Started raining last night in the middle of the night...

So I was glad I'd done the yard work and gotten it all mostly done. Went out there after getting up at about 10am, and it was a swamp. There'll be no mowing today. Just went out to get a look, and most of the standing water is soaked into the soil, but there's still a few soggy bits.



Now the sun is out and it's muggy as hell out there. I tell ya, after years and years of drought, we need all this rain, but enough is friggin' enough!



Both of our local lakes are way above normal levels, due to this several month long deluge. After being 20 to 25 feet below normal for years, they've filled now to over 25 feet above normal, with only the tops of trees visible where boat ramps used to be.



Glad I got a chance to plant a few things last night before quitting work.



Still have a few things to put in, and plans to buy more, but need to pull a few more weeds in the step garden before I can do that. Elected not to go there last night. Enough was enough.

Well, It's Fathers Day, and dad and the others will be coming over here at about 3:30 so we can hit the Outback. He loves the hell out of their coconut shrimp, and I love the Bloomin' Onion. If you get a chance, and why the hell wouldn't you, ask for the onion with honey mustard sauce to dip it in. It's a hell of a lot better tasting than the mustard they normally give you.



I've been hangin' with this dude since the folks were stationed in Bermuda in 1960, and we're still in business. We've had our ups and downs, as folks will, but we love each other to death, and everything is working out the way it should.



I grew up thinking his choices in life, to leave home and spend 32 years and 9 months in the Air Force, had made my life harder (this is us, just before we left England in about 1970) Who'd a thought this little kid was gonna grow up to be such a Sasquatch?

Sis and I both grew up longing for the stability that we saw in our cousins lives. Their dads never left Bell county, making a life here. Their kids didn't have a lot of the stuff we had, or travel and live in the exotic places we did, but they didn't have to go to a half dozen elementary schools, and two or three high schools, like my sister and I did. She had it worse than me, being older and around when he was lower in rank and moving almost every year. Our cousins lives seemed so much more well adjusted and happy whenever we'd visit.

Well, I moved down here in about 1994, and had a chance to learn a few things about those cousins. Turns out that never leaving central Texas can put a huge set of blinders on your head, and turn you into a ridiculous friggin' redneck. After banging my head up against that set of folks for a few years, trying to build a relationship like the one I had always longed for, I came to the realization that our different lives had made us very different people, and that I liked who I was a lot more than the fools many of them are comfortable being.

I grew up a huge amount from that realization, and it changed the way I saw my life in a big way. In retrospect, I wouldn't change a thing about how I grew up. It made me who I am now, and I like who I am a lot. I just wish I'd somehow had this epiphany 40 years ago. It would have saved me a lot of grief.

I still regret not being born about ten years sooner, so that I could have gotten to know my paternal grandfather, or spend more time with my maternal grandparents when they were younger, but there is nothing to be done about all that, and no good reason to linger on the feelings. Fate is fate, and there is no fixing it. You are dealt a hand in life, and I've waisted a huge amount of my time regretting my cards when I should have been learning how to play them, but that's getting behind me too. Onward and upward from now on, full speed ahead.



Dad and the ladies should be here in a while, so I'd better get busy makin' the place right for inspection. You guys have a great Sunday, and all you dads out there enjoy your day. Take care, cheers.

How I spent my Saturday.

You guys remember hearing about all the weeds in the back yard. I've talked about pulling them for ages, but the weekends were ether rainy (our multi-year drought is apparently over), or sunny, with other much more fun things planned. Lets say I was easily distracted, knowing what was ahead of me.

Well, I finally bit the bullet, and went out there with a mission. First, here are some "before" shots, to give you a little perspective. Here's an old one, from when we had snow back on Easter.



See. Moderately weedy, with a few brush piles from prunin' the stuff up on the steps. Well...



Lets just say, I let things go a bit. What, I'm a busy guy!



And the side of the yard, where I tried to put in a weed barrier and a paving stone patio last year.



Worked like a charm, eh? I tell ya, this shit just materialized. One day they're little things, and yer tellin' yourself that you'll get to it next weekend. Then you walk out there and it's the friggin' Amazon jungle.

You know... Back yard; out of sight, out of mind. Hell the cats live back there, and I usually don't go out there much. They have a door set up in a window sill that they use to come and go at will, so I don't have to keep getting up to let them out and in again, over and over. But when the cats started comin' in with burrs in their hair, and rubbing up against my leg while I sat here at this machine, I knew I had to do somethin'. It rained like crazy Friday, so I knew that most of the little critters would be easy to pull. Once I did that, the rest would be just a process of chopping and trimming the grass.

Well, I spent about 8 hours out there in the muggy heat, swillin' iced green tea or water like a fish, and resting now and then when I started feeling like I was having a heart attack. Now I know why folks back in the day fought so hard to keep all that "free" labour. Sit on a porch in the shade and sip a Mint Julep while 30 or 40 slaves did all the sweating... Not that I'm advocating it! Hard work builds character, or so they say.



This looks like I've got grass growin' out of my ass, but it's just fallin' off the chopper in the back swing. Note the growing pile of debris. I think I strained my right bicep swingin' this thing, but I just kept it up and the pain went away.

The cats hung around and helped me, in their own little way.



This is "W". He lives in the yard in my bush. Well, it made sense at the time.



This is Tiger, checkin' out my dirty wet gloves. Likes the smell of sweaty leather, but who doesn't? They love it when big bro comes out back and hangs with them, but they split as soon as the gas trimmer came out from the garage.

About midday, I had a freaky thing happen with my right hand. Must have been dehydrated, and using muscles that hadn't had a work out like this in a good while. I was pulling weeds and found that my thumb and index finger were being drawn into my palm, the muscles spasming, and I couldn't extend them easily. I sat down and drank some iced green tea...



and took a hammer as a weight and used it to work out the muscles, raising it and lowering it in my hand as I kept my forearm still against my leg. It worked, and I went back to chopping and puling. No problems after that. That's my favorite mug. I got it at Wet "n Wild, back in the late '80s. I used to get a season pass back then and go there every week to swim for a few hours at a time. I'll post about that some time. It was a lot of fun, and an eye opening time.

Slowly I made progress, and finally, by about 6:30, I began to see "the light at the end of the tunnel". About 8 exhausting hours after it all began...



The place was looking a lot more like it's supposed to.



Note the brush pile. After trying to bag a lot of this stuff at first, and finding that my heavy duty bags were crap, easily ripping, and my trash can was crap, with the handle breaking on me and the wheels coming off, I decided to leave the brush there as a compost pile. I'll put chicken wire around it and set it up for real later. I'm increasingly convinced that there's almost nothing in this country left but cheap flimsy crap from China. What the hell have we done to ourselves?

Once I got it all chopped and pulled down to a reasonable level, I busted out the gas trimmer, which made pretty easy work of the rest. Then it was an hour of raking and finishing touches, and then sweeping and washing off the porch.



Still have a lot to do to fix these paving stones and finish this new patio. I'll have to pull up all the stones and start again. Don't like the way it turned out anyway, but that will be another day.



I wanna tell ya, I was one tired mutha. Dirty and scummy, and covered in burrs. I used a comb to get all the burrs off my arms and legs, and out of my hair. I kicked the wet and dirty shorts in the bin and hit the shower. That hot shower felt almost orgasmic after all this bullshit, and I was thinkin' that I need to set up a hot tub back there one of these days, so I can relax after work and burn all this sort of pain away. I miss the hot tub at the gym I used to work out at a long time ago. I need to start doin' that sort of stuff again so my stamina returns. Who says you have to be old AND feeble?.

Well, that's how I spent my Saturday. Sunday will be comparatively easy; mowing the front yard, planting a few things in the back, and taking the folks and sis out to The Outback for Fathers day dinner. I hope all your weekends were comparatively relaxing, and all you dads out there have a great Fathers day. Cheers.

Plemmy and I were chatting last night...

She'd looked over the last post, the picture of me golfing, and said something like "Mm, nice calves. You'd look good in a kilt." I was like, "Huh? Get real. Where would one go to get a kilt?" She sent me the link, and while surfing through the product shots, I found this guy.



Since I haven't seen this look walkin' around the base, I'm assuming this guy is a contractor. Of course, the Scots fought (and mostly lost) many a battle in things that looked a lot like the skirt my sister wore in Catholic school, but I can't see this happenin' today. You know, combat's got to be tense enough without worryin' about yer dingus swingin' loose in the wind. Takes a special kind of guy to go there. Tell us ladies, is this a hot look? Cheers.

Grading their first exam, watchin' 'em sweat.

God I love this job! My 7:30pm History class had their first exam last night. The new fish are always nervous, and I always have a good time milkin' it.

OK, call me a son of a bitch, but there are very few perks to this gig, and you gotta take what enjoyment you can. I start out by lingering a bit in handing out the test. They are usually bouncing off the walls, trying to compare notes with one another, reviewing, when I walk in. One will be telling the others his or her version of what they think I want them to know, and I give them a look, and say something like "Huh? Who told you that?"

They try to get me to give them answers, or tell them hints. "So, was it the Sugar act or the Tea act?", and I just shrug my shoulders and tell them "Pff, I dunno."

I leave the briefcase on the desk with the exams in it (they won't dare touch it), and I go get myself a soda, which takes a few minutes. I usually see someone in the hall, a colleague or former student, and chat for a sec. We're not supposed to drink in the classrooms, but fuck the rules. I talk for a living, not shuffle papers, so I needs me whistle whetted now and then. Rules are for nervous people. I was given a bit of wisdom a long time ago; it's always easier to apologise than to get permission. Words to live by.

I get back to class and I walk up to the podium and begin to turn on the computer in class, which takes a minute, and pretty soon one or two students are telling me things like "Come on, I'm forgetting stuff. Lets go!" I giggle. I start to hand out the answer sheet, and a few folks always think it's the test and start putting away their notes. I tell them "This is just the answer sheet. You can continue cramming." More giggles from the audience.

Then I start handing out the exam, and as I do, I give them my standard speech. "Read each question VERY carefully (pause for effect), on accounta I'm a tricky bastard!" That gets a few laughs and moans of dread. They always laugh when I cuss in class. Not supposed to, but screw it. We're all adults here. Shit, THEY cuss in class! Soldiers for Christ sakes! The gals cuss like the guys do.

More instructions; "Please don't write on the test. When you're done, bring it up here and I'll grade it (pause for effect) and then I'll shout your grade out to the class." THAT one always gets a good giggle and moan. I had a prof who actually did that. Bastard.

Is this wrong? Am I a bad person?

Well, it's mostly harmless fun. Most of them do well, and the ones that don't, usually do better on the second or third exams. If they bomb them all, well, I'll be teachin' the class again next semester. It keeps me in a job.

On another note, I'm still scanning old pictures now and then, and I've found a few that might amuse you.



How's that form? Jesus, I look like I'm trying to beat the ball into submission, rather than hit it down the fairway. I think this is from one of the last times I played golf with dad, about 10 years ago in Ft. Worth. The golf course is the one he loved at Carswell Air Force Base, now a Reserve Fighter Base/Naval Air Station. This place was practically his second home, from the mid- '70s to the mid-'90s. He played 2 to 3 times a week, in most weathers, and used to beat all his friends, till he got a bit older and began the slide. Beautiful course, now even nicer since the Navy took it over and spent an ass load of money on the place. We've driven by now and then to check it out, when I've taken him up there for one reason or another.

I found a picture of my old '82 Trans AM the other day, in this box of old shots. Ol' Mushy cleaned it up for me a bit, master picture manipulator that he is. That's our first cat, Calico, doing a little stalking. Doesn't mom do a great job with a yard?



My folks got me this car in about '85, for graduating from college. It was about three years old then, but still in new condition. I tried to get dad to think about a Honda CRX. Wanted to be responsible, but he never listened to me. He'd just grin and do what he thought was best. Ignore what I said, buy me the one he liked, and then expect me to be grateful. Hell, it was still better than payin' for it myself, and it was cool as hell, so I didn't complain. My insurance rate went through the roof; from about $250 a year to $1200. He laughed loudly at me about that, and that pissed me off. Thinkin' about that reminded me of something that happened back in about '71 or '72. I think the situations are somewhat similar.

I had outgrown my old bike by then. It was also a red sex machine. Purdy. Bright candy apple red, with a banana seat and sissy bar. The thing then was to copy the look of an outlaw chopper. The coolest ones had the tallest sissy bars, and the longer stretched out handlebars. Some folks even rigged them to have extended front forks. We'd plaster them with these fuzzy stickers out of cereal boxes, or wherever, to personalize them. There was usually a piece of duct tape here or there, and playing cards in the spokes, attached with clothes pins. Those were the days.

My folks had ordered it when we were still in England, and I loved the hell out of it. Rode it everywhere, on all the trails around our house in Kansas City, Missouri, and even up the steep hills, standing up and pumping the peddles. I loved it and I didn't want to give it up, but dad decided it was time to get an adult size bike for me to ride. I guess I was gettin' big, and was too tall to keep riding the one I had. Wish I knew what happened to that thing. Dad probably sold it. Fuck it. You can't stay a kid forever.

The newest thing around back then were 3 speeds and 10 speeds, particularly with the cool rams horn shaped racing handle bars and no fenders. Some kid in the neighborhood rode up to my friends and I out near the woods with one of those one day, sliding to a stop and spinning out in the mud, and I was stunned at how cool it was, and how fast it was. So when dad and I went to the local T.G.&Y. up the hill one day to get my new bike, I made sure to point out the one that was the perfect choice. It was a 3 speed with no fenders and the cool handlebars. I think it was white, or grey. I can't remember, but I was smitten.

10 speeds always seemed gaudy to me. Too much bullshit. Hell, you never used more than a few of those gears anyway, right? 3 was enough. One for goin' down hill, one for goin' up hill, and one for just peddlein' yer ass off. What the hell else did you need?

While I'm pickin' out the coolest and most practical one, tryin' to get dad's attention, he's pickin' me out the most fancy bike they had. It was a 10, turd brown, with fenders and lots of chrome, and the same conventional handlebars that every other old bike had. It looked like an old woman's bike to me at the time, even though it had the nut cruncher bar of a guys bike (who thought to put that fuckin' thing there anyway?). Hell, it was more expensive than the one I wanted, but he wasn't listening.

I was horrified. How the hell was I gonna look riding that thing? He didn't listen, I can picture this like it was yesterday. I go up to him while he's talkin' to the salesman, pointing back at the one I wanted, and he's acting like I'm annoying him. His mind was made up. I might as well have not even been standing there.

Well, he bought it for me, and I learned to like it, even though it always seemed a bit too much. I rode it hard, and put it through a lot of punishment. Didn't treat it like the high toned thing it was. Finally, one day in Junior high, late to class, I left it unlocked on the bike rack with all the others, and some other kid decided he needed it more than I did. Hope that fucker got hit by a car.

To replace it, dad looked in the paper and found a nice bike up a few streets away, on another block. He paid $50 for a used 10 speed, red this time, with those cool racing handle bars that I'd wanted before. I remember how much it cost because he made me pay him for it. He got me a job mowing lawns in the neighborhood, and when I did a lawn, he got the money. $5 a lawn. Paid for the bike, and his golf balls for a while.

I figured out some time later that my dad probably hadn't had much of a childhood, working hard from a very young age, picking cotton, wearing hand-me-downs, living on another mans land, and he probably had a need to see his kid in the nicest gear. Needed to be seen as a guy who was well off, and whose family was well taken care of. Insecurity... Drives people crazy after a while I think (wink).

I drove that Trans-AM till I started teaching on the ships in 1990, by which time it was faded and worn down. I never took care of it. I was spoiled, sheltered, and had grown up with dad doing everything for me. He always felt like he was being slighted if he didn't get to make all the decisions. I'll never forget how nervous I was just putting gas in the car the first time by myself at a self serve. Jesus! I can't imagine being that young and unprepared for the world, now that I'm the man I am. The innocence and fear of everything didn't stop at gas pumps ether, but that's for another post. Still workin' that crud out, but it's fast getting behind me, with he help of a few good friends (big wink).

When I shipped out the second time to the Mediterranean, and had realized that I was going to be off on the ships most of the time for a good while, I told dad to sell the car. Turned out, his idea of getting one that a dumb kid would wet himself over eventually paid off. He got me $3000 for it. I couldn't believe it. Some man came to the house, looked under it, checked it out, and bought it for his kid. I put the money in the bank, and drove their car between ships till I decided to give up the traveling and began teaching on Ft. Hood in about '94. I needed a car, and had saved up about $5000 for the down payment. Wanted a Jeep so bad I could taste it, but dad gave me a lot of shit about that.

This time though I was determined. I was gonna be makin' the payments, so I was gonna get the car I fuckin' wanted. He tried to change my mind the whole time. I think he was seeing Jeeps as still the old bumpy things from the war that he'd driven back then. I stuck to it. I'd been around the world by myself a few times by then, and seen a few things, and I wasn't that little kid anymore. The Jeep I finally got turned out to be a great car. She was my baby for 12 years.



Had about 32,000 miles on it when I got it, and about 347,000 on it when I traded it in for $500 and a 2003 Toyota Solara, about 6 months ago. Damn, I miss that car still. 1991 Cherokee, 2 door, 5 speed stick. It got about 23 to 25 mpg, and looked cool as hell with those wheels and that red and yellow stripe down the black sides.

Funny thing was, Dad fell in love with it after I brought it home. I think he was proud that I'd made such a good choice. That's my first tent on the left, by the way. Timberline Vista. Had windows on all sides for ventilation. Still around here somewhere, dried out in a bag. Took both cool toys on many a hike, canoe and camping trip back in the '90s. We were a threesome. Now my silver/grey Solara reminds me of the feelings I had driving that red TA, blasting Floyd as loud as I could on the 6x9s, though now the new 6x9s are joined by a few more speakers, and the Floyd is mostly Roger Waters, blaring from the CD changer. It's good to grow up.

Dad loves my Solara too. Always says so when I go to pick him up for our regular Friday feed. He's not the same man that I used to hate, back in the old days. He has to wear diapers now, and he doesn't remember half the things he used to know. Most of the things he talks about now seem more like dreams, half real and half imagined. He's not that pushy, controlling bastard any more. He's a helpless old guy. Sweet, and I love him to death.

Every once and a while, old memories flash by my mind and I get a rush of anger over some stupid thing he did 35 or 40 years ago, or something much more important that he didn't do, but there's a statute of limitations on childhood crap like that. As soon as I drive up today, and I see him come out the door, and he looks at me and grins and says "Howdy padna!", I'll forget all that bullshit and we'll head out to Dynasty, where the waiters know us, and they fetch his plate for him, and treat him like a king.

I probably only have a short time left with him, and when he's gone, I'll have these memories to counterbalance all the others. I'll cry for a very long time, but I'll live on, and I'll take care of mom as she goes through the same process somewhere down the road. This is our fate, my sister and I. It's the same fate shared by so many other baby boomers these days. Our health care system has figured out how to extend life far beyond the joy of living, and our gutless readers won't let us make the decision to end it for ourselves. They are SO much wiser that we are (gag).

We're a unit unto ourselves, the Wilson family. Nobody else is allowed in. We traveled the world together, and put up with one anthers shit for years, and worked out enough of our anger so that we could keep putting up with one another till the bitter end. Now that I'm pulling away, and letting myself out of this cage, taking on my part of the role of the parent and caretaker for my own father, I'm determined to do a better job than he did. he deserves it, and It gives me immense satisfaction.

Well damn, now that I've bummed you out, go out and have a great weekend! I finally figured out how to use the flash on the Razor, but I'd bet you're sick of looking at the Generals "chicken". Take care of yourselves, and listen to your kids, and don't let them grow up to be afraid. Teach them to be brave and self assured. Do it for me. Do it for them, and do it for yourself. I'll see you later.

Once again, my Wednesday trip to the Great Wall Cafe.

Same food, different day. Maybe better pictures.



Here's the view from my designated table. looks empty, but the soonest I can get there for lunch is about 1:40 PM, after the rush, when the cooks are comin' out of the back and sitting down to eat. I order my usual, which they know by heart, and enjoy the quiet, and the AC, and the soft tones of some unintelligible oriental music.

Actually business is pickin' up. Several folks came in while I was eating and sat down to eat, rather than just get take-out. May be a good sign.



More of the Generals chicken. Well, the generals something or other, but it tastes like chicken.



And the rice. Damn, look at the size of those shrimp! I've got half of it in the fridge, for breakfast tomorrow morning.

Loving the stuff they cook at the Great Wall, but sometimes I think if I don't stop eating like this, they'll be able to see MY ASS from space. Later.

UPDATE: OK here's what the leftovers look like with a real camera.



Note the peppers, the actual color of the "chicken". Question is, will it survive till breakfast? Hm.

This ones a tear jerker.

Goin' throught the box of old pictures, I found some stuff I'd forgotten about.

My mom's family is all spread out in Texas; some here in Bell county, some up in Waco, and a bunch of folks in Houston. Some of them are Hargroves, some are Edds, and some are Zacharys. One of the folks in Waco used to play professional baseball. Anyone remember Pat Zachary? Met him at a reunion a decade or so back. Very easy going and seemed like a cool guy. There's a cousin named Edds on TV in the show CSI. Yep, a distant relative, raised in Belton. Never met him.

Anyway, as I was going through this latest box of pictures, looking for stuff to scan and culling through the shots, I ran across a letter sized yellow envelope. I opened it up and a few newspaper clippings fell out. On further examination, I found a typed essay in it that had been authored by a distant cousin down in Houston. I read it and found it very moving, and I'd bet you folks will to.

Remember when you read this that the kid who wrote it was only 13.

Here it is. I think you'll be as impressed as I was. It's all his work, copied as written.

Paw Paw
By Nicholas Meyer
age 13
Parkview Intermediate
Pasadena, Texas

When I was little and stayed in my grandparents' house, my grandfather and I would ride bikes to the park. He would pick me up and set me on the Merry Go Round. Then he'd push until I could barely hold on and when I was about to fall he'd always be there to ketch me. Now the bikes have been sold and my grandfather can hardly make it from the bed to the living room without my help.

It all started about two years ago. My grandfather had a sudden stroke. My family did not know what to think. Nothing like this had ever happened to anyone I know and I was scared. Ever since i was a little kid my grandfather had been one of my idols. He was the biggest man I had ever seen. He was about six foot, and looked like he had boxes on his shoulders he was so muscular. I was always careful about what I said around him because I never would have wanted to make him mad. I knew my grandfather would never get mad at me, but there was always a "what if?" in the back of my mind. Every time I would see him I would run up and give him a hug. He would always say to me "Hi Buddy". I was always my Pawpaw's buddy. When my brother and I went to my grandparent's house we would always have a party with my Meemaw and Pawpaw. When we went to bed my brother and I would switch off nights sleeping with them both. I remember when I would roll over on my Pawpaw at night and say "I want some bread and butter". He would always hop up and get it for me. I can't remember a time when my Pawpaw was still beside me. He would come in the house covered in grease or mud. There wasn't anything in the world my Pawpaw couldn't fix. he was always fixing something. It was amazing though, Pawpaw would always find a way to be with us. I think he came to almost half my baseball games. I remember when I had a big tournament game far away that he was taking me to. We must have driven for an hour and asked at least ten people directions. We found about three fields but not one was where I was supposed to play. We laughed and joked and were making fun of something that was supposed to be a problem. Well, I showed up in the third inning of the game, but it didn't bother me. That was one of the best experiences I ever had with my Pawpaw. That is why it was so hard to accept the fact that my Pawpaw had a stroke.

My family visited him in the hospital as much as we could. I remember when I would see him I would go up and say "Hi Buddy". He soon got out of the hospital and started recovering. We visited about every two weeks. We thought everything was going to be alright after a few months. The stroke effected movement in his whole right side, but even that was recovering well.

Then it happened again. My Meemaw and Pawpaw were travelling, I think to San Antonio, and it happened again. My Pawpaw had another stroke and went right back to the hospital. He seemed to get out faster this time but it set him back to the same place he started from with the last stroke. His speech soon began to slur. We thought he wouldn't get any better this time but he proved us wrong. He fought back with all he had and soon got better. Once during his recovery, my family was talking about a race car driver that had just been seriously hurt in a wreck. His trainer said he was the toughest man he had ever seen. My Pawpaw just looked at us and said "He hasn't seen me yet!" My Pawpaw was a fighter and he wasn't about to let this knock him out. We started visiting every week and we all enjoyed it. The highlight of their week was when we would show up. You wouldn't believe how their eyes lit up when they saw us walk through the door. Soon my Pawpaw started having little strokes and they effected him every time. His speech started to slur, he lost weight, he had trouble eating his food, and he couldn't walk well at all. My Meemaw had to start hiring help because she couldn't take care of him all alone. Soon coming to see them wasn't just something we did to be nice. It became a part of our life. Every time we saw him we wondered if it would be the last time.

One evening when I had some friends over, my brother called me into the other room and told me Pawpaw was in the hospital. It seems as if he had another stroke. In some ways I felt relief. If this was when he would pass away it would put him out of his misery. He lived and I was happy he was going to stay with us longer. Since that time he has been just like a baby. My Meemaw has help almost full time. He can't walk, feed himself and can barely speak. We talked about having to put him in a home but my Meemaw can't do it. Pawpaw is her life and I'm afraid she can't live without him. We've talked about the fact that we don't think he knows we are there but I don't believe it.

Today I went to see my Grandfather. My mom pointed at me and asked if he knew who I was. My Pawpaw stared at me with his baby blue eyes and couldn't tell me "That's my Buddy."

At the bottom of the essay there is an inscription reading...

Written Circa April, 1992
Published in Young Authors Magazine anthology 18
Center for Creative Therapies, Theraplan Incorporated

I started to remember a few things as I read this essay, about going down to a funeral in Houston some time in the late 1990s with my Mom and Dad, and about dad getting this envelope in the mail a while later. Reading the newspaper clippings confirmed it. It seems that this boy grew up to be a star athlete. He was a 17 year old senior in High school in 1997, and had received 400 letters of intent from prospective colleges.

About 8:15 pm, the night of January 17th, the boy climbed the stairs at his family home, telling people he was going to take a shower. A few minutes later they heard a loud noise, and going upstairs they found his body bleeding from a massive shotgun wound. He'd been suffering from depression for months, visiting hospitals and doctors but nothing helped.

I seem to remember them saying at the funeral, which was huge, that they thought he'd been depressed over the death of his grandfather, and couldn't get over it. His mother was quoted as saying that he was very good at hiding his depression, that he had finally gotten to the point where he couldn't take it any more, and that he was finally at peace.

Poor kid. What a shame. What a waste. I hope he and Pawpaw are havin' a ball somewhere.

Nice tats!

This guy had what he thought was a great tattoo..until he wound up getting arrested.



Now he's THE MOST POPULAR GUY IN..... JAIL!

ok, probably a body painting, but funny eh?

Kevin, over at the Brown Valley, inspired me with a recent post.

I went to a gun show in Dallas Sunday with a few friends and ended up pickin' up a new toy.







It started when I went to a gun show in Austin a while back, maybe a month and a half ago, and saw this rifle for sale. It's a .303 Enfield #4, Mark 1, made in Canada by Long Branch in 1944. Was interested, but didn't buy it then, trying to save some money. Then I read Kevin's post about his rifles, and the seed was planted. I ran into the guy iat Market Hall Sunday afternoon, and I found this little beauty again. She was talkin' to me.

After walking around the hall, it ended up being a choice between this and a cherry Mosin Nagant; pre WW1 (pre Russian Revolution), rifle made in Finland. That guy really didn't know what he had or how rare it is. Wanted to sell me the rifle and a bag of nice ammo for about $450. I thought about it hard as I walked through the show, fondling things here and there, and eventually decided to get the Enfield. $300 later, I'm walking away with it. As I do, two different guys, one after the other, walk up with big grins on their faces to ask me if I'm selling it.

One was a very excited Brit, who examined it and noticed that the bolt was not original. I didn't even know to look for numbers on the bolt. I checked it and sure enough the serial numbers were not the same. Still, he liked the rifle a lot, but warned me to check the head spacing before I shoot it. I guess the Brits (or Canadians) were not as good as our folks at making the parts truly interchangeable. He also told me to avoid old service .303 ammo, due to much of it being corrosive. I wish I'd gotten that guys email, because he seemed cool and very knowledgeable about these little babies.

Some of his comments concerned me, but I think it could easily be that bolts and rifles got mixed up as soldiers got together in the field to clean their guns. I know that's true with American guns in WW2, which is why you find so few Garands or M-1 carbines with all matching numbers and parts. I went over to another table and picked out a faded looking sling to go with it, and my friends and I walked out the door. When we got back to Gatesville, my buddy handed me a hollow point .303 round and I ran it through the action, smooth as silk. Ejected fine, so I don't think there will be an issue.

For whatever it's worth, the old guy I bought it from told me that the Long Branch rifles were thought to be the best Enfields, very accurate due to being made with an extra groove of rifling in the barrel or something. He said this particular rifle was very accurate, "more accurate than you or I could shoot it". Don't know. I'm glad I picked it up anyway. I'll clean it up in the next week or so and oil the stock, and order some good .303 rounds, and then we'll see how accurate it is.

Before we drove a few of the guys back to Arlington and Ft. Worth, I drove us over to Sal's and we had good vittles. A Stromboli, a great salad, and garlic bread. Good stuff. Oh, and on the way back from Dallas, after dropping the last dude in Gatesville, I stopped in at the American Legion hall in Temple and was there to see my buddy David's team lose the pool tourney in the final round. Very depressing end to a very long day for them. They'd been there all day, since 8 AM, and had been winning till the evening. Not sure who lost it for them or what happened. I'll find out this week.

Well, hope your weekend was fun. See ya later.

Update: Just ordered some .303 from the Sportsman's guide. 174 gr. FMJ, 5 boxes of 20 rds. for as little over $60. I'll clean her up and we'll see how they perform in this old bird.

Spent Friday night doin' the usual, and then watching friends play in a pool tournament, and playin' with my camera phone.

Some of the folks I work with are big into playing pool in a league. We started playing together years ago, but my night classes keep me from being able to play in this official capacity...

OK, I SUCK AT POOL, but so do they, so that's NOT why I can't play in the league. I used to play a lot in college, but got away from it, and now all my angles are off. If I played more regularly I'd get better, but who wants to hang out in a smoke filled pool hall after a long sweaty day dispensing wisdom to the masses? And if I put a pool table in the house, which I don't really have room for, it'd just end up like the stair machine; covered in magazines and crap and cat scratched.

Anyway, I enjoy going out and playing on occasion and watching these folks try to be serious. They're in a tournament now that could conceivably end up with their team going to play in Vegas. Normally they play at an American Legion post in Killeen, and Thursday night I went over after work, with the razor, and took a few shots of the crew at practice.



This is Gina. She's a cute little number. An ex-student of mine (most of them are), she lives with one of the other team members, loves to get loaded while she plays, and loves to flash her boobs to her other teammates when ever they win... as a reward. SEE why I go, and why I had the camera phone ready? I'm not a team member, so I've never been privileged to experience the full monty, but seeing that I was taking pictures, she flashed the PG version to me between shots on the table, and shots of some horrendous Korean booze she's always swilling.



Those are some famous tatas around here, I wanna tell ya.



Every once and I while my buddy Dave slides in to get a squeeze (that's her boyfriend shooting)...



and to provide his professional advise on a shot here and there. Great fun was had by all, even though the musical accompaniment was being provided by drunk Korean karaoke singers at the other end of the bar. I wanted to toss a cue ball over there and bean that bastard after a while. I think we got out of there at about midnight, and like a good boy, I went strait home and to bed.

After class on Friday, and taking dad to our regular dinner/boys-night-out that evening, I took dad back to the house and headed out to the big tournament that was being held in Temple at the local American Legion hall.



Walked in and was hit in the head by a wall of 2nd hand smoke. Haven't experienced one like that in a while. To add to the issue, apparently the AC and ventilators were down. Hot as hell in there, but the music was MUCH better than before. Hard rock classics by folks like Sabbath and Skynnrd, mixed with the newer metal that the younger vets are into. Nothin' like it to calm the nerves and clear the head.



Happiness! My friends weren't supposed to be playing, but Dave ended up having to jump in and go a few rounds. He lost most of his games, but the other players in his team played better, and they ended up winning the match anyway. As a novice, I particularly enjoyed watching the heavy hitters.



The guy in the center with the hat was on Dave's team. He's really good, but he has a reputation for choking in the big games. This time though, he was screwed over by what I would call and Act of God.

First of all, these guys are REALLY good. If one guy misses a shot, the other guy is likely to just run the table and that's it. So the hat guy won his first game against this opponent, pretty handily. I was impressed. In the second game, he dropped a few balls in the brake, but then he missed one by a hair. The guy on the left started to make a run, but then he missed one by a hair. Mr. hat guy took over and started clearing the table, and had a short, easy shot to make in the process. Side pocket, direct shot with the cue ball only inches away. As he's lining it up, a grasshopper lands directly in the path of the cue ball.

To try to get a breeze going in the place someone had propped the doors open, letting the critters in. He shews it away, and it jumps into the side pocket. He goes to make the shot and as he is hitting the cue ball, the grasshopper jumps out of the side pocket and flits overhead, breaking his concentration, making him screw up the shot. I could have made that friggin' shot! Hilarious, but nothing they could do. The other guy took over and ran the table. That was it. Mr. hat guy lost the rest of his games and it was left to his wife to win hers, which she did, to give the team it's win. She was up against a young girl who played while listening to her Ipod, which was strapped to her arm. Must not have liked Sabbath.

Meanwhile, several other folks (including Gina) were over at the bar, getting loaded to the gills while the other team members played. When all the games ended and the place shut down, we went to get them, and we all made a trip to I-Hop for an early breakfast. Nothin' like midnight feeds with a bunch of drunks to put the right end to a day. Left there and got home finally at about 2am. I brought half my club sandwich home and had it for brunch when I rolled out of the sack at about noon. Tasted damn good after bein' nuked for a minute or so.

They're playin' again tonight, and I'll probably head over there when the sun goes down and it starts to cool off. Maybe they will have fixed the AC by then. Plan to head to Dallas tomorrow with friends to run through a gun show at Market Hall. Should be a full day. Hope your weekend is as much fun. Cheers.

Just crank the speakers and enjoy some ELO.

This was my favorite tune for a long while in the early high school times.



And another sweetie from the album Out Of The Blue.



And why not? Have another from the same album. This ones one of the best, I think.

Bruno asked...

"Are you SURE that's chicken on the left? Looks kinda SCARY---!"



Well... It tasted like chicken. But then, SO many things apparently do.

Well, I guess the whole class scedule bugaboo will be ok after all.

The college reps on the base want everything to work out, and the kids don't give a damn about the unconventional way it's going down, so I'm sure it'll all come out smooth as shit.

How did all this happen? Basically, the new guy who is running the Political Science department talked to me several months ago about teaching for them again. The last classes I had for them went down about a year ago. I had one class on the main campus that lasted about 16 weeks, a conventional semester, and another on base that lasted 8 weeks. The 8 week ones are concentrated, containing the same number of contact hours as a 16 week class, but lasting half the time. It was a class in constitutional law, which is always a blast to teach. Lots of interesting topics and heated class discussions.

The top twerps on the main campus across the highway were looking for a new guy to head up the department back then, wanting to hire some new PhD in the field so they could get some graduate classes started. This local campus is still playing catch up and trying to establish itself, trying to keep from having it's funding killed by the real main campus in Stevenville. When they found a contender, they brought this little twerp into my class in the last week of that 8 week semester, while I was giving final exams, and auditioned him in front of my students. Next thing I know this guy is being given all the old classes I used to teach and they didn't need my services any more. That was a year ago. Imagine my surprise when this guy calls me and asks me what classes I want to teach and when. I was totally taken aback.

He'd found that he needed someone to teach a few extra classes, and the old guy who used to schedule them sent him my way. I taught a mini term a few weeks back, between the regular semesters, and then the regular 8 week semester began last week, on the 29th. According to the talk I'd had months earlier (and I wrote this stuff down so I know what he told me), this 8 weeks I'd be teaching a class on State and Local Government, and the next 8 weeks, August to October, I'd teach a class on the Executive Branch. It was clear cut, so I told the CTC folks when I'd be available to teach for them, and they set up the rest of my schedule to fit everything together. A week or so before the semester began, I found out that the TSU class would be prorated. I'd get less money to teach it due to low enrollment, but I was willing to go along with that just to have a little extra money coming in.

So, I started the semester thinking all was well. Normal stuff; classes every day from 11:30 to 12:30, 12:30 to 1:30, and then evening classes for CTC from 4:45 to 7pm and 7:30 to 10pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and a class for TSU from 4:45 to 7pm on Mondays and Wednesdays. Because of the holiday on Monday for memorial Day, The semester began on Tuesday. I'm about 20 minutes into my 4:45 CTC class, the first half of US History, talkin' about Columbus or somethin' like that, when the TSU rep on Ft. Hood comes knockin' at the door with a big smile on his face, tellin' me that I've got a class I'm supposed to be in in another room.

I'm totally shocked. I tell my folks to take a break and I go down there and sure enough, there's 4 students there waiting on me (4 of the 6 that are enrolled). I take down everyone's name and email and head back to the other class. The TSU rep is takin' it in stride. He just wants the class taught, and doesn't really care how I do it. He starts tellin' me that I can turn it into an online class or somethin'. I'm too pissed off and stunned to think, so I go back to my other class and sink myself into the comfort of familiar things; the Age of Exploration, the Black Death, the rise of the Nation State, and all that sort of crap. I'm thinkin', how the hell could this happen? How the hell could I have let this happen? Did I assume things that were false, or was there some sort of miscommunication? The main campus across the road is clueless about it all, and the TSU rep couldn't care a less, so I have to make up a way for this all to work out.

Later I find out that since there are only 6 students in each class, the college is going to re categorize them as Independent Study courses. That's to say, a graduate style course where students do work on their own and write papers for their grades. I've done a few of those classes, and they are always fun. Apparently there's a state rule about classes with fewer than so many students in them being unaccredited unless they are set them up this way. It's cool with me, but they still expect me to teach them as conventional classes. Well, that isn't going to happen. One will be taught that way, but the conflicted one is gonna mostly be online. I'll have them email me 4 short papers on topics in the chapters and one 10 to 15 page research paper. They'll study review materials in the chapters they read, and I'll set up times for them to take their midterm and final exams. If the fools on the main campus stay clueless, we'll all slide through this like pros.

of course, it could all blow up in my face at any moment, so I'll have no excuse to be bored this 8 weeks. Paydays should be rockin' though, and there's a few good gun shows comin' up.

On a lighter note, I went to the Great Wall Cafe today for lunch after my classes got out at 1:30, and took more pictures with the Razor of sinfully good Chinese food. Don't want you to get away without feeling a few pangs.



That's two dinner orders for lunch. A huge pile of shrimp fried rice on the right, with plump shrimpy goodness throughout, and General Tso's chicken on the left, with no broccoli thank you very much. There will be no green food to distract me from my mission. I eat about half of it, or maybe a third of it for lunch, and then take the rest home for dinner or lunch another day. It travels well. Hell, I may get up early Wednesday and have it for breakfast.

Anyway, I hope all your weeeks are less complicated than mine, and all your plans work out for ya. Cheers.

I've been a bit busy of late, with this new semester, and the screw up with a few of my classes.

I guess it was inevitable, with me workin' for various colleges and tightly cross-scheduling things here and there, but I finally ended up with two classes at the same time, same night. Thought one was supposed to be this semester, and the second one would begin in 8 weeks. Nope, both this time. Damn! Tryin' to work it out, and I probably will, but it's gonna be a tense semester.

I'm still scanning old pictures from the family collections, and every once and a while I find somethin' that jumps out at me. I found this old post card that I'd picked up at the Kimbell Art Museum in Ft. Worth, years ago. Hell, probably 20 years ago.



Ooo, baby, baby. Nice eh? Meet Miss May Sartoris, painted by Frederic Leighton, some time around 1860. I love the way the red sash jumps out at you, and those eyes. Those eyes.

Oh, and remember that post a while back when I talked about the tour to Spain my family took in about '68, and the weird assed painting of the "female" with a beard, breastfeeding. Well, I found a shot I took of the painting at the time, partially blurred by the flash.



I'm sorry but that's NOT a woman. She's not only got a beard, but she's got a receding hair line. Please, look at the size of those hands!

Anyway, I was tryin' to come up with somethin' to post, surfin' YouTube for a quickie, and I came upon this little jewel.



Wasn't that cool? 500 Years of Women in Western Art. Love the way they all morph together. Anyway, I've got to go study for my simultaneous classes, so I'll check ya later. Cheers.

Well, it's Friday again, or was, and you know what that means.

Dad and I made out regular trip to the Chinese place, and the food proved to be better than usual. I must have driven up just as the right batch of Gen. Tso's was whipped up in the back. I took a few lame shots with the camera phone, but nether came out too well. Here's dad, back lit by the set of windows they always put us next to.



I'll have to remember to sit on the other side of him next time. I feel too self conscious to take the real camera and start taking pictures of my dinner plate and stuff, flashes going off, and everyone thinking I'm some kinda tourist. So the camera phone will have to do. Did I say that the General Tso's was amazing?



Just look at the size of those shrimp, and that egg roll was to die for. The plate looks deceptively small in this shot, but take my word for it, it was a generous helping. One plate like this and I'm approaching maximum density.

The folks at the restaurant have gotten used to seeing us come in at about the same time every Friday. They know what dad likes to eat and zip into the kitchen and cook him a fresh batch. They usually have him situated and the red sauce on the table by the time I park the car (I let him out in front of the place). I tip the hell outa them, so they appreciate our business, and I think they like the sight of this old guy and his huge son coming in every Friday for a guys night out. We both eat the same thing every time. When you know what you like, why screw around? I usually pile up the shrimp fried rice and Gen. Tso's on the first plate, and then experiment with the second. Here's an old shot, from a few months ago (just figured out how to get the pictures of this phone).



That's steak on the left, fresh off the grill, and more Gen. Tso's and corn covered in pepper. I tell ya, they really know what they're doing at this place. After dad finishes his fried shrimp and ice cream, we usually ether go over and visit one of his cousins who lives over by the restaurant, or we go hit golf balls, or we just head home. This time we went over to Academy so that I could fondle the fishing tackle.

I left dad in the golf section and wandered through the many isles of fishing rods a lures, longing for the trip I'd be on to Canada right now if the fuckers out at work hadn't rescheduled our break to late July. The other guys are still going up to Gananoque, but I'll be here, waiting for the local creeks and lakes to relax a bit after our recent deluge. No fun fishing at flood stage.

After that we went back to the folks house and I returned all the pictures I've been scanning in the last few weeks. Mom and I went through the rest of their pictures, looking them over. Some treasures in there. I found this shot of me holding our last Pug, Rascal (the little guy I talked about in the earlier post), and almost burst into tears.



Man, I miss this little dude. I brought this other batch home so I can go through them and scan the ones I want to have here on the hard drive. Turns out this is probably the best batch, containing the choice shots from back in the day. Here's a great shot showing how long I've been a music lover.



My sister and I in Bermuda, where I was born, listening to something scintillating. Dig that concentration. And here's proof that dad and I have been hanging out for a long time.



Mom came home one day in Bermuda and found dad and one of his Sargent's giving me my very first haircut.



God, he looks elated. His boy was taking his first step toward manhood - his first buzz cut. He was getting rid of the long curly locks that my mom had loved so much. Remember having to sit on that board that they put across the arms of the barber chair? Man, who'd a thought that I'd have fond memories of that?

Well, there'll be more where these came from later. It's gonna be a lazy weekend here. Hope yours if fun. Have a great time and I'll see ya later.