THE 170'S

OK sports fans, it's time for another exciting chronicle of the "Lardasses and Legends" saga.

The last time we checked in on the aging ranch hand he was rejoicing at the latest flash (186) from his trusted home fat-0-meter.

For the uninitiated: January 2, 2008 = 198 pounds for the gray haired fat boy.

(drum roll please) Tadaaaaaaaaa! June 10, 2008 = 185 pounds!!!!!!!!!!!!

Our daring rural hero will now continue his never ending quest for fame, fortune, 8mm film stardom and the holy grail of ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY NINE pounds (euphemistically to be known as, "The 170's"!!!!!

Cheers to all and pass the salad.

STEWED POTATOES

Everyone takes the ability to read for granted. No exceptions.

We have done it for so long that we just "do it", and don't think about the complicated cerebral process that is occurring or the information exchange that transpires.

Neither my Dad nor my Mom's Dad could read or write. Mom's Dad, Papuh, told me that he went to the first day of first grade, decided he didn't like it, so never went to school again. He said his family's only reaction was gratitude for having another full time field hand to help with their crops. (I remember that he signed his name with an "X")

Dad had dyslexia so severe that you could write the word "cat" on a piece of paper and he could not copy the word directly underneath the letters. His version would be disjointed lines that did not connect and went in odd directions. Unfortunately, that's the way his brain interpreted written visual cues. Dyslexia was not known when he was a child. As a result, his problems with reading/writing in school were interpreted as "stubbornness" which caused his father to beat him with a razor strop every day after school. The educational system at that time was also not prepared to deal with a child who was obviously of above average intelligence, but who could not read/write at any level. Accordingly, he was moved from the first grade to the sixth grade without ever reading a word. After sixth grade, he dropped out to work on drilling rigs in the oil field at age 14 (a boy working with grown men).

Dad eventually became a "rod and tubing rig operator". He was responsible for a substantial piece of machinery that performed work on oil wells and he supervised and hired/fired a crew of three men. At the end of each day, Dad had to prepare and submit a detailed written report of the lease/well he worked on, what he had done with documentation (number of rods, etc.), hours worked, and crew members. The East Texas oil field is 12 miles wide and 43 miles long and includes hundreds, if not thousands, of oil wells. To be successful, Dad had to memorize the lease names and well locations of nearly all. During the work day, he would commit to memory all that occurred that day. Each night, he and Mom would sit at our kitchen table while Dad verbally recalled all the pertinent information so that Mom could transcribe it to the reports that Dad had to submit. I am amazed to this day the he could keep so much information in his head.

However, Dad's frustration at illiteracy ran deep through his soul. He knew what he was capable of doing professionally, but could never progress beyond a certain level. Still, Dad being Dad, he maintained a certain sense of humor about it.

One time Dad and Papuh went on an errand. When they returned to Papuh's house, the women and children had gone somewhere and left a handwritten note attached to the door explaining their absence. Dad said he and Papuh looked at the note and Papuh said, "They left us a note." Dad replied, "They sure did." Then they went into the house without another word, leaving the note on the door?

Dad usually ate at a small town cafe close to wherever he was working at noon time. He and his crew would each "look" at menus which listed the home style meals for the day. Dad would let the others go first, listen to what they ordered, and order something he heard them say. Sometimes he would ask the waitress what was "good" and just order that. One day his crew had all brought sack lunches so Dad went to the cafe alone. As he was "looking" at the menu, he asked the waitress what was "good"? The waitress said it was all "good". Dad said, "OK, I'll have some of this, some of this, and some of this", pointing to items on the menu. The waitress looked at him a moment and asked, "You want fried potatoes, mashed potatoes, and stewed potatoes?" Dad told that story like it was hilarious.

Dad's eventually got to the point that his vision prevented him from doing what he called "tejus" (tedious) work with small items. I prevailed upon him to let me take him to Tyler, see an optometrist, and buy him some glasses for up close work. As Dad sat in the chair to start the exam, he immediately demanded to know if getting glasses would allow him to read the newspaper? The eager optometrist told him that he guaranteed Dad could read the paper with the new spectacles he would provide. Dad said, "Good, I ain't never been able to read a damn word in my life and I think it time!"

Regarding newspapers, Dad once told me that every night just before bed he like to read the Arp newspaper. Curiosity got the best of me so I asked, "Why?" He said, "So I can go to sleep without a damn thing on my mind."

Anyway, you get the point. Dad had a life long struggle with a daunting handicap, but he did the best he could with it and never lost his sense of humor about it.

As you may guess, my Dad was a special kind of guy, my best friend ever, and someone that I miss every day. Thanks Dad, for being such a wonderful part of my life.

LUCKY

One of the many things I love about the Tin Star Ranch is the "nature sightings". These have included wild turkey chicks, newborn fawns, foxes, and all manner of other surprises from the animal world.

Today I was shredding weeds with Big Dawg (my Kubota tractor) at the pond. I looked under a cedar tree where no grass was growing and saw a red eared slider turtle that measures about 12 inches from stem to stern.

The female was very slowly using her back feet to laboriously dig a hole in the ground. Each time I made a round on the tractor, I would check on her progress.

When the hole was of the prescribed depth/size, mama turtle began to lay leathery looking, sticky eggs in the hole. When she finished, she then began to slowly move her back legs to cover the eggs with dirt.

When she started creeping away from the nest, it amazed me that it was difficult to know where the hole had been dug. The only hint was that the soil was a bit wet looking over her chosen spot. Otherwise, she had perfectly disguise the clutch of reptilian ova.

To save the new mom some effort after her "delivery", I picked her up and carried her to the edge of the pond.

If I was expecting a thank you, it didn't happen as she quickly scooted into the water and went under with a bouquet of rising bubbles.

OK sports fans, this is the second time I have watched a turtle dig a hole and lay eggs on the Tin Star. AIN'T I LUCKY!!

GRANDADDY'S COWS

Grandaddy always had a few cows on his small acreage. I never learned squat about cows, as we were too poor to own one, but I do have a few memories of Slim Waller's herd.


The Auction

When I was 7-8 years old, Grandaddy took me to the Henderson sale barn where he was going to sell/buy cows. I'd never been to a live auction before and remember being mesmerized by all the people, action, and the auctioneer's challenge chant to the bidders.

Grandaddy solemnly warned me prior to, and during the auction, to sit perfectly still and not say anything. He assured me any sound or movement on my my part would signal the auctioneer that I was bidding and I would end up owing a cow as a result.

Yeah, I sat there afraid to scratch my nose for fear those men would expect me to pay up after I had indicated intention to buy some mangy heifer?

I wonder tho, do ya'll think Grandaddy might have had some other agenda for warning me about inadvertently bidding?


Bull Loading

I happened to be at Grandaddy's after he sold his bull to another man. Grandaddy asked my help in getting the beast in his stock trailer so he could take it to the new owner.

The bull was a huge magnificent creature. He also matched, if not exceeded, Grandaddy in "bull headedness". No matter how we coaxed, prodded, or worked, the leviathan would not enter the narrow trailer. Grandaddy's frustration could be measured by the steady increasing volume of his commands to the bull and the intensity of his "pokes" on the recalcitrant with a 4 foot length of 1/2 inch iron oil well rod he held in his hand.

Finally, the animal started into the trailer. It put its front two feet in and started to bring its back feet in. Grandaddy picked that instant to step up and push on its substantial backside to encourage it to go all the way in. For whatever reason, the bull moved backward and its rear hoof plumb mashed Grandaddy's foot.

(Now if you have ever seen a little dab of Grandaddy's TEMPER, you might know what happened next.)

Brother Waller went totally ballistic. His eyes flashed, his face turned red, his hair stood on end, steam started coming out of his ears, and demented raging profanity starting spewing from curled lips. (I swear a set of horns sprouted?)

As Mt Vesuvius erupted, he commenced to poundin' on that bovine with the iron rod till hell wouldn't have it. He whupped that puppy till they were both staggering around the pasture. (while my eyes got big as cantaloupes and I concentrated on not wetting my pants!)

Both me and the bull survived that round, but the new owner had to wonder why his stately, macho breeding stock ran to the other end of the pasture and jumped the fence every time he approached with anything resembling an iron rod in his hand?


Horns

Dad and I were driving from Wright City to Turnertown on Highway 64 one day when we noticed Grandaddy on the side of the road standing by his vehicle and trailer.

The trailer was cattywampus on the grass and Grandaddy had a look on his face like he wasn't sure who he was or what he was doing.

Seems he loaded a few cows in his stock trailer that morning to take to auction in Henderson. In attaching the trailer to his pickup, he apparently failed to latch the hitch. He started down the highway and at about 45 MPH, the trailer had come unhitched. It rolled a time or two, and stopped upright on the side of the road with the cows still in it (the trailer had a iron rod top to it).

The animals were all wide eyed, mooing, and had bumps/bruise/scrapes from one end to the other. Who knows what internal injuries they may have had?

We helped to rehitch the trailer properly and Grandaddy said all he could do was go on to the sale and hope to unload them at hamburger prices.

Later, Grandaddy stopped by Dad's house with a grin from ear to ear. He said that as he pulled into the sale barn yard, a man immediately walked up and started talking about how cows with horns always tore each other up when transported in a trailer. After he "poor mouthed" horned critters a bit, he offered a price that matched what Grandaddy had hoped to get at the auction. They loaded the stock in the dude's trailer and the deal was done.

Grandaddy was adamant, "I didn't lie to the man, I just let him talk and then let him have what he asked for."

THE CHORE LIST

My Grandaddy was always a busy, hardworking man (every day except Sunday). When he could not personally do the work in later life, he made a career out of thinking up "chores" for Dad to do each day. Dad wasn't real thrilled about it, but most of the time he did it anyway. In his own way, Dad realized that Grandaddy was just trying to feel useful at a difficult stage of his life.

One time I went by to visit Dad and he said that Grandaddy was insisting that Dad drive him to a graveyard on the other side of Henderson. Seems that Grandaddy had visited the grave of a long lost relative and was distressed that the tombstone was dirty and black with mold.

This "chore" was complicated by the fact that Dad didn't have a driver license and couldn't read the names on the stones. Add to this Grandaddy's failing vision due to glaucoma, and Dad just couldn't see anything good coming out of the adventure.

Enter grandson frankie.

I (reluctantly) agreed to drive Grandaddy to the cemetery, take some soaps and brushes, and do the deed.

When we arrived at our destination, Grandaddy identified the target grave marker and sure enough, it was in sorry shape.

Loyal grandson then set about to wash, scrub, brush and generally polish the commemorative stone until it fairly gleamed (did I mention it was hot, humid and not especially pleasant work).

As I stood back and admired my accomplishment, I asked Grandaddy, "How were you related to (NAME)?" Grandaddy said, "I couldn't say because I don't know anybody by that name?"

Yeah, you guessed it, the actual tombstone for Grandaddy's relative was in pristine condition. However, somewhere there was a departed soul smiling as its long neglected earthly marker got spiffied up compliments of Granvil Waller's chore list.

OASIS CIGARETTES

One day Dad came home with a 1936 Ford pickup.

Naw, not the antique rusty rag you would expect an oil field hand to buy. This was a restored piece of art.

Seems Dad had an ole drinkin' buddy name of Elrod who was a career oil field entrepreneur (slant hole wells and the whole nine yards). His enterprising friend was in a legal bind and sold his classic ride to Dad for the princely sum of $1,000.

Hell, Dad likely didn't have $10, much less $1,000, but he went to Arp State Bank and asked Mills Parker for the dough. Parker agreed, but said Dad had to bring the truck by the bank so he could see how a 1936 vehicle could be worth that much.

Someone had taken the vintage Ford and dropped a 1957 Corvette engine in it. In addition to being powerful, the engine chrome included the air breather, valve covers, generator, and air conditioner compressor (imagine having an air conditioner in a vehicle back then!) The interior of the truck was red and white, roll and pleat leather with a white leather headliner. The dashboard had been replaced with a finished piece of beautifully grained wood with chromed gauges inset. It had a racing type steering wheel and the gear shifter was on the floor with a large chrome ball to hold onto.

The exterior included multiple layers of black paint complimented by white rubber running boards, chromed tear drop head lamps on the fenders, and chrome "flipper" hubcaps.

...and it would FLY down the road.

As I recall, the speedometer only went to 120 MPH, so Dad would just put the speedometer needle against the 120 mark and just keep mashin' down harder on the accelerator until he ran out of road.

I don't recall how long Dad had the truck, but at some point Dad's brother Buddy fell in love with it. Buddy's infatuation actually coincided with Dad beginning to realize that his economic status in life and expensive "toys" probably weren't totally compatible. Thus began a "dickering dance" between Dad and "bud drawers" over the rate of exchange for the truck.

Dad wanted his $1,000 back, plus????

Buddy agreed to the $1,000 and threw in a Sear and Roebuck motorcycle (that he bought on the credit and hadn't paid for). As the negotiations extended over a period of days/weeks, Boudreaux sweetened the offer with an engine timing light, some tools, a lawn mower, etc.

Finally, one day Buddy told Dad, I give you $1,000, all the other stuff I've mentioned, and my last pack of Oasis cigarettes. Dad's sense of humor kicked in about then and he took the deal based on getting his baby brother's last cigarette.

Dad bought, built, and abused a lot of cheap, junk vehicles in his lifetime. I am thankful to the good Lord, that for a brief period of time, he had the privilege of owning a beautiful hotrod classic.

YA'LL GONNA HAVE TO 'SCUSE ME

The Asbury Cemetery lies between Wright City and Overton on county road 2089.

I don't know the condition of those catacombs today, but for many years it was cleaned up only one time per year in order to get it ready for the annual "picnic". The picnic brought together the families of those who had loved ones buried in the cemetery. It also served as a fund raiser to try to get donations that would pay to maintain those entombed.

For a number of years, Dad was paid a one time fee to do the Asbury clean up job. On occasion, I would help him.

Talk about tackling a vicious jungle? That East Texas sand and spring rain would make the weeds, grass burrs, and thistles grow like fairy tale bean stalks! Dad's ancient lawn mowers and weed-eater would be challenged to the limit to slowly whack back the encroachment of Mother Nature. Surely, this was a hot, tough, brutal job that no sane person would have accepted. No one except Dad, that is.

Dad took jobs like this for two reasons:

1. He needed the money fairly desperately to survive.

2. Dad had a deep and abiding respect for the departed souls therein.

Each time Dad would start a cleanup of the crypts, he would walk to the gate of the Garden of Rest and declare in a loud voice, "Ya'll gonna have to 'scuse me now cause I gotta clean you up." This was Dad's way of asking forgiveness for walking on the graves of the loved ones of others. I saw it as a measure of unparalleled respect for those he said had "gone on down amongst 'em".

Dad also had a year round (monthly salary) job taking care of the cemetery that was on county road 2110, West of where the Lyles family lived.

Dad kept this mausoleum immaculate for many years. During the grass growing season, he worked like a Trojan. During drought and winter, he just "piddled" while the check kept coming (I think it was $50 per month?).

This was a very old (as evidenced by the dates on some tombstones) private cemetery. Many of the graves had six inch concrete borders around the plots. This was useful to define the grave site, but the devil's own mischief if you were mowing the grass. I would have killed the mower, pulled it over the concrete border, and restarted the mower (over and over). Dad didn't have time for that crap. He would just use his incredible hand/wrist/arm strength and flip the running mower up in the air and over the barrier. He'd then quickly mow the plot and reverse his aerial lawn mower show to get the sharp spinning blade back into action.

As mentioned, this was an old boneyard. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" means that we all eventually return to Mother Earth in a more pure form. For Dad, this meant that occasionally he would be merrily pushing his weed whacking machine in the old section of the cemetery and one of his legs would break thru the soil. This was promptly followed by said leg falling into the ground a few feet where the casket beneath had deteriorated to dust.

Now picture that you are in the country, all alone in a cemetery. Suddenly the specter of death reaches from the grave to grab your leg and jerk you into its subterranean resting place. Yeah, kinda dramatic, but it scared the sh_t out of Dad every time it happened!

Another interesting aspect of cemetery maintenance is that it requires miles of weed-eater line. The sharp edges of the granite tombstones cut the line at every turn. Add to this the fact that as you work around a tombstone to edge the weeds, you are turning in a circle. Now do this circle several hundred times in a row while holding the weight of a weed-eater out in front of you and see how you feel?

My favorite story of Dad and graveyards has to do with planting flowers. Dad hated flowers planted permanently at the graveyard as they created additional work for him.

One day a couple of elderly ladies approached Dad at the cemetery. They asked if he thought the rose bushes they had brought would grow if they planted them adjacent to their loved one's grave. Dad solemnly told them the roses would not grow there. The ladies replied they would plant them regardless and hope for the best.

The ladies left after the planting and as Dad was spraying Roundup (herbicide) on the roses he said, "I told those ladies these roses wouldn't grow here?"

FAT, DUMB, AND HAPPY

If you been payin' attention, you know the ole ranch hand don't know diddly bout computers. I don't have a clue about hardware, software, firmware, or terabytes. I couldn't define DOS, UNIX, or MAC OS, if you spotted me a microprocessor, threw in bundled shareware, and donated a Linux kernel.

I don't get it, don't understand it, and likely never will.

(Historical note: In 1983, the DPS computer division offered to loan me an IBM AT computer. Seems they had been trying to get the Highway Patrol Chief to move to the cyberspacial age and he was resisting. They needed a mullet to take the bait. In walks the new Headquarters Highway Patrol Lieutenant. They offered the machine and my innocent/naive butt took it. My boss came in my office, saw the IBM. and promptly threw a fit. He called it a toy and said all I was going to do was "play" on it all day long. I prevailed with tales of how productive it would make me, but his final word was that it would be thrown in the hallway if my work level declined. In the long run, I kept the computer and became the first Texas Highway Patrol Trooper in history to officially utilize a computer for police work) (I later found out that others in distant duty stations were previously using computers, they just kept it a secret from the Chief)

With the above confession of ignorance now public, go back in time with me to 1995. I was fat, dumb, and happy as an Assistant Division Chief at DPS headquarters. My responsibilities included things like the law enforcement training academy, a 3,000 vehicle fleet of
Trooper cars, and statewide construction projects.

One day while snug and secure in the comfort of my office, the DPS Lieutenant Colonel (Dudley) came into my office, sat in a chair, and propped his feet up on my desk. Dudley allowed as how he had just fired the head of the DPS computer division (I was not surprised). He then paused and stated that effective immediately I would be the acting computer division jefe in charge of two mainframe computers, a huge client-server network, statewide data processing operations, and development of a digital driver license project.

I only asked one question, "For how long?" He replied, "Until I tell you different".

I thought about saying something really profound like, "Holy Sh_t!", but instead said, "Looks like an opportunity to succeed." As Dudley walked out. I sat there and tried to get my brain to stop spinning like a WD-40 slot machine after a lightning strike.

From that day, I spent the next year working seven days per week under as much stress as I had ever experienced on the job while trying to manage development of the multimillion dollar driver license project, keep the legacy systems intact, and trying to wrangle
the herd of cats that represented themselves as software programmers.

The Texas driver license you now carry in your pocket/purse was my baby. I survived the year pretending to be a computer guru, and at the end of the year I was promoted to full Division Chief supervising a major division of the DPS.

The good news: I happen to know that Linux is an operating system used by a family of Unix systems.

The bad news: Linus Torvalds invented this system 17 years ago. In an age where the technology changes by the hour, I concede that I am hopelessly behind the learning curve and foster no hope of ever catching up?

TOOTHLESS TURKEYS

Surviving life in Wright City didn't require rhino hide, but I often wished I had it?

For starters, we had what we called "salt water" mosquitoes. They were kinda gray/black with zebra stripes and so big they could stand flat footed on the ground and slap the teeth out of a full grown turkey. I remember black clouds of them that would make a high pitched whine when their wings flapped near your ear.

Sometimes we would see one "suckin" our life juices from an extremity and just sit there and watch. We didn't know about blood borne pathogens and well, it was kinda boring in WC. Obviously we would do near bout anything to make the time pass faster. Them suckas would swell up while gorging on our blood until they couldn't fly away. Being still bored, we would "pop" them to see how much blood would splatter?

WC was also likely the world champion breeding ground for fleas, ticks and chiggers. I have walked across a pasture and looked down to see a brown carpet of seed ticks or fleas on my pant legs. I have itched/scratched for many a day due to the indelicate location of millions of chigger bites. And I have tried all manner of country remedy to get ticks unstuck from my carcass. (campho phenique, nail polish, and red hot sewing needle to name a few)

However, I believe that the absolute bane of my time in Wright City was poison ivy or poison oak!

As just one example, I was in the creek bottom between our house and Grandmother and I spied a host of ripe muscadine grapes in the top of a tree. The tree didn't have any limbs for the first 30 feet, but the WC possum just "shinned" the tree. I wrapped my arms and legs around the trunk and inched up to the first limbs (wearing a tee shirt and cut off jeans). The good Lord only knows what the poison ivy growing on that tree trunk did to the inside of my extremities, my face, my stomach, etc. Mom doctored me up to look like my sorry butt had been dipped in a barrel of pink calamine lotion, but I near bout cratered over that one anyway?

All this was brought back to me when I bought the Tin Star. I used Dad's old machete to whack down brush (and whatever) for months on end. After felling the offending foliage, I would wrap my arms around a big bundle, hug it to my chest, and deposit it in a pile to be burned later.

Sure enough, every dang time I turned around I was breaking out with progressively worse poison ivy reaction. What I learned from my research was that you don't develop an immunity, you just get more sensitive.

It seems like every year I am more coming full circle while experiencing once more the things that brought me to this stage of my life?

ROLLIN' BLUBBER

Here we go world.

On January 2, 2008, I publicly bared my soul by proclaiming that I had hit the all time high of 198 pounds of rollin' blubber. I regret to say that I looked like three pounds of ugly in a two pound sack.

I been steady fighting it with diet, exercise, and a few backslides along the way?

For the record: I am now a rock steady 186 (TWELVE POUNDS DOWN) and in a regular routine of sensible eating (although I treat myself now and again). As an example, I have developed a craving for lowfat frozen yogurt a couple times per week.

Also, the bride and I try to walk every day after work (without getting a heat stroke) for relaxation and exercise.

I am now focused on having the magical 170's in my life again (179?)

Now if I can just find me a pair of suspenders to hold up my pants, I'll be walkin' in high cotton.