I busted my rear to "survive" Highway Patrol School. Physically, psychologically, and spiritually, it dang near drained me. When I "made it", I felt that my just reward was on its way.
They had us fill out a "Dream Sheet". We got to list three areas of the state we wanted to be stationed in priority order. I listed Tyler, Dallas, or Beaumont. They sent my country butt to San Antonio. Devastation! Far from home, a BIG city, and too few who spoke my native tongue in their daily conversation.
Guess what, I loved San Antonio, I learned more about my profession than I ever could have imagined, and when I moved due to promotion SIX years later, I had genuine regret upon leaving.
I left San Antonio because I was promoted to Highway Patrol Sergeant. What I "wanted" when I made Sergeant was to go to some Northeast Texas small town and settle down to enjoy life until I reached retirement age/service. NOT. I was sent to Houston. The cost of living was astronomical (my pay raise for promotion was only $76), the traffic, population, pollution was overwhelming, and twice during my year there I came as close to losing my life in the line of duty as I could ever imagine/fear.
After one year, I asked for transfer to Marshall to help care for my terminally ill Mom. I was glad to leave Harris County, but you know what, I learned more about being a supervisor in that year than maybe all my later years put together?
While at Marshall, I decided I would apply with the many other applicants to attend the Northwestern University Police Executive Management Institute in Chicago (nine month program). I merely "wanted" to apply to get my "name in the hat" for some future year when I might be serious about the deal. Guess what, I was the only person in DPS to apply that year, management signed off on a federal grant to pay for it, and I was ordered to attend (Be careful what you ask for sports fans). That "adventure" put me figuratively on the other side of the world, in a strange COLD land with folks who "talked funny" and in a program that taxed the limits of my brains and endurance.
Again, when it was over, I felt this experience that I had not really wanted had allowed me to grow professionally more than anything I ever could have imagined.
My life since that "yankee" experience has been a series of events that were not my conscious want/need/desire, but that turned out to be "just what the doctor ordered" for my long term benefit.
Bottom line children of mine: EXPERIENCE IS WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU DON'T GET WHAT YOU WANTED.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
BRICK WALLS
From as early as I can remember, I knew that I would settle for nothing less than a bachelor's degree as my educational goal. Never mind that I was "oil field trash". Never mind that I had no money and was too proud for "loans" (beside "loans" had to be paid back and: the money thing again). Never mind that no one in the Waller family (that I knew of) had ever done that in the history of the world. I JUST KNEW THAT IT WAS SOMETHING I WANTED, NEEDED, AND DESIRED VERY DEEPLY.
I wanted to play football for as long as I can remember. I didn't just want to be on the team, I wanted to make a difference, be a leader, and be able to look back over the years and know that I had given it my best effort. Never mind that I was undertall, skinny and short on talent, IT WAS JUST SOMETHING THAT I FELT MY LIFE WOULD NOT BE COMPLETE WITHOUT.
I have always known that at the end of my professional life (no matter what I did to earn my living) I wanted to always be able to look back and feel good about what I had done. I wanted to feel that I had made a positive difference in the world. When someone asked me what I did to earn my living, I knew that I wanted to be able to answer that question with pride. THIS WAS SACRED TO ME IN TERMS OF BEING TRUE TO "ME".
None of the above was easy. Some aspects of it near tore out my guts, soul and sanity, but with the Lord's own blessing, I made it happen.
Bottom line: BRICK WALLS ARE THERE TO LET US KNOW HOW MUCH WE WANT IT.
Children of mine, never mind how difficult the task, how long the road, or how unbelievably frustrating the world may become, it is all part of becoming YOU.
I wanted to play football for as long as I can remember. I didn't just want to be on the team, I wanted to make a difference, be a leader, and be able to look back over the years and know that I had given it my best effort. Never mind that I was undertall, skinny and short on talent, IT WAS JUST SOMETHING THAT I FELT MY LIFE WOULD NOT BE COMPLETE WITHOUT.
I have always known that at the end of my professional life (no matter what I did to earn my living) I wanted to always be able to look back and feel good about what I had done. I wanted to feel that I had made a positive difference in the world. When someone asked me what I did to earn my living, I knew that I wanted to be able to answer that question with pride. THIS WAS SACRED TO ME IN TERMS OF BEING TRUE TO "ME".
None of the above was easy. Some aspects of it near tore out my guts, soul and sanity, but with the Lord's own blessing, I made it happen.
Bottom line: BRICK WALLS ARE THERE TO LET US KNOW HOW MUCH WE WANT IT.
Children of mine, never mind how difficult the task, how long the road, or how unbelievably frustrating the world may become, it is all part of becoming YOU.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
LAUGHTER AND TEARS
Humor can be as simple as a drop of dew falling from above to hit you between the eyes, or as complicated as any boolean equation devised per Einstein (OK, I know it was actually George Boolean who figgered out before Wright City that a logical calculus of truth values exists in computer science, but lets face it, that ain't "humorous" by any standard).
Getting it down to the simplest equation, my Dad was the funniest person I have ever known.
His humor was basic, relevant, and near bout a gut bustin' riot as I could ever imagine.
My favorite memories of Dad's humor were those times where he would start to tell a joke and could never get to the punch line. Dad would be so overcome by the hilarity (to him) of the joke, that he would begin to uncontrollably laugh, shake, cry, get red faced, and generally be unable to continue. For reasons I can't fully explain, it had the same effect on me. Without having a clue what the joke was about, I would begin to "laugh, shake, cry, get red faced" (you get the idea). It was just humor in its purest, most funny form, to see Dad so personally and emotionally involved in a play on words that we call a "joke".
Why did Dad have the ability to enjoy such simple thoughts to such an extreme of pleasure?
You would have had to know my Dad to know that he was a simple man. In all things, he evaluated life in its simplest terms:
1. What is the minimum needed to accomplish a task
2. What is the most economically efficient way to survive
3. What is the TRUTH (Dad didn't have the time or patience for "window dressing" on anything
4. And most important, he was irreverent about what anyone else in the world thought about anything you can imagine. His only values were his personal values about anything on earth
If you thought you had accomplished an awesome task or made a purchase of immense proportion, Dad's standard comment was, "Cute". If you were basking in the glory of your most recent relevation of thought, Dad would in a couple of words put it all in perspective and clearly let you know that maybe you had not considered the grand scheme of things (slammed your butt back to that which really matters another words).
I miss my Dad in more ways than I can count, but among those are my longing to once again enjoy his soul satisfying humor that made the world a more pleasurable place by his presence.
Getting it down to the simplest equation, my Dad was the funniest person I have ever known.
His humor was basic, relevant, and near bout a gut bustin' riot as I could ever imagine.
My favorite memories of Dad's humor were those times where he would start to tell a joke and could never get to the punch line. Dad would be so overcome by the hilarity (to him) of the joke, that he would begin to uncontrollably laugh, shake, cry, get red faced, and generally be unable to continue. For reasons I can't fully explain, it had the same effect on me. Without having a clue what the joke was about, I would begin to "laugh, shake, cry, get red faced" (you get the idea). It was just humor in its purest, most funny form, to see Dad so personally and emotionally involved in a play on words that we call a "joke".
Why did Dad have the ability to enjoy such simple thoughts to such an extreme of pleasure?
You would have had to know my Dad to know that he was a simple man. In all things, he evaluated life in its simplest terms:
1. What is the minimum needed to accomplish a task
2. What is the most economically efficient way to survive
3. What is the TRUTH (Dad didn't have the time or patience for "window dressing" on anything
4. And most important, he was irreverent about what anyone else in the world thought about anything you can imagine. His only values were his personal values about anything on earth
If you thought you had accomplished an awesome task or made a purchase of immense proportion, Dad's standard comment was, "Cute". If you were basking in the glory of your most recent relevation of thought, Dad would in a couple of words put it all in perspective and clearly let you know that maybe you had not considered the grand scheme of things (slammed your butt back to that which really matters another words).
I miss my Dad in more ways than I can count, but among those are my longing to once again enjoy his soul satisfying humor that made the world a more pleasurable place by his presence.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
GARDEN CHICKENS
My Dad's Dad, Grandaddy, was a gardener extraordinaire. Each year he raised a huge crop of vegetables with each offering a prize winning specimen of nutrition and countrified good taste. In addition, the garden itself was a picture perfect monument to precision and care. Each row was as straight as an arrow, a weed never dared to rear its ugly head in any corner, and the soil was tilled to perfection year round. Each growing season, Grandaddy would have more squash, okra, onions, etc., than ten families could eat.
My Mom's Dad, Papuh, also "raised" a garden. He would sorta plow this way and that thru whatever patch of ground he chose to call his "garden". He would then sort of haphazardly strow some seed, sets, or plants, and then say a short prayer before leaving the "garden" to " the will of God" (meaning he never touched it again other than to harvest the vegetables). In a rainy year, the weeds in Papuh's garden would completely obliterate any view of the garden plants (Papuh called that "shade"). Guess what, he also raised an amazing amount of delicious food in those gardens.
Ole frankie tried a garden in Wright City once upon a time (yeah, like a fairy tale beginning). I near bout foundered my fat butt pushing Grandaddy's plow with its iron spoked wheel and iron bicycle-like handles in order to break up the ground. Then I expectantly planted potatoes, corn and peas. All grew well (especially the weeds, Papuh) and time came for harvest. I dug the potatoes and found that the fire ants had eaten them to the point they looked like they had been hit with a shotgun. I tried to pull the ears of corn and each one I touched caused a nest of fire ants to boil out of the shuck and near eat me alive. END OF FLW GARDENING.
Now comes my Dad. Dad never had access to a fertile, loose soil garden in his life. His garden area was alway mostly sand over a base of red clay. No matter how much he plowed prior to planting, when it rained it packed the sand like concrete. Dad could raise enough peppers (jalapeno, bell, bannana, they were all HOT) to burn the hide off a rhinoceros, (and a monkey could raise a passel of yellow squash), but some years he struggled a bit to produce enough tomatoes to his liking. It wasn't that he lacked the talent, it was just that he had a nefarious enemy that tharted his efforts.
Dad also like FRESH eggs for breakfast each morn, so he had about 6-8 chickens. The chickens love to peck the ripe red tomatoes. Dad became sorely conflicted as he wanted the fresh chicken eggs and he wanted the tomatoes. His compromise: Daisy Red Rider BB gun. Any time he saw the chickens in the garden, he would pop them with the BB gun causing them to run sqawking behind his house.
Chickens are mostly dumb, but they ain't all dumb. Dad and I would sit in his front yard (usually sucking on a cold brew) with said BB gun nearby. Them varmit chickens would elect a "scout". The "scout" would stealthily ease along the side of the house until it could just stretch its neck around the corner to see if we were "paying attention". If we ignored the "scout", the cackle fruit posse would then begin to slowly stroll in the general direction of the tomatoes as if they did not even notice that the garden existed. Dad would wait until they were all in view, and then cut down on them with that BB gun like a banshee (think chickens running every which way while sqawking hysterically).
Those chicken "wars" are a funny memory I have, among many, of days in Wright City.
My Mom's Dad, Papuh, also "raised" a garden. He would sorta plow this way and that thru whatever patch of ground he chose to call his "garden". He would then sort of haphazardly strow some seed, sets, or plants, and then say a short prayer before leaving the "garden" to " the will of God" (meaning he never touched it again other than to harvest the vegetables). In a rainy year, the weeds in Papuh's garden would completely obliterate any view of the garden plants (Papuh called that "shade"). Guess what, he also raised an amazing amount of delicious food in those gardens.
Ole frankie tried a garden in Wright City once upon a time (yeah, like a fairy tale beginning). I near bout foundered my fat butt pushing Grandaddy's plow with its iron spoked wheel and iron bicycle-like handles in order to break up the ground. Then I expectantly planted potatoes, corn and peas. All grew well (especially the weeds, Papuh) and time came for harvest. I dug the potatoes and found that the fire ants had eaten them to the point they looked like they had been hit with a shotgun. I tried to pull the ears of corn and each one I touched caused a nest of fire ants to boil out of the shuck and near eat me alive. END OF FLW GARDENING.
Now comes my Dad. Dad never had access to a fertile, loose soil garden in his life. His garden area was alway mostly sand over a base of red clay. No matter how much he plowed prior to planting, when it rained it packed the sand like concrete. Dad could raise enough peppers (jalapeno, bell, bannana, they were all HOT) to burn the hide off a rhinoceros, (and a monkey could raise a passel of yellow squash), but some years he struggled a bit to produce enough tomatoes to his liking. It wasn't that he lacked the talent, it was just that he had a nefarious enemy that tharted his efforts.
Dad also like FRESH eggs for breakfast each morn, so he had about 6-8 chickens. The chickens love to peck the ripe red tomatoes. Dad became sorely conflicted as he wanted the fresh chicken eggs and he wanted the tomatoes. His compromise: Daisy Red Rider BB gun. Any time he saw the chickens in the garden, he would pop them with the BB gun causing them to run sqawking behind his house.
Chickens are mostly dumb, but they ain't all dumb. Dad and I would sit in his front yard (usually sucking on a cold brew) with said BB gun nearby. Them varmit chickens would elect a "scout". The "scout" would stealthily ease along the side of the house until it could just stretch its neck around the corner to see if we were "paying attention". If we ignored the "scout", the cackle fruit posse would then begin to slowly stroll in the general direction of the tomatoes as if they did not even notice that the garden existed. Dad would wait until they were all in view, and then cut down on them with that BB gun like a banshee (think chickens running every which way while sqawking hysterically).
Those chicken "wars" are a funny memory I have, among many, of days in Wright City.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Long Days and Short Years
Lisa posted a wonderful blog recently that ended with the quote, "The days were long, but the years were short."
Wow, that really made me think.
On February 10th, 38 years ago, I showed up at 5808 N. Lamar Blvd, Austin, Texas at the Texas Department of Public Safety Training Academy as the greenest, most naive, (scared) Highway Patrol recruit who ever walked on that campus. After that inauspicious beginning, I toiled in the salt mines of DPS for 33 years. Some days seemed never ending with stress, fatigue, aggravation, and (occasional terror). But I blinked my eyes and my retirement day dawned.
Five years ago yesterday (Feb 28th) I retired from DPS and walked away from my life's work, a lot of friends, and a world of memories. How did five years evaporate so quickly?
Almost two years ago, I agreed to be the "interim" Chief of Police for Austin Community College for two months. Guess I forgot to set the alarm clock on that one as I woke up this morn and realized the "two months" have flown by with increasing speed after I became the "permanent" Chief.
Thirty four years ago, I went to Methodist Hospital in San Antonio in the predawn hours (about as scared as that first day at Highway Patrol school) and awaited the birth of my first child, Casie. I "blinked my eyes" again and, Wow, she became a mature adult with her own family in faster time than it takes to tell it.
Twenty eight years ago, I made that same exciting trip in the predawn to Marshall Hospital and was blessed with Lisa. Yep, "blinked" again and her family/babies/church/etc are becoming history making in the fast forward mode as well.
Eleven years ago I married the wonderful, sweet, beautiful, supportive, talented bride (Mendy) who has so richly contributed to my personal happiness, well-being, and satisfaction with life and all in it. She makes me laugh, she inspires me, and she makes me want to be a better person, all day every day. And as a truly rewarding blessing, she allowed me the privilege of helping to raise two wonderful children, Weston and Marissa. And yes, it seems that we have been together but a moment.
Thank you Lisa for causing me to pause and think about so many good things in my life.
Wow, that really made me think.
On February 10th, 38 years ago, I showed up at 5808 N. Lamar Blvd, Austin, Texas at the Texas Department of Public Safety Training Academy as the greenest, most naive, (scared) Highway Patrol recruit who ever walked on that campus. After that inauspicious beginning, I toiled in the salt mines of DPS for 33 years. Some days seemed never ending with stress, fatigue, aggravation, and (occasional terror). But I blinked my eyes and my retirement day dawned.
Five years ago yesterday (Feb 28th) I retired from DPS and walked away from my life's work, a lot of friends, and a world of memories. How did five years evaporate so quickly?
Almost two years ago, I agreed to be the "interim" Chief of Police for Austin Community College for two months. Guess I forgot to set the alarm clock on that one as I woke up this morn and realized the "two months" have flown by with increasing speed after I became the "permanent" Chief.
Thirty four years ago, I went to Methodist Hospital in San Antonio in the predawn hours (about as scared as that first day at Highway Patrol school) and awaited the birth of my first child, Casie. I "blinked my eyes" again and, Wow, she became a mature adult with her own family in faster time than it takes to tell it.
Twenty eight years ago, I made that same exciting trip in the predawn to Marshall Hospital and was blessed with Lisa. Yep, "blinked" again and her family/babies/church/etc are becoming history making in the fast forward mode as well.
Eleven years ago I married the wonderful, sweet, beautiful, supportive, talented bride (Mendy) who has so richly contributed to my personal happiness, well-being, and satisfaction with life and all in it. She makes me laugh, she inspires me, and she makes me want to be a better person, all day every day. And as a truly rewarding blessing, she allowed me the privilege of helping to raise two wonderful children, Weston and Marissa. And yes, it seems that we have been together but a moment.
Thank you Lisa for causing me to pause and think about so many good things in my life.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
STUMPS
When I bought Tin Star Ranch almost four years ago it was overgrown with weeds. I couldn't wait to rent a tractor and a shredder to make it more presentable.
Said tractor rental day came and I proudly started my ranch heritage as a true caretaker of the land by plunging into the nearest waist high weed patch....and promptly dang near plunged over the hood of the tractor as I hit a stump.
Now if you have never shredded weeds from the exquisite vantage point of a tractor seat, you have no idea what a thrill (heart pounding, jaw dropping, sphincter spasm moment) that hitting a stump can be! Ya got two options actually:
1. Mow with the front bucket down low (which means you avoid hitting the stump with the shredder, but guarantees that you dang near pop you head off when the bucket hits the stump and you fly forward at the speed of butter goin' thru a duck)
2. Mow with the front bucket up (which means you hit the stump with the heavy steel shredder blades that are turning at 540 revolution per minute powered by a 32 horsepower tractor)
Option #2 is my favorite because it is the closest thing (I hope) that I will ever experience to a helicopter crash!!!!!!!
The quality of an experience is often in direct proportion to frequency. How frequent does this stump "maniacal gyration" occur? I decided to mark the stumps for future removal by buying a bundle of 100 orange flags at Lowes. The first bundle evaporated before I could even get started. Not to be deterred, I bought another bundle of 100, and it evaporated. Yep, did a third bundle and just gave up marking 'em. If your math is as good as Kaitlin's, ya can figger than I am dodging more than 300 stumps (risking life, limb, and clean drawers) every time I mow.
Does that slow me down, NOT. The job is necessary, worthwhile and rewarding on a variety of levels.
About now you are wondering if there is a point to this drivel? (Children of mine, this in the point where you should start paying attention)
All of life will be full of "stumps". Some are hidden and surprise you at the most inopportune times, but others are ones that you expect (sick kids, no sleep, work, school, in-laws, out-laws and senile Daddys to name a few). The "stumps" can jar your teeth out, scare the bejeebers out of you, and tax your will.
Not to worry. the "stumps" (for reasons you can't see at the moment) are necessary, worthwhile and rewarding on a variety of levels. The "stumps" are allowing you to grow personally and spriritually, they are allowing you to earn your place in the world, and they are making you tough enough for whatever is to come in your life.
Now put on your overalls and plow thru those "stumps" like the wonderful, brilliant, blessed keepers of our future world that you have so richly become.
Said tractor rental day came and I proudly started my ranch heritage as a true caretaker of the land by plunging into the nearest waist high weed patch....and promptly dang near plunged over the hood of the tractor as I hit a stump.
Now if you have never shredded weeds from the exquisite vantage point of a tractor seat, you have no idea what a thrill (heart pounding, jaw dropping, sphincter spasm moment) that hitting a stump can be! Ya got two options actually:
1. Mow with the front bucket down low (which means you avoid hitting the stump with the shredder, but guarantees that you dang near pop you head off when the bucket hits the stump and you fly forward at the speed of butter goin' thru a duck)
2. Mow with the front bucket up (which means you hit the stump with the heavy steel shredder blades that are turning at 540 revolution per minute powered by a 32 horsepower tractor)
Option #2 is my favorite because it is the closest thing (I hope) that I will ever experience to a helicopter crash!!!!!!!
The quality of an experience is often in direct proportion to frequency. How frequent does this stump "maniacal gyration" occur? I decided to mark the stumps for future removal by buying a bundle of 100 orange flags at Lowes. The first bundle evaporated before I could even get started. Not to be deterred, I bought another bundle of 100, and it evaporated. Yep, did a third bundle and just gave up marking 'em. If your math is as good as Kaitlin's, ya can figger than I am dodging more than 300 stumps (risking life, limb, and clean drawers) every time I mow.
Does that slow me down, NOT. The job is necessary, worthwhile and rewarding on a variety of levels.
About now you are wondering if there is a point to this drivel? (Children of mine, this in the point where you should start paying attention)
All of life will be full of "stumps". Some are hidden and surprise you at the most inopportune times, but others are ones that you expect (sick kids, no sleep, work, school, in-laws, out-laws and senile Daddys to name a few). The "stumps" can jar your teeth out, scare the bejeebers out of you, and tax your will.
Not to worry. the "stumps" (for reasons you can't see at the moment) are necessary, worthwhile and rewarding on a variety of levels. The "stumps" are allowing you to grow personally and spriritually, they are allowing you to earn your place in the world, and they are making you tough enough for whatever is to come in your life.
Now put on your overalls and plow thru those "stumps" like the wonderful, brilliant, blessed keepers of our future world that you have so richly become.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
THE GAMBLIN' GENE
Ya know, it only just now occurred to me that "gene" (referring to genetic characteristics/transference) is spelled the same as "Gene" (my dad)?
As a indisputable fact, I have inherited a number of "genes" from "Gene". In my humble opinion, I inherited at the least:
1. A warped sensed of humor
2. An undying, all encompassing, down to my toenails, love of my family
3. A love of anything with an internal combustion motor on it
4. A love of gambling
Dad absolutely LOVED to gamble. He never had enough money to do it with any flair, and the truth be known, he had enough sense to not be stupid with it, but he loved it just the same. He would play "nickel ante" poker at his kitchen table for hours on end and then do it again any time anyone would participate. If nobody had money (common among Wright City folk) he would lay out his wooden kitchen matches and use that as negotiable tender.
In later years, Dad would on rare occasion go to the "boats" (Bossier City, Lousiana has gambling boats docked on the banks of the Red River with casinos inside). Dad played the quarter slot machines.
Now Dad had any number of eccentricities. One was: he always saved his quarters in a Folgers coffee can and he only took that can of quarter to the "boats" to gamble. Never mind that the "boats" had more quarters than "Carter has liver pills", Dad would only use his own quarters.
Dad had two rules:
1. When his Wright City quarters were gone, he went home. Didn't matter how long/short he was there, he went home.
2. If he won a big "pot" (by his definition), he went home. Didn't matter how long/short he was there, he went home.
Lula Belle told the story that she drove him there one time (about an hour and a few gallons of gas - important to them) and on the first "pull" on a slot machine Dad hit about $50. Yep, Dad made her take him home right then?
Anyway, a long lead-in to my "confession": I enjoy gambling.
OK, admitted I am like Dad. I don't go higher than quarters. Unlike Dad, I don't do slots, I love the video poker machines. Like Dad, the best I ever do is to break even. Whatever, it is a relaxing, stress reducing thing, that hurts no one (including me) and I enjoy the fact that one day I may actually get a bit ahead (or not).
While the "confession" lamp is on, I might as well tell the world wide web that I spend a dollar every time the Texas Lotto has a drawing and I get at least a $1.25 fun out of it (but never any money)
Yeah, Dad and Lou played the Lotto also. Two stories on that:
1. One time Dad looked at the winning numbers for the Lotto early one morn and went to the local store and bought those numbers on a ticket and "casually" left them on the table. At some point, Lou checked the numbers against the winner and dang near had a heart attack, thinking they won. Dad "hoorahed" over that one for several days.
2. Dad and Lou would get in a fuss. One or the other would have bought a Lotto ticket and would say that if they won, the other would not share the winnings. The "loser" would then go to the store and buy a ticket with the same numbers so that the other would have to share the "win" anyway. (Possibly you have to be from W.C. to appreciate the humor in that?)
Anyway, confession over, and now ya'll all know that the ole fat boy inherited his Daddy' gamblin' "gene" with a passion.
As a indisputable fact, I have inherited a number of "genes" from "Gene". In my humble opinion, I inherited at the least:
1. A warped sensed of humor
2. An undying, all encompassing, down to my toenails, love of my family
3. A love of anything with an internal combustion motor on it
4. A love of gambling
Dad absolutely LOVED to gamble. He never had enough money to do it with any flair, and the truth be known, he had enough sense to not be stupid with it, but he loved it just the same. He would play "nickel ante" poker at his kitchen table for hours on end and then do it again any time anyone would participate. If nobody had money (common among Wright City folk) he would lay out his wooden kitchen matches and use that as negotiable tender.
In later years, Dad would on rare occasion go to the "boats" (Bossier City, Lousiana has gambling boats docked on the banks of the Red River with casinos inside). Dad played the quarter slot machines.
Now Dad had any number of eccentricities. One was: he always saved his quarters in a Folgers coffee can and he only took that can of quarter to the "boats" to gamble. Never mind that the "boats" had more quarters than "Carter has liver pills", Dad would only use his own quarters.
Dad had two rules:
1. When his Wright City quarters were gone, he went home. Didn't matter how long/short he was there, he went home.
2. If he won a big "pot" (by his definition), he went home. Didn't matter how long/short he was there, he went home.
Lula Belle told the story that she drove him there one time (about an hour and a few gallons of gas - important to them) and on the first "pull" on a slot machine Dad hit about $50. Yep, Dad made her take him home right then?
Anyway, a long lead-in to my "confession": I enjoy gambling.
OK, admitted I am like Dad. I don't go higher than quarters. Unlike Dad, I don't do slots, I love the video poker machines. Like Dad, the best I ever do is to break even. Whatever, it is a relaxing, stress reducing thing, that hurts no one (including me) and I enjoy the fact that one day I may actually get a bit ahead (or not).
While the "confession" lamp is on, I might as well tell the world wide web that I spend a dollar every time the Texas Lotto has a drawing and I get at least a $1.25 fun out of it (but never any money)
Yeah, Dad and Lou played the Lotto also. Two stories on that:
1. One time Dad looked at the winning numbers for the Lotto early one morn and went to the local store and bought those numbers on a ticket and "casually" left them on the table. At some point, Lou checked the numbers against the winner and dang near had a heart attack, thinking they won. Dad "hoorahed" over that one for several days.
2. Dad and Lou would get in a fuss. One or the other would have bought a Lotto ticket and would say that if they won, the other would not share the winnings. The "loser" would then go to the store and buy a ticket with the same numbers so that the other would have to share the "win" anyway. (Possibly you have to be from W.C. to appreciate the humor in that?)
Anyway, confession over, and now ya'll all know that the ole fat boy inherited his Daddy' gamblin' "gene" with a passion.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
TAGGED
Lisa posted her BLOG indicating that I had been "tagged" and had to respond to, "You know your house is a mess when....."
Having never been "tagged" before (and not sure what that is or if I should be flattered or embarassed?)(It's heck to be a fossil in a cyberspacial world) I will answer to the best of my wits, ability, intelligence (OK, "intelligence" is a stretch?)
YOU KNOW YOUR HOUSE IS A MESS WHEN THERE IS MORE FOOD ON THE FLOOR THAN YOU PUT ON THE TABLE FOR THE FAMILY PARTY YOU HOSTED!
Having never been "tagged" before (and not sure what that is or if I should be flattered or embarassed?)(It's heck to be a fossil in a cyberspacial world) I will answer to the best of my wits, ability, intelligence (OK, "intelligence" is a stretch?)
YOU KNOW YOUR HOUSE IS A MESS WHEN THERE IS MORE FOOD ON THE FLOOR THAN YOU PUT ON THE TABLE FOR THE FAMILY PARTY YOU HOSTED!
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Do-Overs
Is there a person on earth who wouldn't like to "do-over" a thing or two in their life?
I have been thinking about a partial list:
TEEN YEARS - Dang, ya ain't got but one chance at it and we were all such rank amateurs at the time. Wouldn't you have loved to have had your present knowledge of the world, your alcohol consumption limits, relationships, financial economics, etc., when you were a teen. I figger if I had my present knowledge when I was a teenager, I would now be a gozillionaire, the picture of health, a "Doctor" something or the other, and an all around peachy keen kind of guy. NOT!!!!!!!
As a teen, I was as skeered of girls as I was (any) snake. I didn't understand them, they intimidated me, and I was convinced that I was the biggest dork on earth (Is anyone a greater critic of themselves than any other person?) I did not dance one dance with a (GIRL) until I was 40 damn years old. Now how dorky is that. I was just skeered of looking foolish. The plain simple foolish part was all those years I wasted by not doing it. At age 40, I took kuntry/western dance lessons and found (1) I was dang good at it, (2) It is awesome exercise, (3) Nobody, and I mean nobody cares a flip about how I dance (exept maybe the gal dancing with me). All them years I was worried about what other people thought and cheated ME out of a lot. (Children of mine: NEVER let anyone or anything intimidate you from doing whatever the hell you want to do. Be yourself and let the chips fall. Don't be (whatever age) and look back and wish you had (name the dream).
CAREER - I worked for the same employer for THIRTY THREE years. Plainly stated, I had an unbelievably successful career in terms of advancement, diversity and compensation. I made that happen by placing my complete, total, undivided, uncompromising focus on THE JOB. Damn and be damned, I wish I had a "do-over" on that. I could never explain, list or even remember what I missed in terms of hunting, fishing, education, life, roses, or rest, but more important than anything on earth: family time. There was a period of many years that I worked 7 days per week from daylight til late at night doing "the job". What a dumass :-(
Man, I wish I had a "do-over" for the career years? Dear Lord and Savior and Family, please know that my "do-over" would be ALL FAMILY and to hell with the career part.
NOW AND FOREVER - I figger I'm about to the point where there ain't a hell of a lot of "do-overs" left. My sorry butt needs to treasure each and every day while doing the right things for the right reasons at the right time, every time.
Hear me for who I am! I shall make the best of each minute left to me all day every day and strive to never again wish for a "do-over", cause I did it right the first time, enjoying life to the fullest, appreciating every moment, putting the most important FAMILY first in all things, and knowing that earthly mortality is inevitable to all reborn of Christ.
I have been thinking about a partial list:
TEEN YEARS - Dang, ya ain't got but one chance at it and we were all such rank amateurs at the time. Wouldn't you have loved to have had your present knowledge of the world, your alcohol consumption limits, relationships, financial economics, etc., when you were a teen. I figger if I had my present knowledge when I was a teenager, I would now be a gozillionaire, the picture of health, a "Doctor" something or the other, and an all around peachy keen kind of guy. NOT!!!!!!!
As a teen, I was as skeered of girls as I was (any) snake. I didn't understand them, they intimidated me, and I was convinced that I was the biggest dork on earth (Is anyone a greater critic of themselves than any other person?) I did not dance one dance with a (GIRL) until I was 40 damn years old. Now how dorky is that. I was just skeered of looking foolish. The plain simple foolish part was all those years I wasted by not doing it. At age 40, I took kuntry/western dance lessons and found (1) I was dang good at it, (2) It is awesome exercise, (3) Nobody, and I mean nobody cares a flip about how I dance (exept maybe the gal dancing with me). All them years I was worried about what other people thought and cheated ME out of a lot. (Children of mine: NEVER let anyone or anything intimidate you from doing whatever the hell you want to do. Be yourself and let the chips fall. Don't be (whatever age) and look back and wish you had (name the dream).
CAREER - I worked for the same employer for THIRTY THREE years. Plainly stated, I had an unbelievably successful career in terms of advancement, diversity and compensation. I made that happen by placing my complete, total, undivided, uncompromising focus on THE JOB. Damn and be damned, I wish I had a "do-over" on that. I could never explain, list or even remember what I missed in terms of hunting, fishing, education, life, roses, or rest, but more important than anything on earth: family time. There was a period of many years that I worked 7 days per week from daylight til late at night doing "the job". What a dumass :-(
Man, I wish I had a "do-over" for the career years? Dear Lord and Savior and Family, please know that my "do-over" would be ALL FAMILY and to hell with the career part.
NOW AND FOREVER - I figger I'm about to the point where there ain't a hell of a lot of "do-overs" left. My sorry butt needs to treasure each and every day while doing the right things for the right reasons at the right time, every time.
Hear me for who I am! I shall make the best of each minute left to me all day every day and strive to never again wish for a "do-over", cause I did it right the first time, enjoying life to the fullest, appreciating every moment, putting the most important FAMILY first in all things, and knowing that earthly mortality is inevitable to all reborn of Christ.
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