Remus and Me

…

From time to time, it is my privilege to board my son’s family dog, Remus, aka “Remus the Depressed.” And so it was for the past two weeks. Remus arrived complete with her travel kennel and a few pounds of kibble. As soon as I erected the kennel, she crept inside and lay down with an audible sigh. My expectations for the coming two weeks were low.

Remus is a large dog. Her parents were Great Pyrenees and Border Collie. I am sure they were both from good families. Her disposition is even and she tolerates children very well. That is a good thing, too. The two boys in her household do not show her much respect. They are not mean or hurtful, but they are young boys, filled with curiosity.

They raise her jowls and observe her substantial tooth collection. They eat her food, just to see who is getting the better deal. Remus tolerates it without complaint.

I decided to do more to entertain my guest. Perhaps a more active “vacation” would appeal to her and lift her gloomy mood. So I did.

First, I let her out into the backyard to tend any necessary business she might have. Then, I let her remain outdoors for a while to enjoy the mild winter air. She took full advantage of the opportunity.

She even trotted next door to investigate the dog scent coming from my neighbor’s yard. In a few seconds, all Hell broke loose. I heard the Mastiff pup woofing up a storm followed by a light brown blur speeding to my backdoor.

Seems it will take a while for the two to become friends. Remus never went back for a second meeting, demonstrating good judgment and a will to live.

Next, my daughter dropped her two wild Indians at my place. They are sweet grandchildren, but they have different opinions of dogs. My granddaughter was convinced Remus was smooching her. My grandson saw the same lick as more of a tasting prior to devouring him. The entire affair left him a little nervous and cranky. Remus truly enjoyed their company and was all smiles the rest of the day.

I added a few minutes of combing to her evening routine. She is good for about ten minutes of having her under coat ripped out with a comb, and then the session is over.

She also enjoyed following me about on my daily rounds. She followed me to retrieve the mail. We collected the morning newspaper together. At odd moments, we headed off into the “back 40” for some wide area sniffing and exploring.

I rather enjoyed it, too.

The only dark moments came when I entered my office only to be greeted by large poops.  Older and wiser now, I shovelled the mess out the door and scrubbed the floor with bleach.  I was irritated, but I held no grudge.

Yesterday, my daughter-in-law, Tam, came to retrieve her pet. Remus was as excited to see her as she was when I handed her a giant ham bone earlier in the week. In ten minutes, they were gone.

Now, here I sit, with no one to play with. Rats.

Maybe I will buy another dog.

…

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.

...

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.

...

Getting Religion

…

After Baptizing my grandson, we headed for my son’s house to celebrate. The crowd included Joshua’s godparents, Paul, Melissa and their two children, Collin and Julianne. They flew in from Chicago for the occasion.

It was a typical after-baptism party. The women folk scurried about the kitchen, while the adult males contributed by remaining outside, sipping margaritas and beer. We solved the weightier problems of the world while the women organized the food.

The children, ranging in age from nine months to 12 years, played happily in the backyard. My son’s backyard has the size and feel of a city park. It is a carpet of lush grass dotted with mature hardwood trees at comfortable intervals. It is kid Heaven. The pack swarmed over the yard, squealing and laughing with delight. A play set, soccer balls, silly string and water pistols provided for the children’s amusement. There were also balloons suitable for filling with water.

Can you guess where this is going?

Eventually, the silly string cans ran out and the soccer ball disappeared. Inevitably, a water pistol duel broke out. Soon, 10-year-old Collin became bored with squirting the younger children and sought more dangerous game.

My son-in-law and I remained sanguine on the patio, sipping our drinks and discussing Spinoza, as I recall. Even as streams of water split the air around us, we remained untouchable. It was a precarious balance.

I could almost hear Collin’s moral fiber straining. In my heart, I knew he would eventually squirt an adult, just because they were there. I took the precaution of explaining to him that I was wearing my “good shirt” and a necktie worth more to me than his life. My lecture bought us the exact amount of time it took me to deliver it.

Minutes later, Collin squirted the back of my son-in-law’s head. Then, I got mine. It was a warm evening, so I was probably sweated-out, anyway. It was a cooling, if not a cool experience. Once Collin breached the adult – child barrier, there seemed no going back. He danced around us like a TV cop, squirting both son-in-law and me at will. We pleaded, but to no avail.

Then, my son showed up.

“Can I get you something else,” he asked solicitously.

“We would certainly like another round, if you don’t mind. And could you bring two large glasses of ice water?”

He returned with two drinks and two vengeance weapons. I mean glasses of water. As astonishing as it may seem, Collin failed to notice the water in front of us. If he knew us at all, he would have realized we never drink water.

In a few seconds, the boy refilled and resumed his attack. Son-in-law and I were becoming damp. After an acrobatic pass, he turned to go into the house.

He did not make it. Instead, he ended up sitting in a puddle of ice water on a bench on the patio. My son caught a few drops of the cold stuff as collateral damage, but more on that later.

“Mr. Burden and his son-in-law threw water on me! I’m going to tell Mom!” He moaned to his sister.

“Go ahead. She could use a laugh.” She said, laughing sympathetically.

I went into the house and forewarned the parents that justice had been served and their son was sopping wet on the patio. They seemed good with it.

It was time to go. We exchanged good-byes and I was climbing into my pickup truck when the first water balloon whizzed over my head. A quick glance revealed my son had launched the attack. Apparently, the earlier overspray incident distressed him.

I sped away before he could reload.

The next day I learned carnage erupted after my escape. My son pasted my son-in-law with another water balloon. Then, my daughter got revenge on my son with the ultimate weapon, the garden hose. It was a water pistol and balloon Armageddon. At first, my mental image was of a Three Stooges pie fight, only with water instead of custard. Now, I just think of it as an extended group Baptism, befitting the occasion. Everyone had a grand time. I am sorry I missed it. Almost.

I hope Collin got religion and learned not to fight above his weight.

…

A Peaceful Backyard Interlude

I bet you're wondering what the terror of Texas' back roads does on his day off.  Well, wonder no more.  Here's the skinny.

I began my day at the crack of nine.  Breakfast was Corn Chex and green tea.  Then, I launched an assault on three very ugly Cedars (Junipers, actually) in my backyard.  They've been on my hit list for several months.  Today, their numbers came up.  Two of them were easy.  They grew at the margin of my property and leaned toward the creek that crosses my property.  A little chainsaw persuasion and they took a dive into the chasm.  Now, they are God's problem. 

The next flood will recycle them, someplace.  The third was a struggle.  I got most of it chopped into manageable bits before I decided to call it a day.  No sense making a sickness of these chores, I always say.

Then, showered and re-dressed, I retired to my patio, camera in hand, to relax and refresh after an arduous morning.  While there, I noticed several critters that frequent my "Wild Kingdom Lunch Counter."  I experimented with photographing the little darlings and even made a video. It is below this post.

Check it out.  It is different from the pavement-melting motorcycle videos.  I guarantee four minutes of mind-numbing peace and tranquility.

Enjoy!

PS:  Let me know your preference.  Cute bunnies or Hell's Angel on Wheels.

Riding the Twisted Sisters – Two

...

You may be relieved to learn this will be the last motorcycle riding post for a while. These forays are a labor of love, but my bike and I are in need of a refit before we sally forth again. A thorough washing, oil change and new rubber fore and aft are high on the list. The bike probably needs something, too. So, if you enjoy these interludes, savor this one. If not, you can return the Dramamine to the medicine closet – after today. Everybody wins.

Second, the sound track on the video is not my first choice. It's not second or even third. Originally, I selected ABBA (Take a Chance on Me.) and The Grateful Dead (Truckin). The trouble began when I uploaded the video to YouTube. There, I ran afoul of the Global-Anal-Music Biz. They balk at folks sharing their music in public. Eventually, I selected something nondescript from the “Approved Music” list. [sigh]  I think it might be the soundtrack from a skin flick. Seems to work, tho.

The tour of the Twisted Sisters was five hours of what you see on the video. At the end of the ride, I was exhausted in the most wonderful way. (Still am.) I also had more than an hour of video from the trip. Funny, it took all weekend to find the ten minutes that seemed to capture the flavor of the country and the ride. It was good that I reviewed the video. Otherwise, I might never have seen the grandeur on the roadsides. On those twisty roads, a glance left or right at the wrong moment could result in my becoming part of the scenery. In some respects, you and I are seeing the country the same way.

After licking the apple strudel from my fingers in Medina, I found Ranch Road 337 and headed west.  The twisty roads showed up almost immediately.  Signs reading "Sharp Curves and Steep Grades Next 5 Miles" were stacked a hundred yards apart.  I recognised this as overkill, along with the sign that read "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here...".  The Texas Department of Transportation is well-known for its aversion to adventure on its highways.

Traffic was light to non-existent.  Many of the four-wheel vehicles are operated by locals accustomed to motorcycle traffic along these byways.  Accordingly, they drive on the shoulder to save the effort of moving over every two minutes to let the two-wheelers pass.  I consider their courtesy a good example for drivers everywhere.  There were more two-wheelers than cars and trucks on the road during my ride.  Harley-Davidsons, mostly, ridden by round-bellied, gray or balding men out to take the air.  Most of them were stopped or semi-stopped when I met or overtook them.  Still, it was comforting to be among "my own kind."  If you look close, you may see a bike or two in the video. Look quick.

Vanderpool was the first village I encountered west of Medina. I think I was in a state of shock when I arrived and may have failed to get even a snapshot of the place. No matter.  I'll get one next time.  Salivating heavily, I continued along 337 to Leaky, a village of 400 (mebbe) in Frio Canyon.  It is small, but pleasant and equipped with facilities for recreation, refreshment and shopping.  The "Hog Pen" appeared promising.

After taking a few quick breaths, I continued toward Campwood.  That's where I discovered an oasis called "The Motorcycle Stop."  They sell everything the cyclist might need.  Beer, grub and any article of clothing you could possibly need, especially if you need it in black.  It's is part of the Harley thing.  Me?  I love black, but I attend few formal occasions these days.

  

The breezeway at The Stop provides a pleasant refuge from the road, even if you only stay long enough for a glass of tea.  As long as I was there, I purchased a couple of T-shirts testifying to my riding prowess.  I felt I earned a touch of badness.

Check out the view from the open air lounge.  I can imagine a very pleasant time, sipping a cold beer at the end of the day and watching the sun set behind the hills.  It was very civilized.  At left, two patrons wave friendly greeting.

The parking lot held a few bikes, taking refuge from the bright sun beneath a stand of oaks.  A couple mature looking bikers fussed about with them before strolling into the building.  Someone showed up in their Ferrari. Cool, eh?  I didn't hang around to find out who it was. Could it be Michael Schuhmacher?  Mebbe.

Finally, A picture of one of the tastefully decorated T-shirts I purchased to commemorate the occasion.  I hope you will scroll down to the Twisted Sister video, just beneath this post.  It is a little bit exciting, I think.  :)

Dawdle Across Texas with Me… Episode 1

...

Oh, I forgot to mention this until now.  Click on the pictures to see larger, more detailed versions. Two clicks gets the largest picture.  Enjoy!

It is springtime in Texas and life is good.  Redbud trees are in bloom. Wisteria vines  show signs of life and the beloved bluebonnet, Texas' state flower is growing wild in the countryside [top].

Yesterday, I had all the domestic tranquility I could stand. I needed air, and lots of it. Lucky for me, it was a sunny, mild day. Speaking of air, it was windy, too, but I will say more about that later. I fussed about, ate breakfast and lit the fuse on my trusty cycle. For those unfamiliar with motorcycles, mine is a Honda and boasts tongue-swallowing acceleration. It is just the thing for those moments when civilization encroaches on one’s sanity.

I shot south through Waxahachie and caromed into Milford, Texas on one breath. Milford is 25 miles south and 80 years behind my home base. I believe the town is slowly disappearing because Big “D” sucks the life out of it. I stopped in front of the Milford police station and drew my camera. The “downtown” of Milford is across the street from the cop house. It is in decay and something prompted me to snap a photo or two while it is still there.

After Milford, US highway 77 winds smoothly to Hillsboro. That is where I catch 22 westbound. I cannot recall ever having seen Texas greener. Emerald green grasses carpeted wide pastures along the way. Cattle and goats grazed here and there, oblivious to my passage. The air is sweet with every kind of plant fragrance and I greedily sucked it in. At times, I found myself gawking at the compelling beauty at the expense of watching where I was going. Luckily, my reverie ended before I actually plowed up the roadside wildflowers.

Highway 22 is well travelled. It will take you as far as Hamilton, Texas. It might go even farther. I do not know because there are so many smaller, twisty roads to explore before Hamilton. Farm Road 219 is one of them. Traffic along this narrow, winding road is local and sparse. The countryside is made of rolling hills and wide valleys. After the rains, which began last September, everything that can turn green has done so. This includes rocks, fence posts and pickup trucks. From the hilltops, a traveler can appreciate the immense size of the country. Green trees and grass mixed with bright wildflowers stretch to the horizon. I felt tiny staring out at creation, but happy too. I was relieved I did not bear responsibility for the immensity or beauty before me. All I had to do was to see and appreciate it. Sweet.

Eventually, I neared the town of Clifton (Pop. 3500-ish). I travelled this route before, on my way to lunch in Lometa. This time, I decided to explore another route and avoid the possibility of poisoning far from home. Farm Road 708 showed up just in time. Even narrower and less travelled than 219, it lead me around sweeping turns and between tall hills toward Valley Mills (Pop. 1100 +/-).

It was lunchtime when I arrived. I have not visited Valley Mills since my undergraduate days in Austin and I was pleased to find the little town in good condition and bustling with activity. Most of the activity seemed to be at the many barbeque and Mexican restaurants I passed on my way through town. The aroma of country cooking filled the air. After only a few blocks, I was slobbering like a hound dog, but I kept going. I had farther to go before I could rest.

I will tell you more about it next time.

…

Catching up.

...

As we wait for some excitement to show up, I can share a few pictures from recent travels.

A couple of weeks ago, I returned to the Hill Country. I planned to visit as many art galleries as I could find and place my photos with them on consignment wherever possible. I hauled a trunk load of prints with me. It was a rough trip. The economy in this tourist Mecca is not good. Art dealers were as eager to receive new art as to enjoy a comprehensive audit by IRS. So, the trip turned out to be more work and less benefit than I hoped. I take it as a positive sign I was not actually physically ejected from very many galleries.

Undaunted, I managed to get a few photos of interesting architecture during my travels and can share a few of them here.

The "Good Art" Gallery is a neat place with some fine painting, sculpture and photography. I recommend it for your shopping needs in Fredericksburg, Texas.

Dooley's five & 10 cent store is a Fredericksburg landmark. When you visit, the staff speaks fluent German, upon request, or so I have heard. I guess they do it because they can.

Gingerbread homes and ornate buildings abound here. It is hard to resist smiling at them. They seem to be refugees from a Thomas Kincaid painting...

The two-day trip wore me out! Who could imagine a measly 48 hours of uninterrupted rejection becoming so tiring? Not I. Well, I do now.

I think I shall return to travel and photography primarily as a joyous hobby, at least for present. Should any readers want to purchase prints shown on these pages, I will be happy to provide them. All pictures are available on paper or canvas, suitable for framing. Prices vary with size and materials. I think they are very reasonable.

You are welcome to email me at hank.burden@gmail.com with interests, questions or requests.

Next topic: EASTER

Easter landed on me with all four grandchildren last Sunday. I have pictures to prove it. I usually do not take pictures at these events. I think it can get in the way of enjoying the people and other activities. This time, I made an exception. During the half-day celebration at my daughter's home, there seemed plenty of time and cuteness to go around.

The little guy over there (right) is William. He is almost 5 years old (wow) and bright as a new penny. I was lucky to get this shot during the few milliseconds he was still. I missed about a dozen times, capturing blurs more often than not.  The angelic expression requires high-speed photography.

< - Sophia! She just turned three and is in the princess phase of her life. She might remain there well past forty, I fear. I have never met a sweeter child, but I do not envy her father in coming decades. She has "Pip" written all over her: a grandfather's delight and the cause of much potential sleeplessness for parents in nine more years. I see nailed-shut windows in her future.

The handsome lad [right] is August. It is hard to believe he is only two-ish. He is chatty and adventurous. He is kind and affectionate. Like all my grandchildren, he has a taste for chocolate, particularly Hershey's Kisses. Naturally, I give him all he wants. Heh, heh.

The newest addition to the Easter parade is Joshua. He is a happy, peaceful child who devotes much of his time to eating, sleeping, and smiling at those funny-looking people around him and well, you know. (It is the diaper thing.) We all love him very much and are eager to discover who he might become in coming years. I am optimistic for all of them.


I know, I know. This is not what any of us expect in an adventure blog. Still, it is amazing to have the future of my line run to me and leap into my arms or into my lap [Oof! - Ghaaa!] when we meet.



They give me hope that the world might be a better place one day.

This is a typical collection of spoils from the Easter egg hunt. The warm light seemed to highlight the spirit of the occasion.

Sophia and August are exuberant co-conspirators.










Next time, I promise to do something outdoorsy, hopefully not involving violence to my remaining body parts.

...

Hiatus

Thanks for stopping by...

I am taking some time away from this page.  During my absence, I hope to generate some worthy adventure stories.  (I have a plan.)  Meanwhile, I shall work on those domestic chores that, while necessary, are too routine or dull to warrant reporting here.   These tasks require doing, just as the more exciting ones. [drat]

No sense in publishing stuff even I find boring or tedious.

I shall return - soon!

Hank

Lumberjack?

...
It has been a peaceful week. I was concerned I would have nothing to share with my loyal readers. It seems every other day brought dark skies, heavy rain and wind. I do not mind, really, but it is hard to convert cold rain down the neck into anything more than a whine, well short of an adventure.

Between frog-strangling rains, the days were as bright and sunny as anywhere in Heaven or on Earth. The sun has begun to warm exposed skin. It feels great! This is the perfect setting for high adventure.

And here it is.

The principal challenge in my life these days is the carnage that is my back garden. Several thick limbs are on the ground or suspended precariously by other branches. Each time the sun peeks out; I rush to the shed and grab a chainsaw. I have accumulated an impressive pile of debris on my front walk only this week. It is pile number two out of as many as four or five. I have a way to go.

Today is sunny and warm. After breakfast, I rushed to the shed, grabbed the chainsaw and attacked the debris. Things were going well. I filled my firewood rack and added another ten feet of length to the pile and a foot or two in height. I was considering quitting for the day when I saw the enormous limb hanging over the creek at the back of the property.

“Oh, what the heck,” I thought. “I’ll just trim it up a bit in preparation for a full on attack the next sunny day.”

I approached cautiously. The branch weighs over a ton and it could drop of its own accord at any moment. Like a bull and bullfighter, we seemed to study each other for a long time. Then, my plan complete, I attacked. Smaller limbs fell one after another, as I trimmed and cleared. I was five minutes from stopping for the day when it happened.

I tugged on a downed limb, dragging it free from the work area when I felt a scratch on my knee. The thought that I might have just sawed my leg with the chainsaw was slow arriving at my brain. I blissfully tugged and dragged the branch to a temporary pile. Then I looked down.

There was a tear in the leg of my jeans. “Uh oh.”

The concept of the spinning blade gently bumping my knee arrived at “brain central” and I uttered a magical incantation involving a deity, perdition and a small pronoun. I am sure the deity will understand and forgive me.

I killed the saw and began hiking up my trouser leg, all the while dreading what I might find. I took comfort from the fact I had not tipped over. After a long and careful struggle, I found the wound. It was, as chainsaw wounds go, a scratch. Heck, I could barely make out the bone of my kneecap.

Chastened by my dumb mistake, I walked to the shed and put the chainsaw away. In my cabinet, I found bandages and ointments left over from my fiery bicycle crash of last October. Somehow, I knew they would come in handy, eventually.

Now, everything is okay. I will need another pair of jeans and another box of heavy-duty band-aids, but other than that, I will live to saw another day.

Sure, the big limb won this one, but I’ll be back.
...

Return to Cross Timbers

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The Cross Timbers Fine Arts Council (CTFAC) in Stephenville, TX is exhibiting art with a Texas historical theme during the month of March.  Better still, they invited me to include a few pictures.

Later today I will travel to Stephenville, Texas and install three historical images for the entertainment and enlightenment of gallery visitors.  I started to bring a few of my baby pictures.  Lord knows they are becoming more historical each year.  In the end, I chose somewhat older subjects, even though they aren't that much older.

I hope you will join me at the CTFAC gallery between now and March 25.  Let me know you're coming and I'll try to meet you there!

PS:  The Barbeque at the "Hard Eight" restaurant is worth the trip.
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Sophia Has Big Fete

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Recently, my favorite Orange County Register Blogger, Eva “Anonymous” Kilgore, posted her account of the spring gala hosted by a fancy Huntington Harbour organization. The theme of this year’s event was western, or cowboy casual. (They apparently have themes. Who knew?) According to Eva, there were bales of straw and at least one cowboy hat in attendance, so I know they went all out. The pate’ was probably from free-range geese. My invitation was lost in the mail, but I recovered from my disappointment. Besides, my social calendar is filled with such events. Here is an example from last Saturday.

My daughter invited me to attend my granddaughter’s third birthday party on Saturday. Granddaughter, Sophia, is a major league cutie and a princess in every respect. Her parents went all out for this event. First, they rented a huge party warehouse. The place was fully equipped with kiddy cars, air-hockey tables, a bounce house and hundreds of smaller toys to amuse the guests and grandparents. Always stylish, I donned a brightly striped Mexican sombrero for the occasion. I was quite a hit with my grandchildren.

“Mommy, grandfather is acting up, again!” One precocious grandchild announced.

At the appointed hour, small guests flooded into the place, bearing gifts and accompanied by their parents. In an instant, the adults were awash in small children. Like ants at a picnic, they were in everything. They filled the bounce house. Air hockey pucks filled the air. Kiddy cars zoomed around the floor at random. It was utter chaos and great fun.

Food was a big hit with everyone. This party began at ten am, so few had breakfast before arriving. Fried chicken balls and cheese dip were never so tasty. A generous tray of fresh cut fruit with a collection of dipping sauces topped off the feed. Drinks? Juice boxes. Mmm, mmm! I stuffed myself with these goodies in the full knowledge that cake with ice cream lurked somewhere. I was hungry and resolved to deal with the cake when it showed up.

The party lasted two hours. After forty minutes, I began looking for a place to sit down. That is when I discovered all the chairs were 12” tall. Worse, they were alarmingly narrow. I calculated the embarrassment factor of being stuck in one of these tiny seats and decided to tough it out on my own tired feet.

During the lulls, I chatted with other parents and played with a dozen or so children. Of all the groups, the dads had the best take on the party. They decided the real fun would be in opening a bar and grill next door to this place. You know, one with normal size chairs, or at least stools. It would be a kind of refuge for dads in need of relief or sustenance. The possibility of an adjoining facility got the most votes. When we got to pole dancers, the marriage police broke up the conversation. Darn.

In the fullness of time, we dined on princess themed birthday cake and Blue Bell ice cream. Sophia eagerly opened a mound of gifts, each one princessier than the last. I have never seen so much pink in one place in my life. Then, it was time to go home. I enjoyed the party. The children were fun and well behaved in every respect. The adults showed good-natured patience with each other and the scurrying masses. At the appointed hour, I bid the guests and hosts goodbye and staggered to my car, speeding homeward as fast as the laws of physics allowed.

Arriving home, I dived onto my sofa for an extended nap. It is only Wednesday and I am mostly recovered. I wonder if Eva can say the same.
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Food Fight!

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I recently had time to surf the internet and ran across a story on Yahoo about the worst foods in the country. It was one of those book-promoting stories suggesting instant death if you ate any of several fast food dishes. They even had a list, sorted from bad to worst. The article suggested alternative recipes for each bad thing they mentioned.

I read with great interest, studying the “Bad List” for anything I might have missed. The list of the unhealthy foods read like a who’s who of my favorites. Somewhere in the middle, Arby’s potato wedges stood accused of unhealthy levels of something. The article said they contained “fat.” I think “taste” is more like it. Later, I learned my daughter read the same story and was heartbroken to see those potato wedges on the naughty list. They were her favorites. The chili cheese and onion fries from Chili’s were judged the worst of the lot. I began drooling as I read the list of charges against this greasy delight and resolved to treat myself to an order at my earliest opportunity. It is a tasty job and somebody has to do it.

For each bad food, the article suggested alternative recipes. They were uniformly depressing. How much celery and tofu equals the goodness of a slice of crisp fried bacon? The alternative “Good List” was so ridiculous; I dismissed it as a Communist plot. (Okay, you have to be of a certain age to recall what a Communist plot was, so you will have to trust me on this one.)

I do not know when personal dietary habits became anyone else’s business, but I am not about to change and certainly not for anything containing tofu. Better to dine on Chicken Fried Steak in Hell than eat celery in Heaven. The same goes for listening to good old Rock ‘n Roll versus Harp music, too.

Besides, fat is essential to all life on this planet. Specifically, some fat is essential to my life and the enjoyment thereof. A little alcohol and an occasional cigar can be part of the good life, too. There will never be enough veggie goodness to make me forget about good food, liquor or smoke.

After all, they are three of the four best things in life.

If you have a favorite recipe involving fatty goodness, send it along. The revolution starts here!
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Snow III: The meltdown.

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For as long as I can remember, the State Bird of Texas has been the Mockingbird. I think that may soon change. I believe the replacement will be the chainsaw.

Bear with me for a moment.

The warm days following the Great Snow of 2010 made quick work of the white stuff. There are still small patches in shady areas, but they will not survive beyond today.

The temperature is on its way into the 60s and the sun is blessed bright. Thank goodness. With all the cool, cloudy and wet weather, I have been unwilling to play outdoors for any length of time. As a result, I have begun to resemble Sméagol Golem. It is not just a physical thing, either. I find myself repeating “my precious” far too often for mental health purposes. Fresh air and sunshine are my best hope for regaining a human appearance.

So, back to the bird, er, chainsaw. The heavy snow demolished thousands of trees in north Texas. Not artistically gifted enough to make signs reading “Help Us,” my neighbors devote themselves to cutting and removing the destroyed trees. For the past few days, the mating call of the chainsaw has echoed thru the neighborhood from dawn 'til dusk.

I suspect a competitive element here.

Hardly a house is without a substantial “brush pile” on the curb. My place is no exception. A branch 12” in diameter dropped from high in an Ash tree and grazed my truck on its way to earth. Yesterday and today, I joined the chorus, hacking and chopping to recover the full use of my drive. (Why does it always have to be the driveway?!) I am about half done with that branch. I have several others in less critical areas. They must wait their turn.  I may have enough lumber in my yard to complete my retirement home on the ranch. 

Woo Hoo?

Even after I gave up for the day, I could hardly hear myself think. “Vroom, Buzz, Whine,” went the saws. There must be dozens of them within earshot of my home. I estimate this will continue for another week. Maybe two. That should be long enough for the legislature to act.

“Mockingbird? No!  -  Chainsaw? Si!”
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Snow II: The Shoveling

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Question: Why do men suffer heart attacks while shoveling snow?

Answer: Because they want to.
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Everyone knows record-setting snows pasted Texas last week. Here is something you might not know: The temperature never dropped below freezing through this entire episode. As a result, the 12” deep snow contained approximately the same amount of water as a foot of rain. That means a 12" square; eight inches deep would weigh just north of 40 pounds. [Yike!]

I enjoyed seeing snow and to a lesser extent playing in it for the past several days. There comes a time, however, when one must get out in the world.

For me, that time arrived on Saturday. My pantry was a goody-free zone. Worse, there was no alcohol in the house. I know, because I looked. Everywhere. Even my emergency rations in the overhead light fixture and the toilet tank were gone. I was contemplating my desperate situation when the phone rang.

It was my son, Ben. He wanted to leave my 2-year-old grandson with me for a while. I subtly asked if he owned a square-nosed shovel.

“You mean a snow shovel?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

In a few minutes, his truck stopped in front of my house. Ben, Augie and the Au Pair slogged through the wet snow to my door. When I opened the door, Ben handed me a red snow shovel.

“I was tempted to throw this piece of @#$% away when we left Chicago,” he said cheerily.

After a few pleasantries, I possessed both grandson and a snow shovel. I settled Augie into the “playroom” (aka, the whole house) and stepped outside.

Until today, I never realized my driveway was a monumental edifice, worthy of inclusion with the mythic wonders of the world. “The Augean Stables have nothing on my driveway,” I thought. One scoop at a time, I began clearing the snow. Soon, I remembered my son’s advice. “In 5 minutes, you’ll be shaped like a letter ‘C’,” he said, prophetically.

“That’s ridiculous,” I thought as I gazed at my shoes. “Uh oh.” Somehow, my shoes had filled with ice water. Worse, I could not straighten my spine.

Still, I kept on. Near the end, I found a drift of snow blocking my pickup truck.

“Just this one last…” I wheezed.

I dug in and, in a few minutes, cleared the drift. My back ached. Bent in half, I retreated to admire my accomplishment. Now I know how Igor felt in those Frankenstein movies. At that exact moment, the foot deep snow on the hood decided it was time to go. Flumpf. The drift was back, as if I had not moved a spoonful of the wet stuff.

Choked with pain and frustration, I crept back into the house.

“Let’s play with the Choo-Choo!” I exclaimed.

I can buy liquor and food in spring.

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Crash! Crash! Crash...

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It seems I have used that word a lot lately. Crash, that is. This time, it occurred at the car wash. You know, one of those places where they drag your car through a tunnel, wash and blow it dry. At the end, a recent immigrant to the country drives the car a few yards to another area where more immigrants swarm over the car with towels and spray bottles, drying and polishing as they go.

The system experienced a slight hiccup Tuesday a week ago. The fellow in charge of driving my car to the finishing area could not operate the gearshift. “Vroom, Vroom,” went the car. It did not move. After a suitable interval, I walked over to help the man. I knocked on the door and gestured toward the gearshift. The driver grinned an ivory-toothed grin and opened the door. I reached in and put the car in gear, motioning him to go ahead and drive. I stepped back.

“Vroom, vroom,” went the car. It did not move.

I returned to the door and was trying to gesture in Spanish that he should take his foot off the brake and drive. At that point, the next car in line arrived.

Bang!

I looked back to see an elderly Lexus climbing my back bumper. The conveyor that moves cars through the tunnel was persistent.

Bang!

The Lexus hit my bumper again, making a kind of grinding noise.

After six or seven hits, I convinced the driver to stop the conveyor before destroying both cars. Frankly, I was surprised to learn the proper Spanish gesture involved bulging the veins in my forehead while shaking a fist in the face of the immigrant. He sprang from the cockpit and rushed to the kill switch. The Lexus settled to the ground a few feet behind my scarred bumper.

With the serial collisions finally ended, I spoke to the manager. He agreed I should get the car repaired and bring him the bill. He agreed to pay immediately. I agreed to his terms and released my grip on his throat.

Here we are, over a week later. The body shop took its sweet time repairing the damage and I picked up my car on Wednesday evening. (Yesterday) I believe they worked harder adding up the invoice than making the repairs. In any event, I plan to visit the car wash, paid invoice in hand, as soon as the snowfall ends.

In Texas, snow is as familiar as flying lobsters. I see no reason to tempt the Fates by venturing out. Still, I cannot wait to see the manager’s face when he sees the cost.  Heh, heh.

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Snow!

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For the second time in 8 weeks, snow is falling in Dallas. The last time, as far as I can recall, was Christmas Day. According to the Weather Fool, it had not snowed in Dallas on Christmas Day since 1926. As unbelievable as that might be, I have to take his word for it. These days, I am lucky to recall what I had for lunch. Worse, I did not fully appreciate that Christmas miracle due to a fever and emotional exhaustion from attending my son during his illness in New Mexico. It made for a very subdued Christmas.

[My backyard is a snowy forest]

Here we are in February. The icy heart of winter is upon us. I slipped outdoors and snapped a few photos of current conditions. The deprived souls in southern California may have never seen the white stuff. As a public service, I offer these views of my neighborhood on a rare snowy day.

Enjoy!

PS: It is better to enjoy the photos than the real stuff.

A neighbor. This one has company - stranded, no doubt!

Here is a shot of my neighbor, his dog and

small daughters frollicking in the snow. 

Hope you can see 'em.

The new look of global warming.