Santa, Bogie, Tweeners and Beer

Random weekend thoughts . . .

Santa Claus
We took down our Christmas decorations this afternoon (during that @$^%^%&$^~!!!!! Cowboys fiasco); and for the first time ever, we counted our Santa Clauses. Never meant for them to become a collection; but during Christmas, we spread Santa Clauses out to every corner, shelf, table and anything else in the house that doesn't move. We're up to 94!

My 13-year-old nephew has a similar snowman collection (maybe half dozen by now); he just doesn't know it. He just thinks his crazy ol' Aunt Kim (my wife) has forgotten that she sent him a snowman last year (and the year before and the year before . . .).

Casablanca
Watched Casablanca again last night . . . is there a better movie? I NEED to be Humphrey Bogart. And my wife should know now that if it's ever 1942 again, Ingrid Bergman and I WILL be an item.

I was a little distracted though, having watched The Blues Brothers one afternoon last week, wondering how Jake and Ellwood ('I hate Illinois Nazis') would fare in Casablanca.

Customer Service
Yesterday afternoon, I was contemplating a 'my life is a hell-hole' posting to describe my anticipated shopping trip to Old Navy / Justice (the 'tweener' section). I'd even written the first sentence in the Old Navy parking lot after the check-out girl hit me in the face with my bag of fortunately soft SALE merchandise.

But, believe it or not, Justice proved to be refreshing; so at the end of a shopping season when customer service REALLY sucks, I have my top three BEST customer service experiences:

1. Justice
2. Limited 2
3. Sears

I was so impressed/shocked at Sears that I went online to e-mail the Customer Service Department. Justice and Limited 2 appear to be run by 16-year-olds; and we couldn't have asked for warmer greetings, more helpful clerks or cleaner stores. Whoever trains for those stores deserves a medal.

I'm going to give Honorable Mentions to the local Target store and James Avery for expedited check-out systems that NASA would envy.

People are Good
Also took the 'fam' (as daughter #1 describes us) to Outback Steakhouse last night (courtesy of my generous brother-in-law).

While we're waiting on a table, I step over to the corner of the bar for a couple of beers. I accidentally bump one guy, so I apologize, telling him that I'm trying to see what's on tap. Without me asking, he begins to read off the brands he can read and apologizes for not being able to catch the last two brands. So the person next to him and the person on the other side of me chime in and start reading off brands.

People are good (okay . . . one small step for a man; one giant leap for mankind; let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me, etc.)

Double Feature

Daughter #1 at Texas Tech; son at DeVry in Austin

Dad-isms #3

8th-grade girls basketball, and daughter #1 is point guard, leisurely taking the ball for a stroll down the court. Very nice of her team and the opponents to wait on her. From up in the stands, I shout her name and yell, 'RUN!' She STOPS in the middle of the court and stares at me in the stands. After the game, I knew that I'd misplaced my priorities when I found myself saying, 'DON'T YOU EVER LISTEN TO ME AGAIN!'

My son's moving from Laredo to go to school and major in computer gaming software and live on his own in Austin. Daughter #1 keeps abandoning the dog she's supposed to be babysitting during winter break like it's some grandchild I've been waiting to spend 'quality' time with, and daughter #2 is . . . well, daughter #2.

So you can tell how far my Dad-isms have gone. Here's the last batch for awhile.

Yesterday’s over my shoulder, but I can’t look back for too long. There’s just too much to see waiting in front of me, and I know that I just can’t go wrong . . . Jimmy Buffett

Make good choices! . . . Jamie Lee Curtis in Freaky Friday

Just do it! . . . Nike

The pessimist complains about the wind. The optimist expects it to change. The leader adjusts the sails . . . John Maxwell (author)

The key to successful leadership today is influence, not authority . . . Ken Blanchard

And more of mine:

SMILE! Enjoy life! Be happy.

Be positive. Avoid the negative. People need and are attracted to the positive and shy away from the negative (and it’s too easy to a grinch).

Problems don’t get better with time. Take care of them right away.

Take care of your business . . . now.

Set goals. Ask yourself, ‘what have I done today?’ to get what I want.

Ask for what you want. Nobody’s waiting around or trying to read your mind.

ROLE MODELS

All is Calm . . . Traditions are Safe

It's quiet. The only other noise in the house (besides my dog snoring) is the dishwasher running with the dishes from Christmas dinner. Everyone else is upstairs in bed. Pretty uneventful, but calm, finish to a nice Christmas.

Two days ago, I was looking for a Scrooge photo to post so I could rant about how much I hate Christmas. I really don't, but by the time it gets here, I'm right on the edge of 'in-santa-ty.'

I even had Monday off from work and still had a long, wife-induced Shopping/To Do List. This year's Christmas budget was tight, too, so I also had to battle my own addiction to last-minute gift impulses (both for my family . . . and for me).

I'm better now. We don't have a big family gathering here in Fort Worth . . . only four of us this year. We do have our Christmas traditions, however, which I thought we lost last year. But this Christmas Eve was a season-saver.

We went to worship service at Northwood Church, which has pretty much the same Christmas service every year. I like it because it reminds me a lot of the Virginia-backwoods Christmas Eve service in The Homecoming, which is the original Walton's Christmas movie: Kids dressed up for the nativity scene, someone telling the Christmas story interspersed with everyone singing Christmas carols, and a brief message from the pastor.

After church, we watched The Homecoming and Santa Clause 2 (daughter #2's preference -- we watched the original Miracle of 34th Street the night before; no It's a Wonderful Life, Bells of St. Marys or The Bishop's Wife this year . . . but there's still time). And we ate tamales. My yankee wife loves all things Texas, so we've eaten tamales on Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember.

Our Christmas Eve tradition for the last 15-16 years has been to read Christmas books and sip hot chocolate around the fire before sending the kids to bed. Last year, I thought our special tradition came to an end because daughter #1, who'd come home from her first semester of college, spent Christmas Eve with the then-boyfriend-now-sleazeball (that's the story I get) and his family. Daughter #2 crashed during midnight services at our neighborhood Methodist church (truly embarassing; she starts snoring -- loudly -- during a very quiet communion, and because of the ice, there are only about 40 people in the chapel), so it was just my wife and me to do the Santa Claus thing.

But this year, after our movies and dinner, we looked for our Christmas books, which includes the much-fought-over Polar Express (each of us reads a book), and couldn't find them (aagggghhhh!!!). We moved daughter #2 into daughter @1's old room earlier this year, and the books have been lost in the shuffle.

I did find one Christmas book that has recipes, stories, poems, songs, etc. and asked daughter #1 if she wanted to read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas (when she was much younger, she had it memorized).'

Daughter #1 teaches swim lessons and is an incredible teacher for young kids. As she read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas,' she was very playful and would pause before the end of well-known lines, and we'd shout out the rest . . . NOT EVEN A MOUSE!

When she's done, she thumbs through the book and wants to sing The 12 Days of Christmas. We are NOT a singing family, so this was highly uncharacteristic of us, and, unfortunately, we couldn't remember any gifts beyond five gold rings; but we had a wonderfully goofy time.

So, all is calm . . . and all is bright. Our Christmas traditions are safe for another year.

Having the Last Word

Happy Hill Vodka, the plastic bottle. That's what was staring back at me when I opened up our recycling bin this morning. I charge upstairs to wake up daughter #1 (there's nothing like playing Jack Webb to your kids' Sleepy the Dwarf) to let her know that I've re-recycled evidence of her contraband. While the nasty chihuahua-mix (NC-M) that she's keeping for the holidays growls at me (he knows the truth!), she emphatically mumbles that it's not hers.

I say that I'll talk with mom to see if it's hers (I don't know if we've ever owned a bottle of vodka, especially Happy Hill, the plastic bottle) and leave for work, contentedly knowing that NC-M won't let her go back to sleep.

My wife will tell anyone (everyone) that #1 and I regularly battle for the last word in our father-daughter wars. And I for sure was going to have the last swig of this bottle battle (too much, huh?).

I finally reach my wife by phone and tell her what I've found. She remembers that she found the bottle in middle of the street last week (before #1 came home) and put it in recycling.

Most other fathers would sheepishly apologize to their daughters and make up by buying them a new car or at least loaning them a credit card.

I called #1 and said, 'Mom found your bottle in the street.'

Cheap! Or Best Offer

My 2005 Ford 150 had a small dent on the passenger-side door and a cigarette burn in the passenger seat when I bought it earlier this year. I'm sure, when I eventually sell it or trade it in, it'll have more scratches, dents, tears and tarnishes from -- to take liberties with Asleep at the Wheel -- 'miles and miles of Texas.' First evidence: scratch across back bumper from daughter #1's borrowing it during Thanksgiving visit.

High-mileage, early-model truck. Perfect work car or for new drivers. Some scratches and dings, no serious damage. Cranky starts, needs lots of TLC, but reliable. AM/FM radio with after-factory 8-track player. Still works!

That's the ad my wife would run when it came time to trade me in for a sportier SUV that cooks, cleans and does house repairs. A hybrid of sorts.

I've thought about this for awhile. I've been blessed with a healthy life, as have my wife and children (thank you, thank you, thank you!!!), and I've live a pretty healthy (and usually dull) life. I'm happy and smile a lot, have friends and a supportive family, not too overweight, and have always enjoyed my jobs; so I'm well ahead of the curve for longevity.

But just like trading in a car and having all the dings, scratches, tears and tarnishes pointed out (52 years of dings, scratches, etc), I'm shocked at how my trade-in value is dropping (but my antique value is rising). Here's a lot of what I can see so far (in no particular order):

- Scars next to left eye and above left lip in the same arc as part of the circumference of a 1966 Valiant steering wheel, from a car wreck as a college freshman (and later-learned-about associated scarring on my frontal lobe)

- Missing testical as a result of cancer a few years ago (went to bed, scratched and found a pecan-sized surprise; woke up wife, grabbed her hand and said 'feel this;' she said 'No, I'm already asleep)

- I think it's still there, although the testicle's not, but a scar from the attempted vasectomy in the late '90s that resulted in an on-the-table seizure (apparently scarring on frontal lobe can do that), which scared the poo out of my doctor . . . learned that he takes medication for epileptic seizures . . . and he had a knife?

- Lost count of the number of scars from basil cell skin cancers and pre-cancerous moles removed via minor surgeries and 'freezing,' probably mostly a result of shirtless summers and whatever was in Port Arthur's refinery air; daughter #1 pays to tan (grrr!), #2 oozes suncreen

- Plantar fasciitis on in my left foot, prompted by playing barefoot (stupid, stupid, stupid) in a touch football game with high school freshmen a couple of Labor Days ago (but it was a great example of age and cunning -- and cheating -- overcoming youth and skill every time)

- A scar on the back of my left upper leg from the kick of that STUPID horse: I hated him, he hated me, big horse wins every time; lost him (darn!) in the divorce

- Astigmatism in my right eye, probably a result of getting hit in that eye as a seventh-grader; at 210 pounds and having the confidence of a couple of marathons and a couple of century bicycle rides, I could kick that 13-year-old's butt now

Fortunately, none of the above (or another post of minor dings) has had any long-term physical affects. So I value the scars and the scratches and can still laugh about how I got them (and hopefully learned from them).

And I thank God that I can.

Just another Saturday night

When daughter #1 left for college a couple of years ago, I told a friend that our house felt like it was missing a huge source of energy. Fortunately/unfortunately, I've gotten used to a no-teen house.

Social butterfly was the description used by #1's 6th-grade teachers during one of those 'I'm-so-sorry' parent-teacher conferences. In high school, especially her senior year, she became a custom-fitted, hyper-charged social bumblebee . . . on steroids (note to all her former coaches and UIL officials -- that was joke). Her activities were the driving force behind just about everything on our schedules, and it seemed like we often went into the fourth quarter working on adrenaline alone. 'Our' senior year was exhausting.

She's home for a couple of weeks during her winter break, and she really hasn't done anything disruptive or illegal or of questionable safety or sense -- yet -- (except bring home what I hope is a friend's dog . . . she said the friend told HER mom that the dog belongs to ANOTHER friend . . . both friends have gone on vacations with their parents during the break), but the energy has returned.

Not the feel-great, charged-up, let's-tackle-Everest energy, but the kind that crashes atoms into whatever atoms crash into and makes basic elements realign with other basic elements to create whatever B-movie creature that inevitably crawls out of the sand following a nuclear test.

I THINK it's the dog (un-house-trained, rat-sized, three-sweatered chihuahua-dachschund mix), although it's not a bad dog. And I THINK it's daughter #2, now an only child and an early-years victim of our attention to #1, who dearly loves and admires her older sister and who's determined to keep our floor from dirtying the dog's paws. But I KNOW that it's because my Lost-in-Space-Danger-Will-Robinson force field and daughter-repellant wife is out of town (my wife's been the 'don't worry, I'll talk to dad; he'll be fine' kind of mom for our daughters).

Actually, everybody's gone now: #1 took dog to do something possibly disruptive or illegal or of questionable safety or sense. #2's at a birthday sleepover, and wife is still out of town; went out with her sister this evening, probably to do something disruptive or illegal or of questionable safety or sense.

Hello-hello-hello-hello . . . okay, let's turn the energy back up. You can come back now. I'm done enjoying my quiet evening . . .

A Red River Rush Hour

Rush hour . . . through the bedroom door, across the living room, grabbing a cup of coffee, and out to the porch. That's the morning rush hour that's been on my mind the last couple of days as I've researched an article for our employee newsletter. Our firm owns a couple of cabins in Red River, New Mexico, and for the last 2-3 days, I've been reading through the notebooks left in the cabins for the last 30+ years for guests to sign and make comments (I'll post some later).

We stayed in Red River a couple of years ago and have requested one of the cabins for a week this summer. If I read one more page of fire-in-the-fireplace-30-degrees-in-the-morning-hiking-up-to-the-lake-touring-Taos-and-Santa-Fe-feeding-the-chipmunks-watching-the-hummingbirds-fishing-in-the-creek-behind-the-cabin-snow-in-the-mountains-Jeep-tours-horseback-rides-tops-of-mountains-ski-lifts-wildflowers-cutting-wood-sleeping-soundly-in-mountain-air-doing-nothing, I'm heading west tomorrow.

Here's Kim and me on the front porch of the newer cabin in 2006:

Junior High Running Advice II

One of the best bits of running advice I ever received was on my one (yes, one) day of football tryouts in 8th grade. I eavesdropped on two coaches as they watched a classmate, Harris White, run 50-yard sprints. Harris was a Black kid whose running style was very relaxed, most noticeably, his palms open instead of fists clenched.

I finished this post on my running blog with a look at my own running style, but here I'd like to think more about Harris and why those coaches noticed him.

A LITTLE BACKGROUND

Port Arthur schools first integrated, more or less, when I was in junior high, some time around 1968-69 (I say more or less because I think PAISD has been under a federal court order to get it right for about 20-30 years).

My dad was a boilermaker at Texaco and had grown up dirt poor in Kentucky; and, as we watched America's civil rights wrestling match on TV, he talked about his Black friends (but Black wasn't his word of choice early on) that he grew up with and worked with. As a result, it never occurred to me to get angry because Blacks were at MY school (in all fairness, right in line with the times and region, we did talk about how those kids came all the way from n----- town to go to our school . . . in Port Arthur, all the way had to be maybe a couple of miles). Unfortunately, a lot of people were angry, and hallways would explode with the bump of a shoulder or a misunderstood look. Although tempered a little (but not much), those kinds of fights continued through at least my senior year (if you were at Thomas Jefferson in 72-73, you may remember All-State quarterback (and moron) Larry Meyer tossing a Black kid over the railing and down the stairwell).

Pretty sad, too. Even those of us who avoided trouble still ignorantly stepped on toes. I remember losing the key to my gym locker and innocently asking one of the Black guys if he could break into my locker for me. His look told me that I could have just as easily been telling him to move to the back of the bus. STUPID! (as a I write this, I'm thinking about Ray Lyons, a chess teammate -- manly men! -- and wonder how I may have treated him)

BACK TO HARRIS WHITE AND THOSE COACHES . . .

Ken Jenkins works out with me some evenings at the Y. He's an assistant principal at the alternative high school in Irving ISD, and we've talked a lot about the integration of schools when we were kids. Ken's Black and grew up in a small town near Corsicana, Texas. He's a few years older than I am and was on the first integrated football team at his high school. He's shared stories that are torn from the Remember the Titans script about mixing Black and white athletes. Ken ran track at TCU (I think) about the same time that Jerry Levias broke the color barrier in football at SMU.

He told me that white fans soon warmed up to the idea of having Black players. Most had never seen football played that way. Their team had figuratively gone from 0 to 60 over the summer, from farm boys playing three-yards-and-a-cloud-of-dust to wide-open FAST football. I believe now that's why those junior high coaches noticed Harris White. They'd never seen an athlete move so quickly and smoothly and so relaxed.

A SIDE NOTE . . .

The first game of Ken's season was against an all-white school, and he fielded the opening kick-off. His return of the kick-off for a touchdown probably is what swayed a lot of those East Texas fans. Unfortunately, a white cheerleader ran onto the field and hugged him after he crossed the goal line. Both were in the principal's office Monday morning.

The funniest part of that game is the first play from scrimmage. Ken was the running back, and the coach called his number on that play. Ken said that when he heard the play, he stepped out of the huddle, looked in shock at his coach, pointed at himself and mouthed 'ME?' I believe everyone in the stadium understood his question, including the opposing defense. Ken never said how far that play went.

FOLLOW-UP

I'm a REALLY slow runner; but if I ever see Harris again, I'd like to thank him for a relaxed running style that makes me at least feel like I'm running fast.

I'm not sure if Harris played football in high school. He was really fast, and I'm pretty sure he ran track. Thomas Jefferson's football teams (in Port Arthur, before I offend anyone) were REALLY bad in the early to mid-70s, so I kind of doubt if his speed had been tapped.

Conflict is the Secret to Happy Writing

Water is disappearing. Soon fighting will erupt in the streets over bottles of Ozarka. Ladies will water their gardens, water hose in one hand, Uzi in the other. Men will wash their cars in pairs: One to wash, the other to cover his back. Water is a dangerous business, but I'm a dangerous man. Water is my business. They call me 'Mr. Water!' You can call me Water, James Water. 00-H2O.

My friend and co-worker Viqui Litman told me today that I need to write about the conflict in my subjects because people want to read about that conflict and how it's resolved (or something like that). Viqui is a published novelist (The Ladies Farm, Midnight Peaches, Generations of the Heart), who's promised (I think to get me to stop begging) to put me in her next book.

Viqui and I work for an engineering firm, where I prepare Statements of Qualifications that outline our firm's expertise and approach to resolving cities' engineering problems. We've designed most of the dams and reservoirs in Texas and have had a hand in treating most of the water and wastewater in North Texas. If you're at DFW Airport, you'll see the bridges and stations that we designed for the SkyLink Automated People Mover.

I was putting together a marketing piece today for Viqui that features some of our award-winning projects. My first task was to boil a five-page technical presentation and PowerPoint down to three paragraphs and a photo caption that will be understood and admired by most of the sane world (non-engineers).

AND find the conflict so that those sane people will continue to read how we resolved it.

My first project to feature was the emergency installation of a 140-foot, 60-inch pipeline to channel about 1/2 of the wastewater flow through a treatment plant during its peak flow capacity of 400 million gallons per day. In case you didn't follow me, that's about 200 million gallons of raw sewage. The pipeline had to be installed before a forecasted storm hit and created back-ups and overflows of . . . well, about 200 million gallons of . . . you know.

Here was my first draft:

Chad the wastewater treatment plant operator's arms were steel bands wrapped around the massive pump valve that seemed to fight back with his every turn. He was the last defense against the horrible consequences of not having the 140-foot, 60-inch wastewater pipeline online before the storm. Rain whipped him in the face, and he knew that the sacrifice of his hometown, his darling Juanita -- the only woman he'd ever loved, since first grade -- and his precious 1964 Mustang convertible would be the victims of his weakness. He strained against the valve. A gust of wind caught him like a left hook coming out of nowhere, but he hung on, visions of his woman, his car, his boyhood home covered in 200 million gallons of . . . you know. And then there he was . . . the engineer. He calmly laid down his slide rule and removed his pocket protector. He smoothed the tape that held together his glasses and laughed at the rain because he was wearing his favorite high-water pants. Chad saw him walking confidently through the downpour, not once making eye contact but still walking confidently, and he knew that the gods of engineering had sent their most valiant warrior to save his hometown, his darling Juanita and his precious 1964 Mustang convertible. The engineer unrolled his design plans and shoved them toward the merciless clouds. The rain stopped, as if it knew that it was no match for the wastewater savvy engineer. And all was right with the world.

I'm working on the second draft tomorrow.

One of THOSE fans

I have a friend, Jim, who works part-time at the YMCA. I knew he'd played pro baseball at some point in his life; but when we were talking this evening (that's what I do instead of working out), I discovered that he has a baseball card.

He's now 74 and played in the early 1950s for the Pittsburgh Pirates. At 18, he was the youngest player at the time to pitch for the Pirates. By the age of 20, he was done.

I am so excited. I never knew anyone who has a baseball card. How cool is that? That's just me: 52 going on 12.

Monday Morning Coffee Pot Conversation

Nobody ever meets you at the office coffee pot on Monday morning and asks, 'Hey, what didn't you do this weekend?' But if I am asked, I have two biggies this weekend.




White Rock Marathon
The 2007 White Rock Marathon ran this morning. No mistake: I am in no shape to run another marathon (I'm still working back up to my 30-minute beginner's level), but in last year's Christmas card update -- because I couldn't think of anything interesting that I'd done during the preceding year -- I asked '2007 White Rock Marathon?'. Pfffttt! I have plenty of time, and how hard could it be to dedicate a few hours on the weekend and 45 minutes or so every day (for those of you who've never run a marathon, this kind of training is what leaves you walking somewhere around mile 17 . . . but I've put that behind me).

But, like the fool I am, since I'm not sure if I'll get Christmas cards out this year, I'll go ahead and ask here: '2008 White Rock Marathon?' I've got plenty of time.




John Fogerty
John Fogerty, formerly of my all-time favorite band Creedence Clearwater Revival, played Nokia in Grand Prairie Friday night; and, not paying any attention since I saw it posted a few months ago (Pffftt! I have plenty of time), I forgot to follow up on tickets and a babysitter.



Creedence Clearwater Revival was my first shot at 'rock 'n roll fan-dom,' and the band's album 'Cosmo's Factory' was the first non-country album I ever bought (Groves Pharmacy, lured to the dark side of 'hippie music' by one of those display racks right next to the pharmacist's counter, way in the back of the store). I'd always listened to the Hank Williams, Jimmie Rodgers, Charlie Pride albums and the like that my dad had and the Cajun and Gospel music that he played or my sister's left-behind Jan and Dean and Beach Boys albums. I think the only album I'd ever bought of mine own as Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison.

I sold my dad on allowing me to listen to CCR by playing the country-ish 'Lookin' Out My Back Door,' which was later covered by Buck Owens ('Dad, how much country could you want?'). My dad's early '70s rule was that no hair could touch the ears or my collar, but the photo of John Fogerty, at left (above) on a Harley, was everything I wanted to be. Long, full hair, flannel shirt and bandana, leather motorcycle chaps (probably covering a worn pair of Levi's) and boots. How much cooler could you be (hmmm? Except for the bandana and chaps, that's what I look like most of the time now)?

I've stayed a fan through CCR going from four members to three (I think it was John's brother Tom who left the band), then Fogerty's Blue Ridge Rangers album with 'Jambalaya,' and on to 'Centerfield.' Can't wait to hear his latest, 'Revival.' I've heard it's great.

But I sure wish I could be at the coffee pot tomorrow morning. maybe even sporting a flannel shirt and motorcycle chaps, and . . . well, maybe not . . .

psycho-lawncare

Why is my neighbor vacuuming his yard? Oh, well. That's why there are front porches.

One Pound!

Signed up for the Y's Healthy Holiday program the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Maintain or lose weight until after January 1, and you earn a T-shirt. I weighed in a 216 (with shoes . . . in the evening . . . after dinner . . . in sweats -- I usually weigh about 210).

My wife made three pies for Thanksgiving: pecan, chocolate and pumpkin. Have I mentioned that only four of us were here for Thanksgiving? And that I'm the only one who likes pumpkin pie?

No matter how much work I've done since, I can't break 217. AGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!

No wonder I've been doing some serious comfort eating. Who can handle that kind of stress!?

Warning: Side Effects of Dad-isms

(Some of this post might be considered PG-13. I have to figure out how to write it without attracting the attention of google-pervs. Forgive the odd spellings.)

I've always had a pretty up-front relationship with my kids; and even though they've normally ignored my Dad-isms, we've openly discussed important, age-relevant issues.

When my older daughter (#1) was about the age of my younger daughter (#2) now, my wife had miscarried twice until she was able to carry our younger daughter to full-term. #1 and I had some very frank and descriptive discussions during that time about pregnancy, secks, life and death, and relationships. This eventually capped with the 'If you give a mouse a cookie' speech I wrote about in Dad-isms #1.

Daughter #2 is much more direct and straightforward than my older kids. My wife, #2 and I were having dinner at Haltom Chinese last week, when I brought up the evils of pre-teen boys (I'm open-minded), anticipating the receptiveness and understanding of daughter #1.

#2 stops me mid-evil-boy sentence and said, 'Mom's done IT. I'd rather talk with her about this.' When pressed, #2 counted our children (a yours, mine and ours family) and detailed that mom had done IT twice and that I had done IT twice, but she'd much rather get the details from mom.

She told me last night that she and mom had talked about IT on the way home from the doctor's office. BUT mom probably didn't adequately explain what happens when you give a mouse a cookie.

A couple of side-notes . . .

Note #1: Haltom Chinese's owner is incredibly nice. Near his cash register, he's posted autographed photos of local pageant contest winners who visited his restaurant. When Daughter #1 became her high school's first-ever homecoming queen (a new school), I joked about him posting her photo (#1 wouldn't do it). But ever since, he's referred to her as 'The Queen.'

As we've continued to eat at the restaurant (we've been loyal for about 10-15 years), he now refers to #1 as 'Big Queen' and #2 as 'Little Queen.'

(okay, watch for spelling)

Note #2: When #1 was about a junior in high school, my wife and I were watching the news, when a story came on about teenagers not considering or uhl secks to be secks (hmmmm? odd name for not being secks).

I immediately recognized this as an opportunity for a Dad-istic conversation and called #1 in to talk about the news story. I confidently explained the news story to her and asked if it was true at her school.

She said, 'Oh no, we call it give ing hehd.'

I'd Dad-isized myself into a corner. Did I really want to know anymore? Think. Think. Think (just like Winnie the Pooh). Hours must've passed, but I replied, 'We've talked about STDs before. Just because it's or uhl secks doesn't mean you don't need to use a condom.'

There is a God. With dad-relieving spontaneity, without taking time to think about dad's ears already bleeding from what he'd just heard, she spewed (bad choice of vowels?), 'I'm not putting some guy's dirty pea nus in my mouth!'

Okay, maybe mice could stopped at a glass of milk.

More Redneck Road Rage

To paraphrase Richard Nixon, 'I am not a redneck.' Not normally anyway, but it sure seem like rush-hour traffic and those yankee immigrant drivers make me want to cue up Toby Keith (sorry, couldn't think of anybody more redneck on the spur of the moment).

I do drive a full-size Ford F-150 with a small V-8 and pipes out the side (not my doing; very popular with older daughter and her friends; keeps the neighbors awake), so a note to this morning's drivers . . .

You in the Kia SUV (Sorry Undersized Vehicle): what makes you think that tailgating me is going to make me drive faster, especially when I can barely see your luggage rack over the top of my tailgate? I'm 52 years old with two teenagers, an ex-wife and a former-Marine father-in-law with a notched-handle .45 automatic. Why would I be intimidated by your 4-cylinder stocking stuffer?

And you in the new Volvo: go ahead and try to cut me off again. My truck costs about 1/3 the price of your over-priced, hello-my-name-is-Inga toyota. Let's test out its safety features, as advertised in Affluent A** Magazine.

Whew! I feel better now.

Morning Maker: stopping at the Valero gas pumps on Loop 820 and White Settlement Road. 14 pumps, 12 filled with pick-up trucks. All others empty. Gasoline with a testosterone rush -- $2.77 a gallon.

Role Model

Dad-isms #2

More temporarily useless tips and advice for my kids

Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good. That honour, courage and virtue mean everything; that power and money ... money and power mean nothing. That good always triumphs over evil. And I want you to remember this.... that love....true love never dies ! Remember that, boy ... remember that. Doesn’t matter if it is true or not, a man should believe in those things because those are the things worth believing in...... got that ? . . . Hub McCann, Second-Hand Lions

In Texas, they don’t worry much, about things they can’t control . . . Jerry Jeff Walker (Keep Texas Beautiful)

And you still can hear me singing to the people who don’t listen to the things that I am saying, praying someone’s going to hear; And I guess I’ll die explaining how the things that they complain about are things they could be changing, hoping someone’s goin’ to care . . . Kris Kristofferson (To Beat the Devil)

If you want to become the best runner you can be, start now. Don’t spend the rest of your life wondering if you can do it . . . Priscilla Welch (running legend, author)

He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint . . . Isaiah 40: 29-31 (a perfect prayer for old guys wanting to run)

And from me:

Screw credit before it screws you.

Best advice ever: treat everyone as if they have WIFM written on their forehead -- 'what's in it for me?'

Stand up straight. Be tall (there’s nothing better than being tall).

Come up with solutions, not problems or excuses. Find a way to get it done.

Be a leader. People need someone to step up to the plate.

Chew with your mouth closed.

Role Models

Just in Time for the Holidays

One word:

BELIEVE.

We do.

The Drive Home

Today's drive home (even though I left early enough to not battle rush hour), just like every day, was a b****. It brought to mind a few songs:

Welcome to Texas
Brian Burns
Welcome to Texas, don't anybody get me wrong;
We’re glad y’all came to see us, just don’t forget to go back home.
We don’t need your politics, we don’t need your prayers,we don’t need your moral compass leadin’ us anywhere.
We don’t need your business, we don’t need your art, we don’t really give a damn how you did things up north.

Screw You. We're From Texas
Ray Wylie Hubbard
So screw you, we're from Texas
Screw you, we're from Texas
Screw you, we're from Texas
We're from Texas, screw you
(Has he seen me before? I got on my cowboy boots, jeans; And Hawaiian shirt, mirrored sunglasses; And a mobile phone; I guess I look like some Port Aransas dope dealer that's out on bail; Just trying to get home)

I Don't Live in Dallas
Jarrod Birmingham
You're a whole bunch of yuppies
With nothing to do but keep Isuzu in business
We all know it's true
I'd like to sell you to Oklahoma
If they could only afford you
Cuz I don't live in Dallas
I live in Texas

Southbound 35
Pat Green
I'm staring at this ocean full of Yankees, and I'd rather be in Texas on my own.
So we were southbound 35 (okay, I live northbound on IH-35, but I do have a yankee-child wife and a pick-up . . . truck)
We were headed down the road, hit the border by the morning
Let Texas fill my soul, yeah let Texas fill my soul.

Whew! I feel better now.

A Pirate Legacy

Yes, I am a pirate, 200 years too late
The cannons don't thunder, there's nothing to plunder
I'm an over-40 victim of fate, arriving too late, arriving too late
- - A Pirate Looks at 40 as sung by Jimmy Buffett

A Pirate Looks at 40 is one of my all-time favorite songs; and, even though I've been on the straight and narrow most of my life (okay, all of my life . . . I'm pretty dull), I'm still waiting, at the drop of an eye-patch, to pick up a cutlass and plunder the nearest frigate.

Just like almost any kid, I thought my parents were the dullest people I'd ever met. Now that I know how dull children can make you, maybe, as Buffett sings, . . . it could me my own damn fault.

BUT I do think there are hints of a pirate legacy in family . . .

My dad cited his first taste of alcohol as a young kid in Kentucky eating sugar from the bottom of moonshine stills (gee, dad. wasn't that illegal?).

As a boxer, he often took on the 'champion' from whatever carnival might be passing through Mayfield (and probably Paducah). Except he knew that he would take the fall on Thursday, but then he'd be able to beat the champ on Friday, which, of course, set up the sell-out for Saturday night (the champ alway won in the ring, but my dad had money in his pocket).

My mother was eating a hamburger and fries in a Port Arthur cafe, when a would-be suitor plopped down in the booth across from her. As he talked, he reached for French fry, and she warned him not to touch her French fries. He laughed and reached for another fry. My mom, in her own swashbuckling way, swiped her knife off the table and stabbed the back of his hand . . . 'I told you not to touch my French fries.'

After my parents married and my dad went to work at Texaco in Port Arthur, his friends warned him the Cajun women sleep with knives under their pillows. He believed.

Role Models

Dad-isms #1

When my older daughter was in the 6th or 7th grade, she and her friends spent a lot of their weekend nights at a nearby roller skating rink. Stories soon came home about meeting boys and making out in dark corners. That's when I gave my now-famous 'If you give a mouse a cookie' speech to my daughter and her lip-locking friend about boys' not-so-secret desires (you know the story, 'If you give a mouse a cookie, he's going to ask for a glass of milk. When you give him the milk, he'll probably ask for a straw, etc.).

As my kids got older, I thought about what I'd like to leave with them (and what I'd already tried to dump on them) and developed my list of 'Dad-isms.' Dad-isms are quotes, lines from songs, advice I've received, advice I've given and just about any other bit of paternal preaching I could think of. From time to time, I'll share some with you (share with you? who's reading this besides me?).

Here's the first batch:

You gotta roll with the punches . . . George Bowden, Sr. (former boxer)

We've gotta roll with the punches. Learn to play all of our hunches; makin' the best of whatever comes your way. Forget that blind ambition and learn to trust your intuition; plowin' straight ahead come what may . . . Jimmy Buffett (Cowboy in the Jungle)

Be there; Play; Make Their Day; and Choose Your Attitude . . . FISH Philosophy (read the book)

If you sit by the river long enough, you will see the bodies of your enemies float by . . . Japanese proverb (that may be my favorite looking-back-at-life favorite)

Never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never -- in nothing, great or small, large or petty -- never give in . . . Winston Churchill

And a couple of mine (sort of anyway) . . .

Just remember: they can't eat you.

You don't have to run faster than the bear, just faster than me? What happens if the bear's still hungry? If you start something, give it your best shot.

Role Models

Escaping the Witness Protection Program

I think my wife believes I'm part of the Witness Protection Program.

She's from Baltimore, and I'm from Texas. I've spent time with her family in Maryland and have met some long-time family friends and even some high school and college classmates. My wife's met members of my extended family, mostly at my Aunt Dorothy's beach birthday parties (yea, Bolivar!) or at weddings and funerals; and, although she's visited Port Arthur, she's never heard anyone say, 'I knew George when . . . .'

I grew up in Port Arthur, which for those of you not from 'round here, is about 90 miles east of Houston, 10-15 miles from the beach, and a quick drive 'cross the river' to Louisiana. Except for a high school friend now married to my ex-wife, she's never met high school or college friends from my life in Port Arthur. As a result, she must think that I made it all up and that I'm hiding from . . . well, somebody. Upside . . . at least I'm important enough to have to hide.

So, who cares?

As my kids have grown older and are beginning to leave home, I'm more disappointed that they've never connected with their heritage (my mother's was born in Jeanerette, Louisiana, and grew up in Port Arthur; my dad's from Mayfield, Kentucky, and moved to Texas after World War II).

Tell my kids that they're Cajuns -- coon-asses to some -- and that boudain, dirty rice and gumbo are heavenly delicacies (sorry, I'm not a crawfish fan), and they'll look at you like you're . . . well, just about as out of touch as their dad. I left Port Arthur right after college, didn't look back and didn't visit much, and before I knew it -- after I realized that my kids thought Cajun was a chicken sandwich at Wendy's -- my parents were old and soon died.

We live in suburban Fort Worth and have no family within a six-hour drive; no family that my kids know well within the two-day drive to Baltimore (don't cry for me, Evangelina; we have friends here from all over the country . . . all over the world actually, some we've known since our arrival in Fort Worth in 1990).

If you're still with me, you're asking what's set me off?

1) Nobody in my family will eat boudain or gumbo. Dirty rice is out of the question, just on name alone.

2) I Googled "'Port Arthur' and 1974" last week, and found the blog site of a former high school classmate who I knew but not well. We chatted (why couldn't any of us be that interesting in high school?), and she closed with 'Good luck finding other TJ classmates.'

I realized that I sounded like I was looking to re-live the 'glory days (or in my case, the gory days) of high school. In reality, I think I'm Googling for that recipe to mend the disconnect between our Chili's-Home Depot-Staples-Target-Dillards (and a bunch of teen-trendy. one-word-name mall stores) suburban lifestyle and our diluted Cajun heritage.

By the way, did you know that in Baltimore they steam their seafood and not deep-fry it? After rassling for a couple of ounces of crab meat, I ask for a cheeseburger.

So . . . know any good Cajun recipes? And if you know me, but don't know anybody named Corleone (remember the Witness Protection Program? . . . oh, come on; it wasn't that bad!), holler at me.