Adsense Nonsense

…

A few months ago, I joined the Google Adsense program. That is where I let Google sell advertising space on my blog page and they eventually send me a small portion of their take. They have many rules. You may not click on advertisements on your own site because that is cheating. You cannot pay or induce someone else to click on your site. There were more. Many more. As far as I know, I complied with all the requirements. Then, I got this:

…

Hello,


After reviewing our records, we have determined that your Adsense account poses a risk of generating invalid activity. Because we have a responsibility to protect our AdWords advertisers from inflated costs due to invalid activity, we've found it necessary to disable your AdSense account. Your outstanding balance and Google's share of the revenue will both be fully refunded back to the affected advertisers.


Please understand that we need to take such steps to maintain the effectiveness of Google's advertising system, particularly the advertiser-publisher relationship. We understand the inconvenience that this may cause you, and we thank you in advance for your understanding and cooperation.

…

Cooperation? They went on to say I could appeal their expert’s decision if I chose, but they could not tell me what they found suspicious because the formulas they use for detection are proprietary.

I found it difficult to defend myself from these unspecified accusations. I sent an appeal that must have sounded like “WTF” to the reader, if any. It did no good. In less than 24 hours, I had my reply. I was out of the Adsense program.

I know this will be disappointing news to the throngs who relied upon my blog site as a principal source of shopping information, but I can do nothing. Worse, the pile of money I earned publishing Google’s ads was half way to paying for a mid-range dinner for two. You know, any dinner not involving a drive-through window.

Not to worry. I never intended to become a giant internet retailer. I shall look for something pleasant and possibly entertaining to fill the empty space. 



Happy 2011, y’all.

…

A Lone Star Christmas

…

Each year around Christmas, I routinely receive offers from retailers of every kind. They each attempt to offer something so eye catching, so irresistible that you will be unable to restrain the urge to go to their store and shovel out money in exchange for some miraculous product or service. I routinely sail these offers into the round file and get on with my life.

I did, that is, until this one showed up. It is from an area auto dealer specializing in pickup trucks. Before I saw their flyer, I would have said, “I already have a good pickup truck and will not need another for the foreseeable future.”

Then, I looked at the coupon. I must admit, this man knows his market. The chance to win $25,000 is interesting, but we all know the chances are remote. Next, gift cards for some of the major retailers, Wal-Mart, Target, Bass Pro Shop, etc. could be very handy this time of year.

An almost irresistable advertisement?

Last but by no means least, the dealer offers a FREE SHOTGUN with the purchase of every new vehicle. Who could resist such a gesture on the very eve of Christmas? I admit I was seriously tempted. Fortunately, self-control got the better of me and I’ll have to use one to my several existing shotguns in my Yuletide celebrations. (?) I will probably enjoy a simple Christmas Eve, driving through the neighborhood, shooting mailboxes and reindeer in the traditional Christmas in Texas way.

What kind of rube do you suppose those truck salesmen take me for, anyway?


Wishing y’all a Happy and Prosperous 2011!

Putting Crisis Back Into Christmas

…

It was not all that bad. It is just that I awoke on Christmas Eve morning with a fever. Always considerate and cautious in such matters, I soon found myself in the local urgent care facility. They weighed, poked, choked and listened to my various internal noises. I even got X-rayed!

“Pneumonia,” said the slip of a girl who was my doctor.

I admit, it sounded glum for Christmas morning with the grandchildren. I asked, “Am I contagious?”

“Oh Herr yes.” The doctor was oriental, too.

“B-but Christmas…” I pleaded.

“You can stir have Christmas, but do not hug any grandchirdren or share food or drink with anyone.”

With that, a sweet, innocent looking nurse with a bundle of syringes under her arm replaced the doctor.

“Unzip your pants, loosen them and lie down on your stomach.”

I complied, but I was uncomfortable. I hardly knew her.

What happened next was awful. That sweet little nurse stabbed a needle into my backside and turned on the pump. “Ding, ding, ding went the pump indicating gallons of anti biotic delivered. In a few minutes, she unstabbed me.

“Boy, I glad that’s over,” I exclaimed.

Stab! “Ding, ding, ding” replied the other pump.

By this time, I thought my legs at least doubled in size. The discomfort was, well, eye watering.

I got a sheaf of prescriptions and managed to walk out of the place feeling pneumonia was a trifle compared to my backside and legs.

“Owww!” I said with each step.

Christmas morning arrived on time and the children and grandchildren showed up bright and early. Everyone waded into the pile of gifts. Grandfather sat quietly in his chair, hoping not to attract undue notice. I felt much better, except for that bottom stabbing business, but remained weak – probably due to the aforementioned stab wounds. I still felt some bloat in the antibiotic department.

Soon all the gifts were opened. Children’s toys covered the floor and filled the air.

The ‘girls’ set two tables; one for those over age six and one for those under age 6. I sat at the old table and enjoyed baked ham and all the trimmings. The mashed potatoes and deviled eggs were among my favorites – at least they were until I met the pecan pie. It was wonderful.

Eventually everyone went to his or her own home and I stretched out on the sofa – tummy side down – to doze through “A Christmas Story” for the ninety-third time.

Today, I am a picture of health.

Overall, it was a wonderful Christmas.  I sincerely hope yours was as good.

Rockin Around the Christmas Tree

…

Here is the original deal. I promised to retrieve the antique family Christmas tree from storage and assemble it. In addition, I would endure the annual agony of making all the tiny lights light. I believe it would be simpler to re-wire my cell phone, but that was not part of the bargain.

In return, my daughter would bring a few grandchildren over. Then, in a frenzy of holiday togetherness, we would decorate the tree. The plan had a few flaws from the beginning.

Flaw number one is the tree, itself. It is stored in a 6’ long cardboard sarcophagus when not in use. The box is decrepit and may have seen its last Christmas. The tree comes out of the box in sections. Each section has a basic string of lights permanently installed and ready to plug into the wall. It never works the first two or three attempts, but they do not mention that in the instructions.

I attacked the problem early on Saturday morning. The first pass, I got the sections out of order and the tree looked like a pagoda. I took it apart and began again. As I re-stacked the sections, I made careful note of the location of the electrical connections between each string.

Then, two hours later, I was ready to throw the switch. (Try to recall Clark Griswold and his Christmas lights in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.) I made all the connections and stabbed the cord into the outlet. Ta-Da! The top third of the tree blazed into life.

Okay, I must have missed something. I disassembled it and began again. Ta-Da!

Now, the top and middle lit, but the bottom remained dark.

On the third attempt and just before pitching the tree into the creek, all the lights lit. I had crawled around on the floor and stuck myself with potentially toxic fake pine needles for over four hours.

Then my daughter and the assembled Ant Hill Mob arrived. My daughter began artfully hanging ornaments, while the g’children were content with emptying the boxes containing the ornaments. They wanted to find the good ones.

Me? I collapsed in my chair, spent.

In time, one grandson discovered the Christmas tree box and, after glancing around furtively, slipped inside. He was in there for a few minutes before he called out “Hey, somebody find me!”

I fell for it. I tiptoed over to the box calling “Where’s William?” Small chuckles issued from the box.

“Well, I guess I better put up this old box before someone gets trapped inside,” I said loudly.

Then I picked up the box by the two top handles and began swinging it around and bouncing it off the various upholstered furniture. Squeals of delight and mock terror filled the room and the box. After a long time of flinging my heavy grandson about, I put it down, allowing him a chance to escape. Flushed with excitement, he said “That was great, Grandfather. Can we do it again?”

“Oh no,” I thought, “what have I done?”

“No, Grandfather, do me, do me,” echoed the chorus.

Sure enough, everyone wanted a nice long ride, just like his or her brother/cousin got.

I managed it, but it took a heavy toll. I have been on an Advil diet ever since.

You would think I would learn after five years of this how these things can get out of control. Apparently, I have some sort of mental or character defect preventing me from growing up and from engaging in self-preservation behavior.

Oh, what the heck. It IS Christmas, after all.

…

Another Christmas Spirit

…

Over the decades, I have experienced many sorts of what we might call “Christmas Spirit.” When I was a boy, the spirit was magical and wondrous. I will never forget the Sears & Roebuck Christmas Wish Book as long as I draw breath. It was the scripture of Christmas.

A decade or so later, my Christmas spirit broadened to include the joys of parties with friends, visits with distant relatives, meeting new people and making new friends. I began getting out into the world.

Time passed. I found myself sipping adult beverages while assembling fiendishly complicated toys on the kitchen floor at a wee small hour of the morning. “Does this look like a tricycle to you?” I asked my wife.

“No. Have some coffee and try again.”

Those days seemed to drag on forever, but in retrospect, they were brief. Soon, the children were only home for a week or so during the Christmas season and the toys gave way to travel tickets and cars.

For the past twenty years or so, my Christmas spirit has been stable. You might even say it has grown stale. That changed last year.

Yesterday, I telephoned my son.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, son! I just wanted to call and congratulate you. It’s been one year today since your re-birth!”

“Yes, it has.”

We chatted for a minute and hung up. It was December 19, 2009, a Saturday, when I received the call that my son was gravely ill. He was in emergency surgery. He had peritonitis. The odds of survival were around 50-50, give or take.  He was lucky.  He survived.

I shall never forget that Christmas day. After a hasty trip to the hospital in New Mexico, I managed to catch influenza. I returned home Christmas Eve and collapsed on the sofa.



Ben



I awoke early on Christmas morning. The house was silent and empty. There were no decorations or presents. No Christmas dinner baked in the oven or bubbled on the stove. The light from the picture window revealed a heavy snowfall was underway. It was beautiful and healing.  This might have been my first or second “white Christmas” ever. Yet I was numb, inert. All I could do was lie there in silent prayer that, in the fullness of time, my son would return to me.

A few nerve-wracking weeks later, everything changed. Family filled the house and Christmas dinner was underway. My son, thin, weak and grumpy, sat in the den and watched as his children joined in the Christmas melee under the tree.

At that moment, I wanted for nothing. Better still, I have all the Christmas spirit I shall ever need.

May Providence smile on you every day.

…

The Last 2000 Miles

…

I apologize for the long delay in finishing this story. The truth is the trip almost finished me. It is only recently I regained the ability to stand erect. When relaxed, my hands still resume the form used to grip the steering wheel. My shutter finger is numb. The entire episode covered 4,560 miles. I covered the Shoreline Highway miles at great emotional and physical expense. The vast desert delivered miles in an uninterrupted stream. I occasionally thumped my speedometer with my thumb, just to see if it was stuck. It might have been an episode from the Twilight Zone. Hmm.

After running the entire length of Highway 1 as far south as San Francisco, I decided I had had enough. Fatigue was overtaking me and I was ready for a real, ecologically irresponsible shower and a night in my own bed. I determined at that moment the photo shoot was over and the journey home had begun.

Stopping in Orange County for fuel and souvenirs for the grandchildren, I raced south. It was nightfall when I reached my limit in Yuma, Arizona. I slept the sleep of the just that night and was ninety percent rested when I resumed my journey before dawn.

Speaking of journeys, I asked my GPS to take the shortest route home. Accordingly, I spent the next night in Alamogordo, New Mexico. I could not have been more surprised if I were in East Oatmeal, Indiana. That night, I treated myself to a bucket of chicken and a kidney busting size Dr Pepper. I understand how truckers get that way. Round. On those long desert highways, there is little opportunity for exercise. Yet, at the end of the day, comfort food seems essential.

The next day was a continuation of the GPS’s whimsical navigation. I saw a dozen places I had never seen before. I did not dream they existed. I am sure they felt the same about me.

As I travelled, scene after scene taunted to stop and capture it. I was exhausted at my core, so I pretended I did not see them. They will be there in spring. I may give them another look. Sadly, there is no shortage of decline and decay in the country. It is easier to see in the sparsely populated and economically marginal communities. My journey may get shorter each year.

At the end of my second 600-mile day in a row, I pulled into my driveway and waited in the car while the garage door descended. It shut out the world. Finally.

I went inside and crashed on my favorite napping sofa. I earned the rest. Unpacking could wait. As I write this, I have only one garment bag left to unload. There is no urgency.

I included more pictures in the two preceding posts. I hope you enjoy seeing them as much as I did finding them. They are “draft quality,” so any worth keeping may be cropped (or something) before they go on canvas. Click on the photos – twice for largest image.

Enjoy, and

Merry Christmas to all!

Travel Into the Expanse.

...

It is difficult to describe the immensity of the southwestern United States.  High plains, deserts and mountains are all there, as if they were spread on a banquet table.  It is a place to feast your eyes and rest your spirit.  I shall always be drawn there.




Another Desert Home


On my journey, I was lucky to get photos of dozens of formerly useful structures.  I shall try to share a civilised number of them here.  Frankly, I imagine me working on this collection for months to come, looking for the most poignant fraction of each image.  I'm sure it will keep me out of trouble...





Tumbledown Home - NM


Out here, a house of stone is only temporary.  The heat can be merciless.  Long droughts are punctuated with flooding rains.  The "economy" doesn't mean much here.  Subsistence is more important.

I bet many merry Christmases, birthdays, weddings and funerals were celebrated here.  How could they not?

I wonder if any spirits from those times might remain.  They could stay here to get away from the hustle and bustle of the cemetery.  










Snowfall on the Mountain - Directly in front of me. Dang.


I raced along the highway in Arizona keeping a watchful eye on those distant clouds.  They were suspended just above the mountains, directly in front of me.  As I hurried to beat the storm, snowplows pulled over to let me by.

I wondered if they were laughing and saying "We'll see him - in the Spring!"  If I were them, that is what I would've said.  I chuckled a bit and opened the throttle a bit wider.  This was no time for lallygagging about.







 
I survived my dash through the snow, but not because I got by before the storm arrived.  No, the blizzard and I waltzed through the mountains of Arizona together.  I found refuge in the town of "Snow Flake."  I might have taken a clue from the name, but I was too spent from the long climb to the top of the mountain.  Next morning, the outdoor air was 9 degrees.  It was so cold, I went back to sleep for an extra hour.  When I awoke, my car alerted me that the two tires on the north side of the car were low on air.

I looked for a long time before finding a Jiffy Lube willing to inflate my tires.  I was puzzled because these tires never lost pressure before.  Then, I realized the air was squirted into the tires at 85 degrees.  Now, it was probably shrivelled with cold. 

When I arrived at Yuma that afternoon, I took a couple of blizzard pictures of my car.  It was the only evidence the storm ever existed.  I hit the car wash right after taking this shot.

...

Scenes of the Desert



Passing Train



 It was dawn when this train rumbled into view.  It struck me as a creature of the vast desert.  Fast and powerful, it swept by, looking neither right nor left.










Antique Mobile Home

 This mobile home has not gotten around much in recent decades.  It might be of 1950s manufacture.  Certainly it is no newer than the early 60s.

Whatever it was in the past, it is now a refuge for wildlife.  I think it is an artificial land reef.












House of Worship.


I found this ancient church in far west Texas.  The surrounding village still showed signs of life, but this derelict has moved on to the after life, if any.

It was stark and empty, but so well preserved in the main I felt there might be some hope for it in future.  It was fascinating.

Sanctuary

I wonder how many prayers were offered here.  It appears the final answer was "no."
Perhaps in another incarnation circumstances will be better.

This place is so isolated, there is no grafitti anywhere on the building.












Prairie Dwelling Outside


Out the window and in the distance rests a tiny cottage.  It might be occupied.  I wonder if the people living there are religious.

Crawl across the West with Me

...

This is a huge country!

I awoke in Fortuna, California, a pleasant town on the northern end of CA-1. I puttered about until first light. Then I drove south. Through the evergreen forests, over the streams and rivers I marveled at the view. Naturally, it was overcast and raining (why does it ALWAYS have to rain?) the entire trip. The effect was to give the country a secret, hidden feeling. It was as if I were there all alone. I soaked it up.



Sunset in La Jolla



The roads have few (read zero) shoulders in the forested places, so extensive exploration on foot was out of the question. I shot from the hip and on the move many times. Naturally, I have a dozen photos with scenery seeming to rush toward me. It happens.



Sunset in La Jolla II

 The challenges began when I reached the “Shoreline Highway.” Long time readers know I cannot resist a tight corner. Shoreline Highway is CA-1 on LSD. It is a constant series of tight, hairpin turns. Many either went uphill or downhill, sharply, or even seemed to go both way at the same time. I was able to average about 45 mph through here and I earned every inch of it. It was the upper body workout of the century for me.

Cloud in the Mountains



A Mountain Cabin

 When the road finally let me go, I was exhilarated and limp as a rag from the experience.

I will stick a couple photos in here for a glimpse of the scenery. No, the photos do not do the place justice.

Lots more to come...

PS: Click on the photos to see a larger version.

Travelling Over the Hills and Through the Woods

…

Yesterday, “BR” gave me a great tip about old time California. Over lunch, he suggested I try Hwy. 99 north. I did. Sort of. I saw nothing right on 99 except the mega vegetable farms and vineyards associated with the agriculture of northern California. This condition lasted all the way to Fresno, where I collapsed in a heap last evening.

At 0600 PST this morning, I took a chance. I knew I wanted to go to Fortuna, CA as the minimum northern destination for my safari. I could struggle with the map. I could calculate the distances. On the other hand, I could push a couple of buttons on the GPS, sit back, and enjoy the ride. That is what I did.

GPS computers do not think like the rest of us. I merely told the machine where I wanted to go and to take the shortest route, please. I expected something like the route I had scanned on my physical map. What I got was much better.

The total distance from Fresno to Fortuna came up as 440 miles, +/-. I can do that in a day on a motorcycle. In the car, it would be a piece of cake.

I set off along 99 and eventually merged onto I-5 north. I smugly rolled along with traffic, knowing I would reach my goal at a reasonable hour. I was already planning my return leg south and toward home.

The GPS directed me to get off the comfortable, swift I-5 and head west on CA-16. That is when BR’s advice kicked it. It was beautiful. A continuous supply of quaint villages and settlements streamed by my windshield. Huge trees shaded the tiny road and stood guard in the morning fog and the morning rain. I choked the throttle down to something like a legal speed and turned on the windshield wipers. Then, I watched helplessly as photo opportunity after opportunity slid by in the wet, cold and gloom.

My depression was relieved somewhat when CA-16 merged with CA-20 and then US-101. Photos aside, I had as much fun as a child riding the rollercoaster at the State Fair of Texas. On a few occasions, fellow road-racing celebrants slipped up beside me for a particularly tight curve. I have still not wiped the smile from my face. The adrenalin rush was almost continuous, especially when we discovered CHP cars on the side of the road, lights flashing. Fortunately, they already had a “customer” and seemed not to notice the 100 mph passers-by. I attribute this to the fact my mother prays to all the Saints in Heaven on my behalf. You go, Mom!

The 200-mile drive through the mountains carried my thoughts far away from photos and toward navigating the pavement through jaw-dropping scenery, including many 300’ redwoods. I gained a little empathy for the tree-huggers as I contemplated their average age of 1000 years. What majestic creatures they are!

Eventually, I found Fortuna. (Really) It became my Shangri-la. I am as far north as I need to be. I am ready to creep south – camera in hand taking the photos that present themselves. Frankly, I hope a strong storm at sea…

Storm or no storm, I am heading south on 101/1 tomorrow morning. I am excited about what I might see – especially in the early morning fog. Wet cold and gloom shall not save them tomorrow! Heh, heh.

I can hardly wait!

More soon.



…

The Worst Western

….

I enjoyed a wonderful visit with my old friend Ron and his wife, Kathy in La Jolla last evening. Ron and I are of an age that permits us to tell long, rambling stories with uncertain ends. As a result, it was bedtime before Ron threw me out of his house. I did not mind. He was out of beer, anyway. Naturally, I sought shelter in the nearby Best Western Motel.

I have spent hundreds, if not thousands of nights in Best Western Motels over three decades. I have moderate expectations of them, but a generally positive feeling toward the chain, except for this one.

I drove to the Best Western Inn by the Sea in La Jolla and crashed for the night. I could not make the heat work. I just pulled up the blanket and was gone.

It seemed like I slept for only a few minutes before my eyes opened. The little red numbers on the clock said 5:30 a.m. Perfect! I would get an early start.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I flipped the wall switch. “Oh no! I’ve gone blind,” I thought.

No lights came on. I called the front desk and they send a well-mannered technician to change the lights. He brought the wrong size. When he came back later, he had two fluorescent tubes. He stuck them in the fixture and fiddled with them for a few minutes. It was becoming very clear I would be shaving in the dark this morning.

The tech left to find a new fixture. I think he was going to Home Depot.

No matter, he did manage to get the heat running. That meant I would not be getting any frost on my pumpkin when I stepped out of the shower. There was light and heat in the bath, so I hopped in and turned on the water.

Drip, drip, trickle went the showerhead. I wrestled with it for a while before deciding I would simply take the best shower I could with the moisture available. It took well over half an hour. When I turned off the water, it leaked more out the spigot than I had to wash in.

Okay, I was awake, cleaned and miraculously uncut from my shaving experience. I headed out for the free breakfast. Three men came out of the room as I arrived.

“Is there anything good on the menu? I asked.

They looked at each other blankly. “Well, it IS food,” said one without enthusiasm. He was right. No one actually went down with his or her face in the plate, so I count breakfast a success.

In the end, I packed and left as quickly as I could. I had a large day ahead of me.

Then, the little receipt on the dashboard reminded me of the $12 charge I paid to park on the hallowed grounds of this fun house motel. When I questioned the silly charge, the man behind the desk said, “You must remember, THIS is La Jolla,” as if that explained everything. To me it sounded more like “Remember, we are all money grubbing thieves!”

Tonight, I am in Fresno. Yes, I am in a Best Western. I already checked and the heat, water and lights work. I am already ahead, and there’s no “parking fee.”  I am a wee bit concerned about the Tatoo Parlor next door.  Nobody's perfect.

Now, to sleep. Tomorrow, I try to find Highway 1 at Fortuna, CA. Wish me luck!

I am reminded this is all part of the adventure I signed up for all those days ago.

What was I thinking!?!

…

The Making of an Adventure

…

Earlier today, I had a telephone conversation with my daughter. I regaled her with my experiences, so far.

I told her about the blizzard that swept through the mountains as I climbed higher and higher. I described climbing a long, steep grade covered in deep snow. I had reservations about this challenge, but the alternatives were few. I built up a “head of steam” as I approached the incline. The car tipped upward like one of those air show jets and began to climb. I felt my velocity fall and increased the pressure on the throttle.

Still, the speed fell. I had plenty of throttles left, so I spurred the machine onward and upward.

About halfway up, I glanced in the rearview mirror. In the white-on-white background stood two rooster tails of snow. I reckon they were ten to fifteen feet tall.

“Dang!” I was impressed.

I kept the pressure up and after about six months, I crested the hill. I turned down the heat on the engine and began prying my fingers from the steering wheel.

“You sure did not plan your trip very well,” my daughter chided.

“Nothing turns an adventure into a mere trip faster than over-planning,” I replied.

She sighed deeply, tolerating her nutty Dad. We chatted awhile longer then said good-bye.

I aimed the nose of my car at the apex of the next icy hairpin turn and increased power. We slid authoritatively through the turn and sped on toward the day’s end at the summit.

Heh, heh.

…

A Bone to Pick

...


About two days after my bone density scan, my doctor called with the results.

I had already forgotten about the test, partly because I forget why I went upstairs, or what I wanted when I went into the garage. The other part was a bit more practical.

On my way out of the scan room, I copped a glance at the digital x-ray screen. The image was a hipbone, but not just any hipbone. It was either mine, or it belonged to a strapping specimen of male Rhinoceros. I felt reassured that I would not collapse in the near future.

"The results were all normal," he quoted matter of factly.

I hope all the women in that hospital got equally encouraging results that day.

...

Semi Continental Photo Shoot 1

...


Dawn had not yet crapped when I left my home in Texas and headed west. It was Sunday and I was on a mission.

Following my recent success at the Bosque Art Center photography show in Clifton, Texas, I decided to freshen and expand my portfolio for future opportunities. I devoted the first part of my safari to “Old Homes on the Range.” Accordingly, I snapped as many derelict and abandoned structures as I could manage as I crossed west Texas and entered New Mexico.

To qualify, a structure had to be significant, like a factory or insignificant, like a residence. They must be tumbledown, reflecting age and change. These structures have spoken to me from my earliest days. As a boy, I saw homes sinking into the earth, abandoned by the families that built and occupied them. Sometimes, it seemed generations might have lived there, fighting for a place on Earth. Finally, the tides of time and fortune pushed them out.

These are places where fulfillment and destruction awaited dreams. When I look at them, I try to put myself in the place of the first builder/occupant. Did a family build this home out of hope for a better future? Maybe the old place was a last resort and refuge from economic circumstance. It is impossible to be certain.

I can tell you no manmade structure is sacred in the end. No home lasts forever. No business survives. The “House of God” suffers along with the rest of the community.

In uncertain times, it seems pertinent to remember that our ancestors enjoyed hope and optimism as well as disappointment and defeat. The structures left behind are traces of those who brought us forth.

We too shall abandon the old to decay and give birth to a brighter future.

The testimony is scattered across the entire country. In time, I hope to show you more of it. Photos shall follow.

...

The Parable of the Cat

When my children were small, we had a complete ensemble of pets. Each of our two children had a cat. My son’s cat was Sylvester. My daughter’s was Scratchy. There was a family dog. His name was Sasquatch, but more on him another day.

All the animals lived in relative harmony inasmuch as none of them would stoop to devour any of the others. Overall, they were a great part of our little family.

Then it happened. I was at work when the telephone rang. It was my near-hysterical wife. She was calling from the veterinarian’s office. It seems she had travelled to the local elementary school to retrieve our children. When they returned home, they discovered Sylvester lying on the front porch, grievously injured. One of his rear legs had been wrenched free of his body except for a shred of flesh. They had rushed the hapless animal to the vet for emergency care.

The next thing I knew, I was speaking to the vet.

“I can save the cat, but the leg will have to go. I will throw in neutering. The whole bill will be around $1,800.”

“Surely the poor wretch would not survive such surgery,” I hinted broadly.

“Oh, the cat will be fine. Heh, heh.”

In those days, $1800 was serious money.

In a few days, the cat returned home, hopping about on his three remaining legs. As time passed, he became more than a bit eccentric. On occasion, he would flatten his ears and begin yowling in anger. Then, he would select one leg from the available human collection and attack it for all he was worth.

“Rarrrww!” Said the cat, springing for a leg.

“Aarrrrgghh!” Replied the human in turn.

It took a short time to solve the mystery. The poor feline was experiencing pain from his phantom limb. The humans learned never to turn their back on little Sylvester. He might sever their femoral artery.

So it went, year after year. Sylvester finally developed self-esteem issues and slept his days away in the cat box.

Since parables must have at least one lesson, I shall suggest one here. You may submit your own take as well. After all, I am not really a prophet or anything.

Sylvester, like others and possibly me, felt he was under attack. He knew the pain was real. His response was the most logical one for cat or man. He attacked the nearest visible source. The problem was he could not grasp that he was creating his own pain.

It was a long time before I realized the cat and I frequently made the same mistake.

Sylvester is a long time resident of cat Heaven now. Still, I would hold him close and stroke his lunatic brow if I could. After all, he left me a great gift.

The Deer Hunt, 2010

Finding time away from the responsibilities of family is always a major part of our deer hunting tradition. This year was no exception. We almost went hunting four or five times before escaping last Friday for a day-hunt.

“We have only three bullets, so we don’t shoot anything but trophies.” My son warned me.

This season was a bit different. We signed up for a wildlife management program, an oxymoron if I ever heard one. Anyhoo, it is a good cause. The idea is to improve the Whitetail Deer population and hunting at the same time. All we must do is target only fully mature buck deer and ignore the scrawny adolescence. It sounded like a piece of cake.

We examined the photos of “fully mature bucks” before setting out. The program requires that we not shoot any buck under the age of 4 years of age. The photo of the four-year-old deer bore a disturbing resemblance to King Kong with antlers, at least in the area of general mass and scariness. When I saw the photo of the typical five-year-old buck, I realized it might be better not to risk angering him with a rifle shot.

I have never seen a Whitetail Deer so large and angry looking as these examples. I figured we were safe. There was an outside chance we might mistakenly shoot an elk wandering through my pasture. Nothing like that has ever happened, either.

We climbed into our stands late in the morning. The Bosque County air was crisp and the wind was high. We gazed at the surrounding two-mile radius for any sign of game, but in an hour or so, nothing volunteered for shooting. We quit.

On our way to the truck, my son mentioned he needed some firewood. Insects devoured the wood he cut last year. It burned like large match heads in the fireplace. Were it not for the tiny insect screams, it would provide no entertainment at all.

We have a live oak tree near the gate on our property. It has eight trunks and it likely over two-hundred years old. It is dying. My son selected this tree for firewood. Whipping out his spiffy residential grade chainsaw, he attacked the two-foot thick oak with a vengeance. Wood chips flew for several minutes. Then, having cut through the bark, progress slowed. Smoke began to billow from the cut and I began to wonder how we could extinguish a fire, if one really started.

I need not have worried. The smoke was from the melting steel of the chainsaw blade, not the wood. I give him credit, though. He did not give up until the blade was useless. The trunk still stood.

During a lull in the action, I retold the story of the USS Constitution and how she earned the name “Old Ironsides” because live oak timbers used in her frame. Frankly, I do not think he fully appreciated the story.

When the chainsaw died (fried) and my strong son quiet, I leaned on the old trunk. Slowly but surely I increased my effort. Eventually, a sharp “CRACK” sounded deep in the wood and the trunk toppled to the ground. We both felt a real sense of accomplishment.

Now, all my son needs to do is chop up a thirty-foot by twenty-four inch diameter slab of the toughest wood known to man into four-inch diameter by two foot long fireplace logs. When finished, he will be the proud owner of about four tons of firewood. Should make quite a trophy.

He had better hurry, too. In three or four years, the ants will have eaten most of it.

The Bone Test

During my recent physical, my physician asked if I would be willing to take a bone density test. I said something droll, like “Uhhhh.”

He explained that since I had taken steroidal meds in the past, I might be at risk for osteoporosis.

“Uhhhh. Okay.” I added.

In a couple weeks, I got a call from the local hospital. They invited me to visit at a mutually convenient time. I agreed and showed up on time. The woman at the front desk directed me and I followed her instructions to the letter, only to arrive at a place called the “Women’s Imaging Center.”

A female voice called cheerily from the far end of the long waiting room.

I timidly walked the gauntlet of women seated row upon row. Each of them watched me as if I were an intruder in an intimate setting. Odd, I felt exactly like an intruder in an intimate setting. I smiled sheepishly at a few, nodded to some and ignored most as I moved to the voice.

The cheerful woman handed me a sheaf of papers to fill out and told me to find a seat until it was my turn. I strolled to a chair apart from the others but in reach of a stack of magazines. I like to read when I am uncomfortable. I picked up a magazine, scanned the cover and placed it back on the table. When finished browsing the stack, I knew there had never been a “Car & Driver” or “National Geographic in this room. I folded my hands on my lap and closed my eyes. It seemed the respectful thing to do.

Some of these women were in for a low-risk scan, the same as I. Others had a lump in their breast. The tension infected everyone, even me.

In a few minutes, I moved to a staging room. A woman, younger than I, came in a minute later. She stared blankly at me.

“I’m here for a bone density scan.” I told her.

She told me “what she was in for,” but all I remember was it was for nothing fatal. We relaxed a little and chatted like normal folks. Then, a technician fetched her for her tests. I wished her luck, then I was alone and beginning to question my immortality – a long cherished article of faith with me.

Then it was my turn. I lay on a flat table with an arm arching above me. The technician covered me with a towel and asked me to undo my zipper and open my jeans so the metal zipper would not obstruct the scan of my spine.

“Spine?” I thought.

In a few minutes, the scan ended. I re-zipped and hopped off the table as if it were a griddle.

“So, how did I do?” I asked hoping for some relief.

“Oh, I am sorry, sir, but hospital policy does not permit us to give the information to patients. They used to, but now it is prohibited.” She explained.

“I am so screwed.” I thought.

Jones Sells Cowboys!

...

That’s right. You heard it here first. No one was more surprised than I to learn the ‘boys have been sold to a group of investors from the Philippines!

In a secret deal, the official announcement is on hold until the team completes the season. (Ha!)

In Spring 2011, the team will move to the island nation and be renamed the Manila Folders.


[Ta-tump]

...

A Few That Sold

Here are three images that were popular at the Clifton, Texas Photo Show.  I have inquiries for others... :)

Looking Back



Amaryilis





Out the Window



The Bee on His Knees

...


My friend and neighbor, Mike, dropped by to see me this week. It was a glorious autumn afternoon. The sunlight is paler than summer and the leaves are turning color; falling gently over the land.

I am always happy when Mike stops by. If he does not bring a few beers with him, he might have ribs or enchiladas. Mike loves to cook and I can testify to his skill. This time, he strolled into my backyard with a few good beers and offered to share them with me. We instantly adjourned to the patio to soak up the outdoor beauty and refreshment.

We had just begun solving the weighty problems of the world when a Yellow Jacket wasp arrived at our table. The wasp took an immediate interest in Mike’s frosty glass. After a brief hesitation on the rim of the glass to sniff the bouquet, he dived in.

It became immediately clear the bug was no swimmer. We looked at each other and back at the wasp for a minute before we realized he was not trying to get out of the glass. In fact, a very close look revealed he was lying on his side drinking Mike’s beer as fast as he could chug it down. I think the level in his glass was dropping.

That is where we drew the line. I fetched a spoon from the kitchen and dredged the besotted wasp from Mike’s drink. I poured him out of the spoon and onto the table, where he proceeded to stagger about for several minutes. He ran into the decorative flowerpot, my beer and Mike’s beer more than once. Each time he found Mike’s glass, he tried his best to scramble up the side, but it was no use. He could flap his wings, but not in a coordinated way.

Eventually, a breeze caught him and blew him onto the patio. He staggered about there for a while until he began to sober up. He seemed to be having a problem with his head, possibly a hangover.

When he felt strong enough, he took flight, but swerved into the glass on the patio door and fell back on his little wasp kiester. When we stopped laughing, we sipped our drinks and discussed Spinoza. The bee struggled. Finally, the wasp took flight and flew a ragged course away from the patio. He made one more wobbly fly-over of our table about twenty minutes later, but this time he did not stop. We both hope he found his way home or possibly to a rehab center.

Whether or not he knows it, that wasp owes us one.

PS: Does anyone know the correct way to spell kiester? I am just curious.

...

The Art Show

…

A few folks in North America have not yet seen the wonderful art exhibits at the Bosque Art Center in Clifton, Texas. You slackers know who you are.

Well, your time is running out, at least if you want to see my photo exhibit. With a week to go, you still have time to drive or book a flight to Texas. Next Saturday, November 13, I will close the show at noon, so do not let the grass grow under your feet on this. Clifton is a lovely two-hour drive from any major airport in Texas, except Houston, San Antonio, Austin and El Paso. I suggest DFW. If you have your own plane, Stephenville or Waco might work.

Sales are encouraging. Three larger prints (24x30”) found new homes and two smaller ones are going home with new owners, too. It could get better before week’s end. I am well satisfied and grateful to Jean Ann Smith, the woman in charge of the photo gallery operations for inviting me.

I am still wrestling with the logistics of a photo safari. Having sold a few pictures, I am beginning to believe I can estimate buyers’ preferences; and I can use a safari to create new (and better) images. Getting away from home has been a surprising challenge, but I am confident it will work out. Eventually.

I shall keep you posted.

…

Hurry Up and Weight

…

I recently enjoyed an uncertain moment on the old bathroom scales. I stepped up and read the results. My weight was down another couple of pounds. Hm. I have watched my diet carefully (sort of) over the past couple of years and returned to what I consider “fighting trim.”

Having achieved my goal, I saw no reason to deny myself the occasional quart of ice cream; bar-b-que sandwiches; cookies and milk; smoked spare ribs; fried chicken; cheeseburgers with fries; beer with extra carbs, spicy Mexican foods of any description and other spiritually desirable goodies.

The readout from the scales suggested I had a problem. I lost two more pounds bringing me significantly below my original target. I calmly analyzed the situation and after a few minutes, I concluded I had contracted some rare but horrible wasting disease. “What else could it possibly be?” I wondered aloud.

I moped about, just waiting for the Reaper for almost a week. At that point, I went to see my doctor for a regularly scheduled checkup. In the course of our conversation, I casually mentioned my weight problem. It took awhile to describe it, what with having to stop frequently to blow my nose and dry my eyes, but I got through it.

“How much to you weigh now?” he asked.

I told him, more or less.

Then he reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a little book. He thumbed through it absently and asked how tall I was.

I told him that, too.

His finger came to rest in the middle of a page. He said, “Your ideal weight is fifteen to twenty-five pounds below your current weight.” He seemed unsympathetic, too.

Nightmarish visions of shopping in the boy’s department or riding around in a wheelchair without legs flooded my mind.

“There is no way that’s going to happen.” I said firmly.

He offered no further advice. Go figure.

I sulked most of the way home. As I drove, I recalled I would attend a joint birthday celebration for my daughter and daughter-in-law. This would be a very big deal. First, we would meet at our favorite Mexican food restaurant for a large feast. Then, the assembled multitude would adjourn to my place for cake, ice cream and presents. That is exactly what we did.

With my life being uncertain, I loaded up on cheese enchiladas, rice, beans and tacos. Once home, I gobbled a large piece of cake. It was not as large as I would have liked, but I did not want to explode during the party like that character in that Monty Python movie.

Eventually, everyone went home. The only remaining trace of the party was four pounds of cake. I popped it in the fridge and in a few hours, I began hearing the delicious dish calling me.

“What the heck. I am fighting for my life. Let’s see a disease waste this!” I went into the kitchen and carved a meal-sized piece. For the next few days, I ate hearty and made regular visits to the birthday cake.

Finally, the cake disappeared. I resolved to weigh myself to see how I fared against the mysterious ailment.

I climbed onto the scale. “Arrgggggh! I’ve gained 5 pounds in three days!”

Apparently, birthday cake is an effective cure for unexplained weight loss disease or UWLD, as I call it. I may publish my findings in a scientific medical journal,

The cake is gone now and I have returned to my small diet. I only hope I can shed my gains before the next birthday party rolls around.

Elections 2010

I feel it is safe to turn on my answering machine today.  I turned it off a few weeks ago when the robot calls from political groups jammed the line.  I'll be happy to hear from a human being again, sometime.

The national pique has been vented.  We have many new faces in Washington, D.C., each one zealous to do the right thing and save the country from almost certain doom. (How much worse could it be?)

I have the advantage of low expectations.  Accordingly, I will be grateful for anything the Congress produces that is not an obvious fraud on the people.  Anyhoo, the die is cast for the next two years and I am hopeful on behalf of the country.

I almost forgot my disclaimer:  "Don't blame me.  I voted Libertarian."

...

World Serious 2010

...

The San Francisco Giants won the Series in five games.  They won because they played better baseball than the Rangers.  I congratulate them on their stellar accomplishment.

The Rangers have no reason to hang their head.  Short months ago, the team was in turmoil.  Ownership was uncertain.  The Bankruptcy court had to make the decision on who would own the team.  I believe they chose wisely.  Likewise, I congratulate the Rangers.  They played excellent baseball all year and finished with dignity and style.

Best of luck to both teams in 2011.

...

Halloween 2010: The Pictures

…

Frankly, this was the most fun Halloween I have seen in as long as I can remember and I owe a large debt to my children, children-in-law and grandchildren for re-inventing the occasion.

My son, Ben, was the hit of the neighborhood.  As "Papa Smurf," he stole the show for the adults and children alike. The “Smurf” theme was perfect overall.

I wish to retract any mention I might have made about his crabbiness. He was a great sport and contributed much to the enjoyment of hundreds of parents, looters and homeowners that special evening.

Rather than drone on about the cuteness and fun, I’ll include a few snaps so you’ll get the general idea. Me? I am still smiling!



…



Getting Ready!

  

Last minute instructions

 

Practice booty.





The Business end of Halloween



Heading Home: Mission Accomplished!

Halloween 2010

...
I am uncertain if Halloween is Sunday or Tuesday this year.

Halloween is a big deal in my family. My daughter goes all-out decorating her home with skeletons, spider webs, pumpkins, straw and assorted scary icons. No less crafty, my daughter-in-law routinely makes costumes for her brood with a holiday theme. Last year (you may recall) it was Star Wars. My son grudgingly donned a very authentic looking Obi Wan Kenobi suit to accompany his elder son (2), who dressed as Yoda. They were very convincing. There was an issue with the weather as the evening temperature hovered in the 80s as the swarm ran through the neighborhood. Heat exhaustion became a real possibility for my son. Lucky for him, several Trick or Treat stops provided adult beverages in the form of ice chests on the front lawn. These little life preservers helped more than one adult endure the long journey through many blocks of neighborhood.

My eldest grandson was Spiderman. His sister was a princess. (What else?) As befits a superhero, he flew from house to house until; finally, he could fly no more. His dad carried him on the return trip. The princess thought it undignified to schlep door-to-door. Thus, the local oaf carried her for the whole journey. At the end, the oaf, too, wore out and his back was killing him.

We eventually returned to my daughter’s house to inventory the haul of goodies and apply medicine to those annoying aches and pains. Good Bourbon and single malt Scotch were most effective, as I recall.

It was a delightful evening. This year promises to be bigger and better. There will be four grandchildren out for loot this year. Since they are older and stronger, we expect (nay, pray) there will be less toting them about.

My son is the one slightly dark cloud. Rumor has it he will be leading a family of Smurfs this season. As “Papa Smurf”, he seems less than excited about painting himself blue for the occasion. I am sure a little pre-trick or treat lubricant will ease his objections (again this year) but I think I will suggest a longer-term fix to his bride.

We might provide him a large green ogre suit he can wear every year. It would be a natural fit and practically everyone would recognize him as Shrek. Heck, he might even want to wear it year ‘round. I will keep you posted.

BOO! & Happy Halloween!
...

Sitting on the Sophie

…

Recently, my daughter dropped my three-year-old granddaughter, Sophia, at my house while she kept a dental appointment. Sophia is at a very fun-loving, princessey stage of life and we tend to have great fun together. This visit was no exception.

After some greeting time, I learned Sophie as I call her had not had enough breakfast before she left home. “B-But she ate an entire…” her mother halted in mid astonishment.

No matter, I whipped up a batch of hot buttery toast slathered with peach preserves. Served with a Sippy cup of ice-cold milk, it was an irresistible breakfast treat. My daughter left for her appointment as Sophie finished her “post-breakfast-snack.”

Soon, it was activity time. I asked what she would like to do. Sophie selected pink Play-Doh and several cookie cutter figures.

“Now, turn off the television.” She demanded.

“Uh, okay.” I turned it off with only a trace of resentment that I would miss the morning action in the equity markets. She did not want to share Grandfather with Wall Street. Rats.

Before I knew it, we were making pink snakes, pink bunnies and pink butterflies all over the kitchen table. Pink cherries were next. I rolled a dozen or so spheres and Sophie stacked them like little cannonballs. We even stacked a few of them like pink cherry snowmen.

I still have the [pink] Furby I bought for my daughter when she was four or five. We played with it for a while. Mercifully, it stopped talking around 2007, so it was not interesting for more than a minute. Thank goodness.

One by one, we played with stuffed toys, threw a tea party, built Legos and more. After an hour, Sophie settled down to color in a coloring book. She is more advanced than her older brother. She colors in the general area of the figures on the page. None of the male grandchildren is so dexterous. The hook came when I tried to leave the room to, er, wash my hands.

“I only want to color when you watch me!” she announced.

“Okay, okay. I will stay here as long as I can. Good job! You have a real flair for this! One day you will be a great artist.”

I kept shoveling out the encouragement as she obliterated one figure after another. We both seemed to be having a good time, considering one of us had “to go” and has a chronic sore back.

Then it happened. “Hello! I’m back. Where is everybody?” It was the mommy, come to retrieve her little one.

“We’re upstairs,” I called.

“Baww! Waah! Noooo!” Exclaimed our tyke, wrapping her arms around my leg.

“But Sophia, your mommy missed you and wants to take you home with her.” I tried to console her.

“I don’t wanna gooooo! Waaah!”

It took a while to calm her and I had to agree to carry her to the car and strap her into her federally approved container before she would accompany her mother. I was eager to help because I could see in my daughter’s eyes she was thinking of giving in and going home without her.

I just could not let that happen.

…

The Day Hell Froze

...


I am not a big fan of professional sports, period. Cheering for the pros feels like cheering for a multi-national insurance conglomerate or investment bank. The pros exist for the money. Ho hum.

I have an active dislike for some pro sports teams. The Texas Rangers earned my eternal contempt when they moved to my State. They arrived from Washington, D.C., where they were the Senators and moved into a shabby stadium in Arlington, Texas. At the same time, I was working a day job in Dallas and commuting to Arlington for graduate studies five nights per week. It never failed that game traffic snared me each way. The return trip was the worst. I was exhausted from a full workday and suffering from brain-melt when classes adjourned around ten p.m.

I often sat fuming in the post game “rush” for an extra hour. It seemed they played more home games at night than necessary. Thus, I came to detest the team individually and collectively during my years in graduate school.

Their record did not justify much respect, either. I came to know the team as “Texas Stranglers” for their uncanny ability to choke by the All Star break. They never even looked like a professional team. I developed a routine for those rare occasions I went to the stadium to watch them lose in person. As soon as I got to my seat, I ordered a large beer and a hot dog. I gobbled the hot dog and slurped the beer. Then I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes. Sometimes, I could fall asleep before they introduced the teams. The warm Texas sunshine felt good and the drone of reports from the stadium announcer put me in a coma for the duration. I had some anxious moments on a few occasions when I awoke in an empty stadium but overall I enjoyed the game.

Then, last week the unthinkable happened. The Stranglers won the American League Pennant. Even more astonishing, they trounced the Yankees to do it. Yikes! I know we live in strange, interesting times, but this is going too far. The only thing I can think of to explain this aberration is that God is setting them up for even greater humiliation in the World Series. I shall avert my eyes from these games to preserve my sanity, such as it is.

Still, it would be unfair of me to deny the team’s accomplishments this year. Therefore, for the balance of the season, I offer my sincere wishes for success to the Texas Rangers.

They can begin next season as “Stranglers,” so they will have something to strive toward.

...

Adventure Rich Times II

…

I awoke in a posh suite in the Dallas Marriott. The room temperature was a pleasant 65 degrees, so I stayed under the covers longer than usual. During the night, I decided I was too old and too rich to fool around with this project, especially considering the heat would keep me out of my house until the electrical, and air conditioning troubles were behind me. After tea and bath, I hurried on my way, stopping at my favorite hardware store.

I tracked down a sales clerk and asked if he could recommend an honest, qualified electrician for a project at my home.

“Bwaaaa Ha Ha Ha!” He mused.

“I must be a lot funnier than I realized.” I did some musing of my own.

“I’m sorry, sir.” He said, regaining his composure.

“It is just that electricians are hard to come by. You might get a longer list if you dropped at least one of your requirements. You might find one electrician in the county the meets one of your criteria. However, finding one both qualified AND honest? Fuggeddaboudit!”

Undaunted, I went to several other places with the same request, receiving similar reactions at each place. Some found my predicament more amusing than others.

As the morning wore on, the temperature climbed steadily from 80 degrees at dawn to 90 at noon. Soon, the heat would be oppressive.

I retreated to my home and sat glowering in my dark, warm office.

Then I had a brainstorm. My friend Roger works on residential projects. Heck, a couple years ago, he did a serious renovation of the exterior of Casa Burden. He did a good job and charged only slightly more than a brain surgeon. I grabbed the phone and called.

“Hello?” Roger answered.

“Hey, Roger, how’s tricks?”

“Life is good.” Roger assured me.

“I am sure it is. Say, do you know an honest electrician?” I slipped this into the conversation as casually as I could, so he would not know how desperate my situation was.

To my surprise, Roger gave me a recommendation. I hope I thanked him before I hung up and began dialing the man’s number.

Soon, I was talking to the electrician, not one of those 1-800-SCR-EWME rip-offs. The man’s name was Dave. He suggested I contact someone he knew about the A/C problem and offered to come out and repair my electric service at 8:00 a.m. the next day. I did as he asked.

The A/C repairperson showed up that same evening and got my A/C going just before dark. He was great about it too. He did not complain when I peered over his shoulder and offered advice. Even the bill was reasonable considering it took him 45 minutes longer to make the repair with my assistance than it might have otherwise.

That night, I slept in my own cool, dark bed. I missed calling room service for liquor and food, but what the heck. I was home.

I awoke bright and groggy the next morning and managed to get a cup of tea down my throat before Dave showed up – exactly on time.

He examined each outlet in every suspect location throughout the house. Then, he made the diagnosis of a “bad circuit breaker.” My worst fears loomed large in my mind. I swallowed hard and awaited the bad news.

“I’ve got some of these at home.” Dave offered.

“They’re not new, but still good. I may have new buss bars to fit this, too.” He finished.

I felt lightheaded. Did I dare hope the repair could be so simple? Could mere money fix this mess?

Dave retrieved the parts and completed the repairs two hours later. Then, he handed me a bill for something less than the full value of my estate. I felt grateful.

“It might have cost less, but I have a policy of charging references from Roger double my normal rates.” He said, smiling disarmingly as he drove away.

In ten minutes, I was in a cool house watching my own TV and sipping a beverage I made for myself. Well, at least I opened it myself. That counts, too.

Roger was right. Life is good.

...

Adventure Rich Times

…

As I type, the skies are dark gray and winds howl around the doors and windows. There is a creek behind the place, about 120 feet west and 15 feet below my property level. Normally a trickle, today, I can hear water rushing to the sea from the comfort of my den. Pretty cool, eh? It is a perfect day for a murder, or possibly telling a story.

My recent life is an adventure rich environment. Here is an example.

Over a month ago, I noticed my electric lights flickered from time to time. I thought little of it. The temperature outdoors was hovering around 105, so I guessed the local utility was having trouble meeting the demand. As days passed, the flickering became more frequent. Then, I noticed the problem persisted into the relatively cool evening, too. So much for my supply and demand theory.

It is only fair to mention I learned everything I know about electricity from Mr. Wizard on TV, back in the 50s. Still, I took it as a personal challenge to diagnose and repair the problem. Day after day, I studied the pattern of flickers’ time and duration. I suspected one or more of my antique appliances were having an internal meltdown and I was determined to discover which one(s) it might be. I exempted the dishwasher, clothes washer and refrigerator, which I replaced in rapid succession last winter.

As days turned into weeks, I began living more and more of my life in the dark. Through scientific experimentation, I eliminated each appliance, one by one. (Buzz, Pop! Arrgh!) I narrowed the possibilities to two. First, there might be a problem with the service coming to the house. The man from the utility checked the current at my meter and said “Nope. It ain’t us.”

The other possibility was too awful to contemplate. Years ago, I searched the internet for “antique, possibly dangerous, circuit breakers no longer in production” to find replacements for some failed breakers. Lucky for me, there was a museum of electrical switches and breakers only thirty miles away. I drove over there and asked for the size and model breakers I needed. The person behind the counter began laughing uncontrollably.

“Did I say something funny?” I asked.

“Wheeze! Hey, Albert, come see this!” The man gasped.

Albert thought I was hilarious, too. Then, I got the bill. I might have teared up a bit, but I paid their price a sulked all the way home.

Now, I relived the anguish of that long ago experience as I realized the trouble was probably inside the breaker panel.

“Aw, shit.”

No matter.  I was determined to fix this. Then, the air conditioning stopped. In an instant, the problem moved from an academic exercise to a matter of life and death. I am a grown man, experienced in the ways of the world, so I knew exactly what to do.

“Hello, Marriott?” I said into the phone.

Next time, I will tell you the rest.

Hiatus

Hey!

I am happy you stopped by.  I am currently on hiatus (taking time off) to deal with some local issues.  I look forward to writing again as soon as they are resloved.

Hank

The Ozarks

...


After breakfast, everyone piled into the car and we resumed our trek toward Branson. The grandchildren were disappointed to leave the spinning breakfast table so soon. They expressed their disappointment by screaming, crying and fighting among themselves. Mom and Dad knew exactly what to do in such a crisis.

My daughter slid a CD into the player and my son-in-law turned it up. Way up. I could hear every nuance of Johnny Cash’s aged-in-the-cask voice, but I could also still hear the children, barely. For my part, this was not a tranquility inducing experience.

Eventually, there was a break in the music and I knew I had to act fast.

I spun around in my seat and faced my granddaughter, looking directly into her innocent eyes. “You are getting drowsy,” I said in my best “The Count” voice. I repeated the phrase several times, adding some finger waving for effect. It had little effect. I took a slightly different tact. “You are feeling happy…” I increased the finger action. Sure enough, she began to smile. In a couple of minutes, she forgot the pique leftover from breakfast.

Next, I turned my power over the minds of children to my grandson.

“Do me, do me!” He pleaded.

Okay, but you must promise to be good or I won’t do it.

“Okay, gwandfadder.”

I ran the hypnotism routine on him. Five minutes later, I was enjoying the company of two contented grandchildren. It felt good to know I had not lost my touch.

Next, I leaned forward into the front seat.

“You are sick of listening to loud music…“ I began.

Everything went swimmingly for the rest of the trip. Well, it went swimmingly until we hopped off the interstate in Arkansas and turned north on a tiny state highway. My son-in-law was tour guide for the children.

“We’re going to go through the Ozark Mountains,” he said cheerily. “We’ll see beautiful scenery and forests along the way, so keep a sharp lookout.”

“Dark, scary forests,” I added for effect.

“We’re scared,” said the chorus in the rear seat!

“Damn. I wish I hadn’t said that.” I thought silently.

It was then my daughter turned and gave me a stern look.

“Do you recall the little talk we had just a few days before we left?” She asked.

“Uh, no I don’t seem to have that recollection. Can you give me the gist of it?”

“The topic was you were going to straighten up.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll do my best, really.”

With that, I received a scary mommy scowl and life returned to normal, at least for now.

We cruised through some of the most beautiful scenery in America. Quaint villages, small farms, mountain streams and meadows appeared around every turn. Through gaps in the dense forest, we saw magnificent vistas as row after row of mountains stood tall all the way to the horizon. I made a mental note to revisit this country on my motorcycle in the near future. It was two-wheel paradise.

Then, everything changed. The tiny highway dissolved into a fork of two dirt roads. After a short break for indecision, we took the left fork and motored on. I recall humming the theme from Deliverance. I only got through a few bars before I received another “straighten up” scowl from the front seat.

We drove for hours. The quaint villages gave way to little clusters of haunted looking buildings. The forest squeezed ever tighter and the road narrowed to barely one lane. The farms disappeared and ramshackle shacks and trailers took their place. We passed a group of young girls playing barefoot in the road. They strolled out of our way, seemingly fascinated by seeing the giant SUV on their tiny road. I think their dog actually laughed at us as we rattled by.

Next time, we will arrive - somewhere.

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The Vacation

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On Sunday last, I joined my daughter, son-in-law and two grandchildren for a carefree week of togetherness known as a family vacation. They showed up at my place bright and early. After a little stumbling around, I threw my suitcase and computer bag into the back of the Chevy Suburban.  I took my duffel bag of goodies with me and climbed into the back seat. Thus began an adventure that lasted until I fell into my own bed last night.

My grandchildren, aged 5 and 3, sat  lashed securely into their federally approved sarcophagi in the third row.

“Good morning, grandchildren!” I exclaimed.

“Waaah!” They answered.

“Is there something wrong with the children?” I asked my daughter.

“No, they’re just a little grumpy from getting up so early.” She reassured me.

The next thing I knew, we were streaking along the highway, headed for the Mecca of family vacation spots, Branson, Missouri. (I never in my wildest dreams thought I would see Branson, but I was on my way.) I managed to occupy myself by retrieving toys and crackers from the floor in the back seat. Every few minutes, one small voice or another called, “Gwandfadder, I dwopped my dowy on the fwoor.”

I unbuckled, turned around and hung over the backseat at the waist to reach the lost treasure. Naturally, blood rushed to my head giving ‘gwandfadder’ the comical appearance of a stroke victim. We kept this up until we reached McAlister, OK around eleven am. McAlister is home to the original “Big Mac,” as the locals know the state prison.

While we were there, we found “Angel’s Restaurant.” Everyone was hungry, so we stopped for a late breakfast. Angel’s is a unique place. Decorated entirely in pink, it sported memorabilia from the 50s and 60s on every wall. “The King” and Marilyn Monroe were the most popular subjects. Our waitress showed us to the back room where a large round table awaited us. Once seated, we ordered food and settled down to await the arrival of our breakfasts. It was during this brief period the children made a terrible discovery. The round table was loose. With a tiny shove, it spun like a lazy Susan. The children thought this was hilarious fun.

In the fullness of time, our breakfasts arrived. I dug into an omelet and the children enjoyed happy face pancakes. Well, mostly. Occasionally, I would take a stab at my plate only to retrieve pancake that had arrived a second before. My son-in-law found himself staring at my omelet instead of his breakfast more than once. Plead as we might, we could not convince the babies this was not fun. You cannot fool children, y’know.

So, each adult used one hand to grip the table and the other to shovel breakfast into their mouths while the little ones, bless them, strained and shoved on the funhouse table.

Eventually, we got enough food on target to sustain us and we left Angel’s, possibly forever.

Next, we would plunge into the Ozark Mountains. I will share that episode as soon as my strength returns. Right now, I think a little lie-down is in order.

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