Men wouldn't want it told around, but likely they are as fussy about their hairdo as women?
As a result, having to change barbers can be a tedious affair. Over the years, my job caused me to move around Texas a bit. With each move came the inevitable task of finding a new barber who would not cause me public humiliation through his hair whacking methods.
When I moved to Austin, I foundered around a bit until I found Sherman. Sherman gave old fashioned one of a kind haircuts for 45 years. "One of a kind" meant you got what he gave you, no questions asked. Oh, you could give him as much detail instruction as you liked, but he would just nod his head and give you the same "do" that everyone else received for $12.
Sherman administered a decent cut and he filled the communication bill as well. By that, I mean he talked enough, but didn't blabber too much to his audience that was held captive in the chair with half finished haircuts. He always had a bawdy joke to tell or a fishing/hunting story and he made you relax in his chair. I might also mention that he was blunt. Sherman came from a long lineage of Germans in Lano, Texas and if you asked his opinion, he didn't put no window dressing on it.
After 25 years as my barber, Sherman announced one day that he was cutting my hair for the last time as he was retiring at age 78. Through shock and mortification I asked what I was going to do about getting my hair cut. In typical Sherman fashion he said, "Just become a damn hippie I guess?"
Well my journey to find my next barber would rival the search for the Holy Grail. First of all, old fashioned barber shops are a dying breed. You got your Sports Cuts, half nekkid women and beer haircut joints, salons, spas, and parlors. Some them places I felt like a sissy going in and most places I came out looking like a refugee from a weedeater test facility (after paying as much as $25).
Finally I found my present barber ($14). He is maybe 25, but he barbers in an honest to goodness old fashion barber shop that is frequented by old men (like me) in an old neighborhood. He gives an excellent, fast haircut and he sufficiently limits conversation while I am captive in his chair. All is well in the haircut arena once again.
(Now if I can just get past the fact that he is QUEER as a three dollar bill, maybe I can get to the "relax" part of haircuts?)
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
BARBARIANS
My Grandaddy was a country barber. His credentials included a tall wooden stool for the victim (I mean haircut recipient) to sit on, a pair of hair clippers, and the willingness to whack on people's mane and then just grin at the result. (Grandaddy was what my Dad called "high tempered", so most folks didn't challenge him on much of anything including butchered haircuts)
His "clippers" were a cheap old fashioned implement that worked by squeezing the handles with your hand to move the cutting heads back and forth. Trust me when I tell you that this half cut and half pulled the hair out!
Put a kid on the stool (me), start cutting/pulling his hair (ouch), let the prisoner (me again) start fidgeting, and you got the makings for Grandaddy to start THUMPING you on the noggin by cocking his forefinger behind his thumb and pulling the trigger (I can still feel that pain).
Best I remember, I always ended up looking like a mangy dog that had fallen under a lawn mower?
Grandaddy eventually secured some 'lectric shears for hair cutting. Dad being fascinated by machinery, he had the divine inspiration that he would personally administer my coif with the new fangled equipment (lucky me again). Dad would butcher on one side a bit, then mangle the other side to "even it up". This continued until my head looked like a ripe (hairless) persimmon.
Finally, Dad took the notion to start sending me to the barber in Wright City (and my lucky streak just kept rollin'). The resident barber in WC had a one room tin shack that was just big enough inside for a barber chair and a three drawer filing cabinet. Although his antique rusty "tools" were only exceeded in grunge by his personal hygiene, the public humiliation he administered cost a mere 50 cents.
I'd walk out of that chop shop and look like I fell out of an ugly tree and hit ever branch on the way down. Hell, they had to start tying a pork chop round my neck to get the dog to play with me after my latest "do" scared it so bad one time?
The barber had another interesting challenge in that he was a stone cold alcoholic. During each haircut, his hands would begin to shake to the point that he would be vibrating my head. Periodically he would halt my torture, open a drawer of the file cabinet, take a long pull from his Old Crow whiskey, and then start root plowing my demoralized follicles again.
At some point Dad granted my convict soul mercy and started taking me to Turnertown to see Mr. Wicks. Mr. Wicks was one of the oldest people I had ever seen and his breath always smelled like the peppermint candy he sucked on all day. As a small matter, he was blind as a bat. I'm talking, "couldn't find his rear with either hand" blind. His feeble attempt to make a living was accomplished while cutting unsuspecting victims' hair by "feel". Naturally Dad always sat me in Mr. Wicks' chair because there was no wait to get started (Damned if I can imagine why people weren't lined up?)
From age 13 to 18, I came full circle because the football coaches made us buzz all our hair off down to the scalp (remember the ripe persimmon look?). At least I kinda fit in with the other boys rather than being a reluctant hair fashion maven.
Anywho, all this history to set the framework for my question: Has it occurred to anyone besides me that the term "barber" inevitably derived from the word BARBARIAN?
His "clippers" were a cheap old fashioned implement that worked by squeezing the handles with your hand to move the cutting heads back and forth. Trust me when I tell you that this half cut and half pulled the hair out!
Put a kid on the stool (me), start cutting/pulling his hair (ouch), let the prisoner (me again) start fidgeting, and you got the makings for Grandaddy to start THUMPING you on the noggin by cocking his forefinger behind his thumb and pulling the trigger (I can still feel that pain).
Best I remember, I always ended up looking like a mangy dog that had fallen under a lawn mower?
Grandaddy eventually secured some 'lectric shears for hair cutting. Dad being fascinated by machinery, he had the divine inspiration that he would personally administer my coif with the new fangled equipment (lucky me again). Dad would butcher on one side a bit, then mangle the other side to "even it up". This continued until my head looked like a ripe (hairless) persimmon.
Finally, Dad took the notion to start sending me to the barber in Wright City (and my lucky streak just kept rollin'). The resident barber in WC had a one room tin shack that was just big enough inside for a barber chair and a three drawer filing cabinet. Although his antique rusty "tools" were only exceeded in grunge by his personal hygiene, the public humiliation he administered cost a mere 50 cents.
I'd walk out of that chop shop and look like I fell out of an ugly tree and hit ever branch on the way down. Hell, they had to start tying a pork chop round my neck to get the dog to play with me after my latest "do" scared it so bad one time?
The barber had another interesting challenge in that he was a stone cold alcoholic. During each haircut, his hands would begin to shake to the point that he would be vibrating my head. Periodically he would halt my torture, open a drawer of the file cabinet, take a long pull from his Old Crow whiskey, and then start root plowing my demoralized follicles again.
At some point Dad granted my convict soul mercy and started taking me to Turnertown to see Mr. Wicks. Mr. Wicks was one of the oldest people I had ever seen and his breath always smelled like the peppermint candy he sucked on all day. As a small matter, he was blind as a bat. I'm talking, "couldn't find his rear with either hand" blind. His feeble attempt to make a living was accomplished while cutting unsuspecting victims' hair by "feel". Naturally Dad always sat me in Mr. Wicks' chair because there was no wait to get started (Damned if I can imagine why people weren't lined up?)
From age 13 to 18, I came full circle because the football coaches made us buzz all our hair off down to the scalp (remember the ripe persimmon look?). At least I kinda fit in with the other boys rather than being a reluctant hair fashion maven.
Anywho, all this history to set the framework for my question: Has it occurred to anyone besides me that the term "barber" inevitably derived from the word BARBARIAN?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
GIGGIN'
East Texas stock ponds are a natural breeding ground for bull frogs (rana catesbeiana). As bull frogs are extremely proficient leapers, wits have often speculated that if they had wings, they wouldn't bust their butts when they landed. They also employ a loud guttural bellow like bulls when advertising their mating call or to make predators think they are larger.
Some folks think the legs of the frogs are an exquisite dining experience when they are battered and lightly fried.
To capture said frogs for culinary uses, one would need to go out at night (dark moonless nights were the best). Mr. frog's hunting style is to more or less just sit and wait until something eatable comes along that will fit in his mouth. Therefore, they are usually found on the bank of a pond at the water's edge.
While on a nocturnal safari for flipper drumsticks, you use a flashlight to shine around and try to see the reflection of the frog's eyes to locate them. After being located, the idea is to "sneak" up on the frog and "gig" them.
A "gig" is a metal device that resembles a set of claws. The claws can be pulled apart to a locked position, and then slammed together by the force of a spring when shoved against a frog. If successful, this holds the frog in the gig until the "hunter" can transfer the delicacy to a sack or other temporary storage.
Dad and I would on occasion decide it was time to pursue the ever elusive quarry (usually after consumption of some not so elusive Budweiser). We would make the rounds of the neighborhood ponds while kicking aside the water moccasins.
It never failed that we would be tempted (remember the alcohol imbibement) to "gig" a water moccasin. Neat trick, except now we would have several pounds of an extremely agitated fang poppin' critter stuck in the jaws of our frog collection devices. Gettin' them puppies ungigged was always the special treat of the evening.
If we had a boat, the ole ranch hand preferred to sit in the front of the boat and catch the frogs by hand (more sport, more fear - remember the ever present snakes - and so more adrenalin rush)(OK, likely preceded by a Budweiser "rush").
Baby Sister tells a story bout going with Dad one hooched up night and having the flashlight grow dim due to battery failure. Dad being Dad, he just threw their only light into the middle of the pond. Dad/daughter then had the privilege of negotiating through the night critters in the pitch dark back to the house?
The day after a successful harvest of web foot water denizens, we would painstakingly prepare the feast. I'd take Mom's old black iron skillet and carefully ease the crisco (lard) toward the perfect sauteing temperature as the miniature drumsticks languished luxuriously in flour and seasoning. I would then delicately slide the critters' knee bone connected calf/thigh into the bubbling grease spa and gently bring them to a golden brown.
An anomaly of frog fryin' is that while achieving cooked status, the severed limbs will for a spell, "jump". I reckon it is the nerves in the appendage that makes it kick, but it is a bit unnerving when ya first see the phenomenon?
Anywho, our wildlife prize would be a beautiful sight to behold when plated artfully on our least chipped platter.
Then the eyeballin' would start. Dad would look at me, I would look at Dad, an Dad would look back. Who was gonna start gnawin' on them suckers first? We would chew a bit (and sometimes swaller). The trouble was that as we masticated the appendages, we were rememberin' the entire acquatic creature with its green spotted skin, baleful eyes, and long sticky red tongue?
Realizin' that some huntin' pleasures were heavier on the "pursuit" side and lighter on the "consumption" side, we would usually resolve to not go giggin' again (but then the Budweiser would cleverly numb our memory/judgement and we would once again launch a night time foray for fun and country groceries)?
Some folks think the legs of the frogs are an exquisite dining experience when they are battered and lightly fried.
To capture said frogs for culinary uses, one would need to go out at night (dark moonless nights were the best). Mr. frog's hunting style is to more or less just sit and wait until something eatable comes along that will fit in his mouth. Therefore, they are usually found on the bank of a pond at the water's edge.
While on a nocturnal safari for flipper drumsticks, you use a flashlight to shine around and try to see the reflection of the frog's eyes to locate them. After being located, the idea is to "sneak" up on the frog and "gig" them.
A "gig" is a metal device that resembles a set of claws. The claws can be pulled apart to a locked position, and then slammed together by the force of a spring when shoved against a frog. If successful, this holds the frog in the gig until the "hunter" can transfer the delicacy to a sack or other temporary storage.
Dad and I would on occasion decide it was time to pursue the ever elusive quarry (usually after consumption of some not so elusive Budweiser). We would make the rounds of the neighborhood ponds while kicking aside the water moccasins.
It never failed that we would be tempted (remember the alcohol imbibement) to "gig" a water moccasin. Neat trick, except now we would have several pounds of an extremely agitated fang poppin' critter stuck in the jaws of our frog collection devices. Gettin' them puppies ungigged was always the special treat of the evening.
If we had a boat, the ole ranch hand preferred to sit in the front of the boat and catch the frogs by hand (more sport, more fear - remember the ever present snakes - and so more adrenalin rush)(OK, likely preceded by a Budweiser "rush").
Baby Sister tells a story bout going with Dad one hooched up night and having the flashlight grow dim due to battery failure. Dad being Dad, he just threw their only light into the middle of the pond. Dad/daughter then had the privilege of negotiating through the night critters in the pitch dark back to the house?
The day after a successful harvest of web foot water denizens, we would painstakingly prepare the feast. I'd take Mom's old black iron skillet and carefully ease the crisco (lard) toward the perfect sauteing temperature as the miniature drumsticks languished luxuriously in flour and seasoning. I would then delicately slide the critters' knee bone connected calf/thigh into the bubbling grease spa and gently bring them to a golden brown.
An anomaly of frog fryin' is that while achieving cooked status, the severed limbs will for a spell, "jump". I reckon it is the nerves in the appendage that makes it kick, but it is a bit unnerving when ya first see the phenomenon?
Anywho, our wildlife prize would be a beautiful sight to behold when plated artfully on our least chipped platter.
Then the eyeballin' would start. Dad would look at me, I would look at Dad, an Dad would look back. Who was gonna start gnawin' on them suckers first? We would chew a bit (and sometimes swaller). The trouble was that as we masticated the appendages, we were rememberin' the entire acquatic creature with its green spotted skin, baleful eyes, and long sticky red tongue?
Realizin' that some huntin' pleasures were heavier on the "pursuit" side and lighter on the "consumption" side, we would usually resolve to not go giggin' again (but then the Budweiser would cleverly numb our memory/judgement and we would once again launch a night time foray for fun and country groceries)?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
SAINT VITUS
Saint Vitus's dance originally referred to the frenzied movements of religious fanatics who during the middle ages journeyed to the healing shrine of St. Vitus. Medical scientist later applied this moniker to acute disturbance of the central nervous system characterized by involuntary muscular movements of the face and extremities.
I'm confident my Dad didn't know such esoteric information and likely didn't care. However, he was fond of characterizing any excessive/involuntary scared butt jumping around as a "Saint Vitus dance". There just ain't no telling where he picked up this phrase?
Dad told an interesting tale of his own Saint Vitus dance. Seems one day a harmless, but rather elongated snake managed to climb the outside sill on the front door to his house. Brother Snake had a comfortable vantage point until Brother Gene decide to go out his front door.
As Dad opened the screen door, the snake was dislodged and fell on Dad (wrapping its length in coils around Dad's neck!).
According to Dad, Saint Vitus couldn't hold a candle to the yard stompin', twirl whirlin', hootin' holler, arm flingin' cotillion he staged on his lawn that day.
And the (innocent?) snake?? Dad allowed as how he stomped it to jelly once he unfurled his dance partner from his around his goozle.
Saint Vitus would have been proud!
I'm confident my Dad didn't know such esoteric information and likely didn't care. However, he was fond of characterizing any excessive/involuntary scared butt jumping around as a "Saint Vitus dance". There just ain't no telling where he picked up this phrase?
Dad told an interesting tale of his own Saint Vitus dance. Seems one day a harmless, but rather elongated snake managed to climb the outside sill on the front door to his house. Brother Snake had a comfortable vantage point until Brother Gene decide to go out his front door.
As Dad opened the screen door, the snake was dislodged and fell on Dad (wrapping its length in coils around Dad's neck!).
According to Dad, Saint Vitus couldn't hold a candle to the yard stompin', twirl whirlin', hootin' holler, arm flingin' cotillion he staged on his lawn that day.
And the (innocent?) snake?? Dad allowed as how he stomped it to jelly once he unfurled his dance partner from his around his goozle.
Saint Vitus would have been proud!
WHAT HAPPENS NEXT
I went to visit Dad one day and found him sitting on the steps of the front porch. He looked kinda "funny" so I asked what he was doing.
"Waiting to see if I'm gonna die", he said rather matter-of-factly?
Seems that Dad had just gone around to the side of the house and reached down to turn on an outside water faucet. When he brought his hand back, he noticed a copper head snake hanging from his thumb by one fang! Sure 'nuff, Dad had a puncture wound on the side of his thumb.
The story had a good ending as apparently the slithering satan had elected to not envenomate Dad (no doubt Dad's tough hide and questionable taste influenced the decision?)
Question is, how many people do you know who could be bitten by a poisonous snake and just calmly sit down on the porch to see what happens next?
"Waiting to see if I'm gonna die", he said rather matter-of-factly?
Seems that Dad had just gone around to the side of the house and reached down to turn on an outside water faucet. When he brought his hand back, he noticed a copper head snake hanging from his thumb by one fang! Sure 'nuff, Dad had a puncture wound on the side of his thumb.
The story had a good ending as apparently the slithering satan had elected to not envenomate Dad (no doubt Dad's tough hide and questionable taste influenced the decision?)
Question is, how many people do you know who could be bitten by a poisonous snake and just calmly sit down on the porch to see what happens next?
Monday, May 26, 2008
SNOW CONE WEATHER
Last deer season I spent a number of days hunting that were colder than a brass toilet seat on the shady side of an iceberg.
I remember a day in particular when I got to shaking so hard my eyes were vibrating. I couldn't feel my feet and my nose near froze and broke off.
Yeah, I am at a stage in life where I can afford to buy high dollar insulated long johns, heavy coats, and such, but I ain't yet at an age where I got 'nuff brains to stay home when I should. Least not when the "buck fever" stirs my soul.
I always get to the ranch an hour before dawn and either climb the ladder to my tree stand, or ease into the ground blind. Either way, that time before the sun creates a rather exquisite cold that settles in bones that are aged near 12 lustrums.
At those moments of weakness, I longed for the balm of warmer weather.
Well hell, I got my wish in spades lately. Its been so hot you could sweat 150 pounds of fat off a 125 pound pig. I'm talkin' wipe your butt with a snow cone weather.
Ever time this ole fat boy tries to do some yard/ranch work, I near bout faint. I used to giggle at the fools that bought them plastic bottles of water. Now I suck 'em down like they was the nectar of the valley.
Anywho sports fans, I'm sure deer season will be here before we know it so I can "enjoy" a splendid crop of goose bumps again?
I remember a day in particular when I got to shaking so hard my eyes were vibrating. I couldn't feel my feet and my nose near froze and broke off.
Yeah, I am at a stage in life where I can afford to buy high dollar insulated long johns, heavy coats, and such, but I ain't yet at an age where I got 'nuff brains to stay home when I should. Least not when the "buck fever" stirs my soul.
I always get to the ranch an hour before dawn and either climb the ladder to my tree stand, or ease into the ground blind. Either way, that time before the sun creates a rather exquisite cold that settles in bones that are aged near 12 lustrums.
At those moments of weakness, I longed for the balm of warmer weather.
Well hell, I got my wish in spades lately. Its been so hot you could sweat 150 pounds of fat off a 125 pound pig. I'm talkin' wipe your butt with a snow cone weather.
Ever time this ole fat boy tries to do some yard/ranch work, I near bout faint. I used to giggle at the fools that bought them plastic bottles of water. Now I suck 'em down like they was the nectar of the valley.
Anywho sports fans, I'm sure deer season will be here before we know it so I can "enjoy" a splendid crop of goose bumps again?
Sunday, May 25, 2008
TOUGHNESS
Dad used to do ranch work for Ed in the bottom below the old gasoline plant in Wright City.
He would talk about getting there before daylight and sitting on the tractor cursing the sun for not rising so he could do his planned work for the day.
During one period, Dad was using Ed's ancient Massey Ferguson tractor to shred waist high weeds in a field. About the middle of the patch, Dad became engulfed in bumble bees that fogged out of a ground nest and completely shrouded the tractor and driver.
Now that old M-F diesel was powerful, but it don't take long to figger out that a tractor will not outrun a bumble bee. Wasn't nuthin' for Dad to do but jump from the tractor with it moving and "run for the hills" while flailing like a one armed man in a fistfight.
After about 100 yards on a sweltering humid day, Dad just laid down and waited to die. He later related that he didn't know if it would be heat stroke, heart attack, or bee stings, but he figgered the end was near either way.
After a bit, the bees decided to move away from Dad, so he sat up and took inventory. Course the tractor was still chugging along in granny gear with a diminishing number of bees attacking it.
Dad being Dad, he eventually walked down the tractor and got on it again. He then would ride the tractor till it was near the bee nest, get off it, and walk in a big circle to recapture his iron steed after the bees quit swarming it. Another words, he finished the job that he started.
Back at the casa, Dad sat outside in the sun while Lou used tweezers to pull the bee stingers from his scalp (about 30 as I recall).
There are any number of stories about how TOUGH my Dad was, but I reckon this one ranks up there near the top?
He would talk about getting there before daylight and sitting on the tractor cursing the sun for not rising so he could do his planned work for the day.
During one period, Dad was using Ed's ancient Massey Ferguson tractor to shred waist high weeds in a field. About the middle of the patch, Dad became engulfed in bumble bees that fogged out of a ground nest and completely shrouded the tractor and driver.
Now that old M-F diesel was powerful, but it don't take long to figger out that a tractor will not outrun a bumble bee. Wasn't nuthin' for Dad to do but jump from the tractor with it moving and "run for the hills" while flailing like a one armed man in a fistfight.
After about 100 yards on a sweltering humid day, Dad just laid down and waited to die. He later related that he didn't know if it would be heat stroke, heart attack, or bee stings, but he figgered the end was near either way.
After a bit, the bees decided to move away from Dad, so he sat up and took inventory. Course the tractor was still chugging along in granny gear with a diminishing number of bees attacking it.
Dad being Dad, he eventually walked down the tractor and got on it again. He then would ride the tractor till it was near the bee nest, get off it, and walk in a big circle to recapture his iron steed after the bees quit swarming it. Another words, he finished the job that he started.
Back at the casa, Dad sat outside in the sun while Lou used tweezers to pull the bee stingers from his scalp (about 30 as I recall).
There are any number of stories about how TOUGH my Dad was, but I reckon this one ranks up there near the top?
Saturday, May 24, 2008
DOPEY
Dad only mentioned one dog from his youth, Dopey.
According to Dad, Dopey was smarter than most people and tough as a peach orchid boar.
On the "tough" part, Dad said Dopey waged many a battle with other dogs in his life and never failed to win the upper hand.
Dad also talked about Grandaddy instructing the dog to "guard" the smaller children when they were outside or in the field with the family. According to the story, the Dopey would faithfully guard the child from all hazard of any kind.
Dad also swore that they dog had a capacious vocabulary. He said that he or Grandaddy could tell the dog to bring a tool or other object to them, and the dog would find the sought item and bring it shortly.
Dad's favorite such story had to do with him making repairs to the roof of Grandaddy's barn. Dad had climbed a ladder to get on top of the barn, but forgot to bring a hammer. He whistled for Dopey and told him to bring the hammer. Dad got busy on the roof, but in a bit he turned around and there was Dopey on the barn roof with the hammer in his mouth. To Dad's amazement, the dog had negotiated the ladder with no difficulty. Dad didn't say how Dopey got back down on the ground?
According to Dad, Dopey was smarter than most people and tough as a peach orchid boar.
On the "tough" part, Dad said Dopey waged many a battle with other dogs in his life and never failed to win the upper hand.
Dad also talked about Grandaddy instructing the dog to "guard" the smaller children when they were outside or in the field with the family. According to the story, the Dopey would faithfully guard the child from all hazard of any kind.
Dad also swore that they dog had a capacious vocabulary. He said that he or Grandaddy could tell the dog to bring a tool or other object to them, and the dog would find the sought item and bring it shortly.
Dad's favorite such story had to do with him making repairs to the roof of Grandaddy's barn. Dad had climbed a ladder to get on top of the barn, but forgot to bring a hammer. He whistled for Dopey and told him to bring the hammer. Dad got busy on the roof, but in a bit he turned around and there was Dopey on the barn roof with the hammer in his mouth. To Dad's amazement, the dog had negotiated the ladder with no difficulty. Dad didn't say how Dopey got back down on the ground?
RIN TIN TIN
In 1918 a World War I soldier found a German Shepherd puppy in a bombed out animal shelter in France. The soldier brought the puppy back to the U.S. with him, named it RIN TIN TIN, and raised it to maturity.
After a degree of training, Rin Tin Tin was used in various movies. At the peak of the dog's popularity, the studios received as many as 10,000 letters per day addressed to the canine star.
The bloodline of Rin Tin Tin continues to this day. On June 23, 2007, the latest "heir" to this legacy was born.
All this to say that the only dog in my life that belonged to only me was named Rin Tin Tin. The name was inspired by the dog I watched on our black/white television on the Rin Tin Tin show . I called him "Rinty", but we both knew his full moniker.
I don't remember how long Rinty lived, but he was my faithful companion for his entire life. If I rode my bicycle all day, Rinty never, ever stopped running behind me. If I went swimming in the creek, Rinty went swimming in the creek. At the same time, if any other dog tried to pay me too much attention, they were in for a butt whippin' from Rinty.
Rinty never asked anything of me except my companionship and scraps from our dining table. I suspicion he hunted a bit on his own because we mostly ate every "scrap" that was put on the table.
I guess there are a variety of reasons that I never had another dog, but if I am destined to only have one in my life, I'm grateful for my memories of Rin Tin Tin.
After a degree of training, Rin Tin Tin was used in various movies. At the peak of the dog's popularity, the studios received as many as 10,000 letters per day addressed to the canine star.
The bloodline of Rin Tin Tin continues to this day. On June 23, 2007, the latest "heir" to this legacy was born.
All this to say that the only dog in my life that belonged to only me was named Rin Tin Tin. The name was inspired by the dog I watched on our black/white television on the Rin Tin Tin show . I called him "Rinty", but we both knew his full moniker.
I don't remember how long Rinty lived, but he was my faithful companion for his entire life. If I rode my bicycle all day, Rinty never, ever stopped running behind me. If I went swimming in the creek, Rinty went swimming in the creek. At the same time, if any other dog tried to pay me too much attention, they were in for a butt whippin' from Rinty.
Rinty never asked anything of me except my companionship and scraps from our dining table. I suspicion he hunted a bit on his own because we mostly ate every "scrap" that was put on the table.
I guess there are a variety of reasons that I never had another dog, but if I am destined to only have one in my life, I'm grateful for my memories of Rin Tin Tin.
PET PIGS
Dad never owned a pig, except once.
When I was near 6 or 7, Dad brought home a baby porker and I promptly named my new "pet" Bobby.
Bobby was placed in a pen on the back side of our place and daily fed his "slop" until he became a fine specimen of porcine pulchritude.
Best I remember, Bobby was my first of only two pets in my life, the other being my faithful dog, Rin Tin Tin.
One night we were eating one of Mom's delicious meals which consisted of a pork concoction. I chose that opportune time to inquire as to where my pet, Bobby, was as I hadn't seen him in a day or two.
Dad matter of factly told me we were eating Bobby. I stress "were eating" as I didn't finish that meal and likely shied from pork for a day or two.
Simple moral to this story: Don't name a pig folks plan to eat!
When I was near 6 or 7, Dad brought home a baby porker and I promptly named my new "pet" Bobby.
Bobby was placed in a pen on the back side of our place and daily fed his "slop" until he became a fine specimen of porcine pulchritude.
Best I remember, Bobby was my first of only two pets in my life, the other being my faithful dog, Rin Tin Tin.
One night we were eating one of Mom's delicious meals which consisted of a pork concoction. I chose that opportune time to inquire as to where my pet, Bobby, was as I hadn't seen him in a day or two.
Dad matter of factly told me we were eating Bobby. I stress "were eating" as I didn't finish that meal and likely shied from pork for a day or two.
Simple moral to this story: Don't name a pig folks plan to eat!
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