SWEET SIXTEEN

I drove onto the Tin Star today and found twin fawns perturbed that I had interrupted their play. After momentary pause, I watched their game of "tag" until they disappeared into a cedar hideout.

I then eased to my pond to find that a small hawk was as disappointed as I to see it has gone dry? The local oldtimers tell me that if I dig the silt out that has washed down the creek over the years, the pond has a spring that will feed it water the year round. Now if the oldtimers would just loan me the money to hire the bulldozer and operator?

A bit later, I flushed a pair of bobwhite quail. This was a special treat to me for two reasons. One is that I don't recall seeing quail actually on my land before. The other reason is because it reminded me of Grandaddy.

As a youngster, I clearly remember Grandaddy owning and training pointers (dogs) to hunt quail. I also know that he hunted with a Belgium made Browning Sweet Sixteen semiautomatic shotgun (later lost by Curtis at a hock shop) and toted his prized game in a canvas hunting vest (which I now have courtesy of Grandaddy). I can remember a time or two seeing Grandaddy and JRM cleaning quail in Gandaddy's back yard in WC so I have always assumed that they would on occasion hunt together.

There was never any doubt that Grandaddy loved to hunt quail and only stopped when he could no longer hold up to the walking required. Because of his passion for this small game bird, I pray that a pair or two will continuously nest on my land as a constant reminder of a special person in my life.

FIFTEEN POUNDS

Hooray and hallelujah!

Down to 183 today and that is 15 pounds off since January 2nd.

Look out 179 because here I come!

UNEMPLOYMENT

Baby Sister retired near two months ago after 32 years of faithful service to a single employer.

After a visit with her last week, I have detected remarkable changes in my youthful sibling:

* No frowns and no "crows feet" around the eyes, just a relaxed perpetual smile

* Jokes, light hearted conversation, and focus on all the fun things in the future

* A prance in her step, a saucy direct gaze at the world, and an eagerness to greet each new day

* Complete satisfaction in a job well done, a rewarding career, and well earned leisure

If there is ever a contest for the retirement "poster girl", I wish to at this time to formally nominate CAROLYN JEAN!

Have patience and wait for me little one, ole fat bro will join you one day soon in the eternal bliss of permanent unemployment.

SELF INDULGENCE

I recently read an article about a genre that includes literary offerings that are precisely six words in length. No more, no less.

As an example, Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “For sale. Baby shoes. Never used.” The details that one could infer in this short story are limitless? Hemingway was reported to have said that this was his best work.

I decided to try to my hand at this so, yeah, this means ya'll will just have to suffer my "six word" self indulgence.

Self indulgence: A blog's true reward.

Wright City conceives country souls. Forever.

Casinos devour cash, reaping conscientious consistency.

Epitaph: Hold my beer. Watch this!

Future physician. Abandoned school. Healed self.

Want marital freedom? It's lonely, dammit!

Adults only. Naughty - nice? Dessert first!

Slippery path? Hell's waitin'! More grease?

Nice suit. Buried cold. Ashes warm?

Human suffering without charitable grace. Tragic.

They meet. Hearts melt. Grandkids? Maybe!

Times hurtles forward. Avoid the rush.

Third eye remains undisciplined. Metamucil blamed.

I'm right - when she says so.

Turned right. Direction void? Nothing left!

Coal claims discrimination. Diamonds seek immunity.

Grim reaper denies manic depressive rumor.

I wrote all I knew, quickly.

Ain't this enough? (lazy blogger pled)

BS detector patented. Ranch Hand retires.

THE FUTURE

My employer sponsors a summer youth program that has the goal of encouraging middle school age children to continue their education and start to think about careers. Virtually all of the invited attendees are from foster homes, have exhibited behavioral problems, or have dysfunctional families.

During the summer, each term of the program lasts one week and at noon each day there is a speaker to talk about various professional careers to the kiddos. Today I was the featured speaker.

I have spoken to youth groups on many occasions and tend to focus on the value of education, the importance of personal choice, and the rewards for hard work. The questions that follow these discussions are never related to what I talk about. The kids almost always ask things like do I have a gun or have I ever shot anyone.

The group of kids today wanted information about things that really got my attention. After reflection, I know that their curiosity is based on things they have actually witnessed in their neighborhoods and families. Their posers included:

1. When you shoot someone, are you a good enough shot to shoot them in the head? (notice they assumed that I shoot people, they just wondered about my accuracy)

2. Have you ever handled a hostage situation? (I have never had a kid ask me this in 38 years of law enforcement)

3. Have you ever been afraid? (another new question)

4. Have you ever "wet" your pants? (wow, that one blew me away, but I answered honestly that I almost did a time or two due to being scared or really startled)

5. Can a person make a million dollars any way other than dealing dope? (another issue created by their environment)

At the conclusion of my part in the program, I sincerely thanked the adults that were coordinating the program and promised to help them in any future way I can.

We should all remember that the kids I talked to today are the future of our world, one way or the other.

INSIDE JOB

I just looked at weather.com and learned it should hit 103 degrees today and 102 tomorrow. That kinda got me thinking.

The road in front of my childhood home was constructed of a dirt and crude oil mix that was packed into a hard surface. We didn't have a thermometer, but during the summer it would get so hot that the oil in the road would boil to the surface as an iridescent film.

As we never wore shoes in the summers, the steaming roads became a navigation issue. I can remember running on the road a piece, then jumping onto a roadside tuft of grass to let my fiery feet cool. Then back down the road to the next oasis of balming weeds. (That memory is a incredible to me given that now days I can step barefoot on a piece of lint on the floor and near founder?)

As a teen, I would haul hay from the fields and stack it in barns. These ancient structures had no ventilation and were likely near the limits of human endurance in terms of ambient air temperature.

After high school I worked in the East Texas oil field on work-over units. Leases in the North Kilgore field were "flowing" wells. This meant there was sufficient gas pressure in the wells to push the oil out of the ground without need for mechanical pumping.

Now imagine you are working on a concrete floor under a steel 80 foot tall derrick in the middle of a pasture. You are next to a gargantuan steel "pulling unit" that is radiating enough heat to boil water. In addition, there is a large engine on the rig that is blasting its exhaust while creating combustion heat. The crowning touch is that the wells invariably began to "flow" while working on them, which meant you would stand under a two inch shower of crude oil all day.

My point: For the most part of the last 38 years I have had the ability to at least periodically retreat to a heated or air conditioned space to survive whatever outside weather occurred. Many is the time that I have listened to a co-worker complain and sincerely replied, "At least we have an inside job".

DADDY'S BOY

Today is Father's Day, 2008, so I am naturally cogitating a bit about my Dad.

My Dad was my all-time best friend and strongest supporter. I would give anything to have him available again to hear his country wisdom, jokes, and views about the world at large.

To commemorate his life, I think I will simply list a few things about him:


He could do one-armed chins/pullups all day long.

He could sit backwards on the handlebars of a bicycle and ride better than most folks otherwise.

He could put a standard transmission in reverse, spin the tires, and then put the transmission in low gear and spin the tires forward without scratching the gears or causing the engine to miss a beat.

He could cook superb pinto beans and cornbread.

He could never finish telling jokes he thought were hilarious because of his own laughter and tears running down his cheeks.

He sang bits of country western songs, but never got the words right.

He spoke the absolute truth and reality about any situation in plain language regardless of who was present.

If he loved you, he would give you anything he owned and fist fight to defend you.

He loved Lou's dachshund, Abby, but wouldn't admit it to anyone.

Meticulous in his appearance, he shaved every day of his adult life.

He gave every person he ever met a nickname and only called them by his chosen name.

He could quickly and easily remove a tire from a rim and replace it with another tire (you can't really appreciate this one unless you have tried it).

He could perform near miracles with small engine repair.

He would routinely walk up to chained "vicious" dogs and pet them like they were lambs.

He would "knock-down, drag out" fight any man on earth, but loved and catered to every child he encountered.

Although he was in every way the toughest man I have ever known, he honored his Mother by calling himself, "a Mama's boy".


In short, Dad was special to all who had the privilege to know him.

I love you Dad and want you to know that your "Daddy's boy" misses you with all his heart.

LAVA SOAP

A comedian named Jeff Foxworthy made a gozillion bucks with jokes about rednecks. His jokes started out with, "You might be a redneck if..........".

I doubt it will net me a gozillion, but it occurs to me that the same logic might apply to my home town. Here goes.


You might be from Wright City if:

You have turned off the light in your living room by holding the electricity wire and receptacle hanging from the ceiling and twisting the bulb.

You can sit inside your house and see outside by looking between the wall boards.

Every time rain causes the roof to leak, you nail on a patch of different color roll roofing.

You have not painted the outside of your house for 30 years.

Your hot water heater sits exposed between the commode and the bathtub in your bathroom.

You have never locked your house in your life because there is nothing in it worth stealing.

You are too poor to own chickens.

The only rooms in the house that are heated are the living room and bathroom.

You put an old upright piano in your living room and the legs break thru the wooden floor.

A window next to your bed breaks during winter and it is repaired by stuffing an old sheet in it.

There is only one small closet in your entire house.

Your bath towels come from an oil field rag box.

Your dish washing cloths are oil field "red" rags.

Until you are in high school, all of your shirts and boxer shorts are made by your mother from chicken feed sacks.

You get only one pair of new shoes per year.

Your bath soap includes a brand called Lava.

You have eaten beans and taters every meal for several weeks in a row.

You have eaten fried spam or salt pork.

You drink iced tea from a peach or coffee can.

You burn your household trash in a 55 gallon metal drum in the back yard.

You periodically intentionally get fired from your job in order to draw unemployment checks.

In your entire childhood you never visit a doctor, not even once.

You have completely overhauled an automatic transmission on your dining room table while drinking catalpa wine.

You have had 5-10 vehicles repossessed due to nonpayment.

You repair your own flat tires.

You have put tires on your car that you found in a trash dump.

You know what recap tires are.

You have never had vehicle insurance in your life.

You have driven more years without a driver license than with one.

You have more drunk driving arrests than most people have speeding tickets.

You have regularly visited a bootlegger.

You don't have any of your original teeth left in your mouth.

You have bought groceries on credit for multiple years in a row.


I could go on for a couple hundred more "You might be from Wright City if..." lines since all of the above pertain to my family, but you get the idea.

Don't get me wrong, we didn't have such a bad life in WC. It was just "memorable".

It also taught us not to judge folks by their relatives and that the world is a simpler place if you plow around the stumps.

BUGLE MOUTH BASS

Dad did not often eat fish or angle for them. He did, however, enjoy fishing under the right circumstances.

Most people were interested in catfish, bass, crappy, or bream. Dad was always kinda different in all things including fishing. His interest was in what he called "bugle mouth bass" (carp).

Dad and a friend would go to Striker Creek and spend a day and a night on occasion. They would build a fire, cook a few groceries, and drink copious amounts of Budweiser.

Preparing bait for carp involved taking bran cereal like Wheaties, wetting it with orange or red soda water, and making a small gummy "ball". Once pressed onto a treble hook and allowed to dry just a bit, the "bait" would stay on the hook forever. Dad would then just cast into the creek and relax while waiting for a strike.

The carp Dad caught ranged in size from 5 pounds up to 25 pounds. They would fight like angry bulls and Dad loved to feel the line and rod throbbing during "fights" that would last for up to 20 minutes.

When Dad would end his carp safari, he would throw some in the trunk (he called it the"turtle hull") of his car, go to Carlisle, and offer the "treasure" to the Medford family (his African-American friends). Mama Medford would gut and gill the fish and then put them in a pressure cooker. After the flesh was cooked from the bones, she would make the fish into patties and let it swim it in a bath of hot lard in her iron skillet. As Dad didn't like eating fish anyway, I'm very confident he never sampled his "catch".

SNAKE DOCTORS

One of the unmitigated joys of growing up in Wright City included almost unlimited access to the ponds of relatives.

Ponds were the 50's (poor boy) equivalent of having the internet, ipods, cell phones, a mall, and a zoo (all rolled into one with no cost!)

You could swim or skip rocks on a glass-like surface. You could marvel at dragonflies (we called them "snake doctors") as they helicoptered to and fro with gossamer wings shimmering rainbow colors. Water snakes (we called them "moccasins") made occasional curious approach to liven our day. Bugs, spiders, nutria (we called them "beavers"), birds and all of God's creatures eventually came to the pond to drink from its life giving waters.

And there were fish. I dare say I have known no more pure and relaxing pleasure in my life than days a mere 45-50 years ago that I spent fishing in WC ponds.

Hattie's pond was in the pasture behind Grandmother's house. With a cane pole, a bit of fishing line, a cork and a hook, I would walk to the pond catching grasshoppers along the way for bait. The vast majority of the "catch" was bream, or a rare catfish. Feeling the electricity of those fish pulsing thru the bamboo pole was excitement in its purest form.

When I was nigh unto 12, Buddy gave me a "rod and reel". The rod was steel with the guides held on with wrappings of steel wire and the handle softened by cork. The reel was a level wind variety with direct drive (no clutch "drag" to ease the stress on the line). The line on the reel was black braided stuff that I guess was strong enough to tow a car if need be?

Many days I would hop on my bicycle with that rod/reel and go to Charlies "old" pond to fish (kids weren't allowed at the "new" pond as he had stocked it with channel catfish). I would tie a hook and a weight on my line, bait with either earth worms or trusty grasshoppers and cast as far a possible into the pond (likely not more than 25 yards). I would then use green sticks to pin the rod/reel to the ground so the anticipated piscatorial monster wouldn't drag it to the watery depths. All that remained was to wait for the inevitable "STRIKE".

I was never disappointed. It's my belief that on every trip I would return home with 15-20 bream and a few "mudcats" for the skillet.

When I was near 15-16, Buddy gave me a flyrod. I must have looked hilarious trying to cast that puppy effectively, but it worked. About that time, I was allowed to fish in the Lyles pond (catch and release only) and I near bout wore out that flyrod on the bass they were growing.

The neatest thing about all this: For the life of me, I can't remember a time I was fishing back then that I had a care, worry, fret, or even gave two hoots about anything negative whatsoever. Those times were when the world was a marvelous place and I couldn't see how things could get any better.

I gotta get back to fishing, and soon.