George's Front Porch

Old Trucks and Road Trips

2010-07-17T12:24:00.002-05:00

High-mileage, early-model truck. Perfect for work or weekend projects. 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!

Some people write their own obituaries. When I hit my early 50s, I drafted this classified ad as a favor to my wife, just in case she was inclined to put me on the market. The prompt was a visit to my doctor, whose evaluation changed from “You know, Mr. Bowden, you’re in pretty good shape for a man your age” to “You know, Mr. Bowden, it’s not unusual for a man your age to … (fill in the blank).”

I’m 54 years old and beginning work on a master’s program, which might also be a bit unusual for a man my age. Unfortunately, the first few steps have prompted some additional disclosures for my ad:

Subject to misfires. Shifts gears without warning. Needs LOTS of TLC. Owner’s manual lost.

I’m not sure if unintentionally cancelling my GRE after responding to the first question generated the ad re-write; but I do know there’s at least one young GRE monitor who was kind enough not to say, “You know, Mr. Bowden, it’s not unusual for a man your age …”

I loved earning my bachelor’s degree in mass communications. Learning the “tools of the trade” and actually seeing my work in print was thrilling. Now, as a 30-year marketing and communications professional returning for my master’s in journalism, I can’t wait to use those same tools to craft something spectacular. Maybe even give the ol’ truck a tune-up.

But the process is aging me. It began with studying for the GRE, where I found my old friends English and Math referred to as Verbal and Quantitative. My inner-Dorothy was warning me that we weren’t in Kansas anymore. I floundered through the e-application process, each step asking, “What do I do next?” And each time hearing, “The website explains it all to you.”

I am too old to be back in school. If the application process is this difficult, how am I going to do the course work? This is a young person’s game. Let’s put this ol’ truck back in the garage.

Cheap or best offer. Spare tire included. Will deliver.

In fairness to all involved … a few years ago, I found my elementary school report cards, and “Needs Improvement” appears as a consistent theme for “Listens to and follows instructions.” Unfortunately, I haven’t changed. I now approach projects with the joyous, decades-honed disdain of a man who amuses himself with his best bandito accent (stealing loosely from The Treasure of Sierra Madre): “We don’t need no stinkin’ instructions.”

One of the joys of reaching 54 is learning that stuff happens, and that it’s only stuff. It’s not the end of the world (like it might’ve been when I was 18). Pay attention, read the instructions, listen to that helpful person from the school who’s trying to save you from yourself, and make it happen (I hate having to give myself the same advice I give my kids).

So, here I am, typing my Introductory Reflective Essay on my new laptop. I laughed when I explained to my wife that it’s the same 12-point, double-spaced, serif-font format that I pounded out on a manual typewriter when I was learning to write for the University Press.

Back then, I was picking up new communications tools, marveling at the creative ways they could be used, and loading them into my truck (1977 Chevy step side pick-up, three-on-the-tree) for the welcome-to-rest-of-your-life road trip. Three decades later, I’m sharpening those tools, still marveling at the craftsmanship they allow, and, once again, loading them up for the road trip’s next leg.

And I love to drive!

If you have to have one ...

2009-09-24T17:59:00.004-05:00

If you have to have one, this is it. A favorite obituary of one of my friends:

Wilma Katarina Molbert, 74, of Baytown died peacefully in her beloved apartment on Wednesday. Loving family members and devoted friends surrounded her bedside. Wilma's last hours were filled with laughter, sweet stories, prayer and singing.

What a wonderful way to die ... enjoying your final moments sharing in the joy of life with loved ones. I haven't seen Wilma in more than 30 years, but she passed away exactly like I remembered her living it.

What if everlasting life is simply the legacy that we leave behind ... and heaven is composed of the joyous memories and the laughter your descendants share when they tell stories about you. And hell ... well, nothing; everybody just forgets.

At my dad's funeral, everyone had a 'George story' to share, and now I wonder if that's how friends and family help create a heaven for the loved one they've lost. My mother's funeral went the same way, and there were even some stories that portrayed my mother in a gutsy manner that I'd never recognized.

I admire my friend Wilma's family and how they helped her face her passing as a celebration of a wonderful life. And, without words, they told her that her heaven is secure. Sharing moments of joy while facing the loss of a close friend or family member takes courage, faith and selflessness. Tell your loved one that he or she how special they've made your life and how they'll be remembered.

What a wonderful way to die ... except for maybe the 84-year-old softball teammate of a friend who had a heart attack rounding third base ... or, to paraphrase a crusty former co-worker, 'to die at 99, shot by a jealous husband.'

I promise to be a better person (fingers crossed!)

2009-01-29T18:09:00.003-06:00

On my honor, I promise to be a better person. Can I stop there? Here are my 2009 resolutions (and since this is the end of January, I guess 'stop procrastinating' should be #1) . . .

1. Blog at least once a week. I've gotten out of the habit (and nothing ever sounds quite right). Current status: it's the end of January, and this is my first blog.

2. Run in the White Rock Half-Marathon. Thank God it's not until December. Daughter #1 and I talked about running it together. Fortunately, she's a worse runner than I am. Current status: I'm thinking about buying a pair of running shoes this weekend.

3. Lose 20 pounds: I started off the year about 206 pounds. Current status: Last week, I weighed in at 210 pounds.

4. Complete at least one home improvement project every weekend: I probably need to add 'finish painting the porch railing (started in 1997)' and 'finish trim on front porch (started in 2004).' Current status: I helped my wife re-decorate the living room by putting up crown molding and replacing the baseboards. Unfortunately, she said, 'while you have your tool belt out . . .' and I ruined my home improvement plans for the next three weekends.

5. Plant a garden. Actually this is my wife's idea, but I do all the grunt work. The evening sun fries our backyard, and our ground is like concrete. Other than that, it should fun. Current status: I bagged some leaves and hope they'll compost themselves.

6. Value time. This one's all encompassing. I can't even begin to estimate the amount of time I waste screwing around on the computer or not doing what I should be doing because I don't think I have time. Current status: See current status on most everything above.

7. Spend more one-on-one time with daughter #2. Daughter #2 is an attention sucker, but most of her earlier life was spent at her sister's soccer games and volleyball games and basketball games. We've been spending more time together on the weekends, and I've been 'forcing her' to practice her French Horn while I 'listen.' Current status: I'm blogging and she's watching TV.

8. Don't worry; be happy. I think I've aged more in the last 3-5 years than during any period in my life. Money, daughter #1, money, daughter #2, money, son and money. Probably need to adhere more to my WWJBD philosophy: What would Jimmy Buffett do? Current status: Just bought daughter #1 a new car. Company bonus is going to build a new fence (hey, see #4). Guess I better work on this one, too.

9. Join a church. Why do they have to meet on Sunday mornings? Or Saturday evenings? My wife and I need this for our own peace of mind, and daughter #2 needs it to build a stronger foundation, spiritually and socially. A friend describes our church life as flavor of the week. I grew up Catholic, my wife Southern Baptist (in Maryland?). We've attended Church of Christ, Methodist, Southern Baptist, Interdenominational, Non-denominational, and a few others. Current status: why do they have to meet on Sunday mornings?

10. Bring joy to others. This is the easiest one and the hardest one. It's simple to smile or say a nice word to someone, but what about someone who really needs it? And being needy, high maintenance and all about me, I love to be told that I'm a nice guy. Current status: I've shopped at the neighborhood WalMart the last two evenings after work. This one's going to have to wait.

Okay, check off #1 (at least until next week).

Walden: foreshadowing the Front Porch

2008-09-25T18:42:00.009-05:00

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

2008-09-23T22:19:00.003-05:00

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

2008-09-21T23:02:00.011-05:00

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 . . .

2008-08-29T00:08:00.005-05:00

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

2008-07-18T19:06:00.004-05:00

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.

2008-07-18T18:17:00.004-05:00

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

Throw out nonessential numbers. This includes age, weight and height. Let the doctor worry about them. That is why you pay him/her.
Keep only cheerful friends. The grouches pull you down.
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.
Enjoy the simple things.
Laugh often, long and loud. Laugh until you gasp for breath.
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.
Surround yourself with what you love, whether it's family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever. Your home is your refuge.
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.
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.
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

2008-06-25T19:53:00.007-05:00

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?

2008-04-30T22:31:00.005-05:00

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

2008-04-10T20:45:00.021-05:00

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

2008-04-06T16:39:00.009-05:00

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

2008-03-25T20:48:00.007-05:00

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

2008-03-16T20:14:00.005-05:00

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)

2008-03-05T21:14:00.008-06:00

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)

2008-02-28T21:56:00.005-06:00

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)

2008-02-25T21:13:00.006-06:00

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)

2008-02-21T21:33:00.011-06:00

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

2008-02-21T18:08:00.004-06:00

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

2008-02-15T17:27:00.005-06:00

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

2008-02-01T15:41:00.000-06:00

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

2008-02-01T08:16:00.000-06:00

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

2008-01-31T17:36:00.001-06:00

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

2008-01-31T16:21:00.000-06:00

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.

Our Dreams: A Family Tradition

2008-01-30T16:22:00.000-06:00

When I sleep, I dream. Not simple, random dreams; but continuous, vivid dreams, from the moment I close my eyes, when the commercials and previews start, until I wake up following the final feature.

Vivid dreams seem to be a family tradition. My dad would talk in his sleep and often would 'act out' his dreams. During a weekend stay at a local Scout camp (I worked for the Boy Scouts for about 20 years), we stayed in cabins; and in our cabin, his side of the bed was up against a wall (apparently his side of the bed at home wasn't). From my room across the cabin, I heard him smack in to the bedroom wall, later learning that he had jumped up in bed and chased someone right into the wall.

I spent my 40th birthday in my dad's hospital room, where dehydration was one of the doctor's concerns. Apparently, hallucinations are a symptom of dehydration. After an evening of zig-zag, sometimes-difficult-to-follow conversation, my dad asked me to get the nurse a Coke. I realized that he thought she was his home-health nurse when I looked at her name tag, and it wasn't the same name he was using.

I went to the nurse's station to ask what to do about his hallucinations. The nurse said to gently bring him back to reality and let him know that he's hallucinating. Some time around 2:30 a.m., I'd pretty much resorted to 'yeah, dad. whatever.'

I've carried on the tradition, in many cases, much to the concern of my wife. A couple of recurring dreams from my earlier parenthood days:

- I'd dive out of bed to keep my kids from falling, a dream that made a trip to the dome of the Texas capital building a nightmare (get away from the railing! Daddy, we want to see!) and a visit to the Grand Canyon a real nerve-tester.

- I'd stand up in bed and reach up to get the kids off the ceiling fan, a dream that significantly improved my wife's sleep-to-alert reflexes (I'm sure her response saved my fingers and the top of my head many times).

My 'favorite' has its own place in the lore of our family history, a story oft' repeated 'round campfires and television sets.

My wife stayed up late to watch a movie with daughter #1, and I'd already gone to bed. She walked into our room, and I jumped out of bed, ran to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. With what I would call my best Jack-Nicholson-'Here's-Johnny' leer, I started shaking her and shouting, 'I've got you now!' My wife's not petite, so fortunately I woke up before she and daughter #1 threw me down the stairs (I did make it a point to tell a friend because I'd heard that sleepwalking was a solid defense for murdering your wife if there's documentation of previous, similar events . . . I have since heard that it's not).

Now it seems like my action-filled dreams are limited to seeing 3-D geometric patterns on the ceiling, usually well-lit, and me waking up my wife to show her and explain the details. She's usually not interested.

But the tradition continues . . .

So far, daughter #2 only talks in her sleep. When my son was much younger, I woke up to him standing next to my side of the bed. Fortunately, my ever-vigilant wife sounded the alarm, 'He's still asleep . . . and he's about to pee!' When daughter #1 was younger, I followed her down the stairs in the middle of the night and caught her pulling down her pajama bottoms as she was getting ready to pee in the middle of the living room.

I have the flu this week, and I left work early Monday. After daughter #2 came home from school, I went upstairs to take a nap while she went across the street to play. Unfortunately, daughter #2 has become quite the 5th-grade socialite, and her friends started ringing our phone just a few minutes after she left. Around 5 p.m., I gave up and called her to come home.

From 5:17 p.m., when I gave her the phone, until 6:35 p.m., when my wife called, there were no dreams.

For somebody who always dreams, that's pretty frightening. When daughter #2 woke me up to talk to my wife, I felt like I had to crawl out of a deep black hole to wake up. And that darkness is all I remember about those 78 minutes.

Pretty scary, although I'm sure the fever prompted that deep sleep; but I keep wondering, where did I go?

Just in case you missed my previous post, only one person can answer that:

Fever, Nyquil and Associated Creativity

2008-01-29T18:33:00.000-06:00

I've been sick the last couple of days . . . running a 102+ fever and over-indulging in Nyquil. I've had some great ideas for blogs during the last 24 hours, blogs that The Twilight Zone's Rod Serling would've been proud of . . . just wish I could've remembered them by the time I got to the keyboard. Although my fingers are dancing across the keyboard . . . just like I do across the dance floor (I had a cousin tell me that he was happy to see me dance just to confirm the whiteness of our family's roots).

Monday Morning Mistake

2008-01-21T20:52:00.000-06:00

There's Uncle Joe, he's a movin' kind of slow at the Junction. Petticoat Junction (for you youngsters, that's a 60s-era TV theme song)

That was my theme song this morning as I stumbled into our office break room and fumbled for a cup of coffee. This was a 'cuppa joe' morning . . . don't care what it tastes like, just pour over my head.

But one should never sacrifice sharpness for the desperation of a caffeine boost, and this morning I did.

My friend and co-worker Clay, the near-professional triathlete and a REALLY nice guy, asked me, 'how's it going?' and I muttered (in a friendly sort of way) something like, 'same ol' same ol'.'

Never say 'same ol' same ol' to a triathlete . . . people who are focused enough and disciplined enough and have enough energy and enthusiasm and attitude and strength and the wherewithall to be a triathlete NEVER have a 'same ol' same ol' kind of day. In the running vernacular, every day should be a shot at a new PR (personal record).

I usually consider myself kind of Pollyanna-ish, but Clay is Pollyanna on . . . well, whatever combination of herbs and proper diet that makes people mega-Pollyannas (he's definitely not a steroids kind of guy). By the time I'm able to pour the coffee over my head, he's bounced out of the room, HUGE smile on his face and has moved on to whatever young, overachieving engineers do on Monday mornings.

And I'd like to say that Clay's energy and enthusiasm for life was infectious . . . but sometimes, when Uncle Joe's a movin' kind of slow, it's best to save that shot at a PR for another day.

By the way, here's Clay finishing his most recent triathlon in Florida. That nine hours on the clock is how long he's been swimming, bicycling and running.

God Bless America!

2008-01-21T17:40:00.001-06:00

My wife told me yesterday that we may get a $1,600 tax rebate to spend and help jump start the economy. Saving is discouraged.

I am feeling some kind of patriotic!

In This Corner, Wearing Calico Whiskers . . .

2008-01-16T21:59:00.000-06:00

Revised recommended reading list for 10-year-old girls:

- The Art of War by Sun Tzu
- On War by Carl von Clausewitz

And then some book about cats . . .

It's fifth grade, and the cat-fights have started. Yesterday's best friend is in tears. Something about last month's best friend and the two Populars, or Plastics depending on the Disney movie you just watched, acknowledged bitches and leading candidates for Britney-hood.

She said, then I said and she laughed, then she came over, and I went over, then we laughed and she cried; I didn't mean to but they made me and said this, then I said, but before I could, she went and I didn't, but they did . . . and that was just on the phone while I was still at work.

Daughter #1 is nine years older than daughter #2. The heavyweight cat fights didn't start until seventh grade then, but as girls have become better trained and more catlike and the malls and movies and TV offers more catty opportunities, the title matches have dropped to the fifth grade.

Daughter #1 was pretty callous, when necessary; and at the drop of a 'you're not my friend anymore,' she would casually reply 'see ya' and walk away. In a day or two, they were friends some more. Daughter #2 has a harder facade and, as a result of having an older sister, is a little more savvy at 10 than her sister.

Fortunately in real life, but unfortunately in the cat wars, daughter #2 is very sensitive. If she accidentally hurts a friend, she is devastated,. Like her older sister, she is tolerant of just about anybody, which attracts guerilla cat fighters waiting for the opportunity to pounce on the weak and unsuspecting. And when the pipe bomb of non-Hollister clothes or Target shoes or last week's music explodes, daughter #2 and soon-to-be-victim friends are caught in the crossfire.

The hardest part for my wife and me is to avoid giving proven advice: 'Walk up to her and slap the holy shit out her!'

So, instead, we counsel and cuddle and help make amends with hurt friends, then we walk into our room and:

We're NOT ready for this.

Addendum: when we asked daughter #1 to give advice to daughter #2 on dealing with girls, she said; 'Hang out with boys.'

Mondays: All You Need is Love

2008-01-14T21:51:00.000-06:00

Everybody knows Monday.

I crawled behind my keyboard about 6:45 a.m. I'm way behind on one job (because of last week's surprise), and I'm responsible for our Marketing Excellence Team (METs) meeting at lunch (and my preparation is far from excellent). I'm beat: I worked 23 hours just on Thursday and Friday of last week on the afore-mentioned 'surprise' project, then daughter #2 was sick most of the weekend, and, of course, the Cowboys lost (they didn't lose it; they gave it away).

I open my e-mail, and there's a note from the technical leader on last week's surprise project (two days to turn around what normally takes two weeks): 'thanks for your hard work.' Yeah, yeah, whatever.

Around mid-morning, I'm copied on an e-mail from a firm principal to the firm president: 'Major kudos to George Bowden, a miracle man, on the quick turnaround . . .'

At the end of my noon meeting, one of our conference call participants, before hanging up, takes the time to say 'Thanks! Good meeting.'

About 2 p.m., a technical lead's Reply to my draft of a proposal team org chart arrives: 'I think this is really great! You’ve captured just what I was trying to articulate.'

I'm headed out the door about 4:30 p.m. (I did come in early, okay?), and one of our marketing group members stops me at the door: 'I just wanted to say how much I appreciate the work you've put into the METs program. It's really good.'

I have to figure out a way to get to the office tomorrow morning; I flew home! What an amazing day . . . and it's Monday!

Make somebody's Tuesday. Or Wednesday, Thursday, Friday or their weekend. Sprinkle some of that magic 'thank you' dust, and watch 'em fly away (there's a little Peter Pan in all of us).

And thank you, Beatles:

All you need is love
All you need is love
All you need is love, love
Love is all you need

And to James Brown:

Wo! I feel good, I knew that I wouldn't of
I feel good, I knew that I wouldn't of
So good, so good, I got you

Wo! I feel nice, like sugar and spice
I feel nice, like sugar and spice
So nice, so nice, I got you

A Whiff of the Past

2008-01-12T16:56:00.000-06:00

Ambition overcame me this afternoon, and I started disassembling this 40s-era floor lamp that my Aunt Mary gave me 10-15 years ago. It's a nice, off-white lamp, cast-iron base with a slender tube leading up to one main light with three small chandelier-like arms; all we need to do is add is a bowl for the top and re-wire it, which was my mission for the afternoon.

As I disassembled, I carefully drew everything I could, trying to record how wires were connected and which pieces were attached by what bits of hardware (the landfills are full of past projects that I didn't 'document' and eventually gave up on reassembly). I'm not sure what I took apart, but it was almost like an old movie where the pharaoh's tomb is opened and ancient Egypt whooshes out. Except in my case, as I opened the upper part of the lamp where most of the original wiring connections are, 'old electricity' whooshed and my Lionel train was on the tracks again.

I'm not technical enough to understand or explain how electrical components from six or seven decades ago smell differently, but revisiting this 60-year-old aroma was wonderful! This train first belonged to my cousin Jack, Aunt Mary's son, who is 10 years older than I am, and then was passed on the me. That was the same electrical smell that permeated the room for hours of moving freight along an oval route, until it said, 'find something else to do; this transformer's too hot.'

I gave the train back to my cousin years ago when I recognized the value the tangibles that made childhood memories. I made the trip to Home Depot this afternoon for some up-to-date, non-aromatic lamp components; but if I do want to play with my train again, I saved this one lamp switch in my work bench drawer.

Now where are those army men?

Santa Claus, Moses and Me

2008-01-09T17:21:00.000-06:00

When did my beard turn so gray!? I'm blessed with non-graying genes from parents who were still salt-and-pepper in their 80s, and my hair's still brown, but I've been shocked at the last few photos I've seen of myself and how gray my beard's become (I'm also blessed with two college students and a 10-year-old, which certainly accounts for at least a couple of shades).

I've been tempted to shave by that sexy Swedish girl in the '60s Noxema shaving cream commercials from way back:

"Take it off. Take it all off."

Then I remembered a very special prayer. I prepared myself for worship. I dragged my straw out of the closet, wrapped a bandana around my head, slipped into my boots, knelt before the Lone Star flag on my bedroom wall, and prayed to the one who knows:

I was lost in trouble and strife, I heard a voice and it changed my life
And now it's a brand new day, and I ain't afraid to say
You're not alone when you're down and out
And I think you know who I'm talking about
When I don't know how I'll get through
I ask myself:

WHAT WOULD WILLIE DO?

NOT A DAMN THING!

I'm Madder 'n Hell, and I'm Not Going to Take It Anymore (or something like that)

2008-01-08T21:24:00.000-06:00

I haven't been a political person since some time around the third grade, when I plastered a George Wallace for President bumper sticker on my notebook. We had an All the Way with LBJ bumper sticker ripped off our car, and I thought that was probably the worse thing a hateful person could do during a political campaign.

A couple of years ago, the power of an individual voter hit home in a local school board election, when a candidate (fortunately, one of the good guys) won by 31 votes. And I believe that people will do the right thing, especially when their local interests are at stake. Last year, a previously non-existent group of voters in North Fort Worth derailed an 'old-time' political machine in the school board election, and the board took a positive 180-degree turn in its direction.

Unfortunately, I'm waiting for the right sound bite to sway my decision on presidential candidates. I took a survey a few months ago that said I was most closely tied with the guy from North Carolina with the nice head of hair. Wish I could remember his name. Last week, I was a Hillary fan, until I heard her stumping on TV and she sounded like a New York yankee (no, not one of the baseball players). So my vote's still pretty much up for grabs.

What I'm REALLY not liking is the fear that many are showing as they lambaste Barack Obama and try to associate him with everyone from Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein to the snake in the Garden of Eden. Yep, I think it's driven by fear of 'them' and not by any sound political judgment. Ditto re: Hillary and those other 'thems.'

Did you know that there's documented proofed that Obama hid his Muslim heritage behind his Catholic-school upbringing? Or that there are movies of Hillary and her 'friend?' Give me a break!

In 2005, my daughter was selected homecoming queen at her high school, the first in the new school's history. She's never been one to seek that kind of recognition, but she is very nice, well-known and 'will give the time of day' to anyone . . . a fact proven by the freshman/sophomore voting block that said she acknowledged their presence. I was very proud of her and knew that she has a valuable life skill in meeting and remembering people.

Ironically, I thought of a childhood friend from Port Arthur, who couldn't have more defined whatever our word might've been for nerd, geek or just plain bizarre. His older sister and mine were friends. I believe our dads worked together, and I knew him and his older brother through Boy Scouts and school.

My strongest vision of him is from high school, although he never changed much in comparison to the time or his environment, sporting high-water pants pulled up at the waist, wearing thick glasses and topped by a shock of squirrelly blond hair. My memory may be tainted related to the actual specifics, but you get the idea.

But he had what I would now consider an incredible life skill: he would walk through the hall between class periods and would greet everyone by name. It was in an irritable machine-gun style, but he knew everyone.

Most of us change from high school (although someone told my wife and daughter #1, when asked if I was really a nerd in high school, that I was exactly the same as I am now). So I thought, 'Man, this guy has probably thrived since he left school. What a gift, to have some kind of relationship with so many people!'

Because of daughter #1's success, I looked him up online, found him on the Port Arthur ISD alumni Web page, and sent him an e-mail. We exchanged some e-mails, and I could tell that he'd gone through some difficult times.

He and his brother both married what I would call 'mail-order brides' because 'American women just didn't know how to treat men.' He'd expressed a huge amount of pride in his young son, but was looking for another teaching job (apparently he's worked in school districts around the state and had a problem with another supervisor, 'teachers just aren't allowed to teach').

I'd just moved from an 'uncomfortable' job situation to the job I have now (and I love it!), so I thought I'd share some of my Pollyanna-ish encouragement. He continued to exchange e-mails with me anyway.

Then, after Hurricane Katrina obliterated New Orleans --when you couldn't turn on the TV without hurting for displaced families or get angry over horrible personal abuses, or fume over an unresponsive, hopelessly non-empathetic federal government -- I was part of a distribution list for an e-mail he distributed.

After a rant about New Orleans Blacks bringing the Katrina disaster on themselves, the e-mail ended with 'Watch out, Whitey!' I don't remember the exacting wording of my Reply All, but the intent was 'Take me off your f***ing e-mail list!!!' I guess the All in Reply All were 'watching out' because they promptly shared their disagreement with my stance on the post-Katrina re-socialization.

And then I thought: here's a man who grew up in a nearly mirror image of my home, slightly more nerdy than me, but loves his family and has some valuable life skills.

And I asked myself then and continue to ask: When do people get so bitter? How do they become so unhappy? What the hell happened!?

God, I love my life.

So don't tell my that you've seen Obama riding a camel or Hillary strolling arm-in-arm with Rosie O'Donnell and Ellen DeGeneres. Tell me how your candidate's going to bring young people home from Iraq and Afghanistan, and how he/she will balance the budget, address immigration, eradicate hunger, get people off the streets, and help me pay for my kids' college.

Whew! I feel better now.

P.S. If you think I'm naively loving a cushy life, let's chat.

Apples Revisited

2008-01-08T20:44:00.000-06:00

A few days ago, under Apples Don't Fall Very Far, I posted high school photos of my son and me, and asked why we both looked so pissed off. He's found some direction now, majoring in computer gaming software at DeVry, and we both look happier (yes, that's his happy look). We moved him into his apartment Saturday. Here's a moving day photo:

I Love My Job!

2008-01-07T22:26:00.000-06:00

I work for a $45-million firm that employs nearly 400 people across the state, and I love my job. We have a family-oriented, employee-first culture that starts at the top. The firm president even took the time today to visit with me and applaud my extra effort on a recent project, ask about my family, and congratulate me on my son's enrollment in a computer gaming software program.

And it's not so formal that I have go to the executive suite to meet with him. I was standing at the urinal, and he was sitting in the stall next to me. Gotta love it!

Always watching the bottom line, he did admonish: 'You're on company time. Don't shake it more than twice.'

CYA Love Songs

2008-01-06T00:39:00.001-06:00

Just in case my wife reads my blog (she doesn't) and checks out my last post, here are two of my favorite love songs that make me think of her (airsickness bags are located on the back of the seat in front of you):

Like A Coat From the Cold
by Guy Clark

I found comfort and courage from bottles of whiskey.
I swear to you friends these old high times sure seem risky.
I have backed away gently from those who tried to burn me. and blocked up my ears that no one should learn me.

But the lady beside me is the one I have chosen
To walk through life with me like a coat from the cold

I have flown like a bird from every cage that confined me
and broken every one of the ties that bind me
I have danced me around some sad ol' sad ol' situations
and taken my share of those sweet invitations

But the lady beside me is the one I have chosen
To walk through life with me like a coat from the cold

Grow Old Along With Me
by John Lennon (as sung my Mary Chapin Carpenter)

Grow old along with me
The best is yet to be
When our time has come
We will be as one
God bless our love
God bless our love

Grow old along with me
Two branches of one tree
Face the setting sun
When the day is done
God bless our love
God bless our love

Spending our lives together
Man and wife together
World without end
World without end

Grow old along with me
Whatever fate decrees
We will see it through
For our love is true
God bless our love
God bless our love

(I think I'm going to cry . . . thanks, guys . . . anybody nauseated?)

Next Time, No Nose Tap

2008-01-05T23:44:00.000-06:00

I am unbelievably romantic and loving and, unfortunately, just a little (a LOT) off the wall. If you cataloged everything my wife has said during the last 15-20 years, the entry with the most hits would have to be: 'You are SO strange.'

My final year in college was 1977; and I worked most of that year at KYKR, a country (country/western is what we called it then) radio station near Port Arthur, usually late-night or 'graveyard' weekend shifts . . . (yes, this is all going somewhere)

Thanks to my dad, I already had a pretty full repertoire of country classics, but months and months of singing country songs LOUDLY, trying hard to stay awake (no worry, Mr. Joynt; microphones off, studios empty and always awake), etched the lyrics of hundreds of country songs, some truly awful, in my facts-need-not-apply brain.

One of the advantages from that era is that old country/western music helps keep me awake, especially on late-night drives. My wife and I were returning from Austin this evening, and KSCS, one of the local country stations (Nashville country . . . patooey! her regular choice, not mine), was airing its regular Classic Country Saturday night . . . (yes, this is still going somewhere)

My yankee wife, who I've said before loves all things Texas, loves contemporary country music, but hates classic country. And now she especially hates Tom T. Hall.

The disc jockey (or whatever he's called now) intros Tom T. Hall's 'I Love.' I start bouncing with excitement all over the cab of my truck (as much as driving will allow me anyway), and I start to droan along with Tom (my wife is shocked/disgusted that I know the lyrics).

I love little baby ducks, old pick-up trucks, slow-moving trains, and rain
I love little country streams, sleep without dreams, Sunday school in May
And hay
And I love you, too

When I get to I love you, I look at my wife and on too, I playfully tap her on the nose.

Maybe I need some advice for the lovelorn, but I have begun to believe that maybe women really don't like being compared to baby ducks, pick-up trucks, trains and hay. And that maybe they don't like being thumped on the nose at 70 MPH. And that maybe they just don't like Tom T. Hall.

She's just lucky that Tom and I didn't belt out . . .

I like beer. It makes me a jolly good fellow
I like beer. It helps me unwind and sometimes it makes me feel mellow (makes him feel mellow)
Whiskey's too rough, champagne costs too much, and vodka puts my mouth in gear
Aw, this little refrain should help me explain, as a matter of fact, i love beer (yes, he likes beer)

(I tried really hard to find a 'my hero' Tom T. Hall photo that resembled him on that evening in the late '60s, when they poured him onto the stage of Woodrow Wilson Junior High for his Port Arthur CavOILcade performance . . . dang it! no luck)

If I'm wearing jeans, it must be Friday

2008-01-04T18:02:00.000-06:00

I love having a major holiday in the middle of the week. That odd day off keeps me off balance and regularly pestering friends and family about what day of the week we're enjoying (I thrive in a confused environment). Woke up this morning, showered and dressed. Looked down, saw boots and Levi's, and cheered, 'IT'S FRIDAY!'

Black-Eyed Peas and Cabbage

2008-01-02T21:57:00.000-06:00

Tradition calls for eating black-eyed peas and cabbage on New Year's Day for good luck throughout the rest of the year. I discovered earlier this evening that when you eat them as leftovers on January 2, then head out the door to the Y to work on your new year's resolution, they laugh at you and heckle, 'yeah, good luck.' Not exactly the breakfast of champions . . . ugh.

Apples Don't Fall Very Far

2008-01-01T22:50:00.000-06:00

One of my biggest frustrations as a father has been the geographic distance between my son, now 19, and me and my related inability to significantly influence his attitude. I consider myself a pretty upbeat and positive person, nearly Pollyanna-ish, because I don't see the value in a life-sucks-people-are-stupid attitude and would even label that approach to life as self-destructive. When my son and I have been together, there's always been a transition period for both of us because he's not nearly as outgoing as my immediately family -- much more private -- and his outlook appears to be significantly less optimistic than my other two children.

And then this evening, I found a photo of me taken at the end of my senior year in high school and compared it to one his high school photos that I thought displayed a real dissatisfaction with life (there are even 'better' photos; this is the only one I could find this evening).

What are we so pissed off about?

I remember high school graduation day, when my photo was taken, as one of the saddest days of my life and the topper for a difficult and confusing senior year. I'm sure my son must've faced similar teenage challenges that brought to light a family resemblance like I've never seen in other photos.

He's starting at DeVry in Austin next week to major in computer gaming software, and he's the most excited I've seen him in years, probably since one of those still-believe-in-Santa-Claus Christmas mornings. Having found my old photo as I'm getting ready to move him in to his own apartment, I feel much better now believing that there'll be more 'family resemblances.' Hopefully, he'll experience the same joy I have, when during a morning commute, he'll reflect on his life, smile and say out loud, 'Life is good.'

Societal Ills

2008-01-01T21:21:00.000-06:00

Think under-aged drinking is not a problem? Check out Facebook photo of Daughter #1 at her New Year's Eve party.

Santa, Bogie, Tweeners and Beer

2007-12-30T19:20:00.001-06:00

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:

Justice
Limited 2
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

2007-12-29T21:23:00.001-06:00

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

Dad-isms #3

2007-12-27T17:41:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-25T23:56:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-17T18:15:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-16T10:54:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-15T23:31:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-14T23:18:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-13T22:13:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-10T22:16:00.001-06:00

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

2007-12-10T21:39:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-09T16:06:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-08T17:11:00.000-06:00

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

One Pound!

2007-12-06T21:07:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-06T18:36:00.001-06:00

(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

2007-12-06T18:01:00.001-06:00

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

2007-12-05T17:34:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-05T15:45:00.001-06:00

One word:

BELIEVE.

We do.

The Drive Home

2007-12-04T13:54:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-03T21:35:00.001-06:00

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

2007-12-03T17:07:00.000-06:00

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

2007-12-02T22:14:00.000-06:00

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.