La Reunion

On Saturday morning, last, I drove to the bucolic village of Fairy, Texas to attend a family reunion. I rarely attend these festivals. I made an exception this time.

In my youth, such gatherings were a bewildering parade of old people who I never saw in my life. “That’s my great uncle Wilbur.” My father might say, pointing to a wizened old coot across the room. There were hundreds of strangers around the room. Then there were all those unfamiliar children. I knew some of them. The older ones delighted in torturing my contemporaries and me. The younger ones might leak bodily fluids on the unwary relative. It was my privilege to leak something all over my cousin Buddy when I was quite small. He has never recovered from the indignity. I saw my chance and I took it. (That's him, dozing in his chair.)

This reunion was different. My father had eight brothers and sisters. Dad is gone now and only his youngest and oldest sisters remain. Evelyn, the eldest, is past her mid nineties and headed for the century mark. “Baby sister,” Quata, is an attractive, cheerful and ageless woman. They are our family treasures. One tier back, my generation is now old coots. While the ravages of time have spared me, I am sorry to report my cousins are paunchy, gray bearded, rheumy-eyed old men. (It is my blog. If you have another opinion, get your own blog and publish it. :) )

There were several high points at this reunion. First, there were hundreds of attendees. I admit to feeling satisfaction when someone pointed in my direction and explained who I was to a youngster. (A youngster is almost anybody or anything under the age of 50. It is a sliding scale.) Meanwhile, the kid was undoubtedly eyeing an attractive stranger of the opposite sex, hoping they were unrelated and could not care less about the old coot across the room.

The second high point was enjoying the respect afforded to us codgers. A girl brought me a chair. Someone shuttled iced tea to my table without my asking. Another entertained me with conversation. It was a happy visit, but I wondered if she was working on a merit badge for Girl Scouts. Everyone under the age of 80 treated my generation with respect bordering on trepidation. Apparently, our reputations precede us.

The video recording of the newly ancient telling stories about growing up, being young, foolish, and rearing families of our own was the best. Each of us took a turn sitting in front of a video camera, babbling about our childhood adventures and life with our parents. It was touching and hilarious. Naturally, when my turn came, I went completely blank, except for claiming I was adopted. I might have gotten away with it if my aunts had not shouted their objections. On the drive home, stories flooded into my mind. Perhaps I will share a few of them here in coming weeks. As on tape, I shall clean them up a bit in the telling.

I will save a few for next year, too.

Nature Trail Revealed!

For several weeks, I have threatened to photograph the little nature trail that bisects my neighborhood. Since I first thought of it, the trail has seldom been above water. Half the circuit was dry this morning and I set out, camera around neck, to capture as much of the natural beauty as possible.

A pair of extravagant berry bushes mark the trailhead. I do not know their names. Fred and Ethyl, maybe? They are a welcoming sight year round. If you have an idea what they are, let me know.

Immediately beyond, the trail curves hard left to parallel the local creek. Recently, it has been a navigable waterway, but has subsided to being full of water. The water has been fifteen to twenty feet higher in recent weeks and observant readers might find traces of debris in the trees and shrubs in these photos. At the curve, the trail is about forty feet above the creek.

The trail continues along the flood plain, rising and falling as much as fifty feet. The upgrades test the intrepid cyclist’s heart and will. The downgrades provide breath-restoring relief and high-speed excitement. Local wildlife includes a snowy heron who has grown accustomed to my presence. The little bugger did not show this morning. Maybe he’s camera shy.

Autumn colors are only beginning to emerge.  The continuous rains of the last month have rejuvenated the plant life, leaving them reluctant to go to sleep for the winter.  Sumack is one of the most flamboyant autumn plants.  Even these are muted, but still impressive to my eye.  See below.  I'll check in on it again next week, weather permitting.


The air was cool, dry and on the move (15 mph) when I hit the trail.  It was bracing!   Hauling a camera is the perfect excuse to pedal at a leisurely pace, avoiding the unsightly gasping and sweating that usually accompanies these outings.  I may take the camera from now on!

About two miles along, I discovered a stand of trees I've never noticed before. Yes, that's hard to believe, but they seem to have appeared from nowhere.  Odder, they are growing right next to the site of the raging torrent and they are more than twenty feet tall.  Maybe they're some sort of alien mutant trees trying to blend in until they take over the planet. (I wish them all the luck in the world. They can have my part.)

At the halfway mark, I discovered the spillway is under water.  Still.  Since it is also the bridge to the rest of the trail, I was stopped.  Nature teaches patience, darn her anyway. Perhaps tomorrow...

I expect the colors will get better and the light will continue to gain that pale golden hue that accompanies autumn.  If the rains forebear, there are many beautiful images waiting for someone to notice them.  I would be pleased if it were me.

I will share what I find in future posts.  I hope you enjoy these views even half as much as I.  I can still smell the wild scented air and feel tthe cool breezes on my cheek even now.  What could be better than a morning in autumn?  I am one lucky guy.

The Seven League Boots

Seven League Boots are mythological footwear presented to a pilgrim by a magical being. When worn, the boots touch the ground only once every seven leagues, enabling the pilgrim to cover vast distances on a quest.  I am told seven leagues (21 miles) is the distance the King's messengers rode between stops for fresh mounts, food and rest.  Since they were on horseback, their boots were said to touch the ground only once in seven leagues.

Recently, I found a pair of “Wellingtons” in my closet. I have not worn or seen them in years. They are plain, brown leather boots. They are not tall or fancy or anything beyond well made. They may be thirty years old. Frankly, they looked like Hell. The leather was heavily scuffed and polish was nonexistent. I hauled them to the elderly man in my neighborhood who cares for leather goods. [Except saddles] He does excellent work and I left the boots with him.

When I returned a few days later, the old man presented the boots and began to apologize. He pointed to various places that did not gleam as glass. As he pointed out the various defects, he explained there was nothing he could do to repair them short of re-dyeing the entire pair.

My mind wandered with each landmark. The worst gouges were the result of the time I turned-over a Harley in an unexpected curve. An ambulance came to see me as I lay in a watery ditch beside the road. When I looked up, I asked, “Are you an angel?” Lucky, it was an EMT from the local fire department – and he was straight. Whew.

Another scar reminded me of the time, when felling a tree, a large trunk rolled across my foot and tried to climb my leg. My right foot was purple up to the knee for four weeks. The boot survived.
There were many scars and blemishes on those boots. Some were identifiable. Others just looked like miscellaneous gunshots, animal bites and excrement stains – hardly worth note.

In the end, I thanked the old man and left a generous gratuity. Those boots and I earned every one of those defects through taking chances and pursuing adventures, the sweetest part of life. I will not be re-dying them. I shall keep them just as they are and hope to record one or two more adventures before they bury me – with my boots on. After all, we old boots have a magical bond.

Silent Auction

The Senate Finance Committee voted out a health care reform package today. It has been a long time coming. I expect many weeks will pass before something substantive, and probably disastrous, becomes the law of the land. Why does it take so long? I have puzzled over this question for weeks and I think I have the answer.

Of all the mistakes the Congress might make, rushing to pass legislation before they know who the high bidders are is not one of them. Imagine the embarrassment if a Senator agreed to support provisions favorable to Lobbyist A only to meet Lobbyist B in the hallway with an even larger sack of campaign contributions, better inside investment advice and a more luxurious travel plan. I mean, the Senator would appear foolish in the presence of all his colleagues. As citizens of the various states, we would not want our representatives to lose face in the Congress, would we? Of course we wouldn’t.

The Executive branch has been active, too. The President’s recent selection as a Nobel Laureate has caused the sound of laughter to ring in the halls of my home. Okay, it was my laughter and it may have been maniacal, but this is a priceless image. Imagine a racecar driver, who after driving 200 feet, pulls over and receives a trophy. Someone throws a spray of roses into the cockpit and a beautiful woman leans in for a big kiss. Several magnums (magnae?) of Champagne spew in celebration. Half the crowd goes wild with glee. The other half gapes in stunned disbelief. The driver sheepishly accepts the prize while wondering if he should rejoin the race or slink home in victory.

Please note: I do not believe the Nobel Prize fiasco is the President’s fault, at least not directly. George Will said it best on “George Stephanopoulos.” He said, “This award would destroy the Nobel Committee’s reputation for seriousness, if only they had a reputation for seriousness.” That is as close to a direct quote as I can create.


With thrills and chills like this in life, Halloween is beginning to look like just another day.

Hill Country Epilogue

It was Friday morning, September 25. I was happily tapping away at my keyboard. I forget what was so important, but I was engrossed in the effort. As the morning wore on, I became increasingly agitated. Something was just not right. I ran through my checklist of potential problems and found nothing amiss. I tried my best to continue, but it became more difficult as time passed.


I looked at the clock.  It showed straight up noon. As I stared, I could not help seeing out the window a few feet away. “Odd,” I thought, “I don’t see any rain…” My thought process automatically raced to “why isn’t it raining?” I got out of my chair and peered through the glass. Hmm.

The sky was clear blue. The lawn was deep green and dry. I rushed to the front door and stepped out. 75-degree temperatures and the mildest of breezes greeted me. Sunshine, long a scarce commodity in my neighborhood, warmed my neck and face. I realized I had been wasting my life and a beautiful day indoors when I should have been out in the sunshine and fresh air. Work? “I don’t need no steenking work,” I thought. I ran to my closet and grabbed the basics. Helmet? Check. Armored Jacket? Got it. Gloves? Boots? Yes, yes, yes.

In ten minutes, my motorcycle sat poised in the driveway, idling quietly. In fifteen, I was enjoying the fresh air and sunshine the way God intended, from the saddle of my bike. “Today,” I thought to myself, “I shall redeem that rain dance I enjoyed over the Labor Day Weekend!” I took the sharp-turning back road south toward Hillsboro. From Hillsboro, S.H. 22 retraced my path to the west. In bright daylight, this was an entirely new adventure. Traffic was light as I turned onto the small highway. I opened the throttle a bit, producing a satisfying growl from the V-4 engine and a delightful breeze on my face. Wow. I swooped and banked along the highway. Green pastures, picturesque structures and fat livestock streamed by. The fragrance was more like spring than autumn. I soaked it in through every pore.

Eventually, I reached Meridian, Texas and turned onto Highway 144 toward Walnut Springs. “The Springs” is a sleepy little village. Industry is limited to a couple of beer stations and some antique shops. I have seen it in worse condition. Just beyond the town, I reached Farm Road 203. I save this little shortcut for times I need to get away from it all and do something stimulating at the same time. It is a narrow road with many low hills and enough curves to satisfy any motorcyclist craving excitement.

I plunged ahead, relishing the scenery and the road. There was no traffic. Since the little road is at most ten miles long, I wanted to go slow to enjoy it as long as I could. My evil side wanted me to speed up to enjoy the road as much as I could. As in life, Evil often makes the more compelling argument. I sped onward, leaning the bike steeply into switchback turns and enjoying weightlessness at the peak of small hills. It was wonderful.

Then, I turned hard into a blind curve. Committed to a line through the curve, I was surprised to see a large pickup truck approaching me from the other direction. He was in my lane, cutting the corner. I could do little. Judging by the size of the truck driver’s eyes, he felt similar anxiety. I shut the throttle and began braking, gently. (You try braking gently when your blood is diluted with adrenalin.) I saw the driver pull hard over on his steering wheel and I tightened my line through the curve as much as I dared. In a heartbeat, we brushed past each other, a foot of empty air separating us. I was alive! No, really, I survived and I was alive. The survival part was a surprise. Feeling my heart pound with gratitude reminded me I might have something left to do in this life after all. After that, the remainder of the ride was completely boring. I am good with that.

I shall keep a sharp lookout for my life's greater purpose in future. I might also be more circumspect when I feel the urge to frolic on a twisty back road.

Until next time!