Walden: foreshadowing the Front Porch

Far out! John Denver was singing 'Rocky Mountain High,' the campus Ecology Club was stacking newspapers, and our English teachers had us reading Thoreau's Walden. We were going to live the simple life, peace would dominate the world (peace dominate?), and the planet would be saved. And the boys among us were ecstatic that the draft was over.

I still have my high-school copy of Henry David Thoreau's Walden and Civil Disobedience. In the early '70s, it was kind of like the bible for . . . well, for all those things I mentioned in the first paragraph.

I buy almost all of my books at Half-Price Books, usually 2-3 at a time; and if I run out before another shopping trip, I scrounge something around the house for something else to read. At least three times, I've resorted to Walden between Half-Price sprees, and I've gotten all the way to page 10 (Chapter 1 begins on page 7).

Thoreau's much more self-absorbed than I remember (my friend Laurie would call him a 'diva,' like she did me in my last blog), and I find the passages that our English teachers didn't have us underline to be much more interesting. Who really cares about most men leading lives of quiet desperation.

In the first LONG paragraph of Chapter 1 -- Economy, Thoreau anticipates blogging (at least my blogs):

I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew so well . . . Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would sned to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must be a distant land to me.

Not sure exactly what he said, but I like the justification for writing about myself, because that's really about the only thing I know. And that's what I love about others' blogs.

Then later in another LONG paragraph about northern overseers being worse than southern overseers (damn yankees!), he wrote:

. . . a prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won by his own deeds. Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinions. What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate.

Then he throws in something about Wilberforce, and I'm still trying to figure out who he is.

I agree with both Laurie and Cath's comments on my last blog (Cath is one of those 'kindred from a distant land'), and I'm impressed at how appropriate Thoreau's comments are to that blog and their comments (I was desperate for another trip to Half-Price Books before I wrote the last blog).

A couple of addenda . . .

#1 -- I really didn't deserve my first true love. She was far more mature than I was and, fortunately, kind enough to not point that out to me. I was crushed when she left but grateful for the time we were together. And I regret some of the stupid, stupid jealousies that were such a waste of time.

She must've borrowed my copy of Walden. On the inside cover -- and I either missed it or didn't understand it at the time -- she wrote: Even love nods occasionally. If I would've noticed that at 17, she and I would be . . . well, probably on opposite ends of the state, carrying on our own lives and never having contact again . . . just like now. But at least I'd be smarter.

#2 -- My last blog, I wrote about wanting to tell old friends, 'You were important to me.' A long-ago friend sent me a note through the TJ Web site and sweetly wrote that she still has a gift -- an Instamatic, light-just-right photo of a Port Arthur landmark -- I gave her in high school.

There's nothing better than hearing, 'You were important to me.'

By the way, I still have the patch at the beginning of the blog . . . the jeans it was sewn on didn't make it. But I do have a T-shirt with it screened on the front.

Is it my breath? Old friends and odd reunions

The night of my high school graduation remains the loneliest time in my life. Picked up my diploma (they didn't trust us enough to pass out diplomas on stage), turned in my robe and went home.

Parents gave me money to go to Bonanza Steakhouse. Went to eat by myself and then back home.

No parties. No friends. Nothing.

Okay, now that I've set the scene for you, this is not about teen angst and whining. So I'm almost sure you're asking, 'What led to an overcooked T-bone and free refills of iced tea (and where am I going with this?)?'

This is a tough blog to write and not sound like a whine. I will anyway, because I have some questions about what happens to relationships.

I've been in contact lately with some high school friends (keeping in mind that I've been out of school for almost 35 years), and the results been . . . confusing? Someone in Port Arthur created a Web site for TJ (Port Arthur Jefferson) alumni -- the school no longer exists -- and it's already attracted more than 3,000 online participants. Amazing!

I've reconnected with some friends through the Web site, and visiting with them has been a real treat. In other venues, I've become good blogging friends with someone who was just an acquaintance in high school, and now she's been a wonderful re-connect with Southeast Texas. Some of these folks seem to be just like me and have picked up like we chatted over coffee just yesterday.

Unfortunately, there have been some 'odd' reunions -- odd as in 'what just happened?' -- with those whose friendships I valued. Any renewal of -- for lack of a better term -- childhood friendships just 'poofed' with an e-door in the face, and nothing was left but some cyber-dust. I've been really surprised . . . and sadly embarrassed . . . with who slammed the door. And, unfortunately, no amount of self-examination has given me an answer.

My wife says that I can carry on a meaningful conversation with a tree, and she becomes proudly frustrated when she hears business associates, hers and mine, say, 'Everybody loves George (her words, not mine).' I throw that in as some kind of evidence that I'm a nice guy and not somebody hanging out in an overcoat and black socks.

I guess it must be strange -- and maybe a little frightening, reason for apprehension -- to hear from someone after 30+ years, especially when I think of all the phases of life I've passed through (you should be happy that you didn't catch me in the admitted asshole phase) and assuming that others have changed just as dramatically during three decades.

So what's up? Is it my breath?

I mention my high school graduation because that seems to be a pivotal point in my life, when I packed my emotional and social bags and left Port Arthur behind (although I lived there another 3 1/2 years). My senior year sucked for a bunch of reasons (too awkward to explain here . . . if you were there, don't feel bad; it wasn't your fault . . . really!). It was a powerful enough experience that I've always warned my own children: never abandon your friends. I do believe all that revolved around those seemingly forever nine months resulted in a 1974 Bonanza-night out and a decades-long relationship void with those from my hometown.

I wrote in my very first blog that my wife must think I'm in the witness protection program because I have so few contacts -- well, really none -- from my childhood in Port Arthur. I've also blogged and asked about what happens to people during their lives that makes them grow from the same environment into 180s on the life-outlook scale.

As I've grown older, I've recognized the need to leave the 'witness protection program.' Now, I'm wondering: how do you say, 'you were important to me' to those who have just 'poofed?'

But to those who re-warmed yesterday's cup of coffee and just enjoyed the chat: THANKS!

Happiness comes in 3s

A near-perfect Sunday lunch . . .

Fajitas and beer in the middle of the after-church crowd

What a great day!

Dorothy . . . Peter Pan . . . The More Things Change . . .

Daughter #1’s more of a Peter Pan than I am. As independent as each of us is, neither one of us really wants to grow up. She was in town a couple of weeks ago, and every day seemed to bring a new ‘Toto-I-don’t-think-we’re-in-Kansas-any-more’ moment (is it okay to bounce metaphorically from Peter Pan to Wizard of Oz in the same paragraph?).

At that time, Daughter #2 talked about being in the sixth-grade band; and Daughter #1 seemed to accept that her sister was in sixth grade and even 'whoo-hooed' her role as the big dog on the intermediate school campus. Then Daughter #1 realized that her sister will 'grown up' and fighting in the jungles of the seventh grade next year.

‘That can’t be right. I was just in the seventh grade.” Well, maybe seven or eight years ago.

A friend, who helped me unpack when I moved to Fort Worth in 1990, has an older daughter who is a life-long friend of Daughter #1; and Daughter #1 regularly trades Facebook messages with her (she attends Stephen F. Austin State University; Daughter #1 is across the state at Texas Tech).

When my wife mentioned that the life-long friend’s baby brother, who Daughter #1’s known since birth, becomes a teenager this year, Daughter #1 challenges with ‘No way. I’m still a . . . ,’ and then backs down with a ‘when did everybody grow up?’

Our neighborhood -- where Daughter #1 grew up or at least where she kept celebrating birthdays -- is fairly transitional. Families have moved with job changes and schools have continued to open – and kids get shuffled around – to accommodate more families moving into our area. Change shouldn’t be new to her, and she always adapted well.

Unfortunately, her class of friends has seen tragic deaths throughout their school careers --parents killed in motorcycle accidents, parents dying unexpectedly from heart attacks and aneurysms, friends taken by cancer and killed in accidents, and classmates taking their own lives -- but I don’t think she was prepared as a newly crowned adult to mourn the slow death from cancer of a long-time friend’s dad.

Fortunately, life is good, and it does change. Daughter #1 loves to open Facebook, when she’s here, to show her mom the latest baby photos posted by some of her friends from high school. Her display is somewhere between the delight of a child with a new Barbie and the disgust of a teenager served liver when she realizes that girls her age – women – have children. Some are married now, some with husbands in Iraq, and some have begun careers, with rent payments, car payments, cell phone payments and insurance payments all their own.
Daughter #1 is slowly recognizing that her Dorothy has no ruby slippers to help return her to Kansas and that her Peter Pan has no Tinkerbell to keep the magic of Neverland (although, like me, she’ll keep clicking her heals together just to be sure).

But what doesn’t change? I crossed a small bridge during a recent walk – after Daughter #1’s ‘OMG-I’m-growing-up’ visit – and saw a teenage boy sitting on a large rock, not doing much of anything but throwing rocks in the water. His posture and his careless-but-sometimes-intense throws were mine about 35 years ago, when I sat on the Port Arthur seawall and threw rock after rock into the Intercoastal Canal.

If I would’ve asked the boy was he was doing, I’m sure he would’ve replied, ‘nuthin.’ But I almost guarantee that every rock – just like each rock I tossed – was labeled: girlfriend, school, college, car, parents, job, money, boredom, sex, drugs, drinking or – another apparently un-changeable – going to war.

When I crossed the bridge again, he’d moved, now to a nearby picnic table, where he stared at clouds while kids played on the toys of a nearby playground. He was sitting on the bench seat, leaning back with his elbows on the table, head tossed back and his face turned toward the sun. My picnic table – whether I walked from my rock on the seawall to Rose Hill Park or drove to Port Neches Park – was – like this young man’s – one more spot that wasn’t home. And every cloud that passed over had a rock namesake: girlfriend, school, college, car, parents, job, money, boredom, sex, drugs, drinking or going to war.

While I was weighing Daughter #1’s ‘life’s-coming-too-fast’ against my recognition that teen angst is eternal, I thought about the soul searching, life choices, missed opportunities, twists of fate, stupid comments, smart moves and the sheer luck of living. And then my IPod pulled up Jimmy Buffett’s ‘He Went to Paris.’

He went to Paris looking for answers
To questions that bothered him so
He was impressive, young and aggressive
Saving the world on his own

But the warm Summer breezes
The French wines and cheeses
Put his ambitions at bay
Summers and Winters
Scattered like splinters
And four or five years slipped away

Then he went to England, played the piano
And married an actress named Kim
They had a fine life, she was a good wife
Bore him a young son named Jim
And all of the answers and all of the questions
He locked in his attic one day‘
Cause he liked the quiet clean country living
And twenty more years slipped away

Well the war took his baby, bombs killed his lady
And left him with only on eye
His body was battered, his world was shattered
And all he could do was just cry
While the tears were falling, he was recalling
The answers he never found
So he hopped on a freighter, skidded the ocean
And left England without a sound

Now he lives in the islands, fishes the pilin’s
And drinks his green label each day
He’s writing his memoirs and losing his hearing
But he don’t care what most people say
Through eighty-six years of perpetual motion
If he likes you he’ll smile then he’ll say
Jimmy, some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic
But I had a good life all the way

And he went to Paris looking for answers
To questions that bother him so

The Roller Coaster Wait: mad as hell and the big to-do

I hate haircuts. Fortunately, I wasn’t waiting for my own haircut but was sitting in the waiting area of Great Clips reading the July issue of Texas Monthly while my wife and the stylist discussed baseball, cars or whatever women talk about when they get their hair cut. And the read proved to be quite a roller coaster ride.

Publisher William Broyles is madder ‘n hell . . . and justifiably so. In his magazine column, he outlines his family’s four consecutive generations of military service – WW I, WW II, Vietnam and now Afghanistan/Iraq – and describes his son’s eroding idealism as a result of the U.S.’ botched involvement in Iraq.

Broyles’ son is an Air Force pararescueman, which Broyles likens to a Navy Seal, and he writes of his admiration for the professionalism and commitment of his son and his team members.

Since leaving the military, Broyles’ son and a friend have established a foundation to assist wounded veterans; and after describing the horrible losses that many of these veterans face – Broyles writes about losses of benefits, homes, jobs, families, arms, legs, faces and that about 1,000 a month attempt suicide. He dedicates the remainder of his column to blasting the U.S. government’s mismanagement of the war in Iraq (did you know we’ve been fighting in Iraq longer than we fought in World War I and World War II combined?).

He never slights the performance of the men and women in the military, but he attributes billions of dollars lost to mismanagement and corruption and attempts to estimate the total cost of the war at somewhere around $3-4 TRILLION. Like the rest of us, he wonders what we could do with that money. Suddenly, I’m Peter Finch in the movie Network, shouting "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

Then I turn the page.

Did you know there’s a couple in Frankston, Texas, who have been married for 80 years? They’re 100 and 101 years old; and back in 1927, when a traveling carnival came through town paying $25 to any couple who would get married on stage, they stepped up on the stage and took the money. The $25 paid for a bedroom suite, dishes and a kitchen cabinet; and since the couple has lived in the same house for 79 years -- which they built for $1,000 (oops! had to pay another $50 for the lot) -- they still use those dishes and the kitchen cabinet.

The couple eats bacon, eggs and biscuits for breakfast nearly every morning and has outlived four doctors. And as they explain, ‘Every occasion, every birthday, is a big to-do these days. It’s rare for two people to live this long together.’

What a ride! I’m not a magazine salesman, but find a copy of the July issue of Texas Monthly or go online. There is something worth being as ‘mad as hell’ about. And there’s something that gives you hope and assures you that life is worth making a ‘big to-do’ about.

Lose your flamingo? Don't tell anybody your age.

I have to pay more attention. Last week, I read a newspaper article about pink flamingos being stolen out of a yard here in Fort Worth. I also read an article about a home burglary where the report quoted the '52-year-old homeowner.' These could be the same article and for the sake of this post, I'm going to believe they are.

When I read about the 52-year-old homeowner, I felt so bad. Someone's ripped some poor old guy. Then it occurred to me . . . I'm 52!!!

About the same time, I received an e-mail from my friend TJ in Austin that included George Carlin's Views on Aging. Snopes says that George Carlin actually isn't the source of these views, although the Internet has attributed them to him since November 2002; but I like 'em, especially after I forgot my age and felt sorry for the 'old guy' whose pink flamingos were stolen.

TJ's e-mail -- and somebody other than George Carlin's views on aging -- wrapped up with the following (and I like it!):

HOW TO STAY YOUNG

1. Throw out nonessential numbers. This includes age, weight and height. Let the doctor worry about them. That is why you pay him/her.
2. Keep only cheerful friends. The grouches pull you down.
3. Keep learning. Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening, whatever. Never let the brain idle. " An idle mind is the devil's workshop." And the devil's name is Alzheimer's.
4. Enjoy the simple things.
5. Laugh often, long and loud. Laugh until you gasp for breath.
6. The tears happen. Endure, grieve, and move on. The only person who is with us our entire life, is ourselves. Be ALIVE while you are alive.
7. Surround yourself with what you love, whether it's family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever. Your home is your refuge.
8. Cherish your health: If it is good, preserve it. If it is unstable, improve it. If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.
9. Don't take guilt trips. Take a trip to the mall, to the next county, to a foreign country, but NOT to where the guilt is.
10. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.

AND ALWAYS REMEMBER:
Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

BUT . . . if the 52-year-old homeowner is anything like me, he may have just forgotten where he left his pink flamingos. I'm sure his wife knows. She's just fed up with him losing things and refuses to tell him.

Always Trust Your Cape

May sucked. Maybe even March and April, too. Gasoline was skyrocketing to a formerly-never-in-my-lifetime high and everything else was going right along with it. People were losing their jobs and their homes. The news was painful to watch, almost as painful as my checkbook balance.

And I couldn’t help but wonder: if I love life and my outlook is usually brighter than most, what’s happening now to those folks who scowl and snarl and moan because they’re still trying to figure out how they always end up with the winning ticket in the crap-on-me lottery? Even worse: how’s all this impacting that poor soul who’s teeter righting on the edge of sanity, struggling to stay away from the suicide note with his name at the bottom?

The world had beaten me up. Bad. I wasn’t sure how to get back up and, me being me, worried that those who stayed on the mat waiting for the count might never get up. Not even a blog entry for me . . . I figured no one wanted to hear my cyber-whining. I semi-desperately whispered/apologized to a friend at work, ‘This is not a good time for me.’

So I’m at work last month, plunking away at my keyboard, bitching to myself about all the things I’d always swore I’d never bitch about . . . those things I couldn’t control. My IPod shuffles to Guy Clark and ‘The Cape.’

Eight years old with flour sack cape
Tied all around his neck
He climbed up on the garage
Figurin’ what the heck
He screwed his courage up so tight
The whole thing come unwound
He got a runnin’ start and bless his heart
He headed for the ground

He’s one of those who knows that life
Is just a leap of faith
Spread your arms and hold you breath
Always trust your cape

I never jumped off the roof, but I clothes-pinned many a bath towel across my super-hero shoulders as a kid. Although I could never get the towel to blow in the wind like Superman’s cape or mimic the intimidating shadow of Batman’s, I was courageous and always managed, no matter how badly Kryptonited, to spring back up for ‘Truth, Justice and the American Way (I may have been considered a little odd in my neighborhood).’

All grown up with a flour sack cape
Tied all around his dream
He’s full of piss and vinegar
He’s bustin’ at the seams
He licked his finger and checked the wind
It’s gonna be do or die
He wasn’t scared of nothin’, Boys
He was pretty sure he could fly

I listened to Guy Clark, and I thought about my own cape. I’d never let life drag me down like it had recently. Where’d I lose my cape?

Old and grey with a flour sack cape
Tied all around his head
He’s still jumpin’ off the garage
And will be till he’s dead
All these years the people said He’s actin’ like a kid
He did not know he could not fly So he did

I guess that’s the problem super-heroes have with secret identities. You have to remember where you hid your costume. I may not be back to leaping buildings with a single bound or stopping speeding bullets, but I remembered where I put my cap, and I try to wear it more often when I’m out on the town. Or buying groceries. Or pumping gas. And I loved it earlier in June when, once again, someone asked . . . no, not who was that Masked Man . . . ‘Why are you in such a good mood?’

Vacationed in Red River, New Mexico, a couple of weeks ago. I feel much better now. Take a look.

Them's Fightin' Words, or Who You Callin' Perky?

Earlier this evening, I participated in a City of Fort Worth Town Hall Meeting, where the topics included the collaboration between the City and the YMCA to build a $5-million facility in our area. Each side is pitching in $2.5 million: the Y from a bank loan and the City from a 2004 bond.

I'm on the board of the local Y and my mission was to lend moral support if disgruntled residents lit their torches, grabbed up their pitchforks and attempted to chase the monster Y director out of the village. Fortunately, the issue quickly turned away from the Y and toward the trustworthiness of the City Council.

But me being me, I felt compelled to defend the Y early on when its value to the community was questioned. After a few hostile misstatements were fired across the bow, I stood and explained that I had lived in Summerfields (the hostile group) from 1990 to 1997 then moved to my current, nearby neighborhood -- Park Glen -- in 1997.

All was going well as I explained my role as a volunteer with the Y and how I'd even raised money to provide scholarships for kids who couldn't afford Y programs. I talked briefly about my daughters and how they've grown up with the Y, and when questioned whether I voted for a YMCA in the bond package, I responded that I voted for the bond package and that I was happy that the City was doubling its investment by collaborating with the Y.

I heard a few minutes ago that I even made the Channel 11 news.

After the meeting adjourned, I was talking with a group of friends near the stage, when I turned to ask our local City Councilman a question about the bond package. The Councilman is in a wheelchair, so when I turned, I was facing a hostile mother who looked at me and said, 'Yes, Mr. Perky-I-live-in-Park-Glen . . . '

I must've looked less-than-perky when I pulled out my six-gun-of-a-finger and -- probably spitting perky all over her -- told her that I'm a cancer survivor and that I love life. I'm not going to apologize for being 'perky.' Before I could get out the words 'bitter old bitch,' her friend grabbed her and dragged her to the door.

She's just lucky that she didn't call me handsome and charming. I would've been all over her like white on rice.

I talked with Lance Griggs, the long-time president of the Summerfields Neighborhood Association, and he explained to me that the 2004 bond program specifically identified a community center in District 4, which is our area. The YMCA/City of Fort Worth facility will be slightly north of the area, out of District 4; and that location has become the real issue behind the protests.

His neighborhood, Summerfields, has become one of the lower-income neighborhoods in our North Fort Worth community; and, unfortunately, many of its residents feel betrayed that the new community center is not located in their neighborhood as they feel was promised in the bond program.

When I asked Lance what he wanted to happen, he said that he'd like to see the City of Fort Worth pay its portion of the YMCA/City of Fort Worth facility with windfall monies from the Barnett Shale (natural gas drilling) and use the $2.5 million in bond money for a community center in District 4.

I just checked the City of Fort Worth's Web site; and after some digging, I found a list of 2004 bond projects, including the allocation of $7.5 million for three community centers that included the Far Northeast Community Center in District 2, which is where our new Y will be located.

I know Lance Griggs to be a caring, trustworthy and concerned citizen, and I'm looking forward to talking with him again, especially to clarify the promised location of the community center.

But just don't let anybody call me 'perky' again!

Poetic License to Kill

I am so thankful for my get-a-rope posse of blog readers, but this is sort of a confession. I mentioned in my last post that a co-worker criticized my writing and that I was ready to shoot it out at high noon over the slight. I was so proud . . . all you guys sounded like real Texans, just like Willie sings in Beer for My Horses:

Grandpappy told my pappy: 'Back in my day, son,
A man had to answer for the wicked that he done.
Take all the rope in Texas, find a tall oak tree,
Round up all of them bad boys, hang them high in the street'

And for that I'm thankful that I didn't identify my co-worker. I like him a lot and I'd hate to find him dangling from a blog noose with that 'what'd-I-say-and-who-are-those-guys' look on his face.

So, maybe I should clarify . . .

My co-worker is actually my boss, and we're close friends, to continue our Western saga, kind of like:

Butch and Sundance

And I did take a little bit of poetic license with my last blog, but reality was way too complicated.

The two days I described were very stressful, but my boss didn't actually criticize my writing. His frustrations just poured over onto my job about the same time that two (count 'em, two) of my projects found themselves:

Custered right in the middle of their own Little Big Horn

When the arrows started coming a little too close, I raised my white flag, unaware that my boss, too, was just about out of bullets; and I asked if we might be saved by his managerial cavalry. He replied with his best Tonto:

'What do you mean 'we,' paleface?'

Okay, he actually just held his head in his hands and mumbled, 'Maybe what they're saying is true.'

I take a HUGE amount of pride in my job because 1) I'm very good at what I do (at least one other person said so) and 2) I think I've made a difference in our firm (I think somebody else agreed).

So them were fightin' words!

But, being a good employee and loyal friend, I probably should've listened when my 'they're-taking-scalps' news pushed my boss under the Monday-morning cattle stampede. But it was much more satisfying to scratch out a guns-blazing blog in response to a perceived assault on MY work.

My boss and my peers and I are necessary-but-not-billable evils in an engineering firm . . . we are the Marketing Group. Marketing professionals and engineers are not from the same teepee, and for the four years since my boss and I arrived, we've fought off the Indians, most still pissed off about those earlier whiskey-selling-blanket-trading marketing people. And we've done a great job building credibility and trust, but sometimes, like the two days I described in my previous blog, we do feel a lot like Butch and Sundance:

In the movie's final death scene

But guess what . . . we get to keep our scalps. Our engineering Indians, who really aren't such bad guys (and girls), have a huge (HUGE) new contract, thanks in part to our little Marketing Group.

So, please, blog posse, don't hurt my boss. He's just trying to get some of those arrows out of his back.

In response to one of the comments to my last post, I do get paid to write, but kind of like those guys at the United Nations get paid to scribble something in English when the Prime Minister of Outer Zwenbornio gets up to speak. I translate our technical guys' a-thousand-multi-syllabic-words-are-as-good-as-one monologues into marketable qualifications and customer benefits.

High Noon at Work, and It's Not Time for Lunch

Monday morning of last week and my barn was burned down, the stream had been dammed up and my cattle run off. And there was my co-worker smelling of kerosene, pants wet to the knees and cow-poop all over his boots. Being an even-dispositioned kind of man, I figured he'd had a bad day and accidents do happen.

Tuesday morning and the well's been tainted, my wife and kids sold to Indians and my best dog lured away with bon-bons and Scooby snacks. And there was my co-worker again, sipping on a chilled Ozarka, a pocket full of chips from the Indian casino, and sporting a new 'I love my dog' T-shirt. When a man's had a bad Monday, sometimes it's hard to bounce back on Tuesday, so I could let an little grouchiness on his part slide.

And then he criticized my writing. That's enough to get a normal man riled, but for me, it means the clock is ticking toward high noon. I looked to my role models and pondered, 'What should I do?'

Taking their best advice, I load up the pearl-handled pistols, strap on the hand-tooled leather holster, tying it on the leg, snap the brim of my Stetson, and call him out in the street. I stood there in the dust and the mud, and shouted to the saloon, 'I'm callin' you out, you barn-burnin', stream-damming, poopy-booted, well-taintin', wife-and-kid-discountin', dog-stealin', writing critic (I was nearly exhausted and breathless by this point)!

The sun high overhead and the Clint Eastwood music cued up, I motion my co-worker out into the street (okay, into his office) and townspeople begin running for cover (okay, I close his office door). I look him in the eye and say, 'You seem to have some issues with me during the last couple of days. What seems to be the problem?'

He looks back at me, his hand twitching near his holster and says, 'I do have some issues, but they're not with you. I'm sorry. You're the only one I can count on to help me through this.'

Well, I don't need a barn anyway now that my cattle are gone, and I can always buy my own bottled water. I never liked the dog anyway, and I probably rate my writing higher than it deserves; so I unbuckle the holster, kick up some dirt, and say, 'Oh. Okay.'

I just hope my co-worker has a better week this week. These boots are killing my feet.

By the way, the 3:10 from Yuma photo at the far right is for my friend Kristi. She's already written the Russell Crowe Caveat for her wedding vows. If Russell Crowe ever shows up, she's outta there.

If you're an -IST, I must be old

I hate being old! Okay, maybe not being old, but I hate feeling old every time I see an '-IST.'

Today, I went to the opthamologIST and learned that I have 'vitreous separation.' When I walked away from the computer Saturday night, a small black splotch with a tail made its way into the corner of my eye, and the opthamologIST told that this is a 'floater,' a result of the vitreous separation.

The vitreous is the gel-like substance inside the eye and, 'as we get older,' it shrinks and sometimes the stringy edges cast shadows that the eye sees as 'floaters.' The doctor assured me that it's common among people 'my age' and that I'll get used to it.

When I showed up at the opthamologIST's office, I should've anticipated the 'age' tag, because his waiting room is filled with 'old people,' some even delivered by the nursing home van. Today's visit was just another calendar page in the 'if I'm seeing an -IST, I must be getting older' saga.

When I go to my urologIST once a year, as a follow-up to a bout with cancer in 2004, I sit in the waiting room with all the 'old people.' In fairness, there are some people my age . . . they're bringing their parents to see my doctor. I also have an annual visit with my neurologIST, a result of a 1999 seizure that was an indirect result of a 1974 car wreck; and he tells me how lucky that I'm only there for our yearly 'how-ya-feeling' chit-chat, because his waiting room is filled with . . . well, you know who.

A couple of years ago, my podiatrIST diagnosed me with plantar fasciitis, which he added is not unusual for active adults (thank God for that consolation) 'my age.' I also see a dermatologIST once a year, thanks to too many days enjoying the sun as a kid (okay, frying in the sun as a kid), but at least his waiting room has some not-yet-but-almost old people eager for their Botox fix.

The '-IST theory' seems to have an indirect '-CIAN' corollary, too. My wife and 19-year-old daughter #1 love our pediatrician of 17 years. Last month, my wife rushed daughter #1 to her with a neck-and-shoulder paralysis that earlier left daughter #1 incapable of getting out of bed (ironically, the same morning she was scheduled to have all four wisdom teeth removed).

Daughter #1 is no less than two feet taller than any other patient in the waiting room; but our pediatrician, who calls the evening after every visit to check on her patients, still sent her to a Cooks Children's Hospital clinic for X-rays. When 5'11" daughter #1 was finished, the technician turned to her, smiled and said, 'You're too big to come here anymore, but I'll still give you a sticker for being so good.'

So daughter #1 is old enough to see an gynecologIST (and she does) -- one -IST I'd really rather not think about -- and that's just one more step toward becoming the ultimate 'old people' . . . grandparents!

But sitting in waiting rooms with 'old people' is much better than being in the same room with my friends and family, when they gather to mark the dreaded alternative to my getting older. I'll take regular visits with any of the aforementioned -ISTs, and any of their professional associates, over that final appointment with, you guessed it, the corollary mortiCIAN.

Although it sure would be nice, if just once, one of those -ISTs would turn to me and say, 'Here's a sticker because you've been so good.'

A Napkin Holder, A Sports-Fan Dog and People Who Still Call Me Georgie

I know I don't get there often enough
But God knows I surely try
It's a magic kind of medicine
That no doctor could prescribe

That's the opening of Jimmy Buffett's One Particular Harbour, one of my all-time favorites. I was driving home from my Aunt Dorothy's late last Sunday, when the familiar thump-thump-thump, which sounds kind of like the sound of waves lapping against the bow of a boat, rolled out of the speakers.

As I drove, I'd been thinking about how much I enjoy being at my Aunt Dorothy's and how, for as long as I can remember, her home's been the center of the energy that drives our extended (WAY extended) family and a comfortable refuge from the storms of whatever age I happened to be. Hearing Jimmy Buffett sing, I realized that Aunt Dorothy's home, her kitchen table more specifically, has been my own 'particular harbour' for the last 50+ years.

Daughter #2 has become obsessed with my Aunt Dorothy, partly because she's as close to a grandmother from my side of the family as daughter #2's known and partly because she's told daughter #2 that she'll spank me if I'm mean to her. Both of us -- non-stop talkers, randomly energetic, always a friend and . . . hardheaded and a tendency toward bossiness -- are very much like Aunt Dorothy. Our drive was the return trip from a weekend that we'd spent visiting with her (in Southeast Texas, near the coast).

I've always gravitated to Aunt Dorothy's, even more than my own parents' house, and most of the time has been around her kitchen table. Aunt Dorothy has a front door, but I think the hinges would've frozen long ago if she didn't use it to check the mail every day. Anybody who's ever visited Aunt Dorothy goes through her always-open garage door and into her always-unlocked kitchen door, rarely knocking, and sits right there at the kitchen table.

I never realized one of the keys to the comfort of that kitchen table until last weekend. Aunt Dorothy served boiled crawfish before daughter #2 and I left town. When I needed a napkin after I'd used about half a roll of paper towels, I reached up to the same napkin holder -- if you're a boomer, you've seen them: wooden box, mounted on the wall, red rooster prancing on the front -- that's been there for my entire life. There's real comfort in that kind of consistency.

Aunt Dorothy's house is on a well-traveled street, once the main street for her small town, two blocks from the shopping area that included the drug store, where we always went for cough syrup (never remember getting a prescription from the doctor); Dryden's, where we bought most of my clothes (I think we had a charge account there); Spencer's, where the ladies shopped (or maybe just window-shopped); a store that carried toys (my favorite); and maybe 4-5 other stores. The Catholic Church -- Aunt Dorothy's church -- still anchors the other end of the main street.

Aunt Dorothy's house is unique because, like Aunt Dorothy, it seems bigger than life. My Uncle Emmett built it himself in the '50s and even though it's only about 1,600 square feet, it seemed huge when I was growing up. Even as an adult, her home, with all its 'extraterritorial jurisdiction,' still seems huge.

Across the street -- from her main entrance through the garage -- is her parking lot, a requisite for the traffic of friends, kids, grandkids, great-grandkids and the rest of us who flow non-stop through her house. The parking lot was a small store and apartments, I believe owned by Uncle Emmett's family. The building was gone decades ago, and the slab and shell parking area has been shared by Aunt Dorothy and the former-grocery-store-now-church that's catty-cornered from her house.

Across the street on the side of the house, which is actually the nearly unused front of the house, is a grassy, pecan-treed block, never built-on, and the family's super-size playground, for as long as I can remember. The now-nearly vacant downtown is on the other side of this block. A gazebo sits on the property now; and, in a decades-long tradition of knowing everything that goes on in her town, through the kitchen window above the sink, Aunt Dorothy (with some help from the rest of us) stayed up-to-date on the progress of last weekend's wedding at the gazebo.

Aunt Dorothy's house is actually one of two houses on the double lot. The second house, a smaller post-World War II pier-and-beam house, is where she, Uncle Emmett and their three kids lived before building her current home. Her grandson and his family live in the older house now. Storms and age have taken their toll, but at one time, the two lots had -- my guess -- six large, very generous pecan trees.

Just as an aside, her grandson has a black Labrador retriever. From his house, he can send the dog to Aunt Dorothy's, then call to ask for the sports page of the newspaper. About that time, the dog scratches on the door, Aunt Dorothy hands it the sports page, and it obediently returns home.

So Aunt Dorothy's house -- actually two houses, a double lot, a parking lot, a park-like block, an old downtown, a steady stream of friends and family, a sports-fan dog and people who still call me Georgie -- may actually be larger than life. It remains one of my favorite places and like Jimmy Buffett describes, my 'particular harbor.'

Aunt Dorothy? She'll be 85 next month, and she's thinking about retiring from her job. She has three children, seven grandchildren and 13 grandkids. Just a few years ago, the local chamber of commerce voted her 'Mother of the Year.' She survived breast cancer a couple of years ago, facing it with a relaxed 'I'm 82, I've lived a long time' attitude. An embarrassing amount of energy, and she loves the beach, where she and her family celebrate Easter and her birthday every year. Always a finalist in the annual croquet tournament.

Her multi-generational offer to me, my other cousins and probably a hundred other teenage friends of her sons and grandsons: 'If you're going to smoke, drink or gamble, you come over here. I don't want you on the streets getting into trouble.'

Her advice when I complained of daughter #1's teenage behavior: 'Georgie, she's not on drugs, in jail or pregnant. What more do you want?'

But, most importantly, Aunt Dorothy has me being a lot nicer to daughter #2. I'm way too old to be spanked . . . but she's not too old to do it.

And there's that one particular harbour
Sheltered from the wind
Where the children play on the shore each day
And all are safe within

How Am I Supposed to Know?' 10 Things About My Dad (#5)

Here's the 'When We Last Saw Our Hero' catch-up: During a TV show set in Kentucky, I asked daughter #2 who was born in Kentucky, and she just shrugged. When I exasperatedly told her that my dad was born in Kentucky, she just as exasperatedly questioned, 'How am I supposed to know anything about him?' So I'm scribbling down 10 things for her to know about my dad. I posted Numbers 1-4 earlier.

Number 5

My dad was so trusting, and his friends and family (okay, me) knew it. I played that trust for a few minutes; a friend of his took him for a 'ride' for 18 years. If MTV practical joker Ashton Kutcher knew him, my dad would've easily been 'Punk'd.'

PUNK'D BY ME
Some time around 1993-94, my parents, my wife, daughter #1 and my son spent Thanksgiving with other families at Sid Richardson Scout Ranch near Bridgeport, Texas. I was working for the Boy Scouts, and a tradition had started a few years earlier that those staff members and their immediate families who couldn't be with their extended families for Thanksgiving would meet at Sid for a huge, community meal. Sid has a large dining hall with cabins and dorms to accommodate the more civilized camper.

After dinner, I was talking with my dad on the porch of the dining hall. Jim Gidley, who was responsible for the local camping programs, was building a fire down near the lake for . . . you guessed it, s'mores.

Knowing how trusting my dad was (and thinking that he would appreciate a good practical joke), I tested an old Tenderfoot Scout trick on him. I told him that I couldn't find the tool that we needed to help build the fire, so I instructed him, 'Go ask Mr. Gidley where I can find a left-handed smoke-shifter (for you non-campers, there is no such thing as a left-handed smoke-shifter).'

My 70+ year old dad walked the 150 yards down to the lake, which was too far for me to hear the conversation, talked with Mr. Gidley, then trudged back up the hill. As he got closer to the porch, I asked him what Mr. Gidley said.

My dad replied, 'He told me to tell you to go to hell,' and gave me that 'smart ass' look and laugh.

PUNK'D FOR 18-YEARS
My son's mom and I were born two days apart in Port Arthur's St. Mary's Hospital. Both of us are the youngest in our families; she has two older sisters, and I have one older sister. Our dads had worked together at Texaco since the '40s, and like any group of co-workers, everybody knew their wives were pregnant.

I was born first, and my dad was so proud. In a world of blue-collar working men, most of them World War II veterans, having a son must've been like winning the title fight or hitting a home run to win the World Series. My dad followed a long-lost custom and passed out cigars to friends at work while he bragged about his new son. When the phone rang and the caller asked for George, he'd ask, 'Do you want to talk to George Senior or George Junior.'

My son's mom and I grew up in the same town and both attended St. James Catholic Church, but we didn't meet until the summer after high school, when we were 18 years old. When I told my dad who I was dating, he said, 'I work with her daddy. She has a brother about your age.'

I'd just met this girl, but I knew enough about her to correct him, 'Daddy, she doesn't have a brother. She has two older sisters.'

For more than 18 years, my outgoing, very trusting dad would ask my future father-in-law, 'How's your son?' And, for more than 18 years, my tight-lipped FFIL responded in his typically Cajun mutter, 'He's fine,' never admitting that he'd had a third daughter instead of a son.

Punk'd for 18 years, but one of my dad's best traits was that he loved to be around people, and he trusted them, maybe the most important gifts he passed on to my sister and me (and I see it in both daughter #1 and daughter #2).

My dad died in 1999, and the visitation at the funeral home became a real celebration of his life, as his former co-workers and friends approached me with 'George' stories: 'good man,' 'always smiling,' 'always happy,' 'always playing a joke on somebody' . . . WHAT!?

How Am I Supposed to Know?' 10 Things About My Dad (#4)

Here's the 'When We Last Saw Our Hero' catch-up: During a TV show set in Kentucky, I asked daughter #2 who was born in Kentucky, and she just shrugged. When I exasperatedly told her that my dad was born in Kentucky, she just as exasperatedly questioned, 'How am I supposed to know anything about him?' So I'm scribbling down 10 things for her to know about my dad. I posted Numbers 1-3 earlier.

Number Three Postscript
My dad's recovery from alcoholism gave me a fun look into his childhood. When asked about his first exposure to alcohol, he said it was as a young kid in Kentucky, when he and his buddies would eat the sugar out of the bottom of moonshine stills (someone later told me that Federal agents would monitor the amount of sugar sold at local grocery stores because of the large amounts required to make bootleg whiskey). I don't think my parents would've let me play with my dad as a kid.

Number Four
I love my job. I've always been blessed with jobs that I've enjoyed, even taking into account unfair managers, career-threatening pressures, highly stressful deadlines and, yes, even some opportunities to find employment elsewhere. Overall, I've worked for organizations I believe in and with people that were a joy to know. And that's the message I try to deliver to my kids when we talk about choosing college majors and possible careers: don't worry about money; do something you like because you're going to be doing it for a long time.

What's this have to do with my dad?

My dad was a boilermaker at the Texaco refinery in Port Arthur for, I'm guessing, 30 years. I still don't know what a boilermakers does, but I do know that my dad built and helped maintained the huge oil storage tanks at the refinery. He talked about working with riveters (in the early days), welders, machinists, pipe fitters and crane operators, but I never understood what he did.

To explain to me why my dad never did custom woodwork, a friend of his told me that if two pieces of metal weren't measured correctly and left a gap, a boilermaker just welded another piece of metal on top to fill the gap. No fine craftsmanship there; that explains a lot about my own handyman skills.

He was a member of the Oil, Chemical and Atomic Workers (OCAW) Local 4-23 of the AFL-CIO; and, as a result, he could look forward to going on strike every couple of years and being without a paycheck for weeks and sometimes months. If the strike appeared to be long, between taking his turn at walking the picket line or serving food at the union hall, he'd head to the non-union American Steel to make extra money.

But he would never cross a picket line. When he went to pick up tires that he bought on layaway at the Gibson's in Port Arthur (Gibson's was like an early version of Wal-Mart) and saw that employees were picketing the store, he went to the local motel where union representatives were staying. He explained his situation and returned to the store with a handwritten note giving him permission to cross the picket line; he'd already paid for the tires and his business would not benefit the store during the strike.

Have I mentioned that he brought me bubble gum every day from work? He rode in the back of Mr. Beck's truck and later in his VW bus to and from the plant, and I knew that he'd be home with Dubble Bubble bubble gum every day at 4:30. The gum may have really only been for a short while, but the consistency of daddy's 4:30 arrival and 5 o'clock supper was a constant throughout my childhood (for some reason, my mother called dinner supper and lunch dinner).

Somewhere in here will be the reason I love my job.

I do remember explaining to my dad early in my career how unfairly a manager had treated me. He nodded that he understood and laughed, then said, 'That's the kind of guy we used to take out behind the tanks and explain to him how things worked.'

He never complained about his job. When I think about how a day of yardwork leaves me tired and sore, it pales in comparison to him, in his 50s, climbing up and down metal ladders and through steel pipes (I have claustrophobia) to work in Port Arthur's hot, humid summers and cold, damp winters -- in a volatile environment that could literally explode with a mistep.

He never said it, but I think he realized that bitching and moaning about a job never changed it, so why make yourself miserable? He liked his job, but I think he loved, in a union boilermaker kind of way, the people he worked with.

So, here's the story -- I heard it from several of his friends later in life -- that I think best reflects my dad's attitude and that I'd like to think has shaped my own work ethic:

A co-worker of my dad's went to their supervisor, sometimes called a 'gang pusher,' to complain about working with my dad. The hard-hatted pusher simply said (snarled? growled?), 'If you can't work with George, you can't work with anybody. Go back to work.'

I love my job.

How Am I Supposed to Know?' 10 Things About My Dad (#3)

Here's the 'When We Last Saw Our Hero' catch-up: During a TV show set in Kentucky, I asked daughter #2 who was born in Kentucky, and she just shrugged. When I exasperatedly told her that my dad was born in Kentucky, she just as exasperatedly questioned, 'How am I supposed to know anything about him?' So I'm scribbling down 10 things for her to know about my dad. I posted Number One and Number Two earlier.

Number Two Postscript
I'm 6' 1" and usually around 210 pounds, which is about two inches shorter than Mohammed Ali and right in the middle of his range of fighting weight. After my last post, someone described my dad as 'larger than life,' and I laughed. He was 5' 8" and probably weighed 150-160 pounds most of his adult life. Even at that size, when we'd watch Ali, Joe Frazier, Sonny Liston and all the other heavyweight boxers, he'd tell me that he could take them all. And maybe with my height and my heavyweight bulk, he could've. Or, if you read my last post, you'd know that he would've at least made it entertaining.

Number Three
My dad's the one on the right, and nobody knows who Kelley is except that the two of them celebrated V.E. Day (Victory in Europe, ending World War II in Europe). He joined the Coast Guard in 1939 in St. Louis, Missouri, before the United States entered the war, and told me that he enlisted when he saw a poster of a ship-to-ship rescue. He later mentioned an additional sense of urgency to his enlistment.

Prior to joining the Coast Guard, my dad worked as a truck driver, delivering ice to homes and businesses in Western Kentucky. I'd like to think that patriotic duty and the lure of adventure on the open seas drew him to the Coast Guard . . . but the real story seems to involve speeding along a dark roadway, skidding the ice truck on its side around a curve and his sneaking away to St. Louis.

During the war, he became a Chief Petty Officer in the engine room of a frigate, the Tallapoosa, escorting convoys in and out of North Africa. He also spent time in Alaska's Aleutian Islands.

His stories of World War II were always funny. One of the best occurred during shore leave in Oran, Algeria, when an Algerian military policeman stopped a truckload of his shipmates. A buddy of my dad's stepped out of the back of the truck, assuring them that he'd handle it. He casually walked up to the soldier looking eager to improve international relations, then knocked him out with one punch and returned to the party in the back of the truck (I later saw this same episode in a movie, but you have to believe your dad).

My dad showed me how he cooked 'Frog in a Hole,' atop a diesel engine. It's an egg and toast combination that I passed on to my kids and that daughter #1's friends love for her to cook. He talked of friends and wild antics that made me believe that he loved his military days.

During my senior year in high school, I began recognizing the signs that our family really didn't have the money to send me to college. At the time, I wanted to go to the University of Texas, like my cousin Jack, and eventually become an architect.

I knew that my dad loved his days in the Coast Guard, so I stopped by the Navy recruiter's trailer in Port Arthur's Jefferson City Shopping Center. This was a major step for me because the Vietnam War had ended just a couple of years earlier; and I'd spent most of my junior high and high school life scared to death of being drafted and hauled off to a place that I understood only by the nightly news score cards (we always won, killing and wounding more of them than they killed and wounded of us).

I told the recruiter that I'd like to be an architect and that I'd heard the Navy would pay for me to go to school. He assured me that the Navy would pay for me to go to school to become an engineer, which he told me was pretty much the same thing.

Brochures in hand -- probably featuring photos of a '70s version of a ship-to-ship rescue -- and expecting elation from my dad, I excitedly told him and my mom of my plans. His only response was, 'Don't worry. We'll find a way to pay for college.'

I was shocked and didn't understand until about 10 years later, when my dad checked into an alcoholic recovery unit. My older sister and I had never experienced any kind of abuse, neglect or embarassment because of his drinking, so this took us as a HUGE surprise.

He was out of his room, when I arrived for a visit, and I picked up a handwritten note off his night stand. When I asked about the note, he told me that patients in the unit talked in groups about their addiction-related issues, then wrote letters of encouragement to whoever spoke during that session.

This letter said something like: 'George, I know it must have been awful for you during the war to see men burning in the water, screaming for help, and you couldn't do anything.'

A German submarine had sunk a ship in his convoy, trapping its crew and passengers in a sea of burning oil and diesel fuel. His dreams of an exciting ship-to-ship rescue had become a decades-long nightmare.

I don't think I'm ready to share all of Number Three with daughter #2. In her very sweet, caring way, she'd ask, 'Hey, buddy. What's wrong? Why are you crying?'

'How Am I Supposed to Know?' 10 Things About My Dad (#1 and #2)

This is my dad. This photo is one of my best photos. I took it in the late '70s, and it's been around our house for decades. I think it captures my dad perfectly, in appearance, character and personality, although I did have loan him the hat for full effect.

I'm telling you about this photo and introducing you to my dad because of daughter #2. She shocked me last weekend when we were watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (our family's weekly sniff-and-feel-good-about-people time together). The show took place in Louisville, Kentucky.

When I asked daughter #2 who was born in Kentucky, she just shrugged. When I exasperatedly told her that my dad was born in Kentucky, she just as exasperatedly questioned, 'How am I supposed to know anything about him?' He died when daughter #2 was less than 2 years old.

So, here are 10 things about my dad (in no order of importance . . . forgive me if I've already shared some of this with you) that I'll share with daughter #2.

Number One
He was born August 6, 1916 in Dukedom, Tennessee, and grew up in Mayfield, Kentucky, which is in Western Kentucky, and was a teenager during the Great Depression. He was the youngest in his family and had two older sisters -- Kathleen and Ruby -- and an older brother Herman.

Aunt Kathleen and Aunt Ruby visited Texas when I lived in Conroe in the early '80s. My parents drove them over from Port Arthur, and I still laugh when I think of them calling my dad, then nearly 70 years old, by his childhood name: 'Baby.'

Number Two
My dad was a boxer in his teens and 20s. He told me that he was a Golden Gloves boxer, but most of the stories I heard were about his matches when a carnival came to Mayfield or nearby Paducah, Kentucky. Carnivals were traveling shows that moved from town to town during the Depression; and their games, contests, shows and exotic animals were the most excitement a little town like his would see for months.

Some carnivals featured a 'champion' boxer, and when the carnival hit town, word spread quickly (and tickets sold just as quickly) that this champion would box and beat 24 of the 'best' local boxers in 24 hours. My dad usually was one of those 24 boxers; and during the Depression, when jobs and money were hard to come by, he was happy to look good for a few rounds, take a few punches, hit the mat, and then pick up his paycheck from the champ's manager.

He must've been a local favorite because other carnivals recruited him for their Thursday-through-Saturday, best-of-three matches. From what I understand, he always lost on Thursday, but made a valiant, underdog comeback on Friday. Tickets sales 'skyrocketed' (as much as tickets sales would skyrocket in a small town) for Saturday's championship bout; and almost always, he lost after a 'hard-fought' match. And then he picked up his paycheck from the champ's manager.

My dad was 'older' -- 39 -- when I was born (I was 42 when daughter #2 was born, so I laugh when I think about it), but he was very quick when he'd box with the neighborhood boys in his 50s and even when he'd shadow box in his 60s.

I don't think I appreciated just how quick he was until he shared with me how he and a World War II shipmate (he was in the Coast Guard, which was rolled into the Navy during the war) would pick up a few bucks before shore leave. My dad would pull his handkerchief out of his pocket, lay it on the ground and stand on it with both feet. His friend would take bets: my dad would remain standing on the handkerchief and any challenger could try to hit in the head. The story, as told to me, was that he never got hit; however, his ears sure were cauliflowered (a sure sign that a boxer has taken some hits -- could've been from all those carnival losses).

There does seem to be common thread of boxing and money running through all his stories.

My dad gave me two bits of boxing/life advice:
- You gotta roll with the punches (which, at 52, I finally realize is true)
- You gotta bob and weave (a skill to which he attributed his handkerchief-bet winnings)

He tried to teach me how to box, but I was slow, skinny and not very strong. And I weaved and bobbed when I should've bobbed and weaved.

When I was about 13 or 14, we were boxing in the front yard (can you imagine today's response to a father and teenage son fighting in the front yard?). He hit me upside the head with a right cross and floored me. Like most teenage boys, I sprang up wildly, and I caught him by surprise with a right hook in the side. After several days of soreness, he went to the doctor, who told him that he had a couple of broken ribs.

And I think that became Chapter One in his unwritten, unplanned Lessons for Fatherhood. Even with fascinating recollections of carnivals and ship-board bets, that front-yard match and those broken ribs became his most-often repeated boxing story for the next couple of decades.

Daughter #2's going to have to wait for Things to Know About My Dad #3-10.

The Wall is Real; or Bonking the Blog

This is not about running, BUT . . . The Wall exists.

During decades of on-again, off-again underachieving as a runner, I didn't believe The Wall existed. Runners, especially marathoners, speak of The Wall as if it's lurking just around the corner, waiting to throw itself in the path of an unsuspecting, under-prepared runner; but, to borrow from Ghostbusters, 'I ain't afraid o' not ghost.'

Running experts associate hitting The Wall, or 'bonking,' with the depletion of Glycogen, which is the energy source for running up until about 18-20 miles (depending on training). Somewhere around that point, muscles begin to burn fat, which produces less energy, slowing you down, and eventually you slam right into The Wall.

Bonk . . .

Those experts say that better training will help maximize the use of available Glycogen and allow the body to supplement it earlier by burning fat (at least that's what I think I they said). They also recommend energy drinks and carbo-loading to provide additional sources of energy during the run.

I didn't believe in The Wall . . . until Mile 17 of the Austin Motorola Marathon in 2001. The Wall not only smacked me in the face, it fell on me.

Just a reminder for you non-runners or bored runners: This really is not about running.

As a runner, I'd learned how to compensate for fatigue or pain in one part of my body by stressing another part; but after The Wall fell on me, I hurt in places that had never hurt before, and I didn't have a clue what to do.

Fortunately, marathons, depending on their popularity, are lined with well-wishers who'll toss out words of encouragement and lie to you about how good you're looking or how close you are to the finish line. After meeting The Wall, I broke into tears every time anyone even acknowledged my presence.

The Wall had physically, mentally and emotionally crushed me.

Then, running advice jokingly offered by my couch-potato brother-in-law came to mind: 'Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot.'

I finished the marathon, carrying Wall bricks for last nine miles, in about five hours. For those of you who are not runners, a marathon is 26.2 miles, and five hours is somewhere south of mediocrity.

But I did finish, and I somehow sprinted across the finish line. And I must've looked good (HA!). While I was recuperating, wrapped in a silver, thermal blanket and drinking whatever athletes drink, an African-looking runner (Kenyans are the best) approached me and asked if I knew where the elite runners were meeting. Yeah, and Elvis and I will be singing with The Beatles right after the meeting.

Why is this not about running?

I think I've bonked on my blog. I've started 2-3 different posts and haven't finished any. The Wall seems to be waiting for me every time I sit down at the keyboard.

I do remember learning to type. The method was to type: ffffffffjjjjjjjjjfffffffjjjjjjjj, etc. That's even more basic than 'right foot, left foot. right foot, left foot.'

So if I can bonk, then 'right-foot-left-foot-right-foot-left-foot' it to the finish line and then be asked for directions to the elite runners' meeting, then I can get fffffffjjjjjffffffjjjj it to cranked back up on this blog.

And if you cheer, I promise not to cry.

First Date: Meeting the Parents

10-year-old daughter #2 has her first date this weekend. She and the Man of Her Dreams have been an item for a couple of weeks now, and tomorrow's pre-teen tryst is their special Valentine's Day event.

But tonight is the prequel to the Big Event. . . . we meet the parents, and here's how I anticipate the evening (at CiCi's Pizza by the way) going down: Them (those very strange people we don't know) and Us (well, you know us). . .



When daughter #1 was in fifth grade, she had boyfriends, but they never talked on the phone or saw each other outside of school. They were just 'going together.' We'd ask how she knew they were going together, and she'd say, 'We just know.'

This non-contact courting continued through middle school and even began to include just as confounding break-ups. 'How do you know he's breaking up with you? We're still not sure how you knew you were going out.'

'A friend of his told a friend of mine who told me that he was thinking about . . .' and the 'about' could've been pizza, football or spitting on the sidewalk. When she finally started 'dating,' we really didn't know because she and a group of her friends would meet him and a group of his friends at the movies.

But, more importantly, we didn't meet any parents until several boyfriends later during daughter #1's senior year, and that's when we ran into them at a nearby bar.

Daughter #1 and the Man of Her Dreams have been planning this date and pre-event parents' meeting for the last two weeks (I can hear her upstairs now talking to a friend on the phone about what she should wear). She came home from school yesterday, Valentine's Day, with an armful of, as she described, 'a foot and a half tall teddy bear, a big balloon and chocolate . . . from Brazil.'

This is developing into a true courtship. Daughter #2 says that Man of Her Dreams tells her that he loves her every day. She also says that his life has changed since he's been seeing her . . . his friends think he's REALLY cool now (daughter #2 can never be faulted for her lack of confidence).

And daughter #2 did make it a point to call daughter #1, who's currently boyfriend-less (yessssss!), to let her know all about her new 'honey.'

So, tonight at the all-you-can-eat pizza buffet, we get to meet 'them.' And I get to talk to kid whose teddy bears, balloons, Brazilian chocolate and daily 'I love you' are making me look real bad.

Go Ahead . . . Make My Day

Pardon the mixed metaphor (or whatever you'd call it) . . . I know none of these unpleasantly dispositioned movie characters ever said that . . . but I'm sure each of them lit up the screen with something appropriate to my current mood.

No more than 5 minutes after daughter #2 comes home to tell me that one of the 'populars' -- I'll just refer to her as the Bully Bitch -- shoved a cupcake up her nose, my wife calls just in time to stop me from e-mailing her teachers to demand Bully Bitch's head on a platter.

However, she tells me that daughter #1 just called her to share the conversation with her ex-boyfriend in which he expressed his burning desire 'to be truthful:' For the two years they dated (and pretty much co-habitated during their year at Tech), he continued to see his previous girlfriend.

For those of you picking up the phone to dial 9-1-1, no need to worry. I don't own any guns or sharp knives . . . but I don't think a spineless piece of lying wormshit has the balls to castrate anyway.

As for the Bully Bitch, daughter #2 has some pretty sharp claws.

Whew! Glad we could talk.

Friday Morning Wake-Up Call

There's no more forced personal reflection than the rip-off-the-covers-toss-you-out-of-bed-and-show-everything wake-up call of being in Wal-Mart and hearing Rodney Atkins sing 'These are My People.

In celebration of my 5-minute family reunion at the neighborhood store around the corner from our house, I'm sharing one of my favorite songs -- all about finding true love at Wal-Mart -- by one of my favorite past-times: 3 Fools on 3 Stools (if you have the chance to see them, go! if you have a choice, their later shows are a little more raucus, and their Annual White Trash Party in October is . . . well, unabashedly trashy).

Here's a link to 3 Fools leader Doc Wesson singing about a minute of 'Discount Love Affair:' http://www.tackytunesfromtexas.com/Audio/TT_02.ram

And for those of you with any talent, here's a link to the lyrics with guitar chords for Discount Love Affair by Doc Wesson

And here's what I sing at Wal-Mart to stay on my wife's good side:

I met her at Walmart
She thought I was real smart
As I walked her down the isle
She looked at me and smiled
And said "You're a good shopper!"
I met her at Walmart
Now she's my sweetheart
No matter what you're lookin' for
You can find it at the superstore.

Blog Central aka The Front Porch

Laurie at I Can Leave My Hat On (my blog mentor) asked her visitors to post their 'work stations.' You can see why my blog is called George's Front Porch.

Items of note (from left to right)

Antique trunk that my wife refinished. It contains family photos and momentoes and will eventually go to daughter #1. We have an antique tool box of similar size for my son and another trunk (still awaiting sandpaper) for daughter #2.

The radio on top of the trunk sat in my parents' garage for years. My dad would listen to it while he worked in the garage or on our car, and my friends and I would listen while we played. There's a distinct (and pleasant) memory of cigarette smoke, beer and motor oil associated with it. The radio originally belonged to my mom's Aunt Blanche (Domingue), who lived in Lake Charles.

A reflection of the flash because George doesn't know how to take pictures.

An antique sled that my wife loves. It's part of one of those winters that she's hoping we'll eventually have. MAJOR part of Christmas decorating around our house.

The book case also came from Aunt Blanche's. It's one of the pieces of furniture I salvaged after my parents' house burned.

Back two steps: that's my Austin Motorola Marathon coffee mug (with hot tea to help deal with the flu). I feel like a real runner when I use it.

Things to Do When You're Bored #1

I've been home with the flu since Monday afternoon, and I'm surprised I've lasted this long. Here's the first of what I hope won't be many tips on what to do when you're stuck at home and all the traditional activities have run dry.

Check out maps.google.com.

Here's an aerial view of my house. It must be in the winter, not just because my grass is dead but so is everyone else's. If it were summer, everyone else's grass would be green. That's my daughter's 1993 Jeep Cherokee in the driveway, the first of many substandard vehicles forced upon her in high school.

And here's a street view of my house (this kind of scared me when I first realized this was available). We're still trying to throw away that white thing on the curb; we just can't seem to put it out the week the City will pick it up. And that's my pick-up truck . . . adds an all-new manly appeal to me, doesn't it?

The street views are taken by a random crew that cruises up and down every street in America (or at least that's the eventual intent anyway). In the street view, you can actually 'walk' up and down the street, and I've heard there are groups of 24/7 Internet users who've searched to find the same people in more than one street view. A friend told me of one guy who'd supposedly given up smoking and his friends busted him via Google map. If I come up with another Things to Do When You're Bored idea, I may send it to those people.

By the way, we didn't have a cotton candy explosion. I think all the pink is from enlarging the photos.

Here's an aerial view of the building where I work, International Plaza in Fort Worth. I still haven't figured out what's international about it except that I understand that the owner also owns Rosa's Cafe and Tortilla Factory restaurants. We've got a pretty good cafeteria of our own on the first floor. Philly Cheesesteak sandwiches are the best! So are club sandwiches. And Wednesday is chicken wrap day. Breakfast burritos are available every day, too.

For those of you into George trivia, the building to the northeast of International Plaza is formerly the Boy Scout office, where I worked for about 10 years. At that time, the salad bar in International Plaza's first-floor cafeteria was the best. It's okay now; I just don't eat as healthily (Philly Cheesesteak and breakfast burritos vs. salads . . . duh!)

Here's a street view of International Plaza. I'm just about where the arrow is pointing. I've always described the building as looking like a Coors Light can (see the cylinder to the left). My part of the building is rounded, too, and so are the hallways inside. When I first started working there (it's an engineering firm, and stop me if you've heard this before), one of our more introverted engineers was trying so hard to not make eye contact with me as we walked toward each other in the hall that he missed the curve . . . smack!

I did look up the White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Nice aerial view but no street view, and I didn't see George W. or Laura out on the lawn. I'm just hoping now that I haven't made somebody's list for downloading a satellite view of the White House.

I'd better go back to work soon.