In Memory of My Dad #17

Being Santa Claus Isn’t Always Easy, Unless You Believe
by R.L. Briggs
Commentary

Speaking from past experience, one of the best things that can happen when you are playing Santa Claus is to get those baggy pants off, the whiskers out of your mouth and those phony bootees off your shoes.

Nobody helps.  Everyone else is too busy tearing open Christmas packages, strewing tissue paper and colored wrappings around the Christmas tree.  Santa struggles on unaided.

He wrenches rib muscles, gets charlie horses, he spits angel hair from his beard, sweats and swears, he wrestles himself from the bright red Santa suit like Jacob and the Archangel.  He is accompanied by cries of delight from the recipients of all this Christmas loot who have left him to this fate.

Believe me, I know.

If you think it is any fun to prance around like an overstuffed laundry bag, being JOLLY while giving out with the HO, HO, HO’s, with a mouth full of artificial whiskers in a home-made snow storm breathing in cedar pollen, then you have another think coming.

The thing for you to do is volunteer this Christmas, I can book you solid and write your material for you.

“Have you been a good little girl? Heh, heh, heh.”  What an approach.

And yet when we get right down to it, Santa Claus is the only surviving relic of a time gone by, when we all believed that the better we were, the greater our rewards would be.

Santa Claus never needs to be modernized, Santa Claus needs to be unchanging.  He needs to wear the baggy pants that are always in danger of falling down, he needs the long white beard that is always getting into his mouth, he needs to give out the jolly HO, HO, HO to every fresh faced, smiling child that he holds on his lap.  Of course a bag full of presents goes without saying.

Once in years past I took over for a friend who played Santa every year for a bunch of neighborhood kids and had fallen ill just about the  24th of December.

One of the ladies had rented a Santa Claus costume that would have fit Doc Holliday, if Holliday would have went for such foolishness as dressing up as an overweight Christmas cherub and spitting out Ho, Ho, HO’s to a gang of neighborhood kids.  The costume was put together with rubber bands, no buttons, no zippers, no fasteners of any kind.

I put the costume on and retreated to a bathroom.  Through the halfway opened door I could hear one of the neighborhood ladies telling the children that the happiest people in the world are the ones that didn’t have anything.  That bothered me because I had a whole bag of presents to give out to the children.

I had began to sweat because I had put the costume on too soon, and I had to wait many minutes while the children sang a few carols.  Outside, a blizzard was blowing, but inside the central heat was going full blast.

The Santa mask didn’t fit, one of the eyeholes kept slipping down so all I could see was the bathroom floor and a view of my pseudo Santa  boots.

When the lady chairperson came to summon me, I was trying to hoist the red trousers to a more respectable altitude, and the wide black patent leather belt had become entangled with the flushing mechanism on the commode.  In the excitement of the moment I grabbed the wrong bag and was about to distribute a bag of dirty laundry instead of the presents.

But, like a true champion, I emerged from the bathroom emitting a series of HO, HO, HO’s and have you been a good little boy/girl, when my own personal Wranglers I was wearing under the Santa suit and which I wore for safety sake, let go and split right down the middle.

When this ordeal was over I retreated to the bathroom and clambered from the costume as best and as fast as I could.  I was remembering back to the time when there was only one Santa Claus.  He wasn’t on every street corner as he is today.  He came to Briggs, Oklahoma and we were all glad to see him.  Young and old alike, it made no difference if sometimes he left more than he did at others.  he was the one and only.

And I don’t remember him bouncing around saying HO, HO, HO.  Maybe that was the time when Christmas came out of the Bible, and we all believed.

The Poor Bastard

In my last post, I shared with you a picture of a snake who was close enough to crawl up my skirt, if he’d taken the notion.  Thank Goodness, he didn’t.

 

I received a comment from  my dear, sweet Aunt Bert asking if we killed it or am I learning to live with them?I didn’t answer her comment because it’s a complicated answer which involves more explanation than a yes/no can give.
I must begin at the beginning, which is a very good place to begin.

My snake sighting number is at a total of 4, plus one molted (do snakes molt) snake skin. 

When we bought this place, we discovered a snake skin and my wise dad commented “if you found a snake skin, the owner is around there somewhere.”  I didn’t completely ignore him, but I imagined surely the snake had moved on to greener pastures.

The first snake I saw, I killed with no less than 50  whacks of a shovel. 


The second snake I saw, was a tiny little baby snake that got away.


The third snake I saw crawled up my skirt (in my imagination)


And the fourth snake I saw was coiled under a tree hissing and striking at my dog AT THE SAME TIME the other snake was crawling up my skirt. He wasn’t in the mood for a photo shoot.

Seeing a snake will definitely give you the eebie jeebies, but seeing TWO snakes at the same time within 3 feet of one another will give you the triple eebie jeebies.

Each time a snake slithers past, I do a triple-step-bunny-hop, scream like a girl, and get the shivers all at once.  Then I dash in the house to call my beloved, my knight-in-shining-armor, my hero, who inadvertently is 30 miles or more away and lets out an exasperated breath on the other end of the line. 

My husband has me describe the snake in detail and identifies it as a bull snake:  a good, harmless, beneficial, kind and benevolent snake.  The kind I should invite for supper.  The kind I should make the poster child of the J&A Chicken Ranch. 

With the exception of the first one that I hacked to death, I leave them alone, they stay around for at least AN HOUR AND A HALF while I become a PRISONER in my own home, afraid to leave the comfort of my air-conditioned living room, peeking out the curtain every 10 minutes, watching their every move, and eventually they slither away to places unknown to me, and I live in a state of anxiety and trepidation until the next encounter.

Now J-Dub and I have a pretty decent marriage going on, but the snake incidents have just nearly driven us to the divorce attorneys.  And I jest not.

I want the snakes dead.  And He doesn’t.  His argument is they are harmless, they eat rodents which carry nasty diseases, and “people” claim they keep rattlesnakes away as well.  They are good snakes and I should just leave them alone. 

My argument is they give me the eebie jeebies. 
I think my argument wins.

Realizing he is not going to come to my rescue when I see a snake, realizing that I’m going to see more snakes, realizing that 50 whacks with a shovel will only kill a little snake, I asked him to show me how to shoot a gun.  That statement led to a  fight, which led to me leaving the house for a couple of hours until tempers cooled and rational thinking returned.

After a couple of hours away, and a couple ice cream cones consumed, I returned to the Snake Spa, where all snakes come to bask in refreshing coolness and safety of a mostly yellow, but half-green yard.  Come one, come all, enjoy your stay!

As I was driving up, I flicked on the bright lights and observed a dead snake in the road outside the driveway.  I walked into the house and the conversation was as follows:
Me:  Who killed that snake?
J-Dub:  Who do you think killed him? I shot the poor bastard!  I drove him out from under the feed room.  He tried to get away, but I killed the poor bastard anyway!

A couple nights later, we saw a coyote running across the pasture with the poor bastard hanging from his jaws.

And ever since the poor bastard’s been killed, I haven’t seen any of his wives, sisters, brothers, daughters, sons, or cousins twice removed.

I since have been given a pistola and 2 bullets of rat shot and I’m not afraid to use it.  Well truthfully, I’m terrified to use it.  Probably more terrified than seeing a snake. So to the next bull snake that slithers into the yard:  I’ll just do a triple-step-bunny-hop, scream like a girl, get the shivers and run to the house.  You enjoy the coolness of the grass for 90 minutes, AND NOT A SECOND MORE, and then be on your way.  Or there’s going to be trouble.  Ya hear?

So Aunt Bert, I hope that answers your question. 

On our anniversary, while we ate our tender steak and tough corn, I told my bull-snake loving husband about a friend on Facebook who has a State of the Marriage Address each year on their anniversary.  They discuss how things are, what needs to be improved, and the overall state of their marriage.  We both agreed that life was going pretty well for us and our marriage was strong.  And then he added “Except I need to be more patient with you adjusting to living in the country.”

 “Motion seconded!  Pass the Corn!”

 

The Chickens

My life has no D.R.A.M.A.
Thank God.

 I am approximately 18 days into my summer vacation and I am B.O.R.E.D. out of my G.O.U.R.D.
Thank God.
I would much rather be bored than have drama.  Hands down.

My day consists of
wakening, letting out the chickens, and going back to bed. 
Re-awakening,  checking my facebook and email, and having a little Shredded Wheat with my sugar. 
Yes, I eat Shredded Wheat.  And Raisin Bran.  And Grape Nuts.
I’m old, okay.

Occasionally, I’ll walk the drive-way a few times for exercise, catch up on DVR’d Beth Moore episodes, and perhaps kill a snake.  Okay.  Once.  That just happened once.
But it’s not as if it couldn’t happen again.

This sneaky snake was in my yard, with a friend I might add, just the other day.  You have to look closely.  He’s got the camo thing going on.  And ignore the broken flowerpot growing a weed, it’s not really marijuana, it just looks like it.  Just moments before this picture was snapped, I was standing at the tail, right there on the sidewalk, just hanging out.  I nearly peed down both legs.

Back to my day:

I don’t put on make-up or fix my hair.
I dig through laundry piles to find my cleanest, dirty shirt (name that song).
I swat flies and eat popsicle.
Then I lay down again and sleep the afternoon away until my husband’s diesel rouses me and I must scurry about as if I’ve been busy all day long.  Which it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure out I haven’t.  With the piles of laundry and popsicle wrappers lying around.

That’s it.  That’s my day, every day, in a nut shell.

The highlight of which is walking to the mailbox every evening and being utterly disappointed that no one has sent me a handwritten letter.  The last letter I received was postmarked 1995.

And since my life is shrouded in a cloud of laziness and patheticism, I have nothing to offer you today (as if I do any other day) than a Chicken Update.

The chickens are 3 months and 2 days old and the ones who survived the box are still surviving.  All fourteen of the little boogers.

None have been carried off in a chicken hawk’s beak or swallowed whole by a serpent.

However, this one just spun her head around, sorry you missed it.

They all still love me very much, but only because I feed them overripe bananas and moldy bread.

Occasionally I get pecked, but it doesn’t hurt and they quit after I give them a  swift kick in the butt.  A swift and gentle kick in the butt.

Risking losing all of your respect right here and now, I must confess, I no longer know which one is Freedom.
I used to identify her by her head markings, then they changed, so I noticed 2 stripes on her tail, then they changed, then I could identify her by a jagged tail feather, then it must’ve fallen out.  She is now unrecognizable, even to her mama.  Please don’t weep. 

They won’t start laying eggs until they are 5-6 months old.  Which will put us around Aug-Sept. 

These two are already looking for the monster that laid this one.

So, how about you and your summer?  What have you done?  Are you bored yet?  What’s your favorite color popsicle? What is today, anyway?

A Note From our Father

This turned my day around today.

A facebook friend, Janet, had it posted.

I felt compelled to share.

In a world of much uncertainty one thing is true, God knows everything about you: everything you have ever done; everything you have ever said; and every thought you have ever had. He is an awesome God! Here is a love letter to you.

 

My Child,

You may not know me, but I know everything about you (Psalm 139.1)

I know when you sit down and when you rise up (Psalm 139.2)

I am familiar with all your ways (Psalm 139.3)

Even the very hairs on your head are numbered (Matthew 10.29-31)

For you were made in my image (Genesis 1.27)

In me you live and move and have your being (Acts 17.28)

For you are my offspring (Acts 17.28)

I knew you even before you were conceived Jeremiah (1.4-5)

I chose you when I planned creation (Ephesians 1.11-12)

You were not a mistake, for all your days are written in my book (Psalm 139.15-16)

I determined the exact time of your birth and where you would live (Acts 17.26)

You are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139.14)

I knit you together in your mother’s womb (Psalm 139.13)

And brought you forth on the day you were born (Psalm 71.6)

I have been misrepresented by those who don’t know me (John 8.41-44)

I am not distant and angry, but am the complete expression of love (1 John 4.16)

And it is my desire to lavish my love on you (1 John 3.1)

Simply because you are my child and I am your Father (1 John 3.1)

I offer you more than your earthly father ever could (Matthew 7.11)

For I am the perfect father (Matthew 5.48)

Every good gift that you receive comes from my hand (James 1.17)

For I am your provider and I meet all your needs (Matthew 6.31-33)

My plan for your future has always been filled with hope (Jeremiah 29.11)

Because I love you with an everlasting love (Jeremiah 31.3)

My thoughts toward you are countless as the sand on the seashore.(Psalms 139.17-18)

And I rejoice over you with singing (Zephaniah 3.17)

I will never stop doing good to you (Jeremiah 32.40)

For you are my treasured possession (Exodus 19.5)

I desire to establish you with all my heart and all my soul Jeremiah (32.41)

And I want to show you great and marvellous things (Jeremiah 33.3)

If you seek me with all your heart, you will find me (Deuteronomy 4.29)

Delight in me and I will give you the desires of your heart (Psalm 37.4)

For it is I who gave you those desires (Philippians 2.13)

I am able to do more for you than you could possibly imagine (Ephesians 3.20)

For I am your greatest encourager (2 Thessalonians 2.16-17)

I am also the Father who comforts you in all your troubles (2 Corinthians 1.3-4)

When you are broken-hearted, I am close to you (Psalm 34.18)

As a shepherd carries a lamb, I have carried you close to my heart (Isaiah 40.11)

One day I will wipe away every tear from your eyes (Revelation 21.3-4)

And I’ll take away all the pain you have suffered on this earth (Revelation 21.3-4)

I am your Father, and I love you even as I love my son, Jesus (John 17.23)

For in Jesus, my love for you is revealed (John 17.26)

He is the exact representation of my being (Hebrews 1.3)

He came to demonstrate that I am for you, not against you (Romans 8.31)

And to tell you that I am not counting your sins (2 Corinthians 5.18-19)

Jesus died so that you and I could be reconciled (2 Corinthians 5.18-19)

His death was the ultimate expression of my love for you (1 John 4.10)

I gave up everything I loved that I might gain your love (Romans 8.31-32)

If you receive the gift of my son Jesus, you receive me (1 John 2.23)

And nothing will ever separate you from my love again (Romans 8.38-39)

Come home and I’ll throw the biggest party heaven has ever seen (Luke 15.7)

I have always been Father, and will always be Father (Ephesians 3.14-15)

My question is “Will you be my child?” (John 1.12-13)

I am waiting for you (Luke 15.11-32)

June 12th

Today, J-Dub and I celebrate 7 years of wedded bliss.

He claims it’s only feels like 30 minutes.
Underwater.

He also informed me a few moments ago that my corn-on-the-cob is always kinda tough.  Evidently I cook it wrong.  According to Google, you should boil the water first, then add the corn, return to a boil, cover, turn off the heat and let sit for 15 minutes.

Who knew?

I just throw it all in there and let it boil together. 

Today we honored our love by napping the afternoon away.  I did, anyway. 

Soon we will enjoy a tender steak on the grill with tough corn-on-the-cob.  Then watch Cheers reruns until snores fill the living room.  Mine, of course.

Naturally, seven years is not a great accomplishment, we haven’t reached our silver, golden, or even aluminum milestone, but in this day and age, I’d like to think we’re doing okay.  I asked my sweet beloved what advice he would give others for achieving marital bliss.  He answered, “I don’t know what that is.”

But he came up with a few:

1) Laugh alot—-at each other’s expense.
2)  Say “Yes Dear” often.
3) Come to the blinding realization that your twinkies are her twinkies too, so coming home to the last twinkie wrapper crumbled on the counter is just tough nookies.
4)  Realize you can’t win.
5) Never criticize her cooking.  (Oops)

All jokes aside, marriage can be a wonderful union full of rich rewards.  It takes sacrifice and unselfishness.  Giving of yourself to another and enjoying the ride.

And eating the tough corn-on-the-cob.

In Memory of my Dad #16

The laziness of summer causes my days to run together, but then I remembered today is Saturday, which means a story from Bob.

Tear Gas Didn’t Go Over at Sonny’s Soul Kitchen That Night
R.L. Briggs

Though the details on your arrival are a bit fuzzy, the terrain is not all that unfamiliar, so you are not that surprised to find yourself in a place called Sonny’s Soul Kitchen at 3 a.m.

The day has turned to night for the second time in a row, a flashing kaleidoscope of color that makes two a.m. become six a.m. somewhere in your sodden mind.  But you are not ready to admit that you have crossed the line, so you order another Cuba Libre and case the joint for the companion that brought you to this place.

Sonny’s Soul Kitchen usually serves good barbecue and pretty decent soul food up until midnight, but it is past that time now.  Instead of the band, a little three-piece combo is cooking to the strains of “Crawlin’ Kingsnake.”  The blues fill the air as the tenor sax overrides the down home beat of the bass guitar.  The raw feeling of pain in the singer’s voice seems to reverberate through you.  You listen intently, lost in a world of your own.

A small wizened man in a too big shirt covered with red parrots comes in with a wash tub and a  piece of baling twine attached to it and a mop handle on the other end and sets up with the band.  He starts to beat out a double bass rhythm keeping excellent time.  “That’s Duhon,” said the bartender.  “Some nights he sits in with the band.”

Yours was one of the few white faces in attendance this morning, everywhere you looked there were black faces from the almost blue-black blend to the straight aquiline noses of the red American Indian.  Smiling, sweaty faces that gave a glimpse of gold whenever they laughed or told one of their many jokes.  The joint was definitely jumping.

The dancing was getting wilder now, none of this two-stepping, fox-trotting business either.  There was a rhythm to the music now, it was getting jerkier, more lust driven.  Short cries and loud shouts accompanied the dancers as they vied for more room, more attention on the dance floor.  I felt a deep driving urge to join in with the dancers, but by now my tongue felt like an iguana had been using it for a chew toy, so I told the bartender “more rum and ice, heavy on the ice.”

I had come in here with Stone.  Stone and I try not to see each other as much as we would like because we bring out the worst in the other.  He plays Jekyll to my Hyde.  Or Neal Cassidy to my Jack Kerouac–it just depends on who you believe.  Stone is the kind of man who would be in a place like this at this hour of the morning.

His mission in life is to have as much fun as possible in as little time as possible.  Stone’s only fear is that they may be having more fun at the place we just left or the place we are heading to.

The impromptu thrill that you felt when he showed up at your place with Lynyrd Skynyrd blasting from the stereo was beginning to wear a little thin.

A platinum blonde is dancing wildly with a neat little black man wearing a bright red shirt that reminded me of Patrice Lumumba.  He is doing an involved dance step while the blonde held her arms akimbo like a hula dancer, an intense look of concentration on her face.  Hbbbbber body jerked back and forth to the conga rhythm, now and then she would spin, her plaid skirt flaring out full around her like a colorful fan.

I raised my glass to them in a silent salute, and decided it was time to join the dancers.  I asked another pale face if she wanted to dance and she looked at me as if I had spiders nesting in my hair.  She turned me down flat and went to dancing with a  spade bearded man.  I stood alone in the middle of the dance floor and thought about the tear gas canister that was hidden under the front seat. 

I  had bought the grenade shaped tear gas bomb in a Army-Navy store in Oklahoma City the week before.  I’d remembered Stone asking me something about Beirut when he saw the small bomb, I’d laughed and told him to expect the unexpected.

The dancing had reached a high in debauchery as I came back inside with the tear gas bomb.  The sax screamed and the drums beat out a harrowing rhythm as the crowd yelled and groaned their delight, I thought the old building would cave in under all the noise and shouting.

I made a pass around the crowded room sounding like a leaky tire as I held the handle down on the bomb.  Fog followed me as I made my way to the front door.  I’d planned on getting back to Stone’s pick-up where I could witness the exodus undisturbed.

I got outside just in time to witness Stone’s tail lights as he made the far corner of the block.  By now people were boiling out of the place, it was every man for himself as the caustic gas began to take hold.

I got whipped like a rented mule that night.  I had no place to run and I felt my nose crunch as the first of several blows caught me right on the button.

My lips felt like two pieces of chopped liver, and I couldn’t see out of one of my eyes.  Somewhere in the melee one of my tennis shoes was ripped from my feet and thrown at my head.

I was never so glad to see anyone as the bartender in my life.  “Big boy, it’s time for you to go,” he said laughing quietly.  I stumbled off down the dirt street telling myself that I’d had a good time no matter what had happened. 

I gave a growling German Shepherd a big right-of-way as the early morning sunlight hit my one good eye like a mother’s wrath.

I heard what sounded like a young voice humming Brahms’ “Lullaby” in the distance.

Book Recommendation

Summer in the Texas Panhandle has descended upon us and is pummeling us with her hot, grubby fists.  Yesterday I believe the mercury rose to 106.  I don’t have my pool yet.  The problem lies in deciding where to put it. 

Do I:

a) put it in the backyard fully covered by a fence with absolutely no grass and let it become a mucky, muddy, mess? 

b) put it outside of the fence-shielded backyard and run the risk of passersby seeing me in my string bikini? 

c)  quit my crazy dreaming that I’ll ever wear a bikini again as long as I live.

You know what’s crazy?  Even when I could’ve worn a bikini, I didn’t.  I always have been self-conscious of myself in a bathing suit.  Still am, but so is 98% of all the other women out there.  The other 2%, I’m sure you’ve seen them too.

Since my swimming pool is not up and ready, and it was too hot to be outside for this delicate flower, I decided to hole up yesterday and read.  I spent my day reading Heaven is For Real and I must give it 2 thumbs up.

Heaven is for Real: A Little Boy's Astounding Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back [Book]

It is written by Todd Burpo whose not yet four-year old son undergoes an emergency appendectomy and months later begins to relate to his family about his trip to heaven. 

Being the staunch skeptic that I am, I read the book with, well, skepticism.  And lots of it.  Because that’s how I roll.  But by the end of the book, I was convinced this young man really experienced the things he claimed to have experienced.

It’s an easy read.  It’s a can’t-put-it-down kind of book.  It’s a book you shouldn’t keep, but should pass on to someone else.  It gives hope.  It answers questions.  It causes the doubting Thomas’s of the world (like me) to have faith in things they haven’t seen and believe that others are blessed to get to see them.

If you’re a reader, you should read it.  And if you’re not a reader, you should read it.  It’s worth it.

And since I didn’t do a blasted thing yesterday except read and eat and sleep, today I must crack the whip at myself and get some things accomplished.

But first, I just thought of one good thing about it being so hot. 
I didn’t see a snake yesterday!
I stayed in the cool and they did too.

Cheers,

Angel

 

 

Peace, Quiet, Serenity, and other lies of Living in the Country

 
 
 
 
 

 We’ve all seen the magazine pictures.  The quaint farmhouse set on a hill with rolling green meadows and white rail fencing.  We imagine the serenity, the peace that we could experience if we could just get away from the city.  The hustle and bustle, the horns and sirens. 

But put a trailer house out in the middle of the windy, hot, dusty, dry Texas Panhandle and you get a whole ‘nother atmosphere.

Yesterday Manic Depression plagued me.  My neurosis of the day for June 7 is Fear and Anxiety.  Really I was doing just fine until the snake incident a couple of days ago.  Now I tiptoe gingerly everywhere I go.  If a feather breezes across my path,  I jump a foot.  And then there was the fire today which set me into a nervous dither.

  I was piddling about the house this morning wearing an apron.  Well not JUST an apron, but an apron over my clothes (hoping that would inspire me to clean) when I began to hear sirens.  Weird with a capital W.  I glanced out the window and saw a couple of firetrucks whiz by which caused an elevation in heart rate due to the fact that we are in a major drought with wind gusts upwards of 40 mph.

More sirens, more window peeking.  I then decide to go outside so I can see what is happening on the highway that runs parallel to my house.  The sky is dirty. It could be dust or it could be smoke.  The traffic slows and then stops from both directions.  A highway patrol passes.  A Department of Transportation vehicle passes.  It could be a wreck or it could be a fire.   I make a few phone calls, to my Sister-in-law who has a scanner but knows nothing, to the Sheriff’s office which confirms a fire, but mostly panicked pleas to my husband’s voicemail.  In a matter of a very few minutes I contemplate how I’m going to get my dogs and my chickens evacuated, checking off a list of important items to grab:   i.e. computer hard drive, a few photos, my wedding ring, and my husband’s handmade cowboy boots.   And then decide in order to quit worrying, I’ll just go right to the source, so I walk across the road to where the nearest fire truck is parked and question the fireman if I indeed need to be calling my insurance company within the next half hour.  I was reassured that everything was under control and my biggest problem would be getting back across the highway since they have now released the traffic.  So I did just that.  I darted across the highway and thanked God for his mercy.

Fast forward 10 hours. 

I’m piddling around the house, this time without an apron, when my husband says, “I’m going to do chores.”

“I’m going with you.”  I announce.

Chores around here consist of feeding and watering horses and dogs.  I’ve got the chickens set up to only need care about once a week. 

This is an old walk-in cooler or something that was here on the place when we bought it.  Yes, it’s an eyesore, but so is everything else around here so we’ve come to love it.  Plus, it makes a very efficient feed room.  Rats and mice cannot enter and it’s just the right size to store all the sacks of feed and buckets necessary.
 
J-Dub and I go out and began our evening chores while our two dogs Drew and Grace follow along, searching and sniffing.
Suddenly, I notice Drew is very intent on smelling underneath the “feed room”.  I call to him and he ignores me.  I’ve seen him sniff out a possum from under a porch before and he is in exactly the same stance and frame of mind as the aforementioned possum massacre.  I call to him again.
 
“Leave him alone,” my husband tells me. 
“There’s something under there,” I answer.
By this time, our other dog Grace has joined Drew in the excited sniffing and smelling escapade that is taking place.
“It’s probably a rabbit,” says Jason, “Let them be dogs.”
 
When all of a sudden, the body of the something that is under the feedroom comes into view.  And once again, for the 3rd time in about 3 days I get to see yet another snake.  Only this one is a behemoth, a mammoth, curled under the “feed room”.  My husband begins his investigation of the kind of snake lurking and I begin my departure.  Slowly backing away and taking the extreme long way around.  After my husband throws a rock at it, to get it to move so he can see it better, I hear this sound that can only be a rattler to the untrained ear (mine). 
“It’s a rattlesnake!” I exclaim. 
“No it’s not.  It’s just a bull snake.  He’s opening his mouth and hissing as me,”  my husband informs as he is hunkered down peering under the feedroom.
 
And then it was over.  The dogs were called back into the yard, my husband continues his feeding, and I am about to crawl out of my skin.
 
My husband doesn’t kill bull snakes.  My husband only kills rattlers.  Bull snakes are “good” snakes if ever a snake were to be found.  They eat rodents.  They’ve been known to eat rattlesnakes.  They eat chicken eggs, but never mind that. 
Fear grips my body as the realization that I am living with a den of snakes, one of which is likely the mother to the other and has hatched a whole passel of eggs, and will continue to do so.  And there’s nothing I can do about it seeing as how hard a time I had killing a baby one. 
 
Acting as calmly as possible, I carry on a conversation with J-Dub as we water the yard.
“So, that snake bites, yes?”
“Yes, but it’s not poisonous and it won’t bite unless you’re provoking it.”
“So,”  I pause, “do you think the snake lives there permanently?”
“No, he’s probably just shading up.”
“Okay, so he’s just visiting.  So, how often does he need to eat?” Concern for my chickens erupts my thinking.
“I don’t know.”
“So, tomorrow morning, if I open the door and he’s curled up on the porch, I’m supposed to just step over him?”
“No, he might bite you if you step over him,” I’m calmly informed.  “Get a broom and push him off the porch.”
“Okay, what if he coils up and hisses at me like he just did you?”
“Just get something long enough and push on him, he’ll slither away.”
And then I got the Augustus McCrae quote from Lonesome Dove, “You’re  going to give yourself the drizzles if you don’t relax.”
 
Excuse me, but I have the sudden urge to go the bathroom.
 
 
 
 
 

Nobody Knows

This morning I praised God.

This evening I questioned Him.

This morning I sat with the sunrise and read His Word.

This evening I sat on a stump and cried real tears.

This morning I sang, “Standing on the Promises.”

This evening I sang, “Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Seen.”

Join with me :Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Seen.

Nobody Knows (Go deep now) My Sorrows. 

It’s only further evidence of my self-diagnosed Manic Depression.  Or Bipolar Disorder if we are politically correct.  And mustn’t we be?  Of course in 2011, we must be politically correct.  That’s another thing that really burns my butt.  When did we become such sissies?

But enough of that.  Let’s get  back to me and my state of sissydom.  Because really, isn’t it all about me?

Me?  I’m fine.  Don’t worry about me.  It’s nothing, really.

No one is dead.  No one is hurt.  Everyone is fine and dandy.  Except for the horse who cut up her foot.

It’s only a molehill turning into a mountain.

It’s just a few more straws added to the camelette’s back.

But the camelette is still standing.  She’s one tough camelette, married to one tough camelot.

Just telling you about it helps me, so if you don’t mind me whining for just  moment, I’ll digress.

I’m feeling much better now.

Thanks for listening.

On a lighter note, I took my niece and a friend to the Amarillo zoo today because it’s free. 

The only trouble with going to the zoo on Free Monday is all the other poor folk are out as well.  It makes a person wonder why they have the animals caged and the humans roaming free.  I think it should be the other way around at the zoo on Free Monday.  Some places just attract people that make you go hmmmmmm. 

The circus.

The carnival.

 The Walmarts.

I chose a terrible time of the day to arrive at the zoo.  Right smack dab in the heat of it.  So the animals laid around in the shade and didn’t give 2 squirts of owl crap about the homo sapiens staring through their wire, generating strange primal sounds cleverly thinking they sound like one of their kind just to get a tail to wag or an eye to  blink.  My niece’s friend stated, “They just ignore us!”

Come to think of it, the animals are depressed.  And why shouldn’t they be.  What a miserable existence lying in a small confined space when they know they were born to be wild. 

Join with me now:  Born to be wiiiiilililild.

After the zoo, we stopped at a strip mall, where I bought the book “Heaven is For Real.”  Can’t wait to start that.  Ashy and her friend bought Bubba teeth and plastic flutes that very nearly got flung out the window on the ride home.

And now I’m home while my husband is broke down in Amarillo.  But not to worry, his brother is on his way to pick him up, and pull his truck to a mechanic. 

Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen.

Supper’s not been cooked.

Nobody knows my sorrow.

But soon he’ll be home.

Sometimes I’m up and sometimes I’m down.

And give each other a tight bear hug.

Sometimes I’m almost to the ground.

And all will be right with the world.

Glory Hallelujah.

 

 

In Memory of My Dad #15

It was the kid’s first job as a pipefitter with the H.B. Zachery Company,  he had just picked up his card in Amarillo, Texas and was now driving down to Lubbock where the big turnaround was to take place. A turnaround is where a plant is shut down for two or three weeks and a bunch of craftsmen come in to go completely through the plant fixing and overhauling the equipment. A turnaround was what the contract called for in the Exxon plant where they would be working.  It’s usually hard work, 12 hour days, seven days a week, but the pay was high and so the money was good.

There was one older man on this job that the kid had hit it off with when he worked as a helper back in Borger, Texas and he was anxious to see the man once more.  The man was in his 40’s; a great bear of a man, with a ruddy complexion and a huge red beard.  He had a perpetual smile on his face and seemed about ready to break out in laughter at any minute.  The man was well read; sort of an unemployable poet.

The kid used to follow him around trying to absorb all the knowledge the man had stored up over the years.  He used to tell the kid, “don’t push so hard, just take things as they come and they will.”  He and the kid were a good team.

The man had a small spread outside of Lubbock, a good-looking wife and a daughter that had just graduated from West Texas State up in Canyon who was home for a short visit before going off to Dallas or Houston to look for a job.  The man wanted the kid to meet his daughter.  He said they would cook some steaks out on the grill and quaff a few brews before the girl left to make her mark on the real world.

He and the kid took off one Sunday at noon because the man had a good working relationship with the boss and they drove to his ranch about ten miles outside of town.  They arrived there at his door at about 3 o’clock in the afternoon because they stopped for a few games of eight-ball at the Moose Lodge.

The daughter was drop dead beautiful.  She was about 5 feet 10 inches tall, and was built accordingly.  She was a green-eyed, black-haired home wrecker that should have been wanted in three states for manslaughter, and she could also put the beer away like a grownup.

Somewhere during the long evening, a lot more Cervazas was bought and drank, so the kid and the beauty decided they would drive into Lubbock where Joe Ely was appearing at the Palamino Club.

The kid was afoot, and so the man insisted they take his new Chevrolet Caprice into town.  He had just bought the ’66 Chevy and the only thing he was more proud of was his daughter.

It was unusually warm that evening, the moon hung there like a huge pumpkin in the bloodshot evening sky and the wind which usually growled over the plains was quiet as the kid headed down the highway, drunk on the beauty that clung to his arm (not to mention the cervezas).

The kid and the girl listened to all of Ely’s songs and the kid wasn’t ready for the night to end, when the beauty suggested they drive several miles up the highway to Lake MacKenzie and park there for a while.

The kid picked up a handy twelve pack and a square bottle of Jose Gold, and they began to partake of the liquid refreshment as soon as they cleared the city limits of Lubbock.

They parked there at the edge of the lake and did all the things that young lovers are supposed to do.  Finally, they decided to take a walk, and the kid carried the square bottle with them.

When they returned to the car after trading tequila flavored kisses, the car was sitting down on its frame in a pool of quicksand on the small spit of land.  The kid knew if he didn’t get help in retrieving the car soon, it would be history–he needed help and he needed it “post-haste”.

The tequila was having its effect on the dark-haired beauty by now, and she would have been worshipping at the porcelain altar if they would have had one, as it was, she just used the floorboard of her Daddy’s new Chevy.  The kid had no choice but to walk to a farmer’s house they had passed a few miles back and ask for assistance.

It was by now about 4 o’clock in the morning, and had started to rain, one of the six times that year it occurred.

The farmer was really angry with this rain-soaked, bedraggled individual who stood on his doorstep that morning—but the code of the west wouldn’t let him say no.  So he put on his rain gear and got on his tractor to try to pull the kid out.

The kid gingerly lifted the comatose beauty out of the way while the farmer was hooking the chain to the rear bumper.  The farmer was in a real rage and was pulling the car out as fast as he could, the kid had one hand on the wheel and the other on the open door and was trying to see through the rainstorm when the door caught on a tree stump and jerked the bumper off at one end and slewing the car around until it came to rest in a ditch.  The farmer then hooked the chain to the other bumper and gave it a mighty heave, tearing the bumper loose from its moorings on one end–but by golly, they had the car out and it still ran.

So here’s a new car with both bumpers dragging, the driver’s door torn halfway off, as the black-haired beauty hurled in the floor board and about a ton and a half of mud was tracked into the car by then.

The kid drove back to his room in the dismal swamp, the rooming house, and sent the sleepy beauty home with her father’s car.

The next morning the kid was sitting there reading the baseball box scores, when he heard what sounded like a D-9 caterpillar coming down the street.  It had a horrible rending sound as the bumpers were scraping the pavement and throwing great gobs of blacktop up while shooting sparks.  The screeching could be heard for miles.

The man could have wired the bumpers up, and he could have shut the door a little better.  But he was bringing the wreck in to show what a jerk the kid was and to demand payment on the spot. 

As the man pulled up to the front of the building, the kid could see him and the man was all but steaming.

The whole crew went out to see what had transpired the night before.  So as they made their way in the front door, the kid was making his way out the back.  The kid didn’t pick up his check, lunch box or tools.  He had a ’59 Oldsmobile and the burning of rubber was the last thing anyone heard from him.  The kid didn’t breathe easy until he reached Happy, Texas which was 200 miles to the north.

Happiness was Lubbock, Texas in his rearview mirror. 

~R.L Briggs