…
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.
…
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
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.
...
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.
...
Monday, November 29, 2010
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.
...
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.
...
Sunday, November 28, 2010
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.
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.
“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.
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.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
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]
...
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]
...
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
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.
...
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.
...
Saturday, November 6, 2010
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.
…
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.
…
Friday, November 5, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
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."
...
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.
...
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!
…
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| Getting Ready! |
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| Last minute instructions |
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| Practice booty. |
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| The Business end of Halloween |
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| Heading Home: Mission Accomplished! |
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