Category Archives: Uncategorized

Gobble, Gobble, Wobble

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.  Yes, I know the song refers to the Christmas season, but I disagree.  I believe the Thanksgiving season is the most wonderful time.  It is my favorite by far. 

This thanksgiving, 2011, I am blessed beyond my wildest comprehension.  There has been loss.

And there has been gain. 

 

 How much things can change in one year.  
This time last year, I saw my dad alive for the last time.  We sat on the steps of my old house on a beautiful Autumn day as birds honked above overhead.  I mistakenly called them geese.  He was quick to inform me they were sandhill cranes.  He always loved the birds. 

We took a drive around the old Celanese plant  where he spent some time working years ago, and although we didn’t say much of anything, I’m sure he was venturing down his own memory lane, just as I am now.   Days gone by.  Out of reach.

I snapped this last picture of him and my sister lying in the floor, right before we watched Four Christmases together.  He forgot that blue handkerchief when he left.  It’s now washed and folded and put away in a box of things, along with a pair of glasses left forgotten.  He passed away the following February, and I have missed him everyday since. 

But we shall meet again, and there will be rejoicing.

This time next year, we will have a 10 month old little girl crawling around, possibly beginning to pull up, yanking all the popcorn and cranberries strands from the Christmas tree.  She will have brown hair and brown eyes and little dimples on her knees.  We will play peek-a-boo and patty cake, feed her pumpkin pie with lots of whipped cream, and smother her in kisses. 

And I’ll be tired, but it will all be worth it.

Things change.  There’s no doubt I’ve changed. 
And thank God for that.

Robert Frost said he could sum life up in three words.  “It goes on.”

And thank God for that too.

I hope you take a moment to be thankful today and everyday.  We are so blessed. 
Praise God.

Cherish Loved Ones.

Be happy.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Love,
Angel

Halloween

It’s Halloween night and it’s a first for me.

It’s a first to not be trick or treating with my niece as she obviously has reached the stage where she’s outgrown it.  Or even worse, we’ve made her feel too old to partake in festivities.  I feel a little sad about that.  Do you remember the last time you trick or treated?  How old were you?  I remember being about 10 or 11.  My sister 2 years my senior, who felt too old, dressed me up as a hobo.  A fat, unshaven hobo.   She stuffed throw pillows from the couch in my shirt, mixed coffee grinds up to put on my face for a stubble, and walked the streets with me picking up my pillows and stuffing them back in my shirt all night, probably all the while longing to be dressed up herself.  I remember smelling that coffee  beard for the duration of the trick or treating episode and hating it. 

That was my last time dressing up, until Ashy.

 

We’ve had our fun.

 

Last year we dressed up as an apple and banana.

 

 

Although everyone thought she was a tomato. 

 

We tricked out our trunk and gave candy away at our church’s “Trunk or Treat”. 

And now this year, I find myself home alone, reminiscing yesteryear, wondering where the time has gone, while she is helping at the church’s Fall Festival.  No longer a trick or treater, but a full grown “helper” now.

   It’s also a first for me to not have any Halloween candy in my house.  Not one bite size Snickers bar, not a pixie stick, not even those gross little orange and black taffy candies in the black wrapper.  I live in the country, and I don’t expect the Trick or Treaters to come by ringing my doorbell, even if I had one.

It seems the years I was “having” to do Halloween, I dreaded every second of it:  the costumes, the make-up, the walking the streets, the fighting the traffic, the weather, the sore feet.  But now that it’s slipped me by, I’m feeling a bit melancholy, longing for it.  I’m experiencing those “auntie guilt feelings” of wishing we did more.  Wondering if Ash will look back on her years of Halloween and have fond memories.  Or will she only remember us prodding her to outgrow trick or treating.  For the silly reason of  it being a little kid holiday. Will she wish she’d had a few more years.

And then there’s next year.  This time next October 31st, we will have a 9 month old baby.  Of course, we’ll dress her as a pumpkin, a butterfly, a scarecrow, or something equally adorable and take her around showing her off, letting her have candy in order to rot her 2 little new bottom teeth.

And you can bet I’m going to make sure Ashy gets a costume by golly.  This little baby will be a great excuse for her to get a few more years in.

 

 

J-Dub’s Burfday

Today my sweet husband turns 38 years old.

Remember when you were a little kid and made homemade cards?  I’m still doing that.  Especially after I’ve already gotten home from town and forgotten the dang thing.

He’s not home yet, because he’s still working. 

That’s what he does.

  Works his butt off.  The word lazy is not in his vocabulary.  Unless he’s talking to me.  Nah, I’m only kidding.  He may think it, but he doesn’t say it.  He knows when its best to hold the tongue. 

He has so many wonderful qualities. 

He’s a good drummer.

He’s a great cook.

A patient uncle.

Whose not afraid to get a little dirty.

A handsome devil.

A loving husband.

And my best friend.

Happy birthday, Jason!

Decisions, decisions.

Decisions, decisions. 
Thankfully not life or death decisions.  More on the caliber of comfort kind of decisions.  As in “should I do an exercise tape or go to bed and read?”  And along the lines of “I just ate mac and cheese, but I really want some milk toast.” 

Do you know what milk toast is?  Does the very mention of those two words together make you throw up in your mouth?  I was raised on milk toast.   Probably not exactly correct, but the modern day version consists of toasting some bread, buttering it, putting it in a bowl, adding sugar to it, then pouring milk over it.  Hence the name Milk Toast.  So yeah, if you don’t like the idea of soggy bread, it might not appeal to you, but to me, it’s like manna from heaven.

Since the weather here has turned colder and the wind has decided to rear his ugly head once again, my walking regimen has been put on hold.  Now for a little cause and effect.  Because my walking regimen has been put on hold, my belly has increased dramatically in size in the last couple of weeks. 

So instead of eating milk toast, then going to bed and reading, I decided perhaps to blog and bore you with more uninteresting stuff like milk toast recipes. 

I’ve reached the age where my mind still says I can but my body says No Way Jose.  Case in point.

Weekend before last, J-Dub, Ashy, and I took a weekend trip to Ruidoso, New Mexico.  We were hoping to see some beautiful foliage, visit some family, have a nice weekend get-away, and find a house to live in.  Not really on that last part, but my husband is set on moving to Ruidoso.  Or anywhere close to the mountains. 

Ashy and I decided to take a little walk around the neighborhood Saturday morning, so we set out with our tennis shoes, no cell phone, and a camera for a nice little stroll on a walking trail that wound around a fenced off golf course. 

We stayed on course enjoying the weather, watching the crows that were as big as my yard chickens, and simply enjoying one another’s company. 

Before we set out, we were told that the trail was about 3.5 miles long.  Not bad.  We could handle that.  And we did.  We did just fine until our trail ended and we were on a street. We didn’t know whether to turn left, turn right, or cross over.   You might say we’d come to a crossroads.  Literally.   We lost sight of the trail and were forced with a decision, decision. So we decided we’d take a right turn since that was sort of the way we came.   After walking a few several blocks, we still had our eyes on the golf course and knew that we weren’t lost.  But then somehow we ended up behind some buildings that dead ended into the fenced off golf course again. 

All during our walk we read signs posted on the golf course chainlink fence that read:

NO TRESPASSING
VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

But before you knew it, we found ourselves trespassing across the golf course.  We could see the trail on the other side.  There were runners, walkers, and all we needed to do was get over there to them.  It made sense that the quickest route to the trail we needed to get on, was to cross over the golf course. 

Decisions, decisions.  So we headed out walking across this golf course with elevated heart rates, not from the walk but rather from the thrill of trespassing, and all the while Ashy chanting, please don’t prosecute us, please don’t prosecute us. 

Our destination was in sight.  The trail was right before our eyes.  We had traversed the golf course and made it to the trail.  There was nothing stopping us from stepping onto it except the dadgum chain link fence that surrounded the entire golf course. 

There was no gate nearby. No doorway.  No tunnel.  We’d been walking at least 45 minutes.  My feet hurt.  I was getting warm.  I was thirsty, and I was tired of this adventure.  I turned and looked around the area behind us of which we had travelled.  Our choices were either to turn around and re-trespass over the golf course prolonging my misery or climb the chain link fence. 

Decisions, decisions.

“We’re just going to have to climb this fence.”  I told Ash.  Of course the fear of getting caught was weighing on my mind.  I thought surely no one would really harass a pregnant lady and a 12-year-old, but you never know in this day and age.  We took our chances.

We walked over by a little grove of trees away from the trail, behind some buildings which we later discovered to be the police station, and I stood while Ash positioned her sandaled foot just so-so inside the chain links and climbed up and over the fence.  I have never seen anyone climb a fence so slowly.  I was on high alert, looking around for golf carts and flying golf balls, men with badges, and passersby. 

“Hurry up!”  I snapped at her, hoisting her on the butt.  Then as she slung her leg over, of course her pants got hung on that pointy little part sticking over the top bar of the fence, and I had to wiggle it and yank on it to get her free as she gingerly positioned her feet on the opposite side and climbed herself down, safely on the non-trespassing side.

Now for my turn.  Piece of cake.  I mean how many chain link fences have I climbed  in my life?  At least 300.  Not only have I climbed my own fences,  I’ve watched COPS.  I’ve seen how criminals can get over a fence in a couple of seconds time.  My mind knew I could do this.  All I had to do was put my hands on the top bar of that chain link fence and hoist my six month pregnant self on to the bar, then swing my legs over and climb down.  

Now all I had to do was convince my body.  I hoisted.  I strained.  I grunted.  I jumped.  I stood on my tippy toes.   The fence was wobbly.  My upper body was weak.  After a few attempts, my heart rate was really elevated from the anxiety of getting caught climbing a fence and the exertion it was taking.   I was sweating.  In the mountains.  In October.

Finally, with all the strength I could muster, I hoisted and slung my leg at the same time.  I managed to get on top of the bar and laid there smashing my poor baby girl into my backbone, then flipped my legs over and let myself down.

Panting and red-bellied we limped home.  Well I did anyway.
Thankfully without prosecution.
But more than likely, the whole thing is on someone’s surveillance camera.  I hope they’re getting a kick out of it.

I think I’ll go eat some soggy bread now.

 

Radio Contest

My husband, J-Dub, is a music nut.   He can tell you a song after hearing 2 notes played.  He knows the lyrics, the artists, the name of the album, and the year it was released. 

I, on the other hand, am a music flunkee.  I make up lyrics.  Whatever sounds close, that will work for me.   I mistake the sound of a fiddle for an electric guitar.  I think a woman’s singing when it’s actually a man.   I think The Beatles are The Monkees, I think Robert Palmer is Ronald Palmer.  Big deal.  I’m laughed at regularly, but I’m used to it by now. 

Today J-Dub is trying to win a radio contest.   It’s a big one.  Five hundred dollars to be given away to the ninth caller who can correctly identify a song by its first 3 notes that was played earlier.  And guess what?  J-Dub knows it.  He’s 100% positive.  He and his buddy had the cassett tape and rewound it over and over and over.  He’s appalled at the guesses of the people who have actually been caller #9.  All day he’s been trying to win this contest.  He only receives a busy signal, and the one time he did get through, he was caller #7.  It’s not as far-fetched as you might think.  He’s won several radio contests.  Maybe a free CD, maybe a couple of tickets to a show, but never anything as win-worthy as $500.

He’s been hauling hay all day, so a radio and a cell phone have been right handy for him.  Since he’s been home, we’ve been listening to the radio, ever attentively listening for the little jingle that signals the time to try to be caller #9. 

But now, he’s gone outside to do the chores, and I’ve been left in charge of winning this contest.  Me.  He has left me, the musical flunkee,  in charge of remembering the name of a song I’ve never heard before.  Oh the pressure. 

However he knows me oh-so-well, so before he walked out the door, he programmed the radio station number in my phone, and handed me a yellow sticky note on which he has written the name of the song, the artist, the phone number to the radio station, and which caller I’m supposed to be.  Just in case I need to know all that stuff.  And just so I won’t act like an idiot if I actually do win, he’s even written down what I’m supposed to say when they ask me, “What station makes you a winner?”

Knowing my luck, I’d have to stammer and stutter….”uh…..uh……100.3? 93.1? 87.9, The Car?  The Cat?” 

I wonder if they’d still give me the money if I was unable to identify their radio station?  Would they know I was a fraud?  Someone who never listens to their station, only when I’m forced to by my beloved?

So here I sit, needing to go to the bathroom.  But instead I’m frozen into place, ear turned to the speaker, white fisting my sticky note in one hand and my cell phone in the other while blogging with my tongue.  The ink on my sticky note smearing from my sweaty palm to a blue smudge by the time I make it to caller #9.

The stress is too much for me.  

J-Dub, where are you?????

 

Football!!

Football in Texas is kind of a big deal.  More specifically, small town Friday night high school football in Texas is kind of a big deal.  Especially in my area.   It seems the whole town gathers in a sea of green and gold to cheer on our home town boys, The Harvesters.  Yep, the Harvesters.  Not the Bears.  Not the Cougars.  Not anything that can shred you to bits with their teeth or their claws, but The Harvesters.  Don’t get me wrong, we carry a mean sickle let me tell you.  Or is it a scythe?  I certainly don’t know what that harvester is harvesting with.

This Friday night just so happens to be our homecoming game.  Which I would be false in assuming everyone understands.  It pretty much took all my life to be proved wrong.  It wasn’t until last year when my sister, who now lives in New Mexico, said “you know…..I think homecoming mums are a Texas thing.  No one around here does it.” 

I was caught a bit off guard.  If you don’t do homecoming mums, what do you do?  I just figured everyone did it the way we did.  Let me explain. 

Not only do the students deck themselves out in green and gold, spray paint their hair, and paint their faces, all in the name of school spirit, but for the homecoming game, shy boys awkwardly ask out nervous girls, and then buys a homecoming mum (the gawdier the better) to be pinned to their shirts.

  The girls return the favor by buying the boy a homecoming garter to wear on his arm.  A parade kicks off the festivities, and the next night the football stadium becomes a sea of  green and gold ribbons, bells, whistles, and even feathers.  Not only are there concession stands, but it is almost equivalent to a fair.  Booths are set up and the smells of  burgers, turkey legs, roasted corn on the cob, fajitas, and just about anything you can imagine wafts through the stadium.  At half time, a homecoming king and queen are crowned and everyone hopes the Harvesters pull off a win.

As if all this fun and frolic isn’t already giving you a headache, imagine how I feel knowing my sweet, little, tiny, innocent 7th grade niece actually has a date to this thing!  When did she grow up???  Now granted, my first homecoming date was in the 5th grade with a neighborhood boy named Ryan and I guess I turned out alright, but I really wasn’t expecting this so soon with Ash.  

That little girl who made Santa Claus beards with the bubbles in her bathtub now has a boy asking her to homecoming.  He bought her a mum, she bought him a garter, his parents are driving him over to pick her up, they’re going out to eat Mexican food before the game.  Oh my.  Oh my. 

My niece Ash doesn’t have the best table manners in the world, and J-Dub harps on her all the time.  I’ve even been the one to mention, “Ash, someday you’re going to have a date, and if you eat like a hog at the trough, that boy is never going to ask you on a second date.” 

I almost hope she eats like a hog at the trough.  
It’s a hard pill to swallow, this growing up stuff. 

And then I think of this little bundle of pink who is busy growing toenails in my comfortable, safe womb, and a ripple of panic courses through my veins when I think that this day too will visit us.  One day, when we least expect it, she’s going to grow up and catch the eye of some boy who will ask her to an innocent homecoming football game.  We’ll blink our eyes, and before we know it J-Dub will be walking her down the aisle, giving her away to some stinky boy.

Whoever said “Time flies”  sure knew what he was talking about. 
I wish someone could figure out how to slow it down.

50 Rules for Dads of Daughters

My friend Suzanne sent me a link.

Actually she sent it for me to share with J-Dub.

I shared it, and then I read it myself.

I loved it.  I cried.  But I’m a bit emotional these days with my little girl on the way.  I couldn’t help but think of her and her daddy. 

And then I can’t help but think of me and my own dad.

This was written by a fellow named Michael Mitchell who blogs at Lifetoheryears.com and stolen from a blog fromdatestodiapers.com

There some great stuff out there, folks.  I hope you enjoy it.

1. Love her mom. Treat her mother with respect, honor, and a big heaping spoonful of public displays of affection. When she grows up, the odds are good she’ll fall in love with and marry someone who treats her much like you treated her mother. Good or bad, that’s just the way it is. I’d prefer good.

2. Always be there. Quality time doesn’t happen without quantity time. Hang out together for no other reason than just to be in each other’s presence. Be genuinely interested in the things that interest her. She needs her dad to be involved in her life at every stage. Don’t just sit idly by while she add years to her… add life to her years.

3. Save the day. She’ll grow up looking for a hero. It might as well be you. She’ll need you to come through for her over and over again throughout her life. Rise to the occasion. Red cape and blue tights optional.

4. Savor every moment you have together. Today she’s crawling around the house in diapers, tomorrow you’re handing her the keys to the car, and before you know it, you’re walking her down the aisle. Some day soon, hanging out with her old man won’t be the bees knees anymore. Life happens pretty fast. You better cherish it while you can.

5. Pray for her. Regularly. Passionately. Continually.

6. Buy her a glove and teach her to throw a baseball. Make her proud to throw like a girl… a girl with a wicked slider.

7. She will fight with her mother. Choose sides wisely.

8. Go ahead. Buy her those pearls.

9. Of course you look silly playing peek-a-boo. You should play anyway.

10. Enjoy the wonder of bath time.

11. There will come a day when she asks for a puppy. Don’t over think it. At least one time in her life, just say, “Yes.”

12. It’s never too early to start teaching her about money. She will still probably suck you dry as a teenager… and on her wedding day.

13. Make pancakes in the shape of her age for breakfast on her birthday. In a pinch, donuts with pink sprinkles and a candle will suffice.

14. Buy her a pair of Chucks as soon as she starts walking. She won’t always want to wear matching shoes with her old man.

15. Dance with her. Start when she’s a little girl or even when she’s a baby. Don’t wait ‘til her wedding day.

16. Take her fishing. She will probably squirm more than the worm on your hook. That’s OK.

17. Learn to say no. She may pitch a fit today, but someday you’ll both be glad you stuck to your guns.

18. Tell her she’s beautiful. Say it over and over again. Someday an animated movie or “beauty” magazine will try to convince her otherwise.

19. Teach her to change a flat. A tire without air need not be a major panic inducing event in her life. She’ll still call you crying the first time it happens.

20. Take her camping. Immerse her in the great outdoors. Watch her eyes fill with wonder the first time she sees the beauty of wide open spaces. Leave the iPod at home.

21. Let her hold the wheel. She will always remember when daddy let her drive.

22. She’s as smart as any boy. Make sure she knows that.

23. When she learns to give kisses, she will want to plant them all over your face. Encourage this practice.

24. Knowing how to eat sunflower seeds correctly will not help her get into a good college. Teach her anyway.

25. Letting her ride on your shoulders is pure magic. Do it now while you have a strong back and she’s still tiny.

26. It is in her nature to make music. It’s up to you to introduce her to the joy of socks on a wooden floor.

27. If there’s a splash park near your home, take her there often. She will be drawn to the water like a duck to a puddle.

28. She will eagerly await your return home from work in the evenings. Don’t be late.

29. If her mom enrolls her in swim lessons, make sure you get in the pool too. Don’t be intimidated if there are no other dads there. It’s their loss.

30. Never miss her birthday. In ten years she won’t remember the present you gave her. She will remember if you weren’t there.

31. Teach her to roller skate. Watch her confidence soar.

32. Let her roll around in the grass. It’s good for her soul. It’s not bad for yours either.

33. Take her swimsuit shopping. Don’t be afraid to veto some of her choices, but resist the urge to buy her full-body beach pajamas.

34. Somewhere between the time she turns three and her sixth birthday, the odds are good that she will ask you to marry her. Let her down gently.

35. She’ll probably want to crawl in bed with you after a nightmare. This is a good thing.

36. Few things in life are more comforting to a crying little girl than her father’s hand. Never forget this.

37. Introduce her to the swings at your local park. She’ll squeal for you to push her higher and faster. Her definition of “higher and faster” is probably not the same as yours. Keep that in mind.

38. When she’s a bit older, your definition of higher and faster will be a lot closer to hers. When that day comes, go ahead… give it all you’ve got.

39. Holding her upside down by the legs while she giggles and screams uncontrollably is great for your biceps. WARNING: She has no concept of muscle fatigue.

40. She might ask you to buy her a pony on her birthday. Unless you live on a farm, do not buy her a pony on her birthday. It’s OK to rent one though.

41. Take it easy on the presents for her birthday and Christmas. Instead, give her the gift of experiences you can share together.

42. Let her know she can always come home. No matter what.

43. Remember, just like a butterfly, she too will spread her wings and fly some day. Enjoy her caterpillar years.

44. Write her a handwritten letter every year on her birthday. Give them to her when she goes off to college, becomes a mother herself, or when you think she needs them most.

45. Learn to trust her. Gradually give her more freedom as she gets older. She will rise to the expectations you set for her.

46. When in doubt, trust your heart. She already does.

47. When your teenage daughter is upset, learning when to engage and when to back off will add years to YOUR life. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

48. Ice cream covers over a multitude of sins. Know her favorite flavor.

49. This day is coming soon. There’s nothing you can do to be ready for it. The sooner you accept this fact, the easier it will be.

50. Today she’s walking down the driveway to get on the school bus. Tomorrow she’s going off to college. Don’t blink.

In Memory of My Dad #28

A greenish color tinged the edge of the low-hanging storm clouds, and thinking back to what my cowboy friends all said, I knew we were in for one kinghell hail storm.
I had just pulled into Clearwater, just over the Texas line, and decided to seek shelter from the storm. It was getting dark, and I almost didn’t see the one business that was open in town. So driving past, I pulled a u-turn and parked underneath the awning of a deserted D-X station. Lightning was beginning to flash now many miles to the west, and secoonds later the thunder rolled and grumbled like a drunken sergeant in his sleep as the storm made its way toward Oklahoma.

It was downright cold for the last week in May, and the light golf shirt that I had on didn’t do much to stop the wind as it swirled and eddied the wheat chaff and dust there on Main Street.

I was on my way to a wedding of one of the Durees’ twin daughters and the only thing that I had in the way of outer wear was a light blue seersucker jacket that serves me well—both weddings and funerals.

No one looked up at my entrance.  The room was overheated as most places where old men hang out are.  Ahead of me was a little short bar with three or four stools.  It was a typical beer bar with racks of potato chips and pretzels on top.  There were also big jars of beer sausage soaking in vinegar and pig’s feet and boiled eggs.

A couple of guys were sitting at the bar, working men from the cotton gin, I could tell from the little fluffs of lint that clung to their clothes.

Around the room were scattered a number of tables—some of them regular cafe tables and some the slate-topped kind that you see in domino halls.  They’re slate topped because the players like to keep score with chalk on the slate.  Hell, in my travels around the oilfields and with the pipeline I’d been in a hundred such places.  I could speak the language.

I sat down at the bar and the old boy down the row from me never paid the slightest attention, just went on sipping his Falstaff.  The bartender got up from a corner table where he had been entertaining a pair of aging snuff queens. 

“What’ll you have?” he asked. 
“Bud Light,” I answered, thinking that a beer bottle makes a fine weapon if needed.

The bartender was a big, beefy type, the kind you see every day swaggering, blustering, usually with a pack of Camels rolled in the sleeve of a T-shirt that must be the uniform of the day for this type.

“What’re they playing?” I asked the bartender.
“Moon,” he answered in a hurry to get back to the girls.  Dismissing the bartender as a lost cause, I drank my beer, halfway watching the game over my shoulder.  Finally I wandered over and sat at a table all by myself, but next to the moon players.

Two old men and a young guy were playing.  The old man that I sat beside was called Amos by the other two, and he wore a flannel shirt that was buttoned up to the collar, a grey sweater with a  windbreaker covering the whole affair.  Underneath it all I was sure that he had on long underwear.  He was old and weathered with a bristle of white covering his cheeks.  He had the cold butt of a cigar jammed in his mouth. 

They took no notice of me when I sat daown.  Finally I asked, “Are sweaters allowed if they keep their mouth shut?”
“Not if you do like you say,” said the old man giving me a gruff look.

“I can handle that.” I replied.

After watching the game for a half hour or so, the conversation turned to cable tool rigs.  It turned out Amos was a retired cable tool driller, and I’d worked around the rigs for most of my adult life.  So Amos and I became fast friends in the mode of the oil field.

Shortly after that, I had commenting rights, which I soon exercised when Amos went set on a five bid.

“If you’d have come little, led your deuce ace, you could have knocked down his calf and that throws him in a bind over his cow.  If he goes small you’ve got him.  If he holds you, you trump back in  and lead your trump double and knock out his cow.  Then all you’ve lost is your one trump and your off rock and you’ve made your five,” I said.

“You’re mighty late with that advice,” said Amos giving me a hard look.

“I thought I’d better wait until the hand was over,” I said.

They laughed.

I was enjoying myself.  Sitting in an overheated bar in  Clearwater, Texas sweating a two-bit moon game.  Life is full of strange propositions, indeed.

After a while the younger man left, saying he had to get home for supper, and they invited me into the game.  We played for two hours.  I won a little but was certain to give it back by buying the beer.  I didn’t do it in an overbearing manner, just casual like, a stranger glad for the company on a cold west Texs night.

I felt good.  I was a little drunk, but very mellow, perhaps I’d even feel better if I could have struck up a conversation with one of the snuff queens, but I doubt it.

So I just hung around digging the party. 

The beefy bartender was half drunk by now also, and the place had filled up considerably over the last two hours.  People were trying to two-step to Hank Jr. and Merle and having quite a time of it.  It was small town Friday night at its best.  The bartender was bellowing out ths manhood to anyone that would listen.

It was about that time that the stranger and the bartender started having a  heated discussion that I couldn’t quite make out.

The stranger was dressed in the style of the ’50s, black vest, shirt and jeans.  He wore black boots that had little silver tips on their pointy toes, and the vest was adorned with silver conchos on the back.

Without a word the stranger took three measured steps down the bar, turned and with a great hawking cough spat up a great gob of phlegm down the bar at a Coors ashtray about ten feet away.

The bartender called out, “That’s one” and cheerfully wiped the bar clean.  The cowboy tried to spit in the ashtray twice more brefore walking over to the bartender and handing him a ten-dollar bill and promptly leaving the saloon.

The bartender yelled out something about winning and teaching the cowboy not to bet with him and promptly bought the snuff queens another beer.

“Yeah, that’s right Harley.  You really taught him a lesson,” said the old man that had been playing moon with Amos and me. “The only trouble was that he bet me $25 that he could spit on your bar three times, and you’d smile while cleaning it up.”

Life is full of strange propositions indeed.

written by Bob Briggs

 

School Days

The posters are hung, the pencils are sharpened, and the acetaminophen  is stocked.   Although there isn’t the slightest nip of fall in the air, the calendar confirms that school begins tomorrow here in West Texas.
Elementary Teachers all around my area have laminated, cut, pasted, and labeled until their fingertips bleed.
Although the calendar confirms it, and the preparations have been made, somehow  it just hasn’t felt real for me. 

I haven’t had the nightmares.   Each year I have them.  They come to me in the few nights before school begins.   The terrifying night terrors of unpreparedness for the first day of school, filled with a room full of uncontrollable children, monsters you might call them.  The empty stack of uncopied papers haunts me,  the incomplete lesson plan book stares blankly at me. The sheer feeling of panic and inadequateness that accompanies these nightmares almost undoes me.

Despite the early morning alarms, the week long inservice, and the ever growing class list,  it hasn’t  felt like the beginning of school until last night.   Last night I was visited in my dreams by children who are too old for my grade, too many students, not enough desks, and what’s with the boy playing the electric drumset in the middle of the classroom who won’t listen to me screaming at him to stop?

And then there’s my feet. Even without the nightmares, they are the tell-tale sign that it is the start of school. No matter how comfy the tennis shoes are, when you go from sitting around swatting flies all summer to actual work, you just can’t help but catch a little flack from the old dogs.

Nightmares and throbbing feet.  There is no more denying that the first day of school is upon me.

Thank goodness for my husband. He’s cooking burgers tonight, bless his heart.   My feet are propped mightily on the couch pillows, bless their hearts.

   Multifunction Foot Spa MassagerAnd my dreams tonight will be filled with the longings of foot baths with bubbling hot water and lavender bath salts combined with massaging action in three different intensities.   I might even invent an Asian man named Dong who possesses great hands. 

What? A girl can dream can’t she?