Time on My Hands

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Last week, I found I had free time.  I cannot recall the last time that happened, probably because my memory is beginning to go, too.  So, I sat at my idle keyboard trying to decide whether to open a branch office or take a nap when the telephone rang.  (Or, whatever they call the sounds phones make these days – it made one.)

“Hello?”

“Hello,” crooned a cute female voice.  “May I please speak to Mister Hank Burden?”  I knew she was cute because I have a sixth sense about such things.  It is a kind of biological radar.

Right away, the “mister” put me on alert.  I got ready to fend off a sales call.

“You’re talking to him,” I said brusquely.

“Good.  My name is Melody and I am calling from BMW.”

“Sorry honey, I just bought one 2 years ago and the ashtrays aren’t full yet.”  (I am at my wittiest on these occasions.)

“No, no sir, I don’t sell cars.  Your car contacted us last evening and reported a problem with the brake fluid.  I am calling to set an appointment to service the car.”

“Uh, my car called you?”

“Yes sir.  It’s part of our maintenance plan.”

“And it told you the brake fluid needed service?”

“Yes sir, that is correct.  Also, I see here you have not contacted us regarding the recall notice we sent three months ago.”

“Uh, recall notice?  Well, I have been busy.

“Of course you have, poor baby.  Why don’t we just set an appointment for you to bring your sweet, long-suffering car into our shop and we’ll take care of all these little problems?”  She was positively cooing.

“What else did my car tell you?”  I was thinking “… that lying rat bastard,” but I didn’t say it aloud.

“Well, nothing, really, just small talk, you know how chatty cars can be.”

“I do now.”

In ten seconds, I had an appointment for early next week.  The revelation that my car was chatting up complete strangers while I slept ruined my chance for a nap.

Until I figure a way to control this “feature”, I will be very discreet about what I say and where I go in my car.  I have been meaning to ride my motorcycle more, anyway.  I am almost positive it doesn’t have a phone.

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Turtle Digs

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As regular readers know,   I am an avid gardener.  Oh, sure, I tend a few flowers and exotic potted plants.  Most of my time and energy is spent (some say wasted) maintaining the traditional American lawn.  It is not easy. 

During one of my recent attacks on Mother Nature’s non-conformity took me to the depths of the “back 40.”  Back here, it is shady and heavily forested with mature ash and black walnut trees.  I was wielding a weed eater when I spotted something odd nearby.

I killed the engine and walked nearer.  There on the sun dappled ground stood a large turtle.  She made no effort to move.  Behind her rose a small pile of moist earth.  The heavy clay that passes for earth in this area can be hard as concrete.

I studied the scene for a long time before I realized I was watching a mother turtle digging a hole in which she could lay her eggs.  I backed away slowly.  Once I was a good distance away, I ran for the house and grabbed a camera.  I snapped half a dozen shots before she moved. 

I think she found the earth unsuitable for hatching a family.  Maybe she thought I would poach her eggs from the nest.  Who knows?  She left, returning to the little creek at the end of my property.  It a couple minutes, she was gone.  I hope she was able to find a safe place, wherever she went.

Here are a couple photos:

Her shell is just over 12" in diameter.  I'm guessing.

See, she's been digging with her back legs.

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Heat Springs Infernal

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I bet most people will agree with me this has been a remarkable year, so far.

Japan suffered the most unlikely tragedy when the tsunami washed over their six seaside nuclear reactors.  That was a truly serious bummer.

Next, the western half of Texas caught fire, burning more than 2 million acres of farm and ranch land.  My cousin Buddy lives in the direct path of the flames.  He had more than a few anxious moments; first attempting to evacuate by car, then being informed it was too late.  He would have to take his boat across the lake if the flames got any closer.  When I saw him before the prairie fire incident, he already had gray hair.  Now, he probably has none.  I am happy to report he, his family and his home survived.

Meanwhile, 80 miles to the east, we had flash flood warnings every day.  So, one-half of northern Texas was on fire while the other was under water.  I have seen stranger.  I just cannot remember when.

May arrived disguised as July.  The daytime high temperatures raced into the upper nineties and the upper 70s at dawn became a “balmy morning.”  June has continued apace.  During my recent trip to San Antonio, I noticed cactus plants wilting in the sun.  Hot and dry does not quite cover it.

Returning home, I found my precious lawn near death.  I watered it heavily for two days before I was content it would survive.  The very next two nights in a row, giant thunderstorms prowled our area, dumping several inches of rain on the city.  Within minutes, the lawn took off for the sky.  It was the first time in my life I hired help so I could cut it as fast as it grew.  

We are back to scorching heat and high humidity now, so everything is comparatively all right here.

Then, we have those poor souls in Arizona.  Many of the eyewitness reports come from Springerville, AZ.  I have stopped there many times on motorcycle trips.  It is a beautiful part of the state and my heart goes out to those who have lost their homes and businesses to that terrible fire.

Not everything strange has been bad.  Seal Team 6 sent Osama Bin Laden to paradise after a decade long search.  To paraphrase Forest Gump, that is one less thing we have to worry about.

Finally, I think my daughter-in-law has started an informal over/under pool on the ultimate debauching of the US currency.  She has tentatively picked September 2011.  If she is correct, or even close, she will make the Mayans and Nostradamus look like a bunch of sightless boobs.  Since negotiations between the Democrats and Republicans have broken down,   I am picking August.

As far as I am concerned, we have had plenty of excitement for one year.  Would anyone else be interested in moving this year’s end to June 30 and starting 2012 on July 1?  Let me know.

Finally, I am changing my investment strategy for my retirement years.  I plan to sell all those “iffy” paper assets and replace them with gold bullion and shotgun shells.* 

See you at Wal-Mart!  J

* [not really]

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A Short Conversation

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My son and his two feral children visited me yesterday afternoon.  As always, I was happy to see them, but ill health tempered my enthusiasm.  I visited the local doctor earlier in the day only to learn my sore back was a kidney infection.  It was a new one on me.  Maybe some exotic Tex-Mex delight from San Antonio was the problem.  We may never know.  The Doc gave me two scripts.  One script was for the infection.  The second was to turn my urine bright, fluorescent orange.  She alerted me to this side effect so I would not panic or faint over into the bowl when it happened.

“Roger,” I replied.  I could see how such a medication could have high value in the practical joke department.  Unfortunately, I felt too weak to do more than make a mental note.

I went home, took my first dose of meds and keeled over onto the sofa.  I was out like a doornail.  Hours later, the gentle banging and kicking on the back door by small fists and feet roused me from my coma.

I rolled off the sofa and crawled to the door.  Standing up, I opened it and there they were.  Joshua (1.75 years) and August (3.67 years) were mugging my back door.  My son, Ben, brought up the rear.  He had a pleasant, if somewhat insane or crazed look about him.  I see this look from time to time on the face of overmatched parents.  Heck, I used to see it on my face, and often.

I invited them in and returned to the sofa.  I explained that I was not entirely well but by the time I finished my sentence, all the children were gone.  They needed apple juice, chocolates and other staples stored a Grandfather’s house.  Ben went with the children and gave each little boy a ration of whatever they wanted.

When they returned, we actually had a few minutes of peace due to the youngster’s mouths being stuffed full of goodies.

“So,” I asked my son, “what do you make of this Congressman Weiner scandal?”

 We looked at each other for about ten seconds in absolute silence.

“Bwah, Ha, Ha, Ha!  Hoo buddy, that’s rich!”  Har, har, har, de har, har,” we chimed.

It took a couple of minutes to regain our composure.  Finally, Ben offered a thought.  “Just what do you think was in his mind that lead him to believe this episode could end well?”

“Bwah, ha, ha…”

By then, the goodies were gone and the children wanted to head to the playroom upstairs.  Ben and the boys headed up.  I joined them a bit later.  I used up all my oxygen and physical strength during our five-minute political discussion.  I needed a minute to recover before heading to the playroom (aka bomb crater central).

On my way, I stopped in the bathroom and closed the door.

“Oh my gawd!  Eeeeeek!”  I screeched.

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My Holiday Road

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Last year, my daughter and her hubby invited me on a family vacation.  The plan involved driving from Dallas to Branson, MO.  There, we stayed in a nice resort, saw much beautiful country and almost went mad coping with two unhappy children.  They hated riding in the car, so they tortured each other for the entire trip.  When the volume from their third row seats became unbearable, the folks in the front seat merely turned up the radio, drowning the mayhem in the far back seats.  In the middle row, I sat next to a cooler.  It was not much company, but I did not mind until a thorough search revealed not a single adult beverage in the container.  I was doomed to endure a 10-hour ride with demonic sounds fore and aft in a state of complete sobriety.  It was a glimpse of Hell.

On Saturday, last, I returned home, satisfied that we enjoyed the best possible family vacation.

This year, the vacation included some important changes.  Number one was cars.  I took mine and they drove theirs.  Second, we stayed in rooms at opposite ends of the motel.  It was mercifully quiet.  Third, Grandfather has an injured back, which bought me a pass on any heavy lifting (grandchildren).  All these changes made a large difference.  I have old friends in San Antonio and reconnected with two of the best.  I re-introduced my daughter and son-in-law and the two grandchildren.  Surprisingly, everyone behaved himself or herself.  It left me wondering what happened to my real family. 

We enjoyed authentic Tex-Mex food, great conversation and even visited the Witte Museum across the street from the restaurant.  It was a good day.

The dolphin show at Sea World was great, too.  It had elements of “Circ d’ Soleil”, a Beluga Whale, trained tropical birds and, yes, a corps of Pacific White Sided Dolphins.  The children were transfixed and I appreciated the show to the fullest.

The thing about Sea World is its size.  It is immense.  The other thing about Sea World is the heat and humidity.  By noon, the temperature was over 90 and the humidity was up there, too.  After a couple of hours, our team was completely dehydrated and on the verge of collapse.  We did the only sensible thing:  We made a desperate dash for the motel, specifically, the showers, bar and swimming pool, not necessarily in that order.  All our problems resolved.  I even got out for a quick session of sun and swim before the longish journey home.  Next time, we will go in mid-October.

Heavy use of air conditioning,   a stoked iPod and magnificent scenery eased the stress of the 5+-hour drive home.  I arrived, walked into the house and collapsed into the most delightful nap/coma I have had in years.

I believe all had a good time.

Should you ever be confronted with an opportunity to travel with family, especially small children, you may wish to reread this publication and make note of any survival tips you find.  As an alternative, watch all the National Lampoon’s “Vacation” movies – and memorize them. 

You will thank me (or Chevy Chase) later.

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A Day to Remember

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Memorial Day is a somber holiday, reserved for the living to remember the dead.  Over the centuries, millions of men and women have answered the call to duty and made that great sacrifice.  I thank them and wish them eternal peace.

Memorial Day is also one of my favorite holidays.  I feel I owe it to that long line of patriots to wring as much enjoyment out of the fruits of their sacrifice as practical.  I believe that is a good way to honor them.

With this in mind, I invited friends and neighbors to join me on that special day.  Then, I got busy buying meat.  This year, I selected the traditional beef brisket and added a couple slabs of spare ribs for variety.  Okay, I bought the potato salad and Cole Slaw at the deli or assembled them from purpose made parts.  Sue me.  It was still a feast of the first order.  There was strong drink and a Strawberry aperitif, not to mention four hours or so of storytelling.  I loved it.  Gee, I hope my guests enjoyed our time as much as I did.

The festivities kicked off at 3:00pm and went full tilt until almost dark; say 9:00pm.  Then, holding our stomachs off the floor with our hands, we began to call it a night.  In a few minutes, everyone was gone.  Except for the mile high pile of dishes and a few pounds of leftovers, you could hardly tell there had been a party at all.

I turned off the porch light and headed to bed.  Plopping onto my bunk like a stuffed bear, I stared at the ceiling, waiting for my tummy to rejoin the rest of my body. 

I lay on the edge of sleep for a long while before I heard “Ding dong!”

“What the pf… “  I began.

“Ding dong!”  The bell repeated.

In a food-sleep-induced stupor, I rolled out of bed and stumbled downstairs to the front door.  A dark figure waited for me.  I was wearing my crabbiest face as I threw it open.  You know, it is the one with only one eye open and slobber running down my chin.

“Hey, Hank!”  Mike said.  “Are you still smokin’ meat?”

It was Michael, my neighbor.  He had left only an hour before and I puzzled over what he wanted.

“No.  I went to bed.”  I mumbled.

“Well, I was out on my patio smoking a cigar and relaxing after the feast when I noticed your backyard filled with smoke.  That’s not unusual, if you’re  cookin’ meat.  Then, I began to see the flames down near the creek.  I think maybe your backyard is on fire.”

“Fire?  Where?”  I responded opening the other eye.

Mike jogged through my house and I went with him until we reached the back door.  Throwing it open, I noticed there seemed to be a pea souper of a London fog in my yard.  Michael pointed toward the creek and down low.  There, beneath the Holly plants an angry red flame crawled north along the edge of the creek.

Without a word, we ran for the garden hose reel in the back yard.  I had 100 feet of hose and I prayed the fire was within range.  Michael peeled hose from the reel as I frantically pulled the slack over the fence near the house and into the “back forty” section of the property.  After paying out the entire length of hose, I grabbed the open end and ran.  Meanwhile Mike turned the water hydrant to the full open position.

“Please God; let this hose reach the fire in time, okay?”

As I ran, the hose began to sputter and burp water toward the fire.  I hoped the delivery would speed up before I arrived in the actual flames.  Already, I had a choking sensation from “eating smoke” and the fire seemed to grow, as I got closer.  My eyes were burning too; bless them.

When I saw the scope of the problem up close, I swallowed hard.  The fire was about 60 feet long and 10 to 15 feet wide.  “Not a good sign,” I thought wryly.

Then the water arrived.

Did you know that an established wild fire would not necessarily go out just because someone sprays water on it?  No, apparently, fire can burn inside a log or railroad tie, happy as a clam, while some desperate fool waters the outside of the fuel.  That is why it took more than half an hour to kill the flames.  Then, we spent another 30 minutes spraying for good measure.  When all seemed cold and dead, Michael told me he would keep an eye on my yard from his patio until he went to bed.  I stood around a bit longer, just to be certain.

The apparent cause of the blaze was a bucket of presumably dead ash I emptied earlier in the day.  Not all the ashes were as defunct as I thought the little troublemakers to be.

Henceforth, I shall have a better plan for dead ashes.  I plan to start dumping them in my yard, right next to the hose reel.

On the good side, this is one Memorial Day I shall remember for many decades to come.  After all, how many of us end our holiday standing in their back yard, blackened by smoke and soot and wearing only their jammies?  I felt lucky to be there. 

 Hope you had a memorable Memorial Day, too!

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