The Woods - Part Four.

OK, as I told you before, I actually organized a mock battle one summer day in about 1970. Like I said, I'd begun to acquire a following of younger kids by the last summer there in Missouri. That notion seems totally bizarre to me now, but I remember it fondly. I think they wanted to play with me because I was bigger than them and I was fun. Also, I wasn't a bully, which set me aside from a lot of the other older kids. I can't remember what prompted the battle. I may have seen a movie and floated the idea. No tellin'.

It seems to me there were about ten or fifteen kids on one side of that clearing and just me and three or four other kids on my side. We lined up opposite one another, armed with those dried weed stalks that I told you about before. You'd pull them out of the ground and the dried root would come up with a natural point. When you cleaned all the dirt off it and pulled off all the limbs you'd be left with a strait, light disposable javelin with a ready point that, because of the heavy end, would always fly straight and land point first.

Anyway, we all had several of these spears in our arsenal, and my boys all had shields. Of course, I had that big metal sled on my arm, making me virtually impregnable. It covered me from head to knee, just like the real thing. The other guys had stuff made out of wood or cardboard. We'd probably all sat around in someone's basement and made them together.

Again, the other kids were bunched up in a big group on the other side of a clearing. They were really hopped up, outnumbering us the way they did, but I had a plan. I'd seen the movies, so I knew what to do.

I told my guys to form a shield wall, shoulder to shoulder - All four or five of us, and told them to wait and hold their fire. The other kids started yellin' like it was for real and charged us. When they got about half way to us I told my guys to cut loose. I'd told them to throw their spears high in the air, over everyones' heads. Next thing you know the air was filled with those things and the other kids were dodgin' spears, pissin' their pants and runnin' away. Worked brilliantly, ONCE. When the next charge came they were ready for us and we all died a horrible death. Then we all got up off the ground, dusted ourselves off and did it again. That was a fun day.

I told you before about my envy of Mike Hinkley going hunting with his dad and my childhood dreams about being a hunter. Well, I'm not proud of it, but my very first hunting experience took place along that creek, not far from the house. OK, I don't count the crawdads. My first time was the little bunny.

I was just walkin' along that creek with my bow one day and noticed a rabbit out of the corner of my left eye, sittin' on the other side of the creek in a little clearing, chewing on some brush. I stopped cold and looked at it, drawing an arrow out of my quiver very slowly and quietly. I couldn't believe it. here was my moment. I wasn't even thinkin' about what I was gonna do with it after I killed it. It was just somethin' I could kill. Somethin' I could use to take things to the next level.

Like I said, I laid an arrow on the rest, drew my bow back, cocked at an angle so I could look down the shaft. That's how we aimed back then, before we graduated to aluminum limbs, plastic cams and 60 lbs of pressure behind the arrow. I aimed my bow and let fly, only to see the arrow miss by what seemed then to be a mile. Probably just inches, but the rabbit didn't bolt for cover, so I drew another and shot again, missing again.

I ended up emptying my quiver at that friggin critter and it never moved. It only ran for cover when I jumped across the creek to retrieve my gear. I couldn't believe it. How could I have missed? I was good with that friggin' thing! There wasn't a tree or sapling around that I hadn't plugged with holes from decent distances. I was very happy none of my friends had been there to witness my humiliation.

Anyway, that was my first hunting experience. We moved away from there and I was made to put the bow away soon after that, so I didn't get another chance to kill something for about 25 years. That's another story, for another woodsy post. We'll talk.

You'll also remember me tellin' you about the strange family up the street, with all the sons and the great dog? Well, like I said before, I can't remember their name. I don't know what their dad did for a living, though my mom has always been convinced that he was in the mob. Who knows? What fascinated me was how wild and free their kids were.

The oldest son was a biker who would ride into town now and then and make a lot of noise. He was an adult to me then, which might make him about 20. He'd always seem to end up out in the woods where he'd be found around a little camp fire, sniffin' glue and glarin' at people. The next oldest boy was about 2 or 3 years older than me, though he seemed WAY older. They all did. They all seemed older than their years.

That boy was scary too, so we didn't spend much time around him. My most vivid memory of him was of all of us building wooden ramps in the street to jump our bikes over. This was the era of "Evel Kneivel", so we were all tryin' to do all that sort of stuff, only on our bikes. He built his the highest, and made the jump. I remember being stunned to see him make it. I always admired that sort of courage, but wondered where that daredevil stuff came from. I was always too careful to try the highest jump. I guess I got enough thrills from the lower ramp. Story of my life, in a way.

Those two oldest boys were the two that supposedly drug a girl off into the woods once and raped her. The story I got was that she was probably the girlfriend of the oldest son. They all got stoned on something out there and things probably got too real, to quickly for her liking. To me at the time, not knowing what rape really was, all it meant was that those two had actually had sex, which was still a mysterious and scary thing to me then. it added to the larger perception that they were dangerous and to be avoided.

The next boy in that family was the one that was my age. Even so, we didn't spend much time with him. He was always wanting to fight and get into trouble. The one time I remember hanging out with him and havin' fun was when we went crawdad giggin' in the creek that day. The other vivid memory was of him flickin' lit matches at me, tryin' to impress some girl.

The one son in that family that we all hung out with and were friends with was the youngest boy. He was actually a few years younger than us, but he already smoked and ran with confidence in the woods. He did everything we did, had a good sense of humor, and was the only one of that bunch we all weren't scared of. I guess, growing up in that family, you had to mature quickly. I guess my fondest memory of him had to do with the "arrangement" he had with one of our neighbors.

Every once and a while this kid and I'd be playin' around the yard when the man who lived next door to us would come home from work. This kid would run up to him and ask him "Did you bring me my cookies?", and the guy would say "Yep!", and hand over a new, unopened box of cookies. Not knowin' what was goin' down, I thought that was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. Once dad saw me goin' over there with the kid and then havin' a cookie when he offered me some. He hit the roof. Told me never to go over there again and not to hang out with that kid any more.

I was totally confused, till dad told me what was up. It seems that family had gone on vacation once. My friend had broken in and drug all their sprinklers into the house and turned them on. They were payin' him off with cookies to get him to leave them alone. So he had his own little protection racket goin' on. Maybe his dad was in the mob.

He actually took me over to his house once. The place was a wreck, with motorcycles parked on the front lawn and no grass, and all sorts of boxes, cages and old trash cans all over the place. Each one of the boxes, cans and cages had a critter in it. I remember looking down into a metal trash can in the front yard and seeing a huge black snake that one of the brothers had caught in the woods. The whole place was a menagerie. It was fascinating.

I have a particular memory of going through their den and heading up the stairs to this kid's room. His oldest brother and all his friends were sitting in the living room, doing God knows what, but they all stared menacingly at me as I went up the stares. Thinking back on it now, the sight of all those guys sitting there reminds me of one of those old album covers, with the band sitting around a room, everyone with long stringy hair, or a huge fro and torn jeans and a puffy shirts. Maybe a hookah on the coffee table and HUGE stereo speakers blaring. Aaaa, the '70s.

Anyway, by far the coolest member of that family and the one we kids played with the most was their huge St. Bernard dog, "Gus". Gus was a horse of a dog. The smaller of us could actually ride him. He roamed the woods with us all the time, and would roam the neighborhood freely, doing whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted. Mom used to cuss him when she'd find what amounted to a horse turd in her garden.

Once, in the middle of summer, Gus gave me a scare. I was playin' down the street from the house one day when he came walkin' up behind me and tried to mount me. I was just standin' there, mindin' my own business. Next thing I know he's jumped up with his huge paws on my shoulders and tryin' to have his way with me. I got out from under him and some other folks came to my aid. I ended up with a long gouge in my back where his paw scraped me, and a pretty decent sized wound to my pride.

It was later determined that since our family dog, Missy, had gone into heat, I must have had some of her sent on me and Gus put two and two together. Once the shock and embarrassment of the whole thing wore off, the other kids and I turned it all into a game. Every time Gus saw me he'd chase after me, so we'd wait till he was about two houses away and get his attention, then run for our lives. He was a great dog. I've always wanted a big dog like that since then. One of these days.

Well, that's enough for now. Turns out I keep thinkin' of more stuff to tell ya, so there may well be a few more of these woodsy posts. So hold on, we'll talk. Cheers.

Happy Memorial Day Daddy...

And everyone else too. Days like this take on a greater meaning after loosing dad. We're loosing the vets from his generation by the thousands every day, so please take time today to think of someone, and maybe go up to an old geezer somewhere and say thanks.



I want to say thanks to all the vets I've known, and all the guys I know now. You know who you are... Pat, Sarge, Bruno, Paul ("His Mushyness"), Buck, and everyone I'm forgetting to list at this late hour. Thanks a lot for your service, and for letting a kid like me hang with you a while. You're all the greatest!



Thanks Uncle John, for being my cool cowboy uncle, and for doing that stint in the army in the '50s. You'll always live in my heart.



Thanks Uncle Vernie, for being such a special friend and comfort to mom when she was growing up. I never knew you, but mom loved you very much, and misses you still. Thanks for those years you served in the Navy back in the 1920s. I wish we could sit together now and compare notes. I bet you saw some fascinating history out there.



And thanks, Cousin Lavern (Uncle Vernie's son), for being such a loving friend to mom and dad when the three of you were growing up. Mom loved you so much that after you died in the war she gave me your name. I'm sorry I was ashamed of it for so long growing up. I was a dumb kid, and I've been mixed up about a LOT of things for a long time. I'm proud of that name now, and I'll deck anyone who makes fun of it. I wish you'd lived, so I could have gotten to know you. We'll have to sit together one of these days and talk about all the things you saw.

Thanks too to all the guys I don't have pictures of now... Uncle Melvin, who served in the army in the WW2 and was in the Battle of the Bulge, and Uncle Bob. Dear uncle Bob. God, I miss you. You were the coolest! You served in WW2, the Pentagon, and then did two tours in Vietnam.

It sucks that you died when you did and that we never got a chance to talk about all that stuff. But I'll see you again. I'll see your boy, now a great man on his own, in a week or so, and I'll give him a BIG hug for ya. He's the best. We're like brothers now. I think you'd be happy about that. You did a wonderful job bringin' him up.

I love all you guys, and I miss you all terribly. Thanks again for all you did, and all you went through to serve your country. I'm so proud to have known you all.

I love all you other guys too. I hope you have a great holiday and we all keep chuggin' along, so we can do this again next year. Take care. Cheers!

Friday stuff and weekend plans.

It's about 3PM Friday as I begin to jot this down. I'm sitting here at the computer sweating like a slave, waiting for the air conditioner repair guy to mosey on over.

I came home from the pool hall at about 10:30 Wednesday night and found it to be 84 degrees in the house! I called the boys Thursday morning and they said they were booked up and it'd be Friday before they could see me. So here I sit, by balls stickin' to my leg, 88 degrees in the house, all the doors open, waitin' for this dude to get here. If he gets here and tells me it's a quick, cheap fix, all the stupid waiting is forgiven. I doubt it'll be cheap though. All my appliances, AC unit, Dishwasher, etc., are about 12 or 13 years old and due to go tits up on me at any time.

Just got the call that they're headed this way. Fingers crossed!

Later tonight Denise and I will meet the Moons, Wilson and his wife, at the Dynasty Chinese place dad and I used to frequent. It'll be fun to see them again and to chow down on that good shrimp fried rice and the generals chicken. After that we'll head over to mom's for a tipple. Then we have plans to go to the mall and see the new Indiana Jones flick. It looks cool as hell.

Mom and sis got back from their trip to Oklahoma last night and both called me, tellin' me their versions of how everything went down. It was hilarious to compare the versions. Mom calls me first and gives me the sweet, polite version, tellin' me that they'd only had a few screamin', yellin' fights. Then sis calls and tells me "Mom was SUCH a BITCH!". I just sat there and laughed.

Bottom line... All seems to be well. Sis had her interview and is excited enough about the idea of going back to Oklahoma that she's thinking about putting in more resumes up there just in case this one doesn't work out. Mom even told me that she was impressed with sis' professional demeanor when she was dealing with those folks. She's all excited about living up near Tinker Air Force Base, where she and mom and dad were stationed just before I was born. If she does get to do that I'll find myself envying here a lot. I really miss being near a base and hearing those jets every day. It's in my DNA.

She was there in the fifth grade, and then again in grad school, so now it feels like going back home to her. I hope everything works out. The job is dependent on state funding and the salary isn't what she was originally told it would be. Still, it's a start, and God knows she needs to get going somewhere.

FUCK ME IN THE ASS WITH A PRICKLY PAIR! It looks like I need a new AC unit. The compressor is history. Damn! And he says they can't get it done till Tuesday... The holidays and all. He's callin' someone now to see what he can do. Anyway, we'll be sleeping for the foreseeable future at Denise's place. SHIT!

We're stayin' around here over the weekend. Plans are to grill somethin' good at some point and maybe go swimmin' in a lake or river down the highway a ways. Sounds all summery, don't it? Wooohooo! There'll be more yard work, movin' the piles of crap we pulled from the yard out to the field across the road so it can all be hauled away by the city. There'll be new stuff planted and watered. I'll get pictures, no worries.

I've also got a knife project to get started on. Remember me postin' about the Damascus blade I bought and the walrus penis bone handle materials. Well, this weekend is when it will all get started. I told Bob when he was here for dad's funeral that I was gonna put it together and bring it up to hand over as a present for his new grandson.

I'll give it to his son-in-law, who's gonna join us on the fishing trip. I'll tell him it's for his son, but he can play with it till the gets old enough to use it. They're all avid hunters and fishermen up there, so it'll go over well. I head up the to see them in a week-and-a-half or so, so there's no time to waste. It's lookin' cool in my head, with the plan comin' together. I'll take pictures of it before I hand it over. You just wait!

Well, it just cost me $80 to find out that I'm gonna need to spent $3400 for a new AC unit outside, and it won't be till Wednesday or Thursday that they can get it here and install it. Sheeeeiiiittttt! They could replace the compressor, but the rest of the unit is 13 years old, past it's expiration date, so I might as well get a new one. Anyway, what do you guys think? I always feel like I'm getting screwed when I deal with these dudes. The new compressor for the old unit is $1500, with a two year warranty, and the AC unit is $3400, with a ten year warranty.

Needless to say we'll be transferrin' our operations to Base Camp 2 (Denise's house) for the next week or so. Denise's bed is smaller than my huge parade ground of a thing, but it'll have to do. You guys go crank up your AC and I'll suffer here in silence (NOT!).

I'm gonna go do a little work on the knife and then I'll take a cold shower and get the hell out of Dodge. You guys enjoy your coolness and I'll have another round of woodsy tales for ya on Monday. Happy Memorial Day, by the way. Cheers.

A man's life, in a nutshell.

or so I hear.

Single...


Married...


And Divorced.

Simple as that? You tell me.

Last Friday, and all the weekend events.

Last Friday was a good outing with Mom and Denise. We went to Zabcikville, east of temple, and had burgers at Green's Sausage House.

They're famous for their sausage, stuffed with peppers and anything else you want, but they also make wonderful burgers and sandwiches. Mom had a super ham and Swiss, Denise had a sausage burger and I went for the big bacon cheese burger. we shared fries and onion rings and it was all wonderful, and relatively cheap.

After eating, since we were out on the east side of Temple, I asked mom if she wanted to go check on the plots in the cemetery out there where some of her relatives are buried. Both she and Denise said yes, so we headed over there.

It's called the Little Flock Cemetery. My mom's grand parents and a few aunts and uncles are buried there, mostly under those huge pecan trees. there's a reason for that. When her great grandparents died, her grandfather planted those trees right next to his parents graves. The trees have since grown to a tremendous height, and produce wonderful crop of pecans.

After wandering around the cemetery, taking pictures of some of the older headstones and checkin' on the old relatives, the three of us headed back to temple and made a side trip to Dairy Queen for dessert. We each got a blizzard, heath candy variety, and took them home to Mom's house.

After finishing the treats we busted out the booze and sipped some Chateau Monet, finishing off the bottle.

We were all in a reflective mood, partly from the trip to the cemetery but also from the crap that's goin' on in the family now. I won't labor you with details (I think I've already unloaded that crap on you anyway). Suffice to say that the drama between my mom, sister and I has heated up lately.

Sis has been cut off from the support the folks have been giving her for the last five years, the money train having hit a huge wall when dad died and mom's income was cut in half. Since then she's had a line on a job in Midwest City, East of Oklahoma City, and so she and mom are drivin' up there this week to check it out and see about getting sis an apartment up there.

It turns out that dad's death has been the catalyst for getting my big sis off her fat ass and back into the adult world. It's too bad that it took that to get it done, but at least something good is coming from the loss.

Denise and I also started to tackle some yard work around the house Friday, cleaning up part of the front yard and trimming back the rose bushes. They had been pulled away from the wall by a high wind a week or so earlier and were blocking access to my front door. It's not something I worried a lot about, keeping unwanted visitors away and all being a boon to my serenity, but it was unsightly and had to be fixed.

Part of the urgency behind this explosion of yard work was due to the fact that we were gonna have a visitor on Saturday. I'd gotten an email a few days earlier from Holly sayin' she was comin' down to Killeen and wanted to get back together.

She'd come down a while earlier and we'd taken her to one of our best Chinese food places, but later attempts to connect were always derailed by other plans. Trips to Fredericksburg and such. So I was looking forward to seeing her again and showing her around BJs, which has become a favorite haunt of ours.

The food at BJs was wonderful, as usual, and we had a great time. The dinner and subsequent after dinner tipple at my place was a huge blast, and we hope she gets to come down again soon. She's a hoot, and we love to get together with her and commiserate about family drama and the world in general. Ya gotta love a woman who carries a Colt 1911 in her little purse, and knows how to use it!

Saturday afternoon we began to tackle the back yard, which had been allowed to turn into a jungle again. You might remember a post from about a year ago, the last time I spent about 8 hours clearing this mess.

The cats always gather in the yard to watch the festivities. This is Sandy and Rusty, the twins, checkin' out the strange goings on from the steps at the back of the yard.

One of the things we discovered in the yard was a little present one of the cats had left for us.

Back when I moved into this house, in 2003, my cats went on a rampage and left rat carcases all over the place. In stead of being grateful for the free extermination services my neighbors were horrified and disgusted, wanting me to ether keep my cats in the house or get rid of them. City folks!

These are the sort of people who move to the country and then complain that the deer are eating their flowers, but won't let you hunt them. Eventually I put a cat fence up along the top of the wood fence and the issue was solved. However, about a month ago I realized that a few of them were escaping. I'd get home from work in the evening and one or two would be sitting in the front yard waiting for me. So part of this flurry of activity was to plug the hole in the fence and get the cats back in the yard before one of my Nazi neighbors calls Animal Control.

We left several piles of weeds in our wake. By late Sunday, the yard was almost cleared and we were thinkin' about what sorts of plants and flowers we were gonna get to plant , to replace the weeds. One more weekend and we'll have it all set up right, or good enough to let go for another year.

Anyway, that was the weekend, Exciting eh? This next one looks like it might be just as exciting. I'll keep ya posted. Cheers.

The Woods - Part Three.

As I've said, we practically lived in those woods in the summers, and the winter wasn't much different. My mom can tell you stories. She remembers us going out in the snow early in the morning and staying out for hours till we'd come home just to change out of our wet jeans and eat, and then we'd head out again. We'd slide down the big hill up the street on our sleds and jump the curb into the space between two houses, the winner being the one who went the fastest and farthest into the back yard. That was one time my size was a boon. We'd try to walk and slide on the thin ice that would cover that creek and inevitably bust through and be knee deep in water. We'd laugh our asses off and just play on, seemingly immune to any illness that parents try to guard their kids against.

I'll never forget my first ice storm in our first winter there. I'd never seen anything like that in England, where I was introduced to my first really cold winter and deep snow that would bring almost every human endeavor to a screeching halt. I'd never seen anything more beautiful than the ice covering the limbs of those trees, like they were dipped in glass. With the sun shining through them it would make the whole woods sparkle. Breaking off a small limb would result in a sharp crack that would reverberate through the tree as the limbs hit one another. We'd wander along, our eyes gazing up in wonder as we trudged through those woods on our familiar trails. It was a wonderland.

In the summer the woods would come back to life, with endless noises being made by endless insects and occasional wildlife. The woods and fields we played in would fill out with thick, tall brush that became our hiding place, where we were mostly hidden from the eyes of the outside world. we'd hide at the side of a trail like an Indian war party and ambush the other kids who'd be riding by on their bikes. there was some sort of weed that grew all over in the summer. When you pulled the dried dead stalks up the root would make a perfect spear point. After breaking off the limbs we'd be left with a dozen disposable spears a piece, which we'd toss in the air to rain down on our victims as they went past.

Dad went on a trip to Asia in about '72 and brought me back a load of cool stuff, including three Bolo swords from the Philippines (that one in the link is very similar to one of the three I had). My friends and I were in bliss. I'd take one, the one with the squiggly, snake like Kris blade and hand the other two to a few fiends, and with them we'd cut our way through the summers brush as if we were explorers hacking our way through "Darkest Africa".

I'd also told dad (he was also going to Japan) to bring me back one of those cool Samurai helmets. What the hell did I know? I took a shot. I got word eventually that he'd picked up two and was headed home. I was ecstatic and had visions of runnin' through the woods wearing the friggin' thing, one of my buddies wearing the other, the two of us fighting battles and being the coolest kids in the world.

It turned out he'd picked up two little replicas that were about six or eight inches tall and sat on little pillows. Damn, was I depressed for a while. But kids shake that sort of stuff off quick. Before you knew it those helmets were up on a shelf, lookin' cool as hell, and I was back in the woods pretending to be Julius Caesar with a cardboard helmet I'd made myself out of a shoe box.

My buddies and I would have sword fights with those things and use them like machetes, cutting our way through the tall weeds, some of them with stalks as thick around as small trees. I tell ya, it was cool as hell to slice through those stalks with one swipe of the blade. But the swords weren't my weapons of choice. As cool as they were, they were secondary to my trusty fiberglass bow and the Fred Bear hunting arrows that were my pride and joy. Those woods and back yards are where I learned to shoot a bow and arrow, and how to make a spear. My friends and I were deadly. Thinking back on it now, it's a wonder how our parents stood by and let us enjoy ourselves like that. I'll be eternally grateful to them for giving me the freedom I was able to enjoy.

I guess you could say we'd seen too many movies. You know those scenes where the Brits, or whoever, would have their archers stand in a bunch and let fly into the enemy ranks? well we'd all stand, maybe 6 or 8 of us, at one end of the clearing that ran along the creek through everyone's back yard (there were no fences) and let fly down the way. the sight of all those arrows flying high would give me a chill, and then we'd run, laughing all the way, down to where they'd landed and shoot them back down the other way again.

There was one big hulk of a tree on the other side of the creek, down the trail from the house into the woods that we gave a lot of attention to. At some point I dubbed it "The Elephant Tree", probably from a picture in a book I had showing a Mammoth that had been filled with spears by primitive hunters. Mushy recently posted a shot of an old partially dead tree on FlickR that looks somewhat like the one in question.

The tree I'm taking about was bigger than this one, larger around the trunk, but maybe that's just the distorted picture I have in my head now from when I was a lot smaller. Anyway, the half of the tree that was exposed with rotted red bark conveniently faced the opposite side of the creek where the rail meandered past. It became a favorite target for our arrows. we'd walk along the trail that led down the creek and stop, as if surprised, and launch a flight of arrows into it. The arrows would make a deep thudding noise as they hit, which was the thing we really loved. In our minds we were great hunters, bringing down a Mammoth, a Grizzly Bear or a Buffalo.

As you can imagine, that creek was an endless source of adventure and excitement. I'll never forget wading barefooted down it's length once or twice, using an arrow with a field point to gig crawdads. Those poor bastards had no chance, unless they managed to flit their tails and do their back stroke fast enough. Some did, but others died a grisly death, only to be pulled out of the water, admired momentarily for their prehistoric coolness and then tossed away. I'd caught crawdads on my Grandparent's farm in Texas before, using bacon on a string, but this was MUCH more fun.

The guy I went giggin' with that day was one of the four sons of a family that lived just up the way from us, across the street. That family and their house was an endless source of drama and excitement for us kids. I can't remember that guys name, or his family's name, but it was his older brothers who had supposedly perpetrated that rape I mentioned in an earlier post. They were always pullin' somethin', sniffin' glue out in the woods and tryin' to scare the hell out of us younger kids. The best thing about them was their dog. We'll talk.

Anyway, I seem to remember spending most of my time trying to pretend to be either an Indian or a Greek or Roman soldier. These were the fixations I picked up in my time in England, watching cool shows about the ancient world on British public TV. One day, while cleaning out the garden that had been left under the stairs that led up to our sun deck, dad inadvertently contributed something wonderful to my warrior fantasy.

It seems the previous owners of the house had used an old round metal sled as an improvised pond. Dad dug it up out of the garden and laid it aside, thinking he was gonna throw it away. I took one look at it and in a second saw something I could make into a Hoplon. the folks had gotten me a book a long time earlier about famous battles in history, and one of the battles covered in there was the Battle of Thermopylae. there was a great picture in there of the Spartan shield wall, with the soldiers standing in a line, shields locked together, spears poking over towards the enemy. I used to lay in bed at night an stare at that picture, imagining myself in that line.

Now, along with a huge, long pole I'd found in the woods, that old sled, now remade with handles to fit my hand and arm, became central to my fantasy warrior life. I'd march around the neighborhood, having mock combat with friends, seeing myself in my minds eye at the center of that impenetrable shield wall. If you've seen the movie "300", then you know what I'm talking about. I tell ya, my imagination saw no bounds, and the adults on our street got used to seeing me marching around like the Spartans I'd seen in books or on TV. By the time we moved away from there I'd attracted a following of younger kids who loved to play along in my war games.

I actually organized a battle once, in the last summer we lived there. More about that later, and the weird family up the street, and their cool dog. The next post will probably be the last in this series. We'll see. I hope you're enjoyin' it all. I know thinkin' back on it all and retellin' it has been a huge blast for me. Anyway, you guys take care. Cheers.

Tagged and bagged.

Got tagged for a meme by Lin over at the Ranch/creek/gas well. After reading her post and checking it out, the idea intrigued me, so here goes. The objective is to answer these fourteen questions with pictures. No words, just pictures. See, pretty cool eh? Here goes...

First off, I gotta say this reminds me of that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. You know. Dig it...

1. What is your current relationship status?

2. What is your current mood?

3. What is your favorite band/singer?

4. What is your favorite movie?

5. What kind of pets do you have?

6. Where do you live?

7. Where do you work?

8. Who do you look like?

9. What do you drive?

10. What did you do on Saturday?

11. What did you do on Sunday?

12. What is your favourite network TV Show?

13. Describe Yourself.

14. What is your favorite candy?

There you go. Try your hand. Consider yourself tagged... Or not. It's up to you.

The Woods, Part Two.

Once again, here's the setting. You can click on this picture to enlarge it. Check out all those woods. There were even more trees there in the early 1970s. Most of the upper left quarter of this picture was nothing but open field and tall trees back then. The bulldozers started clearing it for those houses in the last summer we were there, in about 1973. We didn't react well to that.

It's amazing what sand and rocks will do to the engine of a dozer that's been unwisely left out in the open over night when the kids are pissed off that you're cutting down their playground. Can't be good when you pour it in the gas tank and down the muffler. We'll talk.

Anyway, as I said before, my passion in the years between my 9th and 12th years was in these woods. It was paradise to me then, and it still lives and breathes in my memory today. It was my preferred world. there was peace and solitude out there, preferred to the world of my parents, teachers, and most other people. I had very few friends there, but that was normal for me.

Wherever we were, I'd have one or maybe, rarely, two. I'd learned not to get close from having to leave too many behind, following Dad around the world. I'd also learned not to trust other people too easily. There were always other kids around, and we all played and hung out, but they weren't really close friends.

I had two close friends in Missouri... Mike Hinkley and Greg Rogers. Mike and I hooked up almost from day one. I was walkin' out off the dead end road at the end of our street towards the woods and met him comin' the other way. We hit it off somehow and next thing you know we were runnin' buddies.

His dad had been a paratrooper in the World War Two and was really cool, but was never there. In the fall he'd take Mike out hunting squirrels and they'd always come back with cool stories to tell. I was VERY jealous of that, but was never invited. He'd show me the dead critters, pullin' them out of the freezer in their basement (in plastic bags), and I'd just look on with wonder. My dad played golf and wasn't into hunting, or guns, or the woods, so there was less than no chance of he and I having this sort of bonding experience. There'll be more on my lame adolescent hunting attempts later. Sad. Very sad.

His folks were older than mine and for whatever reason they didn't have much to do with his or his older sisters friends. For instance, he wasn't allowed to invite anyone to birthday party's or anything like that. That fact was the cause of our eventual bust up. After a year or so of us being tight, runnin' the woods together and sharing a lot of good times, everything hit the shit can. It was totally surprising, and ended up having nothing to do with us. It was our mothers.

When Mike didn't invite me to his birthday party (remember, no one got invited... there really wasn't one), my mom decided to take Mike off my birthday party list. When Mike found out about that he was destroyed. I was in the woods with all the other guys, tellin' them about the upcoming party and had to tell mike he wasn't invited. He tried to explain why I hadn't been able to come to his and burst into tears, running home. When his mom found out about that she went ballistic.

His mom was this little Italian woman, or maybe she was German. Hell, I can't remember. His dad traveled a lot in his job and wasn't there much of the time. Anyway, the story I heard later was that she used to beat Mike up on a regular basis. She supposedly beat him so badly once that his older sister called the cops on her. I had no idea any of that was going on at the time. I just knew that his mom was someone to avoid, and when we hung out it was always ether at my house or in the woods, unless his dad was home. Than everything was cool.

I was still out on the edge of the woods when his mom came stompin' out to where we were and told me to tell my mother where she could stick the birthday party. She tried to explain again why Mike hadn't had a party, but of course I was just dumbfounded, shaking my head and sayin' "It wasn't my decision!" I went home to tell mom and next thing I knew Mike and I were officially hating one another and our mom's were trading barbs. Thankfully our dad's never got into it.

Anyway, Mike and I didn't hang out together again for a long time after that. One day, about a year later we ran into one another on the edge of the woods and hit it off again. Next thing you knew my folks were shocked to see us runnin' up the stairs to my room and playin' just like before. It's cool how kids can forget and forgive like that. Too bad more grownups can't do it.

When Mike and I had our falling out I started hangin' out more with Greg Rogers. He and I shared many interests in common, but were also very different. He was adopted, and there was a weird vibe in his family. Mom told me once she'd heard that his mom was the one that really wanted a kid. His dad was much older and notoriously unfriendly and distant. You could see it when you went over there to play. Later, I got a good look at the family dynamic in action. Scared the piss out of me.

We both loved to play soldier, or Indian, and to shoot bows and arrows. We both spent most of our time out of school in the woods. And we were both outside the larger social circle of the neighborhood. As a result we were both seen by the others as misfits. While many of the other kids were busy becoming teenagers, beginning to try to figure out the opposite sex and getting good at competitive sports and all that stuff, he and I were too busy playing in the woods, pretending to be someone else, somewhere else, learning how too shoot a bow.

As the other kids, including Mike Hinkley, started to awaken to more adult stuff, Greg and I were in the creek on our hands and knees gigging frogs and catching crawdads, finding our way in the thick of the woods where earlier generations of kids had already staked out the trails, trees and clearings as forts, hideouts and playgrounds. Gregg and I would spend summer nights watching scary movies on TV and sleeping in his tent in their back yard (they didn't have any Hawthorn trees), or spending hours in the winter in our basements building shields and swords out of wood and having mock battles like gladiators.

I have no idea what became of Greg. I'd love to know, but I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out ugly. He had a really scary side to him. Every once and a while one of the older kids, one of the various neighborhood toughs, would fuck with him too much and he'd explode with anger. I saw him draw his bow once on a guy, crying with rage, pulling a razor sharp hunting arrow to his cheek within feet of the guy. He came very close to letting go of it, but he didn't. There were other times too. Once, as we walked out of the woods a group of older kids began threatening us.

They were standing at the edge of the woods, behind the hulk of a huge tree that had fallen down and had mostly rotted and fallen apart. It was a favorite fort or arrow target. One of the kids had a new BB gun, the kind that looks just like a Winchester and was cocked with the lever action, just like the real thing. It was cool as hell. State of the art then. I loved it and wanted one, but my mom vetoed any idea of me having a BB gun.

My mom and dad were always in a snit over whether or not to give me dangerous toys. Mom always opted for caution, but dad always said "Oh what the hell, let him have fun!" He was on my side when it came to that and I never really knew it. Jesus, he'd played with REAL guns when he was my age, so what the hell. He would buy me stuff like Lawn Darts, and quivers full of arrows, including Fred Bear hunting arrows with razor sharp broad heads on them, but because of mom, a BB gun was off limits. You explain that to me. Where guns were concerned, I had to make due with an old air rifle designed to shoot a cork out of the end on a string. We'd tear off the cork, stick the end of the barrel in the dirt, cock it and shoot dirt clods at one another. We wore that thing out!

Anyway, it was summer and we were wearing shorts. Next thing you know I felt the BB hitting my ass and I whirled around to hear their laughter. Again, Greg went nuts and came close to letting an arrow loose in their direction, but I told him not to worry about it and calmed him down. I thought later that I should have sunk an arrow into that log in front of them or just jump the kid and beat his ass with his own gun, but they were bigger, older kids, and I'd learned a long time earlier to let things slide in situations like that and avoid a fight. I guess it came from a sense of always being outnumbered by older kids wherever we lived. By this time in my life it was instinctive to just take it.

I got a good, shocking glimpse of why Greg was so angry one day when I was over at his house checking out his new portable reel-to-reel tape recorder. It was the first such thing I'd ever seen and we both thought it was cool as hell. We were busy recording our voices and playing them back when Greg's dad yelled to him from another part of the house. We were having a hell of a time, but Greg started to respond to his dad, but apparently he didn't move fast enough. As he was carefully putting the recorder away his father ran into the room yelling, knocking him down, kicking and stomping on him.

I stood back in shock, never having seen anything like that before, and slowly slinked out of the room. As I left the room and walked past the kitchen towards the front door I saw Greg's mom standing with her back to me, doing the dishes in the sink. We could easily hear what was going on in the other room, so I assumed then that she didn't want to hear it. I said something like "I guess I should leave", went out the front door and walked home. Later Greg tried to laugh it all off, making jokes about how his dad had given him a "real wuppin' ". I laughed it off too, not really knowing what to say, but knew from then on what was up with Greg.

OK, it wasn't all weird and depressing. We had HUGE fun in those woods. I'll relate some of that next. We'll talk. Cheers.

This reenacting stuff could get real dramatic. Real REAL, I guess.

I found this recently on the web. The headline was, "The U.S. Civil War continues to kill".

Sam White, a Virginia based collector of Civil War munitions, died recently while cleaning up a nine inch, 75 pound, cannon ball. White had previously restored or examined over 1,500 of these shells. But the one that killed him was different. It was fired from a ship board gun, and was designed to be more waterproof than shells used by land based artillery. This kept the fuse, and black powder explosive charge, dry and viable after 150 years. Mister White was using metal tools to clean up the shell, which apparently set off the fuse, and detonated the shell more than 150 years after it was fired off the Virginia coast.

There are still thousands of Civil War era shells buried, or sitting on the bottom off the coast. But a far more dangerous threat are unexploded munitions from more recent wars, especially the two World Wars. Over a thousand bombs, hand grenades, mines and shells from these conflicts are uncovered each year in Europe alone. Still more are unearthed in Asia and North Africa. People continue to die from the World Wars, and will for decades to come.

I asked my buddy Dave Waters about this. He's a Civil War reenactor, and as you can see from this picture, he has a Civil War cannon ball, with the fuse in tact. That's not him in the picture. That's Kevin Wilson (no relation), who's also stuck in the 19th century. Not really, but you'd think it if you ever went to a Civil War museum with these guys.

Dave said that what kills folks, and it happens now and then, is the hydrogen gas that builds up in the cannon ball from the break down and corrosion of the old black powder in the old bombs. It's not the fuse or the old powder. It's the gas, set off by collectors using tools to open these old munitions, setting off sparks that ignite them. I take him at his word. he knows his shit.

So, don't go diggin' and chippin' away at old shells. You heard it here. later.

Friday stuff.

Denise and I had dinner here in Killeen with my mom and my cousin Trish last night. We met them at the Olive Garden, and surprisingly found we didn't have to wait for a table even though it seemed crowded. Mom hadn't been there in a while, so she was lookin' forward to it. She and Trish had the Eggplant Parmesan, Denise had the Stuffed Chicken Marsala and I went with the old standby, Spaghetti with meatballs.

Drinks all around... A big Margarita for mom, and glass of house wine for Denise and a tall chilled Shiner for me. Trish just went with tea. They probably though she was driving or something. After dinner we said our goodbys to mom and Trish got in our car. She spent last night at my place here in Killeen and then Denise took her to the Killeen Airport this morning. She's flying back up to Michigan as we speak. She's a sweetie and we'll miss having her here.

She and mom had a great time for the last two weeks, sittin' around and shopping and pullin' weeds in the back garden. I know mom will miss having her around. She'll probably be thrown back into some emotions now that she's alone in the house again. I'll make sure and try to take up some of that slack when I can.

My sister got a job in Oklahoma the other day and now is in a panic to get herself moved up there. She's gonna give me a bunch of stuff, including some huge old speakers from the late 1970s. I'll have to get one of them fixed, but they really blast the tunes when you crank 'em. Could be cool. Probably get me busted on a noise ordinance violation.

Her relationships with mom and I have been strained since dad died, with her perpetrating lots of childish melodrama, throwing fits and going into a panic when mom threatened to cut her off. Maybe in a decade or so she'll be able to look back on this and see that by cutting her off, mom got her off her ass and up to Oklahoma so she could have a normal life. I doubt it though. She has a seemingly endless capacity for self delusion and projection. I'll be glad she's gone, and I'll be praying for her to succeed.

Thinkin' about where I'll take mom to eat tonight. Maybe somewhere we haven't been in a while. I'll tell ya where we went later. It's all still up in the air. Denise and I are planning to try to get some yard work done this afternoon and then maybe go swimming at the colleges fitness center afterwords. She's been goin' out there to swim in the evenings, while I teach, for about two weeks now. We're both determined to lose weight. Well, I'm determined to eat and drink as much as I can handle and work out so as not to become a complete elephant seal. We'll see how it works out.

I also got a call from Holly yesterday, sayin' she was in town and we should get together. We'll all go out to eat, maybe BJs, on Saturday. She's a sweetie. It should be fun.

You guys have a great weekend and we'll get back into "The Woods" on Monday. I'm enjoyin' the hell out of writing that stuff. Memories are flooding back, with things seepin' back into my mind that I haven't thought about in 35 years. I think this sort of reawakening is the best, or near best thing about bloggin' about your past.

Anyway, cheers guys. we'll talk later.

The Woods - Part One.

Reading Pat's recent posts about Florida and Mushy's hunting posts from a while back got me thinking about my experiences in the woods, both in my childhood and later. I started writing this stuff down about a month ago and put it away in favor of other, more immediate things. Dinners with Mom, concerts and such. I started working on it again a few days ago and stuff started flowing out of me. It's interesting how memories get flushed out, or washed up in the eddies as we read through other peoples life stories and find familiar themes. Anyway, it looks now like it's gonna turn into a series of posts. No tellin' how many I'll have in me, but it'll fill up a good bit of space, so brace yourself. Some of it will be familiar to you if you've been reading my stuff for a while.

I can't really remember the first time I realized I LOVED bein' in the woods. It may have been in England, where there were trees all long the inside of the wall surrounding the housing area that separated us from the Brits. There were deeper woods on the other side of the wall but we weren't supposed to go out there. Part of it included a huge cemetery that fascinated the romantic teenage minds of folks like my older sister and her friends. Our parents would always have a cow if they found out we ventured out there, which made it that much more fun to do, especially for the older kids. I generally stuck to the inner thicket, being a bit afraid of what was out there. It's kind of a theme in my story, but that's for another post.

We moved to England, as many of you may already know, in 1967, for a three year tour of duty. I was the new kid again and it took a while for that to wear off. Just about the time we got ready to leave there I started to have friends and got into lots of fun in those trees. Back there we were hidden somewhat from the prying eyes of the adult world. As miserable as I was for the first two years living there in Carpenders Park, if we'd stayed there for a fourth year instead of moving back to the states I might have learned how to smoke a cigarette, or kiss a girl. Hell, one of those girls was determined. If we'd stayed there for a few more years I might have lost my virginity at about the age of 11!

I tell ya, a few of those girls were wild. I wonder where they are now, and why it was that they were so determined to get things goin' at such a young age. You hear, after all, about girls who've been abused actiong out in promiscuous way. Anyway, they'd grab a few of us guys and lead us into the woods and insist we show them our junk. We didn't need much prompting. We called it our "Strip Club". They weren't as prone to want to show us their stuff but one girl did... In the middle of our third grade class! She turned around to us when our teachers back was turned, as three of us boys leaned over our desks. She grinned and lifted up her dress and there was my very first cooter, clean as a whistle. She didn't have any panties on. Shit we were all only about 9 or 10! Does that make me a perv? Hilarious memories. It astounds me to think back on all that now, knowing what a huge friggin' looser I was for about the next 35 years.

Anyway, We moved from England to Missouri in about 1970. The girls there kept their dresses down and didn't display any interest in me. I was the new kid again, who nobody knew or wanted to have much to do with. My instincts, honed through many years of moving around, led me deep into the woods, into myself.

The woods there were really woods, with endless tracts of solitude shielding me from the nervousness of the new social setting. There were critters to hunt out there, or critters I dreamed about hunting. that's really where my love for the woods began.

Dad got a job running a communications group at Richards-Gebaur Air Force base, working in a huge concrete block building with one door and no windows. It was all very hush, hush. His work took up most of his time, leaving my ass mostly alone to explore the wilderness around the neighborhood.



The street we lived on was called, lyrically, Southern Hills Drive. I found a picture of it on Google Earth the other day, and amazingly enough, it looks like it hasn't changed much. I think our house was the sixth or seventh one over from the bottom right. It was a big white house, like a plantation house from the front, with tall, square wooden columns. It was a split level, with a basement and den downstairs and living quarters and kitchen upstairs. When you walked in the door you were on a landing between floors and you'd ether walk up stares to the living quarters or down to the den.

The back yard was huge, with 12 Hawthorn trees spread out in it, leaving nasty little land mines for us kids to find when we gambled and went bare footed in the summer. The trees would blossom in the spring and by the summer the berries would be heavy on the limbs, attracting all sorts of wildlife. This also left the ground littered with broken off branches with those long needles on them. Damn those things hurt. I still have scars.

Those blossoms are the state flower, or something, and there was no cutting the trees down. It was the only sore point (literally) about the whole place. You couldn't walk around bare footed in the summer without worrying about getting impaled. HUGE friggin' things they were. Hurt like hell! Have I said that enough?

As you can see, the neighborhood was ringed with woods and there was a shallow creek running just beyond everyones back yard. you can see it, running like a crease just beyond the mowed yards in the picture above. Beyond the creek was a huge wooded thicket that led up to a main road and civilization. There was a cool TG&Y up there that was like a toy paradise to us then. It had just about everything a kid needed.

Further up from the road was my elementary school, where I started the 4th grade. Down at the end of our street was a dead end that led to even more woods and taller trees. if you look back at the picture, the dead end was to the left of about the thirteenth house from the right. Everything to the left of that was built after we left. They were clearin' the land for those houses when we left to go back to Texas. I'll post somethin' about that drama later.

There were trails through all those woods, and stories about everything from monster deer that guys claimed to have run up on, to a rape that supposedly happened out there, committed by two glue sniffing brothers from a family that lived up the road. Their house was both scary and fascinating, and I'll post about them later too. There's a lot to tell, and I think I might as well tell it. I think you'll enjoy it.

So, this is enough to get started. we'll talk again in a few. cheers.

I just thought you might wanna see how well I filled out that official garb.

Looking regal? A touch of class, and maybe a little judicious arrogance. A little Horace Rumpole, of the Old Baily, maybe mixed with the mean-assed headmaster from The Wall.



Oh, a thought. Perhaps a deep thought. Perhaps a series of deepish thoughts, all squiggled up and mysterious, looking like one nasty troubling conundrum, confusing the established order of things. Out damned thought! Be gone! Disturb NOT the quiet confidence of the ivory tower dweller!



Aaaaa. There it is. The nasty disquieting thought is gone. Confidence is back, shining like a light from above.



And, have I said that I DO look good in this outfit. It's all light and silky soft...



And feels SUPER dead sexy when you've got nothing on underneath. Wooohoooo!

Graduation, 2008.

I went to Central Texas Colleges graduation ceremony last Friday morning. I've never attended the big shindig over at the Bell County Expo center, though I've attended several here on base. The secretaries asked me if I wanted to attend and I asked them who else from the base was going. It's mostly main campus folks that go, so I' never put much stock in it. We don't get along with the main campus folks, so why hang out with them? Anyway, I found out that a few of my buds were plannin' on bein' there, so I said what the hell. I went to the main campus book store and got fitted out for the rented monkey suit and waited for the word.

When the time came, it turned out to be a lot of fun. My buddy David Hubble (left), English prof, Vietnam vet, former artillery officer, was the first familiar face I hooked up with. I've known him for about 10 or 15 years now, and he's always been a strait shooter. He's workin' on an online masters in History, just for the hell of it. Says he wants to learn how to lie professionally.

I tell him that ultimately the best part about it is bein' able to decide which version of History has official approval. But really, the best thing about it is bein' able to tell the truth, as you see it, and set the record strait on a few things. I know I get a HUGE kick out of correcting a lot of the stupid depressing shit that my own old profs put out in the '70s. Knowing him, I know he'll have a huge time doin' it too.

Another buddy of mine showed up and I helped him into his brand spankin' new PhD attire. This is Jack Isbell (left, with shit eatin' grin). He teaches Philosophy and religion, and is a former army Chaplin. He finished his "Fudd" (as we call it) about a year ago but has never put the robe on before. Like Dave, Jack worked on his degree online, so he didn't get to do the walk when they conferred it on him.

I joked with him, tellin' him that black was so slimming. He's got a bum knee and let himself pork up in the last decade or so. Recently he's been loosing a lot of weight, so I'm really very proud of him. He's a good friend. He's one of the guys that showed up unexpectedly at dad's viewing a few months ago and he's always asking how my mom is doing. That means a lot to me. He's a good buddy, and an example of the kind of guy you get to know over here on the base. Another easy goin' (mostly) veteran who gets a kick out of serving the soldiers, and forcing a little knowledge into their heads.

You may remember me doin' a post about this guy a while back. His name is Arthur Trujillo (left). here he is, as people would always recognise him, carrying a cup of strong coffee. He's another great guy. Teaches Government and Business.

As you can read in that old post, he had a very interesting time in Vietnam,, and he's a popular teacher on base now. Like the rest of us, I think Arturo gets a huge charge out of serving soldiers. he also serves on the local school board and is active in lots of civic groups. He's tried to get me to attend some civic meetings now and then, but you know that shit happens WAY too friggin' early in the mornin' on a weekend. Not my cup of tea.

At one point I looked around and there was my wowman. She works on the main campus and had to be there to escort the honors students up to meet the Dean and the other VIPs before the ceremony.

She went out and got that suit just for this occasion. Nice eh? And don't I look smashing in that posh frock? Black is SO slimming, isn't it?

By the way, that purple tassel on the hat is not the one that came with the outfit. It's not my tassel from my Masters Degree ceremony ether. I put that thing on my rear view mirror in my old Trans Am and it turned ratty and faded in the sun.

That's Dad's tassel from 1977, when he got his Masters from TCU. I found it in the bag of stuff Mom gave me when he died a while back. I figured it was an appropriate tribute. I watched my dad, sitting at the dinner table, studying for his Masters while I was in high school. Seeing him get one is what made me think it was within the realm of possibility for me to get one. In a big way, I'm where I am today because of that. I owe him a lot. Enough said.

Like a lot of the people who were graduating that Friday, I was the child of a service family. My father had taken 25 years or so to get his Bachelors Degree, a little bit at a time, here and there. I think he started in 1939 at Temple College and finished at the University of Nebraska in about 1964 or '65.

At one point the Dean asked everyone in the graduating class who was in the service to stand up, and most of the graduating class stood up. I tell ya, it chokes me up to think of all these folks, serving their country and serving their families so well, giving such a HUGE example to their kids, ensuring that their kids have a glimpse of the future that my dad gave me. I always well up with tears when I go to these things and think back on all of that. It means a lot to me, but I'm just a big softy.

By the way, make note of the flag on the left up there over the stage. Recognise it? I tell ya, Dave and Arturo did, each one sittin' on ether side of me. Arturo wasn't happy ether. It's the current Vietnamese national flag. Turns out, along with students from Korea, Kenya and... Some other friggin' place who's flag I don't recognise, we also had a graduate from Vietnam. Ain't it funny how some things turn around in the end? I bet ol' Ho is spinnin' in his smelly grave. Oh, wait. Naaa. They've got the old fucker under glass up in Hanoi, like Lenin. If he was spinnin' we'd a heard about it. Hell, nowadays they'd be sellin' tickets.

At one point the kid with the best grades in the graduating class was brought up and a local retired officer handed him his ticket to West Point. He's applied for and won a position there for this coming fall. There was a lot of applause in the hall for that. Good luck to him, and here's hopin' he succeeds at whatever he goes into.



I always see a few old students at these things too. This guy is one. His name is Juan Quinones. He's a career army non com and an Iraq War vet who's taken many of my classes. Now his wife is taking my Government class. He was in Iraq in 2004, and Cindy Sheehan's boy was in his unit. Supposedly she confronted him at the funeral, blaming him for her son's death. His wife tells me he suffers a great deal from PTSD. Still, he's continued his education and now he drives his wife, who herself is very ill, to and from the campus so she can take classes. He's a hell of a guy, and my hat is off to him. It's folks like this that make teaching on the base such a special privilege.

Anyway, it was fun. After the ceremony Denise and I took her boss and her boss' secretary to Salado and we all had lunch at the Stagecoach Inn. Then, before driving home to Kileen, I made a short stop at the local cigar store and picked up a few new stogies.

All in all, it was a good day. More on the killer black threads later. You'll die. Later. Cheers.