Monday Meanderings - 9.16.2019

Since our kids surreptitiously installed an Echo device in the house last Christmas, Alexia has become like a family pet. We taught her a few tricks and she entertains us from time to time, and she turns a light off and on, but we have come to an impasse over the garage door.

One of the "tricks" I taught her was to remind us each evening to check the garage doors. We used to have a real live neighbor, who would call me on occasion, while walking her dog, to say, "Bob. You forgot to put your garage door down. Again." Unfortunately, she passed away, and now it is up to Freddy from across the street to tell me the door is still up, but he doesn't call - he rings my doorbell late at night and scares the be-jeebers out of me.

So I assigned this task to Alexia, along with other reminders, and she faithfully calls out, "Don't forget to check the garage doors." At first, this scared the be-jeebers out of me as well, but I figured out how to have her speak out softly, and all is well.

If  our home were more technically advanced, Alexia could check the garage doors herself, and probably close them as well, and the reminder would not be needed, but that is not the current state of automation, and so she reminds me every evening. Even if she doesn't need to. Even if I say, "Alexa, the garage doors are down."

Her response to this statement varies. Sometimes she gives me the definition of a garage door. A couple of times she has started playing music from the group named "Three Doors Down." There's always the possibility of her standby "Hmm. I don't know that." But the impasse came about when she started arguing with me. "No! A garage is not a door!"

Barb suggests that I might not want to offend her, or make her mad. She is, after all, on speaking terms with the A/C and the TV. She can turn the lights off. And she might well have other tricks, like ordering a truck load of toilet paper from Mother Amazon.

But she can't close the garage door. Yet.

Monday Meandering - 8.26.2019

If the old almanac observation about judging the depth of the coming winter by observing how the critters pack on the fat during the Fall is to be believed, we are in for a hard winter.

The pecan crop around here seems to follow a bi-annual pattern - good year, then lean year. This will be a lean year. Not that many pecans to begin with, and certainly not after the squirrels get through. The entire pecan crop seems to lying in fragments on outr driveway and front walk.

From early morning to late evening, the resident squirrels gnaw the still-green pecans into fragments and discard the detritus on the ground, where it remains to be crunched beneath our car wheels as we come and go.

The yard guys come and blow the fragments away periodically, but I think the squirrels just consider this a challenge to recover the driveway as quickly as possible, which is pretty darn quick.

Monday Meanderings - 8.12.2019

News from the Neighborhood

The car is gone!

The car that showed up across from our driveway when the City was repaving finally got hauled away. After a police officer had tagged the windshield with the orange sticker of abandonment, I thought it would be weeks still, but in less time than that another officer showed up, followed shortly by a tow truck. The officer and truck driver took an album full of photos each and finally hoisted it onto the truck and took it to a far better place. At least as far as we are concerned.

The Crack House is gone!

A house up the street from us fell into disrepair and the various groups of renters in the recent past have not exactly added to the over-all quality of the neighborhood. A neighbor up the street had reported drug deals that occurred there, and it was getting pretty dicey. No more.

The owner - new or old - stripped the house to the studs, literally, replaced the wiring, plumbing, windows, cabinets, and appliances. It has been re-roofed, re-painted and landscaped and placed on the market. For $415,000. I notice there's a contract pending.

The fence is up!

After we puzzled a while over the row of flags dotting another neighbor's yard, and decided that they marked where a fence would be positioned, and a great deal of time passed with nothing happening, the fence went up this week. Looks pretty strange to us. Sort of a ranch-style fence positioned across the side and front yards.

What was that?

The other night, at 11:55pm, to be precise,  a very large, very loud, very low airplane flew over the house - and took a long time to do so! The next morning our local chapter of the Nextdoor social media app, which usually concerns itself only with lost dogs and cats, blew up with questions from a large swath of neighborhoods about the mystery airplane! At last count, 123 neighbors posted questions and opinions about the plane, and what it might or might not have been and why it was so low, and why it was so slow. As with most social media, the conclusion was inconclusive. It was a very large, very loud, very low, very slow airplane. Go back to bed, folks.

Monday Meanderings - 7.29.2019

News from the Neighborhood -

A few weeks ago the City of Austin began posting notices about a pending re-paving of the streets in our neighborhood. This was good news because of the deteriorating condition of the existing asphalt and bad news because of the disruption it would cause.

The notices had dire warnings about cars parked in the street (they would be hauled to some other vague location) and the interruption it would cause (if they are working on your street and you need to come or go, tough luck).

The work began, and we carefully considered our lunch-time options in view of where the paving trucks seemed to be working and decided they would not get to us until after we had dined at Chuy's. We keep our priorities straight on things like that. So we left and had lunch and you can guess the rest.

It turned out to be a negligible delay - one side of our street had the tar and gravel laid down and by driving to the bottom of our block we scooted across to home and safety before the trucks started doen the other side. Home free.

As far as cars that had to be re-located, it appeared that they simply had tow-trucks gather up vehicles on to-be-paved streets and park them on already-paved streets. Like ours. And it soon became obvious that the tow trucks were NOT charged with returniing them once moved; it was up to the owner to find and remove his vehicle. But there is this one un-driveable (front end mashed in) vehicle that ended up across from our driveway that the owner evidently thinks is in a better place than in front of his or her house.

At first, we didn't know what the deal was, but Freddie - the across-the-street neighbor, had seen the tow truck deposit the car and learned from the towing company that they had no further obligation to return it. So he called it in as an abandoned vehicle and was told it might sit there a long time before any action by the city was taken. So, we doubled down and also called and got essentially the same story, but... the other day a cop put the orange sticker of death on the windshield, so maybe, just maybe it will be moved in our lifetime.

In the mean time, I'll make you a real good deal on a late model Chrysler SUV with extensive front end damage. As is. You will need to arrange its removal, but the price is excellent.

Monday Meanderings - 7.22.2019

On getting old.

Of late, Barb and I have been discussing getting old. As in, we are. Getting old.

Age is only a number, and by and large we have ignored that ever-incrementing number, but there comes a time when the body begins to call attention to itself in ways that make us stop and assess our condition and think, "You know, I can't ____________ anymore."

Case in point. A few minutes ago Barb needed to move the stand of TV tables from one spot to another. She was struggling with them - the rack holds 4 solid wood tables, so I magnanimously stepped forward to move them for her - and discovered I could barely lift them! When did that happen?

We daily receive pointers on aging from a wide variety of sources; our alphabet of physicians and health-care experts, the AARP emails and bulletins, the exercise class leaders at the gym, a wide range of social media sources (why do I keep getting ads for Depends in my Face Book feed?), and even from our financial consultant and part-time Walmart greeter ("Have you signed up for a casita at the Casa Pequeno Home for Assisted Living yet?")

And by and large, we pay attention to these pointers. We try to eat healthy. Queso and chips is a food group, right? And we exercise. Those trips from the recliner to the bathroom really add up. We eschew habits that are bad for you, so we can check off a lot of the boxes and feel (somewhat) good about it.

But Barb pointed out that socializing is always high on the list of check-offs. That without putting forth effort to interact with others - and Alexa doesn't count - one tends to become like Boo Radley, locked away in the haunted house.

In fact, she pointed out, apart from our family, the people we currently have the most interaction with are our favorite wait-staff at the various restaurants we frequent.

Ouch.

Well, we have been talking about getting back into a Care Group at church. We know one that attracts old folks like us. And they meet at the Casa Pequeno Home for Assisted Living. We can check out the apartments while we are there.

Just kidding about the Casa Pequeno Home for Assisted Living part. But maybe they would be willing to move.

Monday Meandering - 7.15.2019

Today's post came together from several directions - and surprised me in the process. I'll explain.

I have posted recently about Barb and I giving some effort to clearing out some of the accumulated stuff that fills our closets and shelves. The most visible result of that effort has been a marked and noticeable clearing of bookshelves. Barb has dedicated herself to that task and weekly hauls sacks of books (that have been gathering dust for years) to Half Price. Family pictures have taken their place and I must say it is a nice improvement.

I have been less industrious with the clutter of stuff in my computer room/office/sound studio, but I am making some progress. Most of my detritus just gets tossed in the trash or recycling. There's still some "family heirloom" type stuff to deal with - like, for instance, my father's glass Easter Egg.

 

It is a milk-glass, hand-blown, decorated Easter egg, about 6 inches long. The naval anchor is embossed and gilded. The word "Easter" is painted on the egg, but is almost entirely rubbed off at this point. You can find similar eggs that look very much like this on E-Bay, listed from $12 to $100, depending on condition,

The story behind the egg is that it was a gift - the earliest gift my father remembered - from a neighbor lady. And what to do with it has been weighing on me for some time. I have some other "heirloom" items that I will dispose of with little or no emotional baggage, but the egg was a conundrum.

Barb mentioned the egg at her weekly ladies brunch, and one of our friends spoke up and said, "I collect eggs of all types, I would love to have it." Problem solved. She asked me to provide the background - what I knew about the egg, and here's what I told her.

"Joyce,

My father, Jessie Leon Anderson, was born July 15, 1907 in Johnson County, Texas, one and a half miles east of Cleburne on the old Grandview Road. He lived much of his early life at that location, in a two-room house situated on 15 acres of a sandy loam fruit and vegetable garden that provided the family income.

He described the egg as the earliest gift he recalled, given to him "a neighbor lady who taught first grade." He later said that near-by neighbors included "Mr and Mrs Homer Curtis - a Civil War veteran and his wife, who baked good cookies, and their spinster daughter, Miss Emma, who taught school in small country schools."

So the egg was probably a gift from Emma Curtis, likely his first grade teacher."

And the surprise? I'm writing this on Sunday, and when I went to schedule it to be posted on Monday morning, the posting date was July 15. My fathers date of birth, 112 years ago.

MMs - 7.8.2019 - Alexa! She shoots, she scores!

The 2019 Women's World Cup is in the books. USA! USA!

No secret that we're fans. Barb enjoys it; but I can best be described as rabid.  I did, in fact, watch all 34 games, for example.

It came to our attention a few weeks ago that we have been following Women's Soccer for 20 years. There was an exhibition game a month or so ago and the 99ers - the team that won the World Cup in 1999 was feted. That was the win that resulted in the iconic Sports illustrated cover of Brandi Chaistain celebrating her goal in her sports bra!

BTW, a reporter asked Brandi if she had that sports bra in a place of honor somewhere. Her response was, "No. It was just laundry to me."

Players change over the years, of course. Mia Hamm and Christie Rampone gave way to Hope Solo and Abby Wambach, who gave way to Alex Morgan and Megan Rapinoe. Megan apparently will give way to no one - especially the President.

I worried about this team. They have shown a tendency to react slowly in the back line, allowing easy, surprise goals. And until Cup play, the current goal keeper appeared very vulnerable. But as of yesterday, the US Women are 4-time winners and pulled off the very difficult back-to-back championship. USA! USA!

It has been interesting to see the growth of interest in the Women's game at a national level. This is a recurring phenomenon, and after the parades, and the Victory Tour games, it will wane somewhat, but overall, the needle has been moved upward significantly.

That's good, because members of the same team that won the Cup are suing their parent organization for equality with the Men's team. It's a righteous fight; the Women draw bigger crowds, generate more revenue, score more goals (the Women scored more goals in a single Cup game than the Men have scored in Cup play in total since 2006), and oh, yeah. The Men didn't even qualify for their World Cup.

Plus, one of my all-time favorite blog posts was about watching the Women's World Cup (Deep thoughts while watching a soccer game.)
 
Alexa! She shoots! She scores! Try it.

Monday Meanderings - 7.1.2019

Last week of Women's World Cup. The US Women are still going strong, but the game with England will test them tomorrow. And if we get past that we will face Sweden (who we have beaten once already) or the Netherlands (who we have not met, yet) in the final. USA! USA!

The family heirloom clock has learned a new trick. When it comes time to strike 8 o:clock, it doesn't. At least it doesn't on Saturday night and Sunday mornings. That's near the end of the spring un-winding for the week, so that may have something to do with it. I wind the clock every Sunday afternoon after we get home from church. It's the weekly "wind and water (the orchids)" ritual.

Interestingly, the clock does chime correctly at 9pm on Saturday (and I suppose at 9am on Sunday. We're gone to church by then, so I'm not sure about Sunday morning. Maybe I could ask Alexa to listen at 9 and tell me later. I was already aware that the clock only strikes 10 times for the 12 o:clock hour; that has been it's behavior since getting it back from the repair shop.

I posted a picture a few weeks back of the gray foxes that wandered through out back yard one evening. I sort of figured that they had drifted over from the Pioneer Farms - a large, open area that is part of the Parks and Recreation system. The coyote population is pretty high over there and we regularly see coyotes walking down the streets, cutting across to a green-belt to our north. If coyotes live there, I assume foxes can too.

However, they just might live a little closer than that. Barb saw one in broad daylight on the patio recently, and one morning this week I saw a fox run from beside our house across the street and disappear between the houses directly across the street. There's a cat that lives over there - or maybe there WAS a cat that lived over there.

Monday Meanderings - 6.17.2019

Tire Story

Any day you have an appointment with a dentist is a bad day.

Any day you have an appointment with a dentist and then get a flat tire on the way home is a very bad day.

Any day you have an appointment with a dentist and then get a flat tire on the way home and then the On-Star Roadside Service says you don't have a GM vehicle and they can't help you is a very, very bad day.

Any day you have an appointment with a dentist and then get a flat tire on the way home and then the On-Star Roadside Service says they can't help you, but the AARP Roadside Service says they can send someone but it will be about 3 hours before they can get there is a No Good, Very Bad Day!  And yes, I have two Roadside Service accounts. Don't judge.

 And any day you have an appointment with a dentist and then get a flat tire on the way home and then the On-Star Roadside Service says they can't help you, but the AARP Roadside Service will send someone in about 3 hours, so you walk over to the nearby Taco Shack and get a big ol' Iced Tea to dank while you sit on their patio and wait, but the Taco Shack closes shortly after that and now there is no restroom nearby and it's still an hour or more before the roadside service gets there is a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day!

Tire Story 2

Early the next morning, I am at the tire place with the spare on the ground and the flat tire with a big old bolt the size of a railroad spike stuck right in the middle sitting in the back. After a half-hour or so, it's my turn at the counter and the service tech goes out and gets the flat tire and takes it into the shop, and eventually comes back and looks up my account and says. "Uh oh." At this point I don't want to hear "Uh oh" because it's a new tire and I know I have road-hazard coverage, but it's "Uh oh" because he doesn't have that tire in stock and I can wait until they can get one sent over from the warehouse or I can go to a nearby location that does it in stock. This is going to be a bad day.

I choose to drive to the other store, and I get to the counter fairly quickly and they have the tire and all will be set right in "about an hour." Maybe this is not going to be such a bad day, after all.

Two hours later, I'm told "the puncture has been repaired and they are balancing the tire as we speak." Except it had been determined (twice) that the tire needed to be replaced. It could not be repaired. So the service rep scurries off to figure out what's what - and doesn't return. "He's on his lunch break." I'm told, but "my NEW tire is almost ready to put on the vehicle." This is now officially a bad day,

After about 4 hours invested in this whole process, I get home with my newly-replaced tire, and all is good, until I open the back to replace the little lug-lock thingy - and there is the flat tire with the railroad spike sticking out of it, pretty as you please!! The bad day just got worse.

"You're kidding me." the service rep says over the phone. "Nope. I'm looking at the tire and the big old spike sticking out," I say. "Just what exactly did you guys do during the 2 1/2 hours you had the car?" Now he's about to have a bad day.

For reasons I still don't understand, the techs replaced my perfectly-good spare with a new tire... and sent me home with a flat tire in the back, But after 3 visits to various tire stores, I now have all tires in place and repaired. Now all I have to do is find out what's up with On-Star.

MMs - 6.10.2019 - More Stuff

Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full. More Stuff on the way to Half Price Books. This is the 2nd batch in as many weeks and is further evidence of our commitment to de-Stuffing our house. These bags are full of video tapes, CDs and DVDs of old movies, shows and programs that haven't seen the inside of a VHF/CD/DVD player in many moons. Time for them to go.

Oh, and cook books. Not the classic Betty Crocker cookbook that was a wedding gift, or the cookbooks published by the Walker Street church ladies, or the Wilbarger Street church ladies or the Godley church ladies. Rather, cookbooks like "Fifteen Fabulous Recipes for Crock Pot Delights." Maybe we should include our crock pot, too. I'm sure it's in a cabinet somewhere. But cabinets are not on the schedule. Yet.

Social Media has widely promoted the Marie Kondo series, where one examines each item in question and decides if it brings the owner joy. If not, you bid it adieu and a happy life at Goodwill. I decided to try that method. So far, I have failed to find joy in all the vegetables in the fridge, the electric bill and an old tennis shoe.

Actually, there is some merit to the "find joy" method. There are some things that we did not put in the bags. Things that will probably still be on the shelf when the kids clean the house out.

Like my Little Golden Book of "The Pokey Little Puppy." And maybe the video of Lamb Chop, the hand puppet. Lamb Chop saved our bacon in Prague one night - baby-sitting a very young, very distraught Jericho who simply would not be appeased...until we played the Lamb Chop video. And maybe the....

But if I find the other tennis shoe it's absolutely out of here.

MMs - 6.3.2019 - Stuff

So Neale, our financial advisor and part-time Walmart greeter,  has been gently but firmly moving the conversation toward stuff. Specifically our stuff, and what to do with it.

Now my take on the accumulated flotsam and jetsam that fills our closets and shelves and drawers and cabinets and attic and garage and auto glove boxes is that eventually it becomes someone else's problem. I figure it's my role to hoard it and my kids role to dispose of it.

Neale, bless his heart, is doing his best to persuade us that's not the best course.  His take is that there's not going to be much room at the Casa Pequeno Home for Assisted Living, so we ought to give some thought to winnowing the detritus. He assures us, often, "Your kids don't want your stuff!"

He's persistent, I'll give him that. So Barb and I are taking a long look at the stuff that we have accumulated in our 57 years (Saturday, thank you very much) together. Our own collection is bad enough, but when you add in all the things that we have inherited/acquired from our own parents, we have a museum here.

I have, on a shelf above me, among other things, a non-working crystal radio that my father built as a boy, three glass insulators that were acquired during his 45 years as a telephone lineman, a clay piggy bank that my mother painted, a crystal paper weight globe from our son-in-law, a porcelain figure of a graduate in cap and gown that Burnell Knight made for me upon my graduation from high school, a class ring from that self-same high school - dated 1959 - and 9 VHS video tapes that are unlabeled so I have no idea what's on them - but I have an old VHS player on the shelf in the closet so I could check them out. Or not.

On a nearby shelf  is a (large) glass egg that a teacher gave my father when he was a boy,  a complete set of silverware that belonged to Grandmother Anderson, 7 large binders of genealogy records that my mother painstakingly assembled (contents transferred to digital media long ago), 6 archival boxes of genealogical papers, certificates and historical brick-abrac, assorted books on the history of Johnson County, and.... You get the picture. Oh yeah, there's a couple of bankers boxes of those. Pictures, that is. I just hope Rob doesn't return the grocery sack of 35mm slides he carried off. Did I mention the dozen photo albums? Or the framed photos on the walls and scattered on most flat surfaces throughout the house?

And then there's the books.

We have, at this moment in time, 34 linear feet of books taking up space on shelves throughout the house. And those are the "keepers." At any given time there is a stack of books on the way back to the library or to Half-Price books. Those don't count. We have books on gardening, travel, home repair, medical help and diet. I have nearly 3 linear feet of reference books, such as biographical dictionaries, geographical dictionaries, and foreign language dictionaries.  We have yards of fiction books "because we like that writer."

We have Junior High, High School and College Yearbooks (in duplicates). We have books on becoming a US Citizen (in multiple languages), a dozen antique to contemporary hymn and song books. And then there are the commentaries, Bibles and Bible study books. Any one need a complete set of commentaries by Adam Clark? He wrote them in the late 1800's; they are so old they don't even have a copyright or publication date in them.  How about 14 linear feet of binders containing transcripts of every sermon on Romans that John Allen Chalk preached at Highland in Abilene in the 60's, as well as notes from BSF, and classes attended at Austin Grad?

And I can't even begin to get my head around all the odd stuff piled on the shelves and in the closet in my "office." Need the installation diskettes for Windows 95? How about 3 surplus keyboards? Three monitors? Two obsolete computers?

And did I mention the garage?


I wonder if Neale has any room at his house?

MMs - 5.20.2019 - Our friend. Miranda

If you follow this blog, you know that Barb and I are big fans of Women's Athletics at the University of Texas, and have been for many years. We had season tickets for Lady Longhorns basketball for about 20 years. In our dotage, we treasure the Longhorn Network, which lets us watch all the Basketball, Volleyball, and Softball home games - and we have become adept at finding TV broadcasts on obscure streaming video channels. We're fans.

The Softball team has a new coach this year; an experienced and proven leader, who came from Oregon and brought four of his superstars with him from that program. Together, they really transformed the Texas team and it's been a fun season. One of his transfer players is All-American pitcher Miranda Elish who can hit almost as well as she can pitch. We're fans.

So a couple of weeks ago during church, we had a "meet and greet" for those around us, and when I turned around, Miranda and her 6'-6" boyfriend were in the pew behind us! We introduced ourselves, and when she said, "I'm Miranda," we both said, "Yes. We know who you are. We're fans!" Interestingly, she seemed surprised that we knew who she was.

The Softball team, in spite of being in the top 10 most of the season, got into a bit of a slump toeard the end of regular play and the Big XII Tournament (as in "2 and BBQue"). so they were very excited when named to host a regional. But the slump continued, and Texas lost the opener to a much lower-ranked opponent Friday night. So that meant 2 games on Saturday to earn the right to play the winner of the other bracket on Sunday. And Miranda pitched both of those games - about 320 pitches in all.

Texas won both of them, but now had to play two games on Sunday, so we were a bit surprised when Miranda and boyfriend Reese sought us out after services. We chatted about what an amazing 2 games she had, and asked if she was going to pitch Sunday, after two marathon games on Saturday - one with extra innings.. She said she was tired, but she really wanted to pitch the upcoming games!

So yesterday afternoon Barb and I watched the games in air-conditioned comfort while Miranda and the team played must-win games in "feels-like 100 degrees" temperatures. And Miranda pitched both of these games as well - 441 amazing pitches for the two days, with only 2 walks and an ERA you need a microscope to see! And hit a double and scored three runs as icing on the cake! So UT is going to a Super Regional. I won't be able to record books today because I yelled at the TV too much. We're excited fans!

But something funny happened yesterday afternoon. All of a sudden, the games became too important. That's our friend Miranda out there. Every hit against her became personal. Every pitch called a ball when we knew it was a strike upset us. It was distressing to hear her say in the post-game interview that she got a little delirious toward the end. It's sort of like when your child is playing sports in a very important game and you want them to do well, but there's a lot of pressure and you worry about them. I realize that we have only spoken to the young lady twice, but now it's different. We met her. We have something in common. She's a friend!

Who knew it was so hard to be friends and fans?

MMs - 5.13.2019 - "...I am NOT spontaneous!!"

spon·ta·ne·ous

/spänˈtānēəs/

adjective: performed or occurring as a result of a sudden inner impulse or inclination and without premeditation or external stimulus.

Our son and grandson were in Vancouver last week, exploring one of British Columbia's prettiest cities prior to boarding a cruise ship headed to Alaska. It's a Senior Graduation trip for our grandson (and a bucket list item for our son).

When Barb and I go on a trip, I have a notebook full of schedules, maps, time-tables, telephone numbers and emergency contacts. And duplicate documents reside on my iPad. And some of them also reside on a thumb drive that I carry on my key chain. The travel book, in all its forms, is the culmination of a well-developed, time-tested check list that currently has 54 items to tick off before we're ready to go. I am a nervous traveler, and I am NOT spontaneous.

But the title quote about spontaneity was not from me. It was from my son, and because he is my son this trip was just as carefully scripted. I didn't see his check list, but I did see his folder. This trip was carefully scripted, with all the stops, sights and attractions carefully arranged and in good order. 

I'm proud of him.

So it was a little surprising to receive a message with a photo of a soccer game getting underway between the Vancouver Whitecaps and the Portland Timbers. Obviously they were at the game - and I knew it was not on the itinerary.  The accompanying text said, "This is what happens when you vacation with a son who says, as you walk past the stadium, "Hey look, they're playing. You want to go?" And it was followed by another text that said, "You guys need to know I am NOT spontaneous!!"

I'm not exactly sure why, but this brought to mind a moment of spontaneity... on the part of  my father. I would not describe my father as a spontaneous person, though I recognize from my own behavior that age has a great deal to with spontaneity, so I may not know the whole story. Nevertheless. One evening in 1955 or 1956, my father, mother and I were returning to Breckenridge from a week-end visit with my aunt in Fort Worth. It was probably a Sunday evening, and as we approached the outskirts of Mineral Wells at dusk, my father saw that the movie "Oklahoma" was showing at a drive-in theater. He pulled in, paid the attendant, and we watched Curly woo Laurey away from Jud (poor Jud) with song and dance!

I thought my mother was going to get out and start walking home.

The conversation was brief, but intense, and I suspect there was a paucity of conversation for the next week or so, but my father - who was not much of a movie-goer - wanted to see Oklahoma, and it was showing at a drive-in near us, and it was the right time of the evening, so we stopped to watch it.

And so it was that my son and his son were passing a stadium, and secretly they always wanted to watch a professional soccer game, and it was the right time of the evening, so they turned in, paid the attendant and watched it. And nobody threatened to walk home.

I'm proud of them.

MMs - 5.6.2019 - Port A - after the storm

Just off the ferry, Port Aransas looks deceptively normal; the Souvenir shops are lined up as usual - though with fresh paint. There’s a new hotel right by the ferry landing, and here and there signs of construction and remodeling, but all-in-all, surprisingly normal. It has, after all, been almost 2 years  since Harvey devastated the island. Our first response was “Everything is back except the Sand Castle,” our condo of choice for the past many years.

Then you begin to notice the RVs and trailers parked on almost every previously open space. And that many of the businesses you pass are not actually open. And there are chain link fences blocking access to a lot of beach front properties. There are gaps here and there where houses and businesses have been bull-dozed and the debris hauled away. No Castaways restaurant on that corner. An A-Frame house peeled to the structural timbers on this block,

Barb has been calling the Sand Castle on a regular basis, checking on progress. Each call results in longer and longer estimates of guest readiness. Then we began hearing that the Sand Castle might not ever recover. She's called a few other places, but they were too expensive, or too far from the beach. Finally she found a place worth trying. Plus, she was getting very beach needy.

We’re staying at the Beach Gate condos - a little less than a mile further down the beach from the Sand Castle. The room is nice; spacious, all new appliances, furniture and decor (of course), comfortable chairs and 3 couches to nap on. Normal sized widows don’t allow the best ocean viewing, but there’s a spacious balcony. You can hear every step the upstairs neighbors make (and I’m sure the downstairs folks hear us as well). Biggest drawback; the elevator is in the adjacent building and there’s a long, circuitous path to get here from there. It’s that or very steep stairs. We don’t do stairs well. Or stairwells.


Port A is desperate for business. We were warmly welcomed at Beach Gate. The manager fetched a dolly and stacked our bags and boxes of beach-needs on it, then led us on the roundabout route to our room. He carried in our baggage, demonstrated our fancy key-less door lock and assured us that he was on premises 24 hours a day.  Call him if we needed anything. We give it a "we can stay here" - if the right rooms are available.

We mentioned the rumors that the Sand Castle wasn’t coming back. He said there was an owners meeting last week, and they were told it would be 2 more years before repairs could be completed. He said all those owners were still on the hook for mortgages, dues and insurance in the meantime, with no revenue stream and hopelessly bogged in an insurance and relief claims quagmire. He seemed to doubt its viability. We drove by to take a look, and while scaffolding no longer surrounds the building, there are no visible signs of any work going on.

With the exception of the now-demolished Castaways, all of our favorite eating places are open and eager for business. We ate at Fins Wednesday night, with the waitstaff very solicitous of our comfort. “It’s pretty cool in here. Are you all sure this is okay?” And there  was no visible indication that the storm parked a big boat or 2 in the dining area of Virginia’s on the Bay. And the slaw and beans sides are still served in tiny 1oz cups. Business as usual.

The Coast Guard station that was adjacent to Virginia’s is being demolished. As we were leaving, we heard a big bang and looked up to see the metal infrastructure toppling to the ground. Went by the UT Marine Biology facility that was severely damaged and saw only work vehicles. Glass installers for the most part.

Trout Street had a big "NOW OPEN" sign. Our waiter said they could have opened earlier, but there wasn't enough tourist traffic to warrant it. Everyone is really hoping that this summer will be the turning point, tourist wise.

Most satisfying, though was to discover that my favorite eclectic coffee and gelato shop was still in business. And they were just as happy to see us. That’s where I snapped the picture of the quote above.

MM's - 4.29.2019 - Related, or not related. That is the question.

Several years ago I spit in a test tube and sent it off to Ancestry.com to run a DNA check and tell me who my ancestors were. Or, at least, where they came from. I did this before it became known that these DNA tests could identify you as the scoff-law who did not come to a complete stop at a stop sign on the corner of N10th and Willis, back in 1965. But what's done is done. I took the test.

And Ancestry.com said I was (surprise) descended from folks from England and Ireland, with a few other tribes mixed in, which were something of a surprise. Specifically, they said my Ethnicity was made up of the following estimates:

Great Britain 46%
Ireland/Scotland/Wales 21% 
Scandinavia 14% 
Europe West 12% 
Iberian Peninsula 3% 
Europe East 2%
Finland/Northwest Russia 1%

So, small as the percentages were, it was surprising to see Scandinavia, the Iberian Peninsula and Northwest Russia in the mix.

So, a few days ago I got an email from Ancestry.com saying that my "distribution was now more precise." They went on to say, "Your DNA doesn’t change, but the science behind it does. Using our latest research, Ancestry implements regular ethnicity updates to keep your results as precise as possible." I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I sort of think that it says "Earlier, we took a SWAG estimate, but we've sort of figured out what we are doing, so this one is a little closer to the Right Stuff.

And the new Ethnicity Estimate listing is:

England, Wales & Northwestern Europe: 59%

Ireland & Scotland: 38%

France: 2%

Germanic Europe: 1%

 

No more Scandinavians, Iberians, or Rooskies in the mix. I confess that with today's political climate, that does make me feel a little better - and it does seem to be a better fit for the actual ancestors that I know about.

 

Frankly, I'm still unsure what it all means, except Ancestry .com says there is a very high chance that I'm closely related to Steve Alfred, Jacob Gann and Chadric Head - along with about 2000 other 2nd, 3rd and 4th cousins,

And I'm pretty sure the statue of limitations has run out on that stop-sign thing, no matter what the DNA evidence says.

MMs - 2.22.2019 - A small mystery

Barb came across this ring the other day - tucked in the back of a drawer. And it is the small mystery that I refer to. Small, in that it won't fit on an adult's finger, and a mystery as to where it came from and what it was doing in her drawer.

I have, in my life, purchased 4 rings. The first was my high school senior ring. Hail to the Buckaroos.

The second was an engagement ring, purchased from Hugh Bowie, a jeweler in Abilene who became a wealthy man selling engagement rings to ACU, HSU and McMurray college swains, in 12 easy payments. I recall that I secreted that ring away inside a can of tennis balls until it was time to present it to the girl I was going to marry. Luckily, none of my roommates were into tennis at the time.

The next two rings were matched wedding bands that Barb and I picked out and purchased from a jewelry store in Port Lavaca. I don't remember the name of the store, or how we paid for them at the time. A quick look at old newspaper records from Calhoun County show only adds from Cantu's Jewelry and Pawn. I don't think that was the place, but hey! We were poor college students at the time.

So, that brings us to the mystery ring. We're pretty sure Barb didn't buy it. Apart from her wedding ring, she's not a ring-wearer. She has an assortment of necklaces that she has acquired; some of her choosing and more than a few as gifts from her Burmese Ladies, who make such as artisans, but no rings.

It has a "Made in China" tab on the bottom of the box, so I'm pretty sure it is not a long-lost ring of great value and will not be listed in the Estate - although, if you look very, very close (and that photo was taken with the assistance of a 10X magnifying glass) there are teeny, tiny bits of gem-like glittery things on this ring. Two in the setting and a number of smaller (if possible) ones on the sides. You never know.

So, if you are a small person who wants a ring with teeny, tiny bits of gem-like glittery things on it, that may, or may not, turn your finger green, come on by.

Monday Meanderings - 4.15.3019

We meandered this week!

Yep. The wildflowers are abundant this year, so we took our triennial trip into the Hill Country to frolic among the flora. Johnson City, Fredricksburg, Willow City Loop and Llano.

Some observations:

It takes a lot of wading through construction and highway congestion to get to the Hill Country these days. Not only the utter chaos of I-35 construction and the crawl through the Y at Oak Hill, the route is just an extension of Austin traffic congestion far into the countryside. Dripping Springs - once a little wide spot on down the road - is now nearly in the Austin city limits.

Fredricksburg continues to have the highest concentration of tourists per square inch than anywhere else in Texas. On a Wednesday. With schools still in session.

The Hill Country should be renamed the Wine Country. Forget Napa Valley - the wineries here are more numerous than tourists. And we lost count of the breweries and distilleries and brew pubs along the route. Producing adult beverages is driving the business boom in these parts.

The wildflowers were beautiful. The right-of-ways were continuously colorful along the entire route. We thought at first that the Willow City Loop was going to disappoint, but about half-way through the drive, swaths of White Prickly Poppy standing tall above fields of Bluebonnets and Paint Brush began to dominate, providing photo opportunities like the one above.

About the only disappointment of the trip was not being able to work out the timing for a stop at Cooper's in Llano, but we did have BBQ in Fredricksburg, so all was not lost.

Monday Meanderings - 4.18.2019

I'm pretty sure that it would be a good idea to go ahead and write my obituary and just leave a few blanks to fill in. And I should make sure that it's written into the will somehow.

Otherwise, that chore falls to the kids to handle, and based on some obits that have passed my way lately, that might not be the best idea, Here's an example of what I'm talking about.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim Schrandt, age 63, of Spillville, IA died on Friday, March 29, 2019 after a short battle with cancer.  A funeral service will be held at 11:00 a.m., Thursday, April 4, 2019 at the St. Wenceslaus Catholic Church in Spillville with Deacon Pat Malanaphy presiding, burial will be in the church cemetery with full military rites.

Tim Schrandt (Lynyrd) made his last inappropriate comment on March 29, 2019. If you are wondering if you may have ever met him, you didn't - because you WOULD remember. For those of you that did meet him, we apologize, as we're sure he probably offended you. He was world renowned for not holding back and telling it like it is.

Tim was born to William (Bill) Schrandt and Mary (Schrandt) Manning on June 11,1955 - 100 years too late. Given Tim's demeanor he would have been the perfect weathered cowboy in the old west or rough and tough pioneer, or maybe he just should have been Amish.

He was a great orator, (not like Shakespeare, but more like Yogi Berra), as he always had something to say, and always had to get in the last word.

He was a challenge to the nuns at St. Wenceslaus school in Spillville, but may have met his match. We’re not saying the nuns won, but they put up a good fight, we mean literally - he got into a fist-a-cuff with a nun. In fairness, she probably started it. You didn't take a swing at Tim and not expect one back.

Tim worked at Camcar/Stanley Black and Decker in Decorah as a tool and die maker for 30 plus years. Tim worked with many friends and “a bunch of morons.” His words, not ours. Well not exactly his, words because that would have included a bunch of swear words.

Tim leaves behind a lot of stuff that his family doesn't know what to do with. So, if you are looking for a Virgin Mary in a bathtub shrine (you Catholics know what we’re talking about) you should wait the appropriate amount of time and get in touch with them.

Tomorrow would be fine.

In addition to his stuff he leaves behind two great boys who he was extremely proud of, Cody (Jenny) Schrandt and Josh (Lydia) Schrandt were the product of his marriage to Crystal Hilmer. He will be missed by his two granddaughters that he adored and taught to cuss, Peyton and MacKenna.
To his siblings amazement he was actually able to snag a good woman, Cheryl Murray, and hold on to her for the past 13 years, and as far as we know restraints were not used.

He will be having a reunion with  his brother Duke, his dad Bill Schrandt, many aunts and uncles and a handful of cousins that passed before him. Tim was in charge of getting the beer and ice for our family reunions, so they will be happy to see him.

Despite his crusty exterior, cutting remarks and stubbornness, there is actual evidence that he was a loving, giving and caring person. That evidence is the deep sorrow and pain in our hearts that his family feels from his passing.

Tim led a good life and had a peaceful death. For the record, he did not lose his battle with cancer - when he died, the cancer died, so technically it was a tie! He was ready to meet his Maker, we're just not sure "The Maker" is ready to meet Tim.

Good luck God!

We are considering establishing a Go-Fund-Me account for G. Heileman Brewing Co., the brewers of Old Style beer, as we anticipate they are about to experience significant hardship as a result of the loss of Tim’s business. Keep them in your thoughts.

Monday Meanderings - 4.1.2019

Here's a blog entry that will be of interest only to myself. Sorry about the rest of you.

I'm currently narrating 2 audiobooks; both are "behind the scenes" books. One is about the development of the the atomic bomb and the role it played in ending WWII. The other is about the Apollo 8 mission to circumnavigate the moon - the first manned spacecraft to leave the "earth-sphere."

 In the first book, I needed to find out how to pronounce the name of one of the physicists working on the Manhattan Project. After a good deal of searching, I found a YouTube program that mentioned him by name - but the reference had nothing to do with his earlier war-time project.

Instead, he was cited as the individual who came up with key evidence that there had been a cataclysmic meteor event eons ago - you know, the one that wiped out the dinosaurs. Okay. My work is done. I know know how to pronounce his name. But the video about the meteor was interesting, and I ended up staying up way past my bed time to watch the whole program.

In the video, after the physicist had posited that a thin, near world-wide layer of a rare element - Iridium - could only have been distributed by the effects of a colossal meteor strike (colossal, as in the size of Mt Everest), it became incumbent on researchers to find the crater that such a strike would leave.

They did locate the crater - which involved most of the Yucatan Peninsula - by looking at the read-outs of petroleum companies, which have scanned much of the globe using instruments on aircraft  that looked for geographic anomalies that suggest the presence of oil.

This instrumentation is a by-product of NASA moon orbits, first used on Apollo 8 (and described in detail in my second book) to measure "mascons" - mass concentrations of meteoric activity on the moon, which skewed NASA's gravitational maps and needed to be identified and measured for later lunar landings.

And to find the crater of the meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs in an explosion that made the first atomic bomb seem like a fire cracker.

Monday Meandering -

I first posted this story about a distant relative back in 2013. I ran across it recently doing some family research and thought I should remind the grandchildren that every family has a skeleton in the closet. Here's ours.

There is a distant relative in our family tree with an interesting, if dubious, set of associated facts. This relative:

• was mentioned by name in John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath
• had a ballad written about him by Woody Guthrie that has been recorded by Bob Dylan, The Byrds and Joan Baez, among others
• has been the subject of a number of books, including one co-written by Larry McMurtry
• has been portrayed in movies by John Erickson (1960), Robert Conrad (1965), Fabian (1970), Steve Kanalay (1973), Martin Sheen (1974), Bo Hopkins (1975) and Channing Tatum (2009)
• was named Public Enemy Number One by J. Edgar Hoover

Let me clear. Charles Arthur "Pretty Boy" Floyd, though a fifth cousin of my mother, therefore my fifth cousin,  another generation removed, didn't come to many family reunions in his day. He was busy with other activities, namely robbing banks and running from the cops.

The genealogical record says Floyd was born on February 3, 1904 in Bartow County, Georgia. He grew up in Oklahoma after moving there with his family from Georgia in 1911, and spent considerable time in nearby Kansas, Arkansas and Missouri. The Wikipedia record has more: he was first arrested at age 18 after he stole $3.50 in coins from a local post office. Three years later he was arrested for a payroll robbery on September 16, 1925 in St. Louis, Missouri and was sentenced to five years in prison, of which he served three and a half.

Entering into partnerships with more established criminals in the Kansas City underworld, he committed a series of bank robberies over the next several years; it was during this period that he acquired the nickname "Pretty Boy," a name he hated. During the period from 1929 to 1933, he was involved in or accused of a number of robberies and shootings, including the "Kansas City Massacre," a gunfight in which four policemen perished.

This brought the focus of J Edger Hoover and the FBI on Floyd, though historians doubt that Floyd was actually involved in this event. Floyd himself denied it to his dying breath, and even sent a postcard to the Kansas City police which read: "Dear Sirs- I- Charles Floyd- want it made known that I did not participate in the massacre of officers at Kansas City. Charles Floyd"

Floyd's life of crime came to a predictable end in a corn field near East Liverpool, Ohio, while being pursued by local law officers and FBI agents led by Melvin Purvis, famous for his dogged pursuit of Baby Face Nelson and Charles Dillon. The genealogical record simply states that he died October 22, 1934 and was buried in in Akins, Oklahoma. It does not state that it was one of the most well-attended funerals ever in the state of Oklahoma.

So how does the son of share-croppers Walter Lee and Minnie (Echols) Floyd, raised in the Cookson Hills of Oklahoma, go from callus-fingered cotton picker to trigger-fingered desperado and something of a folk hero, remembered in legend and in song? I suggest that his story has been told well by others, and I refer you to:

• McMurtry, Larry and Ossana, Diana, "Pretty Boy Floyd," Simon & Schuster; (a fictionalized version)
• Michael Wallis, "Pretty Boy, the Life and Times of Charles Arthur Floyd" St. Martin's Press, New York, 1992
• Merle Clayton "Union Station Massacre" 1975 BM Bobbs Merrill

By the way, attribution for the photo above reads: "This image or file is a work of a Federal Bureau of Investigation employee, taken or made during the course of an employee's official duties. As a work of the U.S. federal government, the image is in the public domain." How's that for permission to re-post?

Monday Meanderings - 2.18.2019

Something new at our house!



Okay, the clock is not new. In fact the clock is older than I am. I posted about it before, and my efforts to get this family heirloom running reliably. After a lot of research, I took a chance on a clock repair service in Illinois that entailed removing the works from the clock proper, carefully packing it for shipping and sending it off to be rebuilt.

The repair took about twice as long as advertised, but this week the clock returned home, and I was able to re-install it in the case and once again our house is filled with the Westminster chimes every fifteen minutes.

It's a lot quieter than it was; before, the gears would grind and the mechanism would whir and the parts would click while pealing out the time. Now it just goes ding, dong, ding dong at the appointed intervals. You can't even hear the ticking of the clock - which I rather miss, actually.

Good news. The inter-neighbor war appears to have ended peacefully. The stakes in the ground that we mistook for a possible battlement (or at least a fence) is to mark the positioning of a hedge and a scattering of trees. Not ominous at all.

Saw an item in SXSW news about about some company introducing a mobile Alexis. This robot-like device is designed to follow you about and act as your personal AI assistant. I commented to Barb, "Why would anyone want Alexia following you around?" Her response was, "Well, maybe she could tell you what you went in there for."

And speaking of SXSW - that annual event that requires Austin residents to detour by way of Oklahoma City if our destination is south of downtown - what do you get when you combine thousands of electric scooters and thousands of event-goers who end up at the same event? A Bird nest.

And how do locals feel about the 100,000 visitors to SXSW?

Monday Meanderings - 3.11.2019

Tax Tales

For the first time since Barb and I married and began filing joint tax returns, it appears that the best deal for us will be to take the standard deduction. The itemized deductions, thanks to a delusional tax overhaul that began changing the landscape in 2018, just aren't what they used to be.

I prided myself in my diligence for scraping up every deduction that we were entitled to. We kept logs of charitable mileage; every trip to Learning Ally, every trip to teach an ESL class. We logged every item that went to Goodwill, church pantry and Coats for Kids, among others, along with the dollars contributed, of course.

We recorded all medical mileage. Every. Last. Trip. We even kept up with the parking garage charges. Who does that? I faithfully took the 15% depletion allowance for our oil bidness - along with the Stephens County tax assessment, of course. We were thorough. And it was for naught.

Oh, I know that the Individual Standard Deductions were raised substantially, off-setting the loss of other deductions. And keeping up with all those details was a pain. But it was a good pain, knowing that I was squeezing every penny I could from the IRS.

So can I stop recording all that detail? Will the tax reform be reformed and re-reformed? Probably. And it is a lot of trouble. But...

Figuring out this years taxes reminded me that I went through a lot of old, old tax returns a while back. Returns that we as far back as 1965, 3 years after we married.

We were living in the house we bought from the suddenly unemployed HSU football coach. I had been working for Fidelity, but in the summer went to work for a film company that split off (and quickly went broke). Barb worked for AISD, subbing and as a teacher. We made $9,713 between us. We paid Dr Steckler (in advance) $175 for "complete OB care." We borrowed the money.And, we got a much-needed $295 back from the IRS.

1966 - Back at Fidelity, I made $8,300 and listed Rob as a dependent for the first time. Big expense that year was Hendrick Hospital - $258.85!  Got a whopping $419 refund.

1967 - Barb is listed as a homemaker, but income is up to $9,846. Expenses included payments to Sears and to repay government loans. First Schedule C for a side-line tape duplicating business that grossed  $2,738; got $269 back from IRS.

1968 - Two dependents, $400 back. Schedule C showed $2,628 gross, $782 profit,

1969 - Fidelity has become Hallmark, salary up to $10,800. Profit from tape duplication up to $1,131. $286 refund

1970 - Big year. Address change to Kamar Lane in Austin. $794 profit on Schedule C. Still paying off government loans. $400 refund.

1971 - Living on Dryfield. Owed IRS $115 (only $175 duplicating business) but got a notice of an error in our favor and got back whopping $47. A note said there was a $50 Christmas bonus.

1972 - Barbara is teaching with Mrs. Streety at North West Child Development. Total income $12,900; got back 184.95 (and, after filing 1040X to account for a missed loan origination fee, another $51). Doctor bills indicate that this was the year of my appendectomy.

1973 - Living on August Dr; $15,365 income. $21 profit from tape duplicating. Why bother? Barb got a 1099 from Sweet Publishing for editing work. Expenses include Capitol Medical Clinic, which is still our primary physician's office. $237 return.

1974 - $16,528 wages include Brentwood Christian School, Sweet Co, and NW Child Development for Barb. Schedule C had a $112 loss.

1975 - $398 refund on income of 17,500. No schedule C. Got $150 for expenses representing Sweet Company at ACU Bible Teacher's Workshop (our vacation). Drove 262 miles delivering Meals on Wheels and 331 miles "driving volunteers to do yard work for sick church worker." Hmmm.

1976 - $286 refund on $18,000 income; includes Barb teaching at Brentwood and working at Sweet.

1977 - Owed $283 on $24,500 income. That's what happens when you make the big bucks.

1978 - $385 refund on $26,000 income. Phew! Barb had income both from Brentwood Christian School and from Sweet.

1979 - $833 refund on $25,800 income; expenses include allergy shots.

1980 - Big year - $865 return on $32,600 income. Deductions include UT classes and Austin Public Library card fee (we weren't in the city limits yet).

1981 - Owed $137 on $34,321; W2s from 1st Presbyterian Day School and NPC. Expenses include Spanish lessons and UT classes. New schedule C for "DP Consulting" grossing $1,944.

1982 - At bedtime on April 14, Barbara casually remarked, "Oh by the way. We owe the IRS $2,300," whereupon she turned off the light and promptly went to sleep. I, however, did not. Where, oh where was I going to come up with $2,300? In the morning!

It was a big year - $48,600 income, including $11,300 for my consulting and a W2 from UT for a class Barb taught. Expenses included mileage, etc. for soccer coaching.

And that's the 1040 story of the first 20 years of our filing jointly.

Monday Meanderings - 3.4.10`9

Random bits and pieces

The car wars - the neighbor parking his car in front of the other neighbor's house (and our driveway) seems to have taken a strange twist. The parked car has been absent for more than a week now, so I wondered if there had been a truce.

Then this weekend we saw a series of stakes and markers placed every few feet in a line between the two houses. A fence? But then we saw that the stakes were also placed in a row across the car-parker's front lawn, Fencing in the house from the street? Who does that? A barricade? A moat? Gun turrets? This is getting weird.

I'm not even going to talk about the weird weather. OK, I'll just say it's weird. They say the bluebonnets - which are showing up in abundance now will survive this freeze, but the Fredricksburg peaches may not. Bummer.

I was searching old blog posts foe a specific item yesterday, and after opening up a series of posts to see if I had found what I was looking for, I was struck by how many items I have written and completely forgotten about. Sort of like not having to buy new books because after a few months I can just reread the old books, having completely forgotten what happened. Makes me wonder if I need to continue writing new posts. I'll just start again from the beginning and hope that your memory is as bad as mine!

And I didn't find what I was looking for, but I did run across a YouTube video of Elvis, along with Scotty and Bill, performing in the high school auditorium on April 13, 1955. I was there - and backstage during the concert, so maybe you can pick me out of the folks that get shown for a fraction of a second. If you can, let me know which one I am.

 

Monday Meandering - 2;25.2019

May have to consider renaming this blog segment, in that I don't do much actual meandering as of late. Unless you count trips to the doctor, the dentist, and Central Market. Oh, and there's Chuy's, but that all has a certain sameness to it. No adventure.

Re-retiring from sound-desk activities has made a big difference; turns out that kept me a lot busier than I realized. So, I'm happy to stick around the house and record books and watch Longhorn sports, but it really lowers the Meandering quotient blog-wise.

That's not to say that people and critters have not meandered our way. Possums are regular visitors to our patio, as is the occasional raccoon. A couple of weeks ago 4 young  gray foxes made themselves quite at home on the patio and in the back yard. I got a bit of video of their visit and Rob's vet friend made a positive ID.

And then the cops come by fairly often.

Several days ago I saw that the Ring video doorbell had texted (in the middle of the night)  that "Someone is at your door." When I checked the video, it showed 3 police officers and a K9 dog walking through the front yard! Nothing seemed amiss when I checked the neighbor hood, and nothing ever showed up on the police report website.

Then Thursday night - no, make that 4am Friday morning - while up for other purposes, I noticed that there were a lot of blue and red lights flashing in front of the house. There were 3 patrol cats and a half-dozen cops in front of our house, and a big flat-bed towing rig in the middle of the street, loading an auto (that I did not recognize - not the one that the dude is parking across from our driveway, unfortunately).

Auto loaded, the tow truck drove off, as did the 3 patrol cars. A repo? With 3 patrol cars in attendance? Don't know. Didn't get any photos, but somebody will probably post about it on Nextdoor.  I'll let you know.

And then these guys dropped by Sunday morning.

Monday Meanderings - 2.18.2019

Did I ever tell you about my bear-skin rug?

Seriously. An honest-to-goodness, fresh-off-the-bear rug. You know, like the photo lay-outs of the rug in front of a fireplace with someone lounging on it? Well, maybe that's not the most appropriate way to describe it, since I didn't have a fireplace then, and certainly no one lounged on it.

Plus, it was rather small. At best 4 feet long. Perhaps better suited as a bathmat than a lounging rug.

I came to possess this rug as a gift from my Great-Uncle Jess - my Grandmother Anderson's brother. I have blogged about Uncle Jess before. He's the relative who went off to Canada with his daddy to seek fame and fortune in the gold fields of Canada. He found neither, but liked the place. married a nice Norwegian girl and settled down to live a back-country life in some of the more remote places of British Columbia, Canada.

The best story about Uncle Jess and his wife, Mariene concerns the killing of the moose. Here's a link to that story.

In Jess's later years, he and Mariene would venture down into the lower 48 during the winter months, avoiding BC's brutal cold. They always drove, visiting interesting places and people during their travels. After one trip south, they invited Grandmother Anderson to join them on the return trip and visit Washington state (her childhood home) and British Columbia.

When Grandmother returned, she brought me the bear skin as a gift from Uncle Jess. He  had shot the bear at some point, and tanned the skin, and it was an amazing link to an amazing relative. I proudly placed it beside my bed, so that on chilly mornings I could step out of bed onto my own, warm bear skin rug.

The was just one problem. It stank. It was odoriferous. Pungent. Malodorous. Rank. As a friend used to say, "It would gag a maggot."

I don't know if the odor was a result of a faulty or incomplete tanning process, or was unique to small black bears from British Columbia, or just what the deal was, but it certainly made me wonder about all the western novels and movies about the noble Indians clad in their bear skins and buffalo hides. I'm pretty sure there was no way a hide-wearing Indian could sneak up on an unsuspecting settler, so I'm not sure the history books are totally accurate.

As I recall, the bear-skin was quickly re-gifted to Grandmother Anderson. Where it went from there, I don't know, but I'm pretty sure it did not end up in front of a fireplace. In a fireplace, more likely.

Monday Meanderings - 2.4.2019

The Juarez Pizza Palace

Many, many years ago, back when I worked for Sweet Publishing Company, Barb and I - along with John Allen and Sue Chalk - were sent out to conduct a one-night teacher's workshop. Let me be clear. John Allen, Sue and Barb were the teachers. I was sent along to haul water.

Our host was a church in Killeen, Texas, a community about an hour north of Austin, home to one of the largest military bases in the world, Fort Hood.

We completed the workshop, packed up and started home, thinking that we should be able to find any number of places to grab a late supper on the way home. What we did not know was that at that time, Killeen rolled up the sidewalks about 9 PM on weekday nights, actively discouraging late-night visitation by any of the more than 150,000 soldiers stationed on the base.

So we circled a few blocks, looking for any establishment that looked like it might serve food, and came across a dump with a sign that read "Juarez Pizza Palace." There were no cars, and we weren't positive it was actually open, so John Allen hopped out to go in and check. In a minute, he motioned us to come on in and the 4 of us were soon seated inside with the owner, Morty Shapiro and his elderly mother.

We looked over a menu that listed every possible combination of pizza toppings known to be edible - some that I had never heard of - decided on some, and told Morty what we wanted and that we would share a couple of large pizzas.

"You can't eat 2 large pizzas," Morty said.

"We're pretty hungry," John Allen said.

"Doesn't matter. I'll fix you 2 medium pizzas, and you can take what you don't eat home," said Marty.

Morty was right. We didn't finish the 2 mediums. But part of that was because Marty kept bringing us samples of more exotic varieties. More about that in a minute.

While the pizzas were baking, Morty, an affable fellow, sat down with us to chat. Mama sat too, but she didn't have much to say. I'm pretty sure she was from "the old country" and probably didn't speak much English. We were the only people in the place, so it was only natural for all of us gather round the table.

We asked Morty about the name of the place - "Juarez Pizza Palace" - and he said that was the name when he bought it, and he couldn't afford a new sign, so he just left it. He said the previous owner was a Mexican, and the name probably reminded him of home.

He said he had owned several pizza places in Austin, where he heavily promoted himself as "Morty the Pizza King," but there were too many pizza places in Austin, so he moved north, thinking it to be greener pastures.

"Had it been," we asked?

"Nah, but I won't go hungry, so it's okay."

We asked about the endless list of toppings, and he said he wasn't sure there wasn't anything you couldn't put on a pizza. At least he didn't think so. He said once some guy said "You should try peanut butter," so he added it to the menu. Somebody else had said, "Ever put sauerkraut on a pizza?"

We all went "Ewww," but he hopped up and said, "You gotta try it. It's really interesting!" and he went back to the kitchen to fix a sampler sauerkraut pizza..

He was right. It was really... interesting. And no, that's not a picture I snapped back in the late '70's. Turns out, if you Google "sauerkraut pizza" you find that it's really pretty popular. Can't help but wonder if we were in on the beginning, at the Juarez Pizza Palace in Killeen, Texas.

And for the record, the July 1976 Texas Monthly "Best of Texas" column had the following entry:

Best Pizza
Morty’s Pizza King Number Three, Austin. The all-cheese (four cheeses with garlic-filled tomato sauce) pizza is Texas’ best. No kidding. For the de­mented, there are madcap flavors including peanut butter and lox.

And, I might add, sauerkraut.

Monday Meanderings - 1.28.2018

Car Wars

For the most part, our neighborhood is quiet and peaceful. There's the occasional Next Door report of lost or found pets,  and there's the Friday night garage band rehearsal from somewhere down the block, but by-and-large, nothing much out of the ordinary happens around here. Until recently.

It is not uncommon to see news items about neighbor's spats escalating to unfortunate - even deadly - levels, but you generally don't expect to see those play out on your block. However, we are watching just such an escalation, and it's just across the street.

The neighbor of interest - we'll call him FT - has an old junker pickup parked on the street just below his driveway that sits partially on FT's side of the lot line and extends onto his neighbor CB's side of the line.

CB asked FT to move his pickup, as it makes trimming the adjacent grass difficult. FT responded by saying that the pickup is inoperable and actually belongs to a family member who has not been able to haul it off.

CB's response was to begin parking his car in front of FT's house. This seems rather spiteful to us, and inconvenient, since CB has to carefully avoid parking in front of FT's sidewalk - which is a City code violation - but at the same time avoid encroaching on the property of the up-street neighbor, MM. Then CB has to walk down the block to his house.

FT escalated the situation by putting his garbage and recycling bins in CB's designated landing zone. CB has simply moved them aside. FT-0, CB-1.

Next, FT put a large tree limb in the way. CB manhandled it onto FT's lawn. FT-0, CB-2.

FT got a friend to come and park his pickup in the contested space for a time. FT-1, CB-2.

The friend eventually had to take his vehicle home, and since then it has been a steady succession of CB parking his car in front of FT's house - 3:30pm to 5:00am and on weekends.

Were it not for the fact that CB's car ends up parked directly across from our driveway, and we must remember it's there so as not to back into it - something we did to FT's car the 1st week we lived here - it would be laughable.

That and the fact that these neighbor spats often end up on the nightly news.

I'll keep you posted.

Monday Meandering - 1.14.2019

Camp FCI La Tuna

I don't know what jogged it loose, but an odd memory came to my mind the other evening and proved that after more than 57 years, I still have stories that my wife has never heard.

In my early years, my family camped all over the Western United States. We started out with a home-made tent - an enormous sleep-six thing that ultimately did in my mother's sewing machine in the making thereof. She wanted, and got, a new one anyway. Pieced together from heavy canvas and coated with some kind of vile-smelling solution that almost waterproofed it, the thing took up much of the trunk and weighed as much as I did at the time.

I don't remember what our ultimate destination was on that trip. I just remember that we were headed west - my parents, my grandmother Anderson and me. And the tent. And if you head west from North Central Texas, it takes a long time to get out of the State of Texas.

I don't know if it was because of a late start, or if it was intended, but nightfall found us just beyond El Paso, looking for a place to unroll and erect our ginormous tent for the night. There was not, back then - nor is there now, a nice State Park or National Forest adjacent to El Paso, so Pops found an isolated area a short distance off the highway, and we dry camped our first night out.

I now call your attention to the satellite photo at the beginning of this post. The highway on the right side of the image is Highway 180 (and now, IH-10). It's pointed north and south in the photo, but it eventually heads west. And X marks the approximate position of the campsite. We're a few hundred yards off the highway (but close enough to hear traffic through the night) backed up against a fence.

You can see the fence, sectioning off the upper-left quarter of the photo. And you can see a cluster of buildings in that quadrant. Those buildings, dear reader, compose part of Federal Correction Institute La Tuna. A federal penitentiary. Over the years, the La Tuna population has varied between really bad guys in a maximum-security environment and not-that-bad guys (like Billie Sol Estes, for example) in a minimum security environment. 

To be sure, I don't know what the degree of security was at the time we visited the area, but I do know that the morning sun revealed a honkin' tall fence beside our campground - and a couple of prison guards sitting on the other, or operative, side of the fence.

They were polite, and assured us that they had checked on us often throughout the night as they patrolled the outer perimeter of the compound, but they pointedly suggested that we might want to break camp and head out on the highway as soon as possible.

And that is the long-forgotten story of Camp FCI La Tuna.

Monday Meanderings - 1.7.2019

Wait! What? In my home town?

I came across a startling fact the other day.

I have known the story of bigger-than-life characters Wyatt Earp and his buddy Doc Holliday since I was a boy. It is probable that Pansy Pace, the Breckenridge librarian, who went to great lengths to nurture my life-long love of reading, probably introduced me to these men and the Gunfight at OK Corral. Well, maybe. Neither one of them was exactly a role-model, but that aspect of their lives is often covered over with the blanket of revisionist legend.

While Wyatt Earp more or less overcame his outlaw persona (did you know he and his wife went to Alaska and built and managed the preeminent saloon in Nome, Alaska around 1900, "mining the gold miners"?), his running mate, Doc Holliday was bad to his consumptive core.

And he lived in Breckenridge Texas for a brief period.

Doc was evidently a pretty good dentist in his younger days (he died at age 36) and was in a successful practice with another dentist in Dallas, Texas around 1875. However, his tubercular cough sort put a serious crimp in his dental practice, and he turned to gambling as his sole means of support. The Dallas authorities ran him out of town for cheating at cards (and his habit of shooting at his fellow players), so he headed West, where the law was not so strictly enfo0rced.

As expected, he moved around a lot - Kansas, Colorado, Wyoming - and then, one step ahead of the authorities,  retraced his steps and came back to Texas. And ended up in Breckenridge, Texas. My home town.

He set up shop in an unknown saloon and it wasn't too long before he shot another player. But he only wounded him, and the injured party hunted Doc down later and seriously wounded him. Feeling unwelcome, Doc somehow made his way a few miles west to Fort Griffin (near Albany) and was nursed back to health by Mary Katherine Horony, a woman of un-questioned ill-repute who went by the sobriquet "Big Nose Nell," who became his "partner" for his remaining years.

For good reason, Doc never returned to Breckenridge, and  Fort Griffin deserves a blog entry all its own. Suffice it to say, to say the Fort Griffin Fandangle paints a more PG-rated picture than does actual history.