green sticks, whatever, along the progression of boyhood frivolity.

Bottom line: Ain't never lived a boy what hasn't finally been overcome with the desire to pee on one them damn fences. Yep, bob war juice that ya won't NEVER forget (and will not ever do again!)

The Son of Man

Near bout everyone I ever knew told me that Dad was an extraordinary country and western dance partner. Even Mom said that when they would go to the Kilgore honky-tonks, all the gals would line up to dance with Dad. I did not witness that particular fan club, but I do remember watching Dad on roller skates making the hardwood floor in Henderson look like an Olympic ice rink as he spun and twirled with his partner dancing in perfect rhythm to the 45 RPM platters of the DJ.

In later years, Dad confessed to employing certain compensating strategies in deference to advancing age and declining health. In simple terms, he would delay dancing until a song was about half over and he would on occasion create an excuse to stop before the end of a song. Seems his lungs and his legs were not of the quality and endurance that he once boasted.

Lacking Dad's enormous talent for "hoofing", the ole ranch hand languished in dance oblivion until the ripe old age of FORTY. At that time, yours truly simply decided to learn the damn "stuff" and then engage in the activity as social graces required.

Big surprise, Gene's only son found it was a fun activity and great exercise, (no...the roller skate version was never an option for the athletically challenged).

What followed was 20 years of occasional public displays, not unlike peacock strutting, with satisfaction that Dad would not be too embarrassed by the choreographed efforts of his offspring.

Bottom line: Went to the outdoor dance floor behind the German restaurant in Walburg last night and the rest is history. The world has come full circle and the old fat boy very gratefully resurrected Gene's strategy as a hedge against embarrassment.

"For the Son of man shall come in the glory of his Father" (Mathew 16:27)