You Know You're From San Antonio When.....

Over the past six decades, I've lived in numerous places both overseas and in the United States, and each are unique in their own special way with 'special' ways to describe them.  While attending high school in Leadville, Colorado my stepfather and the other men that worked in the mine called it 'Deadville - the two mile high graveyard, where it snows 10 months of the year, rains the other two and has 20 minutes of summer.  Home to the whitest white people in the country."  There's a lot of truth in that statement. Leadville is two miles high in elevation (10,152 feet); it doesn't get a lot of sun and there certainly wasn't much in the way of entertainment when I lived there between 1965-1968.  I made a lot of good friends there, but I just didn't fair well with all the snow and cold temperatures.  I can remember standing along side of the highway waiting for the school bus to arrive and I'd be shaking like a dog crappin' peach pits on those cold mornings. Damn!!!

So, fast forward 34-years to the year 2002, where after living overseas for 12-years and in Maryland for 22-years, my wife and I were defiantly ready for warmer temperatures.  We made multiple trips to San Antonio to make sure this was going to be the place where we would plant roots and enjoy our golden years.  It has great weather, an international airport for when we want to take out of country trips, fantastic medical services with over 4,000 doctors, a low cost of living and the Mexican food is some of the best in the nation.  However, like any other city or town that we've lived in, San Antonio also has some phrases to describe what it's like living here. The weather can be described as:

- if it's over 100 degrees, Thanksgiving must be next week,
- you text, tweet and email all your friends every time it rains,
- you've seen bus patrons waiting in the shade of a telephone pole,
- you water the lawn using an eye dropper,
- you don't mind wearing flip-flops most of the year and have maybe one jacket in the closet,
- an inch of snow is a "once in a life time" experience,
- go to work in a jacket and come home in a t-shirt,
- practice tornado drills for no reason whatsoever,
- you consider cactus decorative lawn flora,
- 95 degrees in the middle of July is a chilly day, and
- driving in weather conditions that include rain, sleet or snow is just unimaginable.

 During rodeo season in March, it's very common for people to have at least one belt buckle that's bigger than their fist and wear cowboy boots, yet have no clue which end to feed a horse much less ride one.  San Antonio is the largest one horse town in the state with a small population of 2,194,927. We're not like those big, uppity, smug cities like Dallas and Houston.  Hell, we consider Austin to be almost as far away as Toronto, Canada.  But we certainly do our part for the national economy by spending a lot of money on cell phones, tattoos, junk cars, alcohol and tight fitting clothes.  There are many 3rd world countries whose budget is smaller than what we spend on a monthly basis. Yeah, that's right.  We may not be the brightest stars in the sky, but we damned sure ain't the cheapest either. Now, here's a fact I bet you didn't know.  This small hick town was voted the fattest city for three consecutive years and we wear that fact with pride, like a badge of honor.  Why McDonald's, KFC, Taco Bell and Wendy's open new stores here all the time.  Almost brings tear to my eyes.

Other discernible clues to determine if someone is from San Antonio:

- we think a health drink is a Margarita without salt;
- "pro-choice" is flour or corn tortillas,
- girls think wearing bows in their hair will eventually get them a husband,
- a strenuous workout is going to the nearest store and pick-up several tubs of Hagen Daas,
- a formal occasion is getting a glass for your bottle of beer,
- paying $8 for a 24 ounce beer at a ballgame is just outrageous - requires intervention by a priest,
- it costs $6 to park in a covered garage downtown and we think it's too much,
- we make popsicles from "Big Red" soda and cracklin' pig skins,
- the neighbors kids 6th birthday party includes a pinata and two kegs of Miller Lite,
- there's been constant road work on your street since 1978,
- when you're in another city, everyone seems too thin and too white,
- you know that bowl of 'pickles' on the restaurant table is actually jalapenos,
- we substitute blue jeans for dress slacks,
- you have more than 10 crosses in your house and car,
- when asked, "What's the best thing about San Antonio?"  You respond, "It ain't Houston!", and
- you tell your family doctor you've got "The Creepin' Crud" and they know exactly what you've got.

I mentioned earlier that San Antonio was the largest one horse town in Texas and according to the 2010 census, 59.4% of the population is Hispanic and most are Catholic.  This would explain why the news media frequently reports images of the Virgin Mary that were observed in tree stumps, bread dough, spilled paint and weathered walls. Gives me a warm and fuzzy knowing the Virgin Mary is fond of San Antonio as well.  I have met and personally know people that were born, raised, educated, married, had a family, retired and died in San Antonio, but never once giving a thought to venturing beyond the city limits.  Everything they need, want or desire is right here in town and anyone that lives outside the city limits or county line is either a foreigner, lost or a tourist. Their sphere of security and comfort is well established.  I call these people 'Dome Dwellers.'

 In the first six months of driving here, I discovered:


- every 3rd driver on the road has grey hair, owns a Cadillac and drives only in the 'passing lane',
- understand the dire consequences of parking under a tree at sunset where the grackles are roosting,
- using a turn signal is without a doubt a sign of weakness,
- tail gating/cutting people off will get you formally introduced to Smith & Wesson or Magnum,
- "Who gave you a license? Helen Keller or Stevie Wonder?" are battle cry's for slow pokes,
- having a college bumper sticker on the vehicle other than UT or Texas A&M is a kiss of death,
- foam dice hanging from the rear view mirror and rubber hula girls on the dash are still in style,
- stealing girlfriends and wives is OK, but keep your peter poppers off the car - got a new paint job,
- unless you're in a funeral procession, no more than 20 people in the cab of a truck at one time, and
- taking your children to school and church in the back of a live stock trailer is perfectly acceptable.

As a final gesture of humor for this blog, I present to you Colorful Texas Sayings:

Dishonest - He knows more ways to take your money than a room full of lawyers.
Dry           - So dry the catfish are carrying canteens and the birds are building their nests out of wire.
Advice      - Give me the bacon without all the sizzle.
Cheap       - She has short arms and long pockets.
Large        - He's big enough to hunt bear with a branch.
Honest      - If I say a hen dips snuff, you can look under her wing for the can.
Backward - He's so country he thinks a seven course meal is a possum and a six-pack.
Busy         - He's so busy you'd think he was twins.
Brave        - Brave as the 1st man that ever ate an oyster.
Mad          - She could start a fight in an empty house.
Timid        - He wouldn't bite a biscuit.
Crazy        - He's got a hole in his screen door.
Poor          - I ate so many armadillo's when I was young, I still roll into a ball when I hear a dog bark.
Rich          - So rich they can eat fried chicken all week.
Hot            - Hot as a $2 whore on the 4th of July.
Cold          - Cold as a cast-iron commode.
Sad            - She eats sorrow by the spoonful.
Small         - So skinny she shades herself under the clothes line.
Bad/Mean - She makes a hornet look cuddly.
Fast            - Fast as small town gossip.

What The Hell Was I Thinking?

From the time I was a yonker in the panhandle of Texas, I've always had a curiosity streak in me and luckily it hasn't caused me any bodily injury or trips to the ER yet - heavy emphasis on the word 'yet'.  There have been those occasions in my life to where I tossed caution to the wind and made some clearly bad choices without a hint of forethought or the consequences.  For example, in the summer of 1990, an old Navy friend and I took our families to the Sandcastle Water Park in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to spend the entire day.  Once we claimed our spot with ice chests, water jugs and towels, everyone bolted towards the multitude of water slides and the infamous Lazy River that circled the entire park.  It was hotter than three piles of cat crap on a tin roof and the humidity was thick enough to warrant needing gills to breath.  Geez was it muggy!

I was standing in line to get an inner tube for the Lazy River when I spotted a very tall tower that had three water slides coming out of it.  The slide in the middle was the tallest AND nobody was standing in line to get on it.  Hot damn!  This bad boy has my name written all over it! I informed my wife what my intentions were and she replied, "We'll pull your life less body out of the water if you survive."  Oh joy, oh rapture, how thoughtful. This water slide is called the Express and it's 60' tall.  A standard three story residential building is about 30' tall, so this water slide is 6 stories tall.

By the time I climbed countless stairs to get to the platform, I had to catch my breath for a minute because the air was a little thin up there.  The teenage girl that was responsible for this slide was sitting in a lawn chair listening to her radio, chewing gum and reading what appeared to be the book War and Peace...damn, talk about a large book.  I asked her how many other people had been on the slide that day and she replied "You're the first one today."  "What time did the park open?" I asked, to which she said "three hours ago."  OK, not a lot of interest for this particular slide...this should've been my first clue. While receiving instructions to cross my legs and fold both arms across my chest for a safe ride(??), I peeked over the side and noticed how small the people on the ground had become.  Where did all these midgets come from?  Should I have logged a flight plan with the FAA before getting on this?  Does my life insurance cover this kind entertainment and stupidity?

Just as I was about to slide my big butt over the edge, I thought to myself "This has GOT to be the dumbest damn thing I've done in the past 30 minutes.  What the Hell was I thinking?"  And then, Zoom!  I was off like a pair of dirty underwear!  I free fell for approximately 10-12' in which my chubby butt never made contact with the slide and when it did, I was greeted with flying water stinging the bottoms of both feet and my swim suit beginning to ride up my waist.  By the time I got to the bottom, my foot stung as though I'd been zapped by a hundred bee's and I was certain that I had received a 20 gallon enema!  I did not walk or run to the toilet. I waddled like a duck while ensuring the cheeks of my butt were clamped shut tighter than a camels ass in a sand storm, because I had one helluva Atomic wedgie!  My swim suit reminded me of a cheap hotel -- no ball room!!!

Once I reached the dressing room, I immediately hawked an empty toilet stall and for the next 60 seconds it resembled air strikes at a bombing range.  Not only I was able to clear the entire dressing room of customers within a matter of seconds, but the maintenance crew was sorely pissed because the explosions caused the bolts from the toilet to penetrate the stall door and become wedged in the drywall.  Instead of getting a standing ovation for such an athletic feat in such a small space, I was called names that could only be found in biology books.  They almost hurt my feelings....not!!!!

I have four male cousins on my father's side of the family that I spent a great deal of time with in the summer during my youth and what one of us had not thought of, the others had already done.  One time we had this hair brained idea of taking the hood from an old, rusted out pick-up truck and using it for a boat.  Duh...double duh!!! Not one of us had a clue as to how we were going to transport said 'boat', because none of us had a drivers license, much less a vehicle, and the largest body of water bigger than a horse tank or stock pond was 20 miles away.  It's no big secret that we were logically challenged, but that was just a minor set back - not enough from keeping the imaginations of four young guys from working over time. On the northwest side of town there was a very steep country road that was not paved, but it had an ample supply of rocks and red clay dirt clods.  Every kid in town knew it as Clay Hill and it had claimed many bicycles and young riders that weren't up to the challenge of riding it all the way from the top to the bottom. Oh yeah, we're gonna do this.  What could possibly go wrong?

 One summer while sitting under a shade tree to escape the 100 + degree heat, one of us came up with the brilliant idea of building a cart and having a goat pull us around the neighborhood.  Wah-lah!  The backyard automotive industry was born and construction of the cart was put into action.  The necessary materials for this impending master piece consisted of two re-barb poles from a busted piece of concrete to be nailed on two 2x4's for axles, various nails and screws, a long piece of cotton rope for steering, four wheels that we helped ourselves to from a neighbors red wagon and a couple of large cardboard boxes from the grocery store that had held cases of toilet paper. And as for brakes, that's what tennis shoes were made for. It took some time to build this car and we had only one minor set back --- couldn't find a goat, pig or any animal for that matter big enough to pull it.

Alright, alright, alright!  It's time to give our beauty a test run down Clay Hill.  We attached the rope steering wheel to the only bicycle we had that would work and proceeded to make our journey to the top of the hill.  Now, comes the difficult part.  Who's going to make the first test run?  Not me, I'm the youngest of the bunch and I'm not takin' an ass whoopin' if it gets busted up.  One of the other boys jumped in and the rest of us gave him a mighty push.  He was doing well until about half way down the hill when all of a sudden the cardboard came flying off and that's when my cousin began to really pick up a lot of speed.  After a few seconds of bobbing and weaving on the rocky road, the cart hit a large rock and became airborne with my cousin flying in one direction and the cart crashing into multiple pieces into the side of a small cliff.  Ah yes, Moe, Larry, Curly and Shimp have just learned what aerodynamics and drag means to even the simplest of minds.  And did I happen to mention this cart didn't have any brakes?  Don't have a cart?  No problem - we've still got the bicycle!

Remember, this is back in the day when kids didn't wear bicycle helmets, elbow and knee pads, and take bicycle safety classes in school.  You learned how to ride a bike by busting your butt multiple times and getting scrapes on the hands and knees, but that's how it was done back then.  With the help of red macuracomb antiseptic, band-aids and a little dirt we managed to survive.  Ever get your pant legs caught between the chain guard and the chain? Hurts like a bitch!  It will peel the flesh.

Ok cowboy, time to saddle up and ride.  My cousins felt it was in my best interest to be the first one to take the bicycle ride, so that I could feel first hand the sheer exuberance of racing down hill at a high rate of speed with the wind blowing through my hair.  First of all, I had a flat top haircut at the time so the wind blowing through my hair was pure bull.  And second, the ONLY reason they wanted me to go first was because if the fat kid survives', then it'll be safe enough for them.  Wind blowing through my hair...what a crock of crap.  Ya' gotta love family.  Besides, the bike was just like the cart -- no freakin' brakes!

 As I was straddling the bicycle, my cousins were giving me words of encouragement while at the same time backing away from me...far away.  Note to self: Jim, you're such a dumb ass.  One deep breath, a second deep breath and blast off!!!  Down this monstrous hill I go, peddling faster than I thought humanly possible and gaining speed all the way.  I was just beginning to enjoy this new found freedom and adventure when all of a sudden I hit a big rut in the road and was shot over the handle bars into the side of the road where I landed on a large pile of dirt covered in rocks and cactus.  It wasn't one of my most gracious or stellar moves I must admit, but that was the first time I ever did a complete flip in the air without the assistance from anyone.  Fat boys can't do flips...just sayin'.  Much to my amazement I actually made it further down the hill than my cousin did in the cart and the only damage I initially observed was a few needles from the cactus in my arms and pant legs.  Then I looked at the bicycle...it wasn't a pretty sight.  Somebody is gonna have a knot snapped in their ass that it'll take a dozen Boy Scouts to untie.

Wait a minute, wait a minute.  Why not take the wheels from the shattered cart, bicycle frame and the one good wheel and attach all of it to that old rusted truck hood back we wanted to make into a boat?  We were certain that grandmother would give us one of her bed sheets to use as a sail and besides, the wind always blows hard in the panhandle.  We loved it when a plan came together.  Why, we would get our picture in the paper and actually charge money for rides from kids in the neighborhood.
Ah, just for the record, our infamous 'land sailing' idea never got any further than our imaginations.

Ya' Might Be A Dome Dweller If.....

Back in early November of 2015, I wrote a blog on my definitions of the four basic categories in which I classify people as - Doers, Followers, Dome Dwellers and Those People.  Since then, I've become a certified, bonafide 'Voting Judge' (that ought to give you nightmares).  And this new part-time job allows me even more opportunity to be with the general public and to observe their habits, however strange or deranged they may be.  I've always been a people watcher and I inherited this trait from my Indian mother, who would rather sit and watch people, because they are always so entertaining. 

Therefore, without further delay, here is my updated list on ways to determine if a person fits the category of 'Ya' Might Be A Dome Dweller If'.....

• The cake to celebrate your first wedding anniversary is made by Sara Lee.
• You proposed to your wife over a chili dog and Slurpee.
• Your rehearsal dinner was at Hooter's.
• The music played at your daughters wedding is performed on a banjo and juice harp.
• Family nicknames are derived from previous romantic relationships with farm animals.
• Deciding who gets the last piece of pie resembles arm wresting and kick boxing events.
• The wine's of choice for Aunt Ethel's wake include 4 Roses, Muscatel, Bally High, Annie Green Springs and Mad Dog 2020.
• Your grandfather always "finger tastes" multiple jars of sweet pickles and mayonnaise in the grocery store before placing the jars back on the shelf for purchase.
• The county Hazmat crews are regular visitors to your home.
• The CEO of Dollar General sends you a personal thank-you card every year for being such a valuable customer.
• You have four first names.
• You use the dryer as an oven.
• You play horse shoes with toilet seats.
• You go to Goodwill to meet women.
• You've ever clogged your vacuum cleaner with a small animal.
• You've ever made a golf bag out of PVC pipe.
• One of your sister's nicknames is Big Foot.
• Your daddy sits on the front porch in his underwear waving to everybody that drives by.
• Your dog's name is Coors.
• You can smoke a cigarette while taking a shower and never get it wet.
• Your neighbor dials 9-1-1 every time you use the bar-b-que grill.
• Four dogs wind up on the windshield when you slam on the brakes.
• Your life's ambition is to drive the feed truck at the local sale barn on auction days.
• Nobody will sit next to you at a sporting event.
• Your wife has been involved in a fist fight at a high school sporting event.
• Your wife has ever worn a tube top to a wedding or funeral.
• Opening the hood of your car requires a crow bar and a lot of luck.
• Your wife has an Elvis jello mold in her pantry.
• Three of the four shelves of your refrigerator are devoted for beer.
• Your stereo speakers used to belong to the Drive-In Theater.
• Taking your wife on a cruise means driving around the Dairy Queen.
• Anything outside the Lower 48 is "overseas".

Facebook - Friend, Foe or Nusiance?

It was about the middle of October last year when I was formally introduced to the glamorous world of the social media by way of Facebook.  Since that time, I have discovered that it's a magnificent place to observe people that I've never met, nor will I ever meet, engage in verbal combat to the point of questioning each others heritage, parentage and romantic relationships of their parents with four legged animals.  Being the curios type, I did a little research on this subject and here is what I found:

'The website for Facebook was launched February 4th, 2004 by Mark Zuckerberg with his Harvard College roommates Eduardo Saverin, Andrew McCollum, Dustin Moskovitz and Chris Hughes.  Since 2006, anyone who is at least 13 years old can become a registered user and as of August 2015, Facebook has over 1.59 billion monthly users.'  Impressive, very impressive indeed.
 
And over the past six months, in my uneducated and humble opinion, Facebook simply put is the electronic version of the coffee groups that meet at McDonald's every morning; beauty and/or barber shop gossip, the liars at the domino and pool halls, church socials, PTA meetings and any place else that enables people to share their opinion.  It's the fastest and most prolific method available of getting the word or idea out to the world on what a person knows, what they think they know, what they've read or been told, and their opinion on any topic or subject irregardless of any personal knowledge or training.

“People's assumptions are their windows of the world. Scrub them off every once in a while, or the light won't come in.” ― Isaac Asimov

“If you're going to say what you want to say, you're going to hear what you don't want to hear.”
― Roberto Bolaño, The Insufferable Gaucho  

"We must respect the other fellow's opinion, but only in the sense and to the extent that we respect his theory that his wife is beautiful and his children smart." - H. L. Mencken 

There's a direct correlation between what appears on Facebook and the latest, greatest hot story the news media is pounding into oblivion for the umpteenth time.  Remember, there are 1.59 billion people on Facebook every month, with each and everyone of them having an opinion.  And we've all heard the old definitions about opinions and they're either (a) like an asshole - everybody has one and most of them stink or (b), like military medals - most people get one whether they want it or not and they're usually not deserved.

I for one thoroughly enjoy reading the comments and opinions people make on the various topics.  Most of the time I don't participate, because either I don't have any knowledge on the subject or I have no desire to enter into a battle of wits with a person who is totally unarmed.  However, there have been a couple of instances thus far in which I just couldn't leave well enough alone and got right in the middle of a heated discussion, and I did not take any prisoners.  Two of the confrontations pertained to women breast feeding in public and nudity - real or assumed.

A color picture was posted of a young woman, looking to be in her mid-20's, breast feeding her adorable baby in what appeared to be a restaurant.  Furthermore, there was nothing in this picture to help determine if the picture was taken in Europe, where breast feeding and nudity isn't frowned upon, or if it was taken in the United States a more puritan life style.  Anyway, the majority of the responses - 171 of them - were by females who were literally ripping this mother to shreds.  A few of them did have valid input, such as suggesting the mother lay a table napkin or scarf over the baby while it was nursing, but the rest of them showed no mercy whatsoever and brought out their claws.  I personally did not think the picture was offensive nor do I have an issue with a mother breast feeding her child in public....so long as the child being feed isn't big enough to have a drivers license or needs a shave every morning.

After watching this barrage of insults and opinions, I thought "What the Hell.  Let's see if I can't whip this bunch of jokers into a frenzy."  I don't recall my exact verbiage, but it was basically my saying I was more focused on that sweet baby and not the mother's breast.  By the time a person gets to be my age and hasn't seen a woman's breast is either Amish, Hindu or has lived in a cave their entire life.

Holy sweet Mother Mary and Joseph!  The heavens opened wide, the war drums began beating, the natives were chanting and angry women came out of the wood work like cockroaches.  They got all over my big butt like a bad case of the hives. This one older woman told me I "needed to get a life" and I responded to this individual of questionable intelligence and integrity that I already have a life thank-you very much and was enjoying it immensely.  She reminds me of the kind of person that falls madly in love with every mirror she comes in contact with and the house of mirrors at the local carnival really trip her switch!

I certainly enjoyed my brief few moments of bantering with the first woman, but the following day I got zapped again by another woman for my comments about breast feeding in public.  This dainty, twinkle toed little Smurf appeared to be in her mid-30's and proceeded to outline all my faults of being a man; I was naive to think that people 'bought my ridiculous remark' about focusing on the baby nursing and not the woman's breast, all men have no respect for women and that I needed to snap into reality.  Oh...Oh...Oh...Beat me with locks, chains and rubber hoses!  Force me to ride a sucker-rod on a Texas windmill during a tornado as just punishment for being so ignorant about the worldly ways of this all encompassing woman....show time!

My response to this poor, lonely, deprived woman was and I quote, "I stand by my original statement.  I am now and have always been an advocate for children, infants in particular.  It's only when these sweet angels from heaven grow into adulthood do they unwittingly acquire the destructive traits of prejudice, arrogance, consistently being ill informed and having a narrow mind.  With your obsession regarding the size of the mother's breast and how far she had it out of her blouse to feed the baby, tends to suggest you may have smaller breasts than the mother and feel threatened.  I certainly hope my assessment of this situation is incorrect.  Wham-O!!  Whose your Daddy now snake eater? Go mama, go mama, go mama!  This is more fun than fartin' BB's at a church social!          

A very dear and sweet cousin of mine posted the following: If you had to pay a fee to be on Facebook, what would your decision be?  Of the few responses I saw, the vast majority of them said 'No' they wouldn't pay anything.  I was rather surprised by the answers; however, I do know that most parents feel they must stay on Facebook or any other social media to stay abreast of what their children and grandchildren are doing.  I'm fairly confident that something else will come along to replace Facebook just as it has replaced/reduced email interactions.  However, until such time when the social media has changed to something else, I still have ample opportunity to stir the pot with the unsuspecting.  So much material....so little time.                  

You Don't Look Like A Cat

I have a neighbor that lives three houses down the street from me and this woman, who I've nicked named Nurse Ratchet from the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, has this undying need to feed every feral cat she comes in contact with.  I'm not the only person in the neighborhood whose called her to task about feeding so many stray cats, because one of the neighbors threatened to take her to court if she didn't reduce the number of furry critters she was feeding.  Yeah, that went over like a Baby Ruth floating in a swimming pool.  I don't know what UFO dropped this woman off on Earth and in my neighborhood, but it's obvious they aren't coming back for her.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago my young bride and I noticed where a cat, or cats as the case may be, felt the urgent need to turn our freshly dug vegetable garden into a giant litter box in three separate spots.  Really? Am I the only sonofabitch in this neighborhood where every cat, domesticated or feral, feels the urge to take a crap in my yard?  Well, this certainly won't do so I set my trusty critter trap up and baited it with the cheapest cat food I could find; however, cat food can attract other animals besides cats.  Yesterday afternoon when I went to turn on the hot tub for a bit of relaxation with my young bride and indulge in a few adult beverages, I noticed the trap had been sprung and much to my surprise there was a large raccoon inside -- not one of those pesky feral cats I was hoping to capture.

As with all the critters that have made a poor life choice and ended up in my trap, I give them a name and this one I initially called Accident because I was after a cat...not a raccoon.  This little guy is an adult male, approximately 3-years old and didn't waste any time bolting from the trap when I released him at the Wayward Critter Refugee Center at Camp Bullis.  Also part of this family tradition is that I have my granddaughter give the varmint a name and this particular raccoon now has been named no other than Gargamel.  And just in case you haven't watched cartoons on TV lately, Gargamel is the evil character on The Smurfs.  So Gargamel and his trusty orange cat attempt to capture one or more of the Smurfs every episode.  Just for the record...I had to look this information up on the internet.

For the time being I've put my trap back in the shed and will wait a few days before setting it out again.  As for Nurse Ratchet, I was told by another neighbor this woman was 'moving to Houston so she could be closer to her daughter and grandchildren' in a couple of months.  Oh baby, rock my world!  I couldn't have been any happier unless I had been born twins!!

So, until such time as old Ratchet baby packs up her duckings and all her worldly belongings and moves to Houston, the task of getting rid of the feral cat's will be left up to me, the family of foxes in the park and three coyotes. 

Rural Living In The Texas Panhandle - Not For The Squimish

As a young boy growing up in the Texas panhandle in the 1950's and 60's, I enjoyed life to the fullest and along the way I actually learned a few things that helped me when I became an adult.  For example, never put your hands into a pile of rocks or brush without looking first, because the likelihood of finding a rattlesnake or scorpion is pretty high.  During the spring and summer months, always pay attention to the color of the clouds and the direction of the wind so that you won't be caught off guard by a tornado.  And most important of all, never, ever sit in the back of the pick-up when going to town with grand daddy or else be prepared to get peppered with tobacco juice when he spits out the window!  He was real fond of plug tobacco......Day's Work.

But aside from all of that, I really enjoyed going to my grandparents house who lived on the out skirts of a little town 15 miles from the Oklahoma border with a population at that time of approximately 5,000.  My grandparents were by no stretch of the imagination financially secure and pretty much lived off Social Security and any other odd jobs they could pick up along the way to make ends meet. They lived in a two bedroom tar paper shack, the only indoor plumbing they had was the sink where my lovely grandmother prepared meals and would wash her dainties, the toilet was an outhouse and the bathing was done either in a number 9 washtub during the winter or a make shift shower out in the peach orchard.

This shower was constructed of two burlap cotton sacks that were split in half and nailed to boards that stood 6' in the air, while the shower head was a 1-pound coffee can with multiple 10-penny nail holes poked into it.  The water came from a 30' garden hose that was attached to the coffee can with a piece of bailing wire.  God, bailing wire fixed everything until Duct Tape came along!

It wasn't until about the summer of 1961 that my grandparents finally got indoor plumbing, so they wouldn't have to make trips to the outhouse and fight the forces of nature during those cold winter months.  The 'little shack' was located at the back of my grandparents property and sat directly between the chicken house and hog pens.  It was not uncommon to see the occasional snake or two slithering about looking for the field mice that would frequent the area from time to time searching for food either in the chicken house or the hog trough.

I do not ever recall seeing toilet paper in my grandparents outhouse....never!  There was always at least one, sometimes three, magazines from Sears & Roebuck; Montgomery Wards or an S&H Green Stamps catalog laying on the floor for when you needed to wipe.  Conducting your business in an outhouse really wasn't all that difficult, as long as you followed a few simple rules:

  1. the hole is deeper than it appears, so don't drop anything of importance down there;
  2. check for critters and use the stick in the corner to clean out the spiders and cobwebs;
  3. sit still - squirming will cause you to get splinters;
  4. shut the door to keep the dogs and chickens out;
  5. ladies could use the 'bombardier method' by hoovering over the hole at any time;
  6. either take a deep breath or use a clothes pin on your nose - the smell can make you vomit; and
  7. leave enough magazine papers for the next person to use.

I discovered at an early age that lighting a brown paper bag full of Black Cat cherry bombs and fire crackers and dropping it into the hole would result in: (a) large quantities of crap shooting upward and splattering the walls and ceiling; (b) hens wouldn't lay eggs for three days; (c) every dog within a two mile radius would start barking; (d) sparks from that much black powder will set the magazines on the floor on fire; and (e), my 60-year old grandmother could still snap a switch off her peach tree while in a dead run and fan my britches with it in a rapid fashion. That's what I learned!

My grandmother would make lye soap about every other year and it was always a major production to say the least.  She used a huge black iron kettle to mix all the concoctions that was needed to make this soap and the basics ingredients were slabs of fat from a recent hog killing and at least a gallon, maybe more, of liquid lye.  Once she poured the lye into the vat, there wasn't a bird or fly of any kind within a 4-mile radius of their house.  That stuff would literally take your breath away. Her and granddaddy would gather up enough fire wood for this ordeal, and once he got the fire going real good, he would go inside the house and leave grandmother to her soap making.  Granddaddy was good at doing a lot of things, but making soap wasn't one of them.  Grandmother didn't need a boss.

 One summer while grandmother was mixing her brew, my brothers and some of our cousins were playing in an elm tree out by the road in front of the house.  We were maybe 15 yards from the bubbling pot of hog fat when grandmother yelled out "You kid's stay away from this fire while I go in the house for a minute. I've got to get another sharp knife."  At that time in our young lives, if stupidity was dirt we had enough to cover just a little over an acre.  I don't recall which one of my cousins it was, but they thought it would be really fun to see how many small pebbles we could pitch into the vat of boiling hog fat before grandmother came back.  Just as he was rearing back to zing his second small hand full of pebbles, grandmother bolted out of the house with a 'home made fly swatter' and proceeded to dance with him in a tight circle while spanking those skinny legs. The boy never knew what hit him....it all happened so fast!

Did I forget to mention that whenever grandmother would get a new fly swatter, she would rip the wire swatting piece off and replace it with a piece of bicycle inner tube.  With this slight modification in the swatter, that damn thing would never wear out!

During those times when the weather wasn't conducive for taking care of business in the outhouse, such as during the winter, grandmother had a thunder mug strategically situated in both bedroom's in her home.  For years I never knew this pot was called anything other than a thunder mug until I was stationed in Scotland and discovered they call it a 'chamber pot'. When I asked granddaddy why it was called a thunder mug, he said "Whenever you squat down to take a shit over the mug and you fart, well, it sounds like a clap of thunder!"  At this point he gave one of his deep belly laughs and it was really loud!!  Grandmother was not amused to say the least, but that was granddaddy's way of cuttin' to the chase.

 One winter weekend when my brother and I, and three of our girl cousin's were at grandmother and granddaddy's, a three inch snow storm blew in across the panhandle and everything came to a complete stand still.  In the spare bedroom were two double beds and each bed had no less than 4-5 quilts that grandmother had made and boy, those things were heavy!  But, once you got into bed and got them warm, it was absolute heaven.  Before getting ready for bed, grandmother would ensure each of us had gone to the bathroom, because there was only one thunder mug for the five of us to use during the night.  And I would like to add, none of grandmother's thunder mugs had lids on them.

My brother woke up in the middle of the night and had to go to the bathroom, but what he soon discovered in the darkness woke the entire house up.  One of the girls had gotten up earlier to urinate in the pot, but forgot to push it back under the bed.  Just as my brother was sliding over the top of me, his right foot stepped into the thunder mug that was partially filled with at least cold, wet urine! He started bouncing around on one foot like a Puerto Rican shortstop while holding the other foot off the floor saying, "I got dooky on my foot! Oh, my God! Get it off, get it off!  I can fell dooky between my toes!  Dammit Buck, it ain't funny!"  Once our grandparents figured out what was going on, granddaddy stood at the door laughing hysterically while grandmother gave my brother a towel for him to wipe his feet and to mop up the spilled urine on the floor.  A night to remember!

All baths for grandchildren staying at grandmother and granddaddy's house during those windy, cold, winter months were taken in the kitchen in a large number 9 galvanized wash tub.  Grandmother would heat the water in her kettle on the stove and pour the contents into the tub numerous times until it was filled at least half way from the top.  When not in use the tub was hung on the outside wall of their make shift garage and there it stayed until it was needed again.  Taking a bath was an experience not to be forgotten, because the only heat in the kitchen was from the stove when she was preparing meals.  There wasn't any dawdling around either.  You snapped your towel up and make a bee line towards the front room where there was a gas heater putting out lots and lots of warmth. None of this trash of standing around the kitchen with a wet towel wrapped around you while shakin' like a dog crappin' peach pits!

So, what does my grandparents galvanized wash tub and four grandson's with new BB guns they got for Christmas have in common?  Catastrophe maybe? 

Two days after Christmas all the relatives gathered at our grandparents for a family gathering of sorts and it was the perfect day in the Texas panhandle to be outside.  It was sunny, about 74 degrees, very little wind and warm enough we didn't need to wear a coat.  Right off hand I don't recall what brand of BB guns my cousins and I had, whether they were Daisy or Red Rider, but they both required the use of a lever action to inject BB's into the chamber.

Long about 2pm the four of us grew tired of shooting at tin cans, glass soda bottles, milk buckets, big cardboard boxes and old headlights out of granddaddy's model-T pickup.  While sitting on the ground beside granddaddy's garage sharing a half smoked cigarette butt somebody had swiped from the ash tray in one of the cars, one cousin came up with what we thought was a brilliant idea.  Let's use the galvanized wash tub as a target!!!  It's bigger and longer than a tin can, we don't have to stand so close to get a BB ricochet back at us AND the best part is.....nobody will know!  I don't know the exact number of holes my cousins and I pumped into that wash tub, but I do know there was more than 30 holes.  This type of juvenile logic is not unusual nor unexpected, since the group of us boys' were certainly two Corinthians shy of a bible at the time.

I can only fathom the volume of cuss words that came from our grandfather's mouth when he discovered what my cousins and I had done to his wash tub.  He didn't yell at us, call our parents or let anyone else in the family know what a handful of his grandson's had done that day.  Granddaddy took the tub into his garage where he pounded the holes flat and then soldered them shut on the inside vice the outside.  This method of repair left a small metal ridge over each BB hole and basically turned the bottom of the wash tub into a glorified cheese grader!

A few weeks later, my brother and I spent the weekend with our grandparents and the two of us had gotten really dirty from playing outside all day.  As was the routine, after dinner my brother and I went to the bedroom to get clean clothes while grandmother was heating up water for our bath.  I was the first one in the tub and as I slid my naked butt across the bottom, I had a sudden flash back in time to when my cousins and I shot that damn tub with our BB guns.  Oh, my God! I envisioned all the flesh on my butt being peeled back like a block of cedar cheese.  Why in heavens name did I pull such a stupid stunt!   My grandfather leaned over and whispered into my ear, "Now you know the pain your grandmother and I felt when I found these holes you boy's put in my tub.  You should be ashamed of yourself."  I would rather jump in front of a Grey Hound Bus than to disappoint my grandparents, but this was certainly one lesson that I've never forgotten.

We weren't troubled kids growing up....we were just kid's that were always in trouble!  We didn't need therapy, counseling or required to be on medication.  There was 32 of us little nose miners at the time and what one didn't think of, there were 6 others who were already gathering materials and putting the plan into effect.  We did get disciplined and it could come in the form of a switch from grandmother's peach tree, home made fly swatter, dad's belt, razor strap, wooden paddle ball paddle or a quick thump to the head from the middle finger of dad's hand.  We had what my young bride likes to call "a healthy respect for discipline."

Nominee's For This Year's "Those People" Award

Since the beginning of time as we know it, there have always been those individuals who, through no fault of their own, weren't exactly blessed with enough gray matter between the ears.  These folks are the type who think being popular on Facebook is like sitting at the "cool table" in a cafeteria at a mental hospital.  The best way for me to describe what kind of individual would be classified as a member of Those People is this way.  When our young nation was being explored by pioneers, Those People were the one's who were eaten by bears and mountain lions, scalped by the Indians, perished from thirst and starvation, and committed acts of cannibalism in the Sierra Nevada Mountains (aka Donner Party).  These same individuals are also acknowledged on the internet as winners of the Darwin Awards.  Ta-Dah!!!!!

Here we are 396 years later after the landing of the Mayflower on the Atlantic coast with 102 English Separatist onboard, Those People managed to survive and continue to boggle our imaginations with their stupidity.  And this has partially been due to the advances in medicine, engineering, communications and last, but certainly not least, laws were passed to keep from killing them.  So, the question then needs to be asked: What characteristics do these people posses that would enable easy identification?  And the answer is - they're everywhere!  These people are in every facet of daily life.

Regardless of nationality, wealth, gender, sexual preference, social status, religion or the color of their skin, they all have one common denominator - they will never be too old to learn new ways of being stupid!  Let me introduce you to each of the nominee's for this year's Those People award!!!!

Here we have the first nominees in the 'Oh, Sweet Jesus' category.  If brains were lard, these two nit wit's wouldn't have enough to grease a skillet.  Seriously, I don't know exactly when the UFO landed and dumped these two dumb asses, but apparently they aren't coming back for them.

The next category is the 'You're Not Wrapped Real Tight Are You' and as you can see, this nominee is going above and beyond the limits of sanity.  Common sense is like deodorant, the people who need it most never use it.  This guy's engine's runnin', but ain't nobody driving.

This years nominee for the 'Mary Poppins' category chose to add just a splash of imagination and vault the competition to a higher level.  From the angle of approach, there is a possibility this person may land in the shallow end of the pool and the next seven years will be pulling broom splinters out of his butt.  There's a village somewhere that's lost their idiot!

We have three nominee's this year in the international category of 'Spare No Expense'.  Due to the privacy restrictions, I'm not authorized to disclose the exact location or country from which this picture was originated.  However, based upon the tools of the trade these fellows are using, it appears the hand-woven grass rope and 50-gallon drum filled with water are of the highest quality from Oscar's Hardware Emporium.  This team of entrepreneurs certainly give new meaning to the phrase of 'giving the job to the lowest bidder'.  

This is "Ha Ha Harvey" and he is the only nominee in the 'Trade School' category this year.  Harvey got the nickname Sparky while attending the Underwater Demolition School in Yuma, Arizona.  After four years of labor intensive studying, he decided to change majors and devote his energy into grinding metal at a nitroglycerin plant.  Never argue with an idiot, people watching may not be able to tell the difference.

And the final category for this year's Those People award is 'Betcha Can't Do It'.  The nominee's are three brothers from Hoboken, New Jersey who moonlight in their spare time as interior decorators at the meeting hall of the Port-A-Potty Union Local 598.  Between their daytime employment as window washers and moonlighting, it doesn't leave them much time to practice their routine as The Flying Bambino's trapeze act.  I wish them success in the future and look forward to seeing them again next year.  It's obvious these guy's are ridin' the gravy train with biscuit wheels!

Anybody Know What A Gerund Is?

In my life ‘before retirement’, there were both operational and academic hurdles I had to achieve before becoming eligible for promotion, and these included multiple specialties and courses.  Two of these courses were writing classes, each lasting six weeks or longer, and at the same time I was also responsible for a 24-hour military operation and a team of seven Navy enlisted people.  Let me digress for a moment.  In high school I was anything BUT a stellar student in English, so my having to take writing classes during the latter stages of my life was certainly nothing I had expected or desired.

The first writing class consisted of a middle-aged female instructor and approximately 18 students, most of who were in their late-30’s to mid-40’s.  And just for the record, I was the ONLY male in the entire class.  Anyway, upon entering the classroom on my very first day, I found myself a seat at the very back of the room because being 6’4’’ and weighing well over 210 pounds, I make a great wall but a damn poor window. 

 Once everyone had found a seat and began ‘making their nest’, the instructor started going around the room asking each person’s name.  When she got to me she said, “Mr. Gibbons why don’t you come sit at this table here in the front and that way I won’t need to talk so loud for you to be able to hear me.”  I picked that spot specifically so that I could stretch my legs out in front of me and not have to worry about anyone tripping over my size 12’s.  I graciously declined her offer and said, “That’s quite alright.  I can hear you perfectly from back here and besides, I got a lot more room to stretch out than if I sit up front.”  The woman was persistent and replied “No, I really think you will do much better in my class by sitting up here.  And did you know Mr. Gibbons, a study was conducted that found students who sat in the front got much better grades than those sitting in the back of the classroom.  So, move up here and I’ll bet you’ll be able to make an A in this course.”  I thought to myself “Ok, Hiawatha Helicopter have it your way, I’ll move up front.  But you and I are NOT starting off on a positive note, and this will certainly be the longest damn six weeks you’ve had in a while!”

                                                       

Since the class was only 3-hours long and we didn’t meet but once a week, there was ample homework to do and thank heavens it wouldn’t involve diagramming sentences like I had to do in English class in high school…or so I thought.  

Week number two rolled around and after spending about 25-minutes going over what we had talked about the previous week, the instructor said “Who would like to tell me what a Gerund is?  Come on; don’t be shy, what’s a Gerund?”  Nobody in the room made a sound and again she said, “Anybody?”  The entire room was graveyard quite.  I placed my hand on my head to hopefully fool her into thinking I was trying my best to find the answer to her question tucked away somewhere in my feeble brain.  The whole time I’m thinking to myself, “Gerund? What in the Hell is a Gerund?  People who use words like ‘Gerund’ probably wear funny looking clothes and spend their summers at Martha’s Vineyard selling ice cream cones.  I don’t have a freakin’ clue what a Gerund is.”  

                                         

By this point, the instructor has become frustrated with the lack of class participation and has walked from behind her podium and begins walking towards my side of the room.  With every step she took I was thinking "Please, please, please don’t call on me.  If you call on me ,well, I’ll just have to run my finger down my throat and force puke on the floor.”  Oh well, things aren’t looking good…she stopped directly behind me and placed her hand on my shoulder…“Oh crap!  I am so boned!  So, so major league boned!”  “Jim, why don’t you tell the class what a Gerund is?” she asks.

Not having a clue what a damned Gerund was, I thought if I could use a bit of rural humor on this woman, maybe, just maybe, she will have pity on me and go to someone else.  Everyone in the room is now looking at me and its show time!  I sat straight up in my chair and said in an authoritative voice “Gerund?  I know what a Gerund is. It’s a small, four-legged, furry animal that lives in my son’s aquarium and loves to eat the cardboard tube out of toilet paper rolls.  That’s what a Gerund is.”  The woman gave me that stink-eye look and was about ready to slap me into the next zip code when I said, “I’m sorry.  I thought you wanted to know what a Gerbil was.  Gerund?  Nah, don’t have a damn clue, sorry.”

                                                  

 

The instructor calmly walked back to the podium, lips pooched, opened up a book and said, “The real definition of Gerund is: Latin Grammar for a verb form which functions as a noun and usually ends in ‘ing’.”  For the next two and half hours, the instructor avoided eye contact with me and wouldn’t even so much as look towards the side of the room I was sitting in.  I didn’t complain…works for me.  I didn’t want to sit in the front of the room to begin with…this was her big idea…not mine. Broke her from sucking eggs!!!

When class had finished for the day, I was getting all my things together when I noticed from the corner of my eye the instructor walking towards me.  I looked up to acknowledge her presence and noticed she had this quirky smirk on her face and both hands on her hips. Danger Will Robinson! Danger!  “Jim, that was quick thinking this morning on my question.  The class certainly enjoyed your humor, but I was wondering if you and I are going to have problems the rest of this class?  I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen.” she said. I replied, “Nor would I madam.  In fact, two professionals such as you and I should be able to cooperate with one another.  In today’s environment there is just way too much hostility.  So whaddya’ say we bury the hatchet and agree to disagree without stepping on each others toes.”  "Fantastic" she said, "Good luck to you Jim and I'll certainly be sure to forewarn your next instructor."  Well, isn't she a sweet heart!  Such a darling!

                                                                                          

 I received an A+ for this course and the next writing instructor I had put all the desks in a circle!  Smart lady....certainly ahead of the curve on this one.