We flocked together on Saturday at the Norris Conference Center. About 150 middle-aged (for the most part), avid genealogists. Our speaker was John Philip Colletta, whose latest book I had purchased a few months ago. We contemplated the topics of compiling narrative family histories from all the data we have collected over the years.
It's a subject I have spent time pondering. How does one present 35 years of research to the public in an entertaining format? I have 16 notebooks full of dry data that nobody would be interested in, unless they were trying to build their own genealogy.
But, sprinkled in amongst the births, marriages, deaths and burials are a few fascinating stories. There is my great-grandfather who left his wife and enlisted in the Navy under an assumed name. My great-great grandfather who was accused of child molestation during his divorce proceedings. My great-great grandfather who spent 6 months camping in the bitter cold as a volunteer cavalryman in support of Custer's pursuit of the Cheyenne in post Civil War Oklahoma and Kansas. And a few scandals that are still buried in the annals of my family history until enough time has passed to blunt the shame that was felt by the relatives. All juicy stuff with potential for spinning a good yarn for public consumption.
Mr. Colletta surprised us by pointing out how many books are on the best-seller lists that were inspired by family tales that have been passed down. A few years ago Cane River was published by a lady who wrote a fictionalized accounting of her family's history. It made Oprah's Book Club. It gets you thinking...would my family's history catch the attention of folks who had no blood connections?
This past year has seen a slump in my genealogy research. Too many details and problems in real life to spend much time on lives in the distant past. I've had to fight myself to produce any writing in the arena of genealogy. But I felt a flicker of interest stir as I listened to Mr. Colletta talk about the family legend that became the basis of his book Only a Few Bones . And yesterday I found myself jotting notes for a possible newsletter article. I'm hoping that the tide is turning and I will find my inspiration again.
Nothing like the association of like-minded folks to whet your interest. It's time to get back into that genealogy maze. Perhaps it's time to consider what format my book should take.
Hot dog. I'm back in the saddle again.
LSW
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Friday, August 19, 2005
Eavesdropping at the Diner
On Thursdays I work at home. When lunchtime rolled around yesterday, I decided it was time to hit La Cabana for a Tex-Mex fix. After all, when you're stressed and need a strong dose of tranquility, what better than enchiladas? I arrived about 11:30 and settled in a booth and ordered the #2. I soon had my book open, a big glass of iced tea, chips and a perfect batch of salsa. I had beat the lunch crowd from Smithville and was congratulating myself on a good idea for a relaxing meal.
My plate arrived about the same time as three ladies claimed the corner booth just behind me. They were talking emphatically when they got there and they didn't stop the whole time I was there. It became crystal clear within a few sentences that they were ticked off at the boss. Whatever he or she had done to them, they spent their lunchtime discussing strategies for getting their frustrations addressed. I almost laughed. How many lunches have I spent listening to colleagues cussing and discussing aggravations at work? It doesn't matter if you work in the big city or the small city - it's the same all over.
I have a knack for happening into conversations between disgruntled co-workers. I'm always surprised how verbal people will be in front of total strangers. I've been standing at checkout counters, listening to the clerks trashing their supervisor when suddenly it occurs to one of them that I could very well cause them some trouble, if I were to ask to speak to a manager. The look of consternation, followed by a quick apology, always makes me smile. Heck, I've been there myself, I always tell them.
I try not to do my venting in public. At one point in my past, a former co-worker and I were chatting at lunch and I was catching her up on the latest excitements at the office, when I suddenly realized that the folks at the next table worked for our primary competitor. Fortunately I had not said anything derogatory or that would identify where I worked, but the possibility that I could have was unsettling. When I'm out to lunch in Austin, I do try to keep things generic, since you never know if your boss's cousin is at the next table. It seems like everybody in Northwest Hills is related or a friend of or a business associate to everyone else. I started taking a quick scan around when I sit down to see if I know anybody there. (I've spotted wives sitting within ear-shot.) This last caution is definitely hit-or-miss, since I'm horrible at remembering faces. I identify voices, but faces escape me if I don't see them every day.
I was amused yesterday, because I know how they felt. And their secret was safe with me. Sometimes you just have to get it out of your system. I'm sure they went back to the office, still frustrated, but a little less hostile than when they left for lunch. If for no other reason than they were full of quesadillas. A little venting and Tex-Mex. It's a good thing. But be careful to check who is in the next booth.
LSW
My plate arrived about the same time as three ladies claimed the corner booth just behind me. They were talking emphatically when they got there and they didn't stop the whole time I was there. It became crystal clear within a few sentences that they were ticked off at the boss. Whatever he or she had done to them, they spent their lunchtime discussing strategies for getting their frustrations addressed. I almost laughed. How many lunches have I spent listening to colleagues cussing and discussing aggravations at work? It doesn't matter if you work in the big city or the small city - it's the same all over.
I have a knack for happening into conversations between disgruntled co-workers. I'm always surprised how verbal people will be in front of total strangers. I've been standing at checkout counters, listening to the clerks trashing their supervisor when suddenly it occurs to one of them that I could very well cause them some trouble, if I were to ask to speak to a manager. The look of consternation, followed by a quick apology, always makes me smile. Heck, I've been there myself, I always tell them.
I try not to do my venting in public. At one point in my past, a former co-worker and I were chatting at lunch and I was catching her up on the latest excitements at the office, when I suddenly realized that the folks at the next table worked for our primary competitor. Fortunately I had not said anything derogatory or that would identify where I worked, but the possibility that I could have was unsettling. When I'm out to lunch in Austin, I do try to keep things generic, since you never know if your boss's cousin is at the next table. It seems like everybody in Northwest Hills is related or a friend of or a business associate to everyone else. I started taking a quick scan around when I sit down to see if I know anybody there. (I've spotted wives sitting within ear-shot.) This last caution is definitely hit-or-miss, since I'm horrible at remembering faces. I identify voices, but faces escape me if I don't see them every day.
I was amused yesterday, because I know how they felt. And their secret was safe with me. Sometimes you just have to get it out of your system. I'm sure they went back to the office, still frustrated, but a little less hostile than when they left for lunch. If for no other reason than they were full of quesadillas. A little venting and Tex-Mex. It's a good thing. But be careful to check who is in the next booth.
LSW
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
A Case of Mean Reds*
I've spent most of the day with an internal mad going. You know how it goes. One thing on top of another on top of another and then somebody does something and you snap. And you spend the rest of the day with your juices at a low boil. And the straw that breaks your camel's back is generally some piffling bulls--t that's not worth your attention, much less letting your whole system go arse over teakettle.
The bottom line is I'm tired. And when I get tired, watch out. The folks at work have been warned for many years that if you want to know how I really feel, ask me when I'm tired. You will get the unvarnished, unadulterated truth with no attempt to apply diplomatic filters. And when I reach that point, I don't waste my time feeling any guilt over bruised feelings.
It's mostly the fallout of two months of unending work. Add to that a round of doctor visits with my mother and the threat of a hospital stay that I know would cause more troubles than it would solve. (Thankfully that one got nipped in the bud by a doctor with a conflicting view of the situation.) Then the crowds of people out buying school supplies and making it impossible for a lunch time shopper to make any headway at all. Multiplied by the number of drivers who go completely incompetent when they see a few drops of rain. Divided by housework that there is no time to do. And then the straw.
There are several blogs that I read that I've come to count on to lift my spirits for a few minutes during the day. Sometimes they give me a laugh, sometimes a thought to ponder, and sometimes a similar experience to commiserate. Yesterday, one of my favorite blogs turned into a mud-slinging fight over one of those subjects that is best avoided in mixed company. (You know what they are: politics, religion and sex.) A little venting of frustration over the economy and the war. And then all hell broke loose, thanks to a super patriot who blasted their opinion (in triplicate) that a real American does not criticize or question those in charge. The blogger in question finally had it and invited the pious patriot to exit the discussion if they couldn't be civil. Then World War III broke out.
Well. The fallout of all that was a very real possibility that someone whose writing I have thoroughly enjoyed will pull the plug on the blog. All due to a small-minded person who couldn't stand anyone to disagree with them. My vicarious anger over the situation pushed me into the Mean Red zone.
Thank goodness for little dogs. They are every bit as good for my spirits as a trip to Tiffany's was for Holly Golightly. Everything is beginning to settle back to an even keel. For now. I'm actually beginning to catch up at work. We didn't have to do the hospital thing after all. School started (just those college kids in the stores now). Yesterday's afternoon rain waited to start until I was turning into the subdivision. And I'm going to take a moratorium on reading that particular blog for awhile. When I need a lift, I'm going to grab a puppy and get some of those unrestrained kisses that they dole out so willingly. Good medicine for the Mean Reds. As Scarlett was wont to say, "I'll think about that tomorrow. After all tomorrow is another day."
LSW
*By the way, if you don't get the reference to the Mean Reds, you need to rent Breakfast at Tiffany's. Holly Golightly defined them as worse than a case of the blues. The Mean Reds for her was when you're scared and you don't know why. The only thing that would cheer her up was a trip to Tiffany's, because nothing bad could happen to you in Tiffany's. Of course, she only had a cat. What she really needed was a puppy dog.
The bottom line is I'm tired. And when I get tired, watch out. The folks at work have been warned for many years that if you want to know how I really feel, ask me when I'm tired. You will get the unvarnished, unadulterated truth with no attempt to apply diplomatic filters. And when I reach that point, I don't waste my time feeling any guilt over bruised feelings.
It's mostly the fallout of two months of unending work. Add to that a round of doctor visits with my mother and the threat of a hospital stay that I know would cause more troubles than it would solve. (Thankfully that one got nipped in the bud by a doctor with a conflicting view of the situation.) Then the crowds of people out buying school supplies and making it impossible for a lunch time shopper to make any headway at all. Multiplied by the number of drivers who go completely incompetent when they see a few drops of rain. Divided by housework that there is no time to do. And then the straw.
There are several blogs that I read that I've come to count on to lift my spirits for a few minutes during the day. Sometimes they give me a laugh, sometimes a thought to ponder, and sometimes a similar experience to commiserate. Yesterday, one of my favorite blogs turned into a mud-slinging fight over one of those subjects that is best avoided in mixed company. (You know what they are: politics, religion and sex.) A little venting of frustration over the economy and the war. And then all hell broke loose, thanks to a super patriot who blasted their opinion (in triplicate) that a real American does not criticize or question those in charge. The blogger in question finally had it and invited the pious patriot to exit the discussion if they couldn't be civil. Then World War III broke out.
Well. The fallout of all that was a very real possibility that someone whose writing I have thoroughly enjoyed will pull the plug on the blog. All due to a small-minded person who couldn't stand anyone to disagree with them. My vicarious anger over the situation pushed me into the Mean Red zone.
Thank goodness for little dogs. They are every bit as good for my spirits as a trip to Tiffany's was for Holly Golightly. Everything is beginning to settle back to an even keel. For now. I'm actually beginning to catch up at work. We didn't have to do the hospital thing after all. School started (just those college kids in the stores now). Yesterday's afternoon rain waited to start until I was turning into the subdivision. And I'm going to take a moratorium on reading that particular blog for awhile. When I need a lift, I'm going to grab a puppy and get some of those unrestrained kisses that they dole out so willingly. Good medicine for the Mean Reds. As Scarlett was wont to say, "I'll think about that tomorrow. After all tomorrow is another day."
LSW
*By the way, if you don't get the reference to the Mean Reds, you need to rent Breakfast at Tiffany's. Holly Golightly defined them as worse than a case of the blues. The Mean Reds for her was when you're scared and you don't know why. The only thing that would cheer her up was a trip to Tiffany's, because nothing bad could happen to you in Tiffany's. Of course, she only had a cat. What she really needed was a puppy dog.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Memories of Palmer
In keeping with the week I've had, this is my second composition on this topic. I'm sure the first was better, so bear with me. Nothing more frustrating than an hour spent polishing a blog entry, pressing the post button, and having the darned thing shot into God knows where. Not sure what to blame--my computer, Blogger, Roadrunner, a faulty ethernet plug or something else entirely. All I know is point A didn't connect to point B and all evidence of my hard work disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.
This morning's Austin American-Statesman included an article on the imminent demise of Palmer Auditorium. I cannot quite conceive of an Austin without that familiar round building by the river. It is going to be odd the day I go over that overpass from Mopac to Cesar Chavez (1st Street) and there is no green domed roof to be seen.
Palmer Auditorium was relatively new when we moved to Oak Hill in 1959. My first time inside the building was on a field trip in first or second grade to see a live production of Sleeping Beauty (or maybe it was Cinderella). I was enchanted, and a spark was ignited that flamed into a love of live theater thereafter.
We moved to south Texas for several years and it would be quite some time before I again had a reason to be inside Palmer. But I would always look for it on our trips to Austin. That big green dome was a familiar friend.
My second visit to Palmer would be during my Freshman year in Smiley High School. I was in my second year of Home Economics, a subject that I was quite taken with and briefly considered as a possibility for a college major. (That idea was squashed the next year by an irksome Home Ec teacher. Nothing like a bad teacher to sour you on a subject forever.) My teacher that year was Miss Thomas, who I remember fondly for teaching me to knit. I was a member of the Future Homemakers of America and the convention was to be held in Austin at the Palmer Auditorium. A group of us and our teacher boarded a bus and headed off to the big city. Along about Luling, I found myself appointed to be the Smiley delegate to the convention. I had about 45 minutes to study the material I would be voting on later that day. I was all of 15, already taking myself way too seriously and worried about doing a good job for my school.
That day I discovered there was more to Palmer Auditorium than the auditorium. I spent the day walking up and down the long ramps to the various meeting rooms, listening to the presentations of the different options, and voting. I have no idea what the other girls were doing that day or what fun I might have missed. I did get a very extensive tour of the upper floors of the building.
When we moved to Bastrop in the early 70s, I had many occasions to walk the round corridor around the auditorium. Before the SAMI shows, there were Sertoma arts fairs and Mother and I spent many a Saturday prowling the booths set up in the auditorium.
I attended several concerts at Palmer. This was before the Special Events Center came to town. The acoustics were awful for music, but we enjoyed ourselves immensely. We sat about 10 rows away from Tom T. Hall when he came to town at the height of his popularity. One enjoyable evening was spent in the company of Kris Kristofferson, Rita Coolidge, Billy Swan and Willie Nelson.
I descended the musty stairwell to the basement many times to attend the Book and Paper Shows. I attended my first doll show at Palmer. For several years my friend Marianna and I went to the Junior League Christmas Affair and hobnobbed with the society folks. My last visit to Palmer was a couple of years back when I went to a live production of The Music Man, starring Larry Gatlin. The audience was seated at tables in something of a dinner theater format. At the end, an orchestra from one of the local high schools marched in to 76 Trombones. I can't think of a better way to spend my last moments in the venerable old building.
Today's article mentioned that they plan to incorporate some of the green tiles from the roof into the new Long Performance Center. I find that comforting. After all, that roof soaked up the music of Elvis, the voices of years of school children, the words of governors and even a President or two. How appropriate that some of that history be retained. For years the important events of Austin took place in that round building on the river, under the green domed roof. The very air there vibrates with the history of Austin. There are many of us old-timers who will miss that place, bad acoustics and all.
LSW
This morning's Austin American-Statesman included an article on the imminent demise of Palmer Auditorium. I cannot quite conceive of an Austin without that familiar round building by the river. It is going to be odd the day I go over that overpass from Mopac to Cesar Chavez (1st Street) and there is no green domed roof to be seen.
Palmer Auditorium was relatively new when we moved to Oak Hill in 1959. My first time inside the building was on a field trip in first or second grade to see a live production of Sleeping Beauty (or maybe it was Cinderella). I was enchanted, and a spark was ignited that flamed into a love of live theater thereafter.
We moved to south Texas for several years and it would be quite some time before I again had a reason to be inside Palmer. But I would always look for it on our trips to Austin. That big green dome was a familiar friend.
My second visit to Palmer would be during my Freshman year in Smiley High School. I was in my second year of Home Economics, a subject that I was quite taken with and briefly considered as a possibility for a college major. (That idea was squashed the next year by an irksome Home Ec teacher. Nothing like a bad teacher to sour you on a subject forever.) My teacher that year was Miss Thomas, who I remember fondly for teaching me to knit. I was a member of the Future Homemakers of America and the convention was to be held in Austin at the Palmer Auditorium. A group of us and our teacher boarded a bus and headed off to the big city. Along about Luling, I found myself appointed to be the Smiley delegate to the convention. I had about 45 minutes to study the material I would be voting on later that day. I was all of 15, already taking myself way too seriously and worried about doing a good job for my school.
That day I discovered there was more to Palmer Auditorium than the auditorium. I spent the day walking up and down the long ramps to the various meeting rooms, listening to the presentations of the different options, and voting. I have no idea what the other girls were doing that day or what fun I might have missed. I did get a very extensive tour of the upper floors of the building.
When we moved to Bastrop in the early 70s, I had many occasions to walk the round corridor around the auditorium. Before the SAMI shows, there were Sertoma arts fairs and Mother and I spent many a Saturday prowling the booths set up in the auditorium.
I attended several concerts at Palmer. This was before the Special Events Center came to town. The acoustics were awful for music, but we enjoyed ourselves immensely. We sat about 10 rows away from Tom T. Hall when he came to town at the height of his popularity. One enjoyable evening was spent in the company of Kris Kristofferson, Rita Coolidge, Billy Swan and Willie Nelson.
I descended the musty stairwell to the basement many times to attend the Book and Paper Shows. I attended my first doll show at Palmer. For several years my friend Marianna and I went to the Junior League Christmas Affair and hobnobbed with the society folks. My last visit to Palmer was a couple of years back when I went to a live production of The Music Man, starring Larry Gatlin. The audience was seated at tables in something of a dinner theater format. At the end, an orchestra from one of the local high schools marched in to 76 Trombones. I can't think of a better way to spend my last moments in the venerable old building.
Today's article mentioned that they plan to incorporate some of the green tiles from the roof into the new Long Performance Center. I find that comforting. After all, that roof soaked up the music of Elvis, the voices of years of school children, the words of governors and even a President or two. How appropriate that some of that history be retained. For years the important events of Austin took place in that round building on the river, under the green domed roof. The very air there vibrates with the history of Austin. There are many of us old-timers who will miss that place, bad acoustics and all.
LSW
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Amen, Brother Beecher
I subscribe to a daily newsletter from Ancestry.com which includes a "Thought for Today" at the end. Yesterday's was a quote from Henry Ward Beecher, a man after my own heart:
"A little library, growing larger every year, is an honorable part of a man's history. It is a man's duty to have books. A library is not a luxury, but one of the necessaries of life."
I will no longer feel guilty about the growing number of books in my personal library. I'm only fulfilling my duty. Boy, am I fulfilling my duty.
Now I need a quote to cover my compulsive CD buying habit.
LSW
"A little library, growing larger every year, is an honorable part of a man's history. It is a man's duty to have books. A library is not a luxury, but one of the necessaries of life."
I will no longer feel guilty about the growing number of books in my personal library. I'm only fulfilling my duty. Boy, am I fulfilling my duty.
Now I need a quote to cover my compulsive CD buying habit.
LSW
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Yes, I said No
I'm channeling my parents, grand parents and great-grandparents today. I shooed Mojo out of one of my orchid pots (he was determined to string bark and charcoal around the floor), and when I told him "No!", he gave me that incredulous look he's so good at. And then I caught myself saying "Yes, I said no!" Egads.
We have rechristened our house the House of Poo. Not as in Winnie, but as in what I pick up constantly through the day. It amazes me what can be produced by two tiny dogs during a 24 hour period. Coco is beginning to get the idea that it belongs outside, but Mojo has the idea that he has to hold it in until he gets back in the house or he will be a great disappointment to Mommy. She does seem to collect the stuff, for some reason. Stores it in that big white porcelain thing in the tiny room in the hall.
On another front, I am still wading through a stagnant swamp of work. There are days when I wonder if I will ever again get to do something I want to do. I know it can't last forever, but right now I feel like I've been wearing waders for two months and the stuff is beginning to flow over the top and pool around my feet. What I wouldn't give for a day or two of twiddling my thumbs.
My kingdom for a clone. I would love to send some little android in to do my work while I get back to genealogy, miniatures and knitting. I have piles of things in each category that need to be dealt with, but instead they are collecting dust. I'm way overdue in constructing a new family newsletter, but time doesn't allow it right now. I have dollhouse kits stacked in my work room ready to become my next fantasy house or shop. There is a small mountain of fabulous yarn I have amassed, and a pile of tempting patterns, and all my knitting needles remain empty. Oh well, I guess when I end up in a room with padded walls, I'll have lots of creative therapy available. But, then again, they would probably take my knives, saws, scissors and needles away from me. Ya just can't win.
LSW
We have rechristened our house the House of Poo. Not as in Winnie, but as in what I pick up constantly through the day. It amazes me what can be produced by two tiny dogs during a 24 hour period. Coco is beginning to get the idea that it belongs outside, but Mojo has the idea that he has to hold it in until he gets back in the house or he will be a great disappointment to Mommy. She does seem to collect the stuff, for some reason. Stores it in that big white porcelain thing in the tiny room in the hall.
On another front, I am still wading through a stagnant swamp of work. There are days when I wonder if I will ever again get to do something I want to do. I know it can't last forever, but right now I feel like I've been wearing waders for two months and the stuff is beginning to flow over the top and pool around my feet. What I wouldn't give for a day or two of twiddling my thumbs.
My kingdom for a clone. I would love to send some little android in to do my work while I get back to genealogy, miniatures and knitting. I have piles of things in each category that need to be dealt with, but instead they are collecting dust. I'm way overdue in constructing a new family newsletter, but time doesn't allow it right now. I have dollhouse kits stacked in my work room ready to become my next fantasy house or shop. There is a small mountain of fabulous yarn I have amassed, and a pile of tempting patterns, and all my knitting needles remain empty. Oh well, I guess when I end up in a room with padded walls, I'll have lots of creative therapy available. But, then again, they would probably take my knives, saws, scissors and needles away from me. Ya just can't win.
LSW
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Que Sera, Sera
I would have a hard time deciding who my favorite movie star is, but there are several for whom I have a definite weakness. One of these is Doris Day. I happened across one of her romantic comedies on TCM this morning, one I had seen many, many times, and enjoyed it thoroughly none the less. There is something relaxing in watching a Doris Day film. It's all fluff and romance and you know exactly how it is going to end and you can enjoy the ride all the way. I already have my favorite two Doris movies on DVD and I think I'm going to start looking for more. What a fine way to chill out during a stressful month. I chilled out so much this morning that I decided I deserved an entire weekend off for a change and did not one lick of work for the rest of the day. Here, in no particular order, are movies that I will stop and watch for the umpteenth time and feel good afterwards.
Pillow Talk - the best of the lot. Doris and Rock were an unbeatable combination. Slick and sophisticated comedy for its time.
Lover Come Back and Send Me No Flowers. The other two Doris Day/Rock Hudson partnerships. I never really like Rock Hudson in anything else, but in his three movies with Doris Day, he was fabulous.
The Glass Bottom Boat. A spy spoof, co-starring Rod Taylor, Dick Martin, Paul Lynde, Dom DeLuise, Arthur Godfrey, and many more comedy actors. Lots of fun, if a totally ridiculous plot.
On Moonlight Bay and By the Light of the Silvery Moon. These are early Doris movies, co-starring Gordon McRae and based on stories by Booth Tarkington (of Penrod fame). These period pieces, set at the turn of the century, are a delight.
The Thrill of if All and Move Over, Darling. These two movies teamed Doris with James Garner. I love James Garner in anything and he is almost as good a teammate for Doris as Rock was. He does frustrated husband really well.
The Ballad of Josie. A western where Doris accidentally kills her abusive husband with a pool cue and then takes on the entire male population when she decides to raise sheep in the midst of cattle ranches. This movie never got much attention, but I enjoy it and I wish it would be released on DVD.
Calamity Jane. Doris at her scruffiest, playing the quintessential tomboy. Also the source of the song "Secret Love".
That Touch of Mink. I never quite bought the combination of Cary Grant and Doris, but it's fun anyway.
Teacher's Pet. Another odd combination, pairing Doris with Clark Gable. Gable is always nice to watch, but the 23 year difference in their ages made the romance a little hard to believe.
And, even though Doris was the queen of light comedy, she could turn in a stellar dramatic performance from time to time. In fact, many of her early films were dramas. I don't make it a point to catch her dramas, but I can say the following two are worth a watch.
The Man Who Knew Too Much. Hitchcock, James Stewart, and Doris Day. And she sings "Que Sera, Sera" for the first time in a film (it won the Oscar for best song that year). Enough said. Give it a watch.
Midnight Lace. A story akin to Gaslight. Is she crazy or is someone trying to kill her?
Hard to believe that Doris made her last movie in 1968. But then, again, the times were changing and people were losing their taste for fluffy romances. I'm sure she could have reinvented herself and maintained her popularity, but I admire her for refocusing her energies on behalf of animal rights. She turned 81 this year, but I'll always remember her as that trim little blonde who drove Rock Hudson crazy. The perpetual sweet, young thing.
After Doris Day, I guess the actor most likely to get me to sit through the 100th showing of a movie would be Audrey Hepburn. That's another list for another time.
LSW
Pillow Talk - the best of the lot. Doris and Rock were an unbeatable combination. Slick and sophisticated comedy for its time.
Lover Come Back and Send Me No Flowers. The other two Doris Day/Rock Hudson partnerships. I never really like Rock Hudson in anything else, but in his three movies with Doris Day, he was fabulous.
The Glass Bottom Boat. A spy spoof, co-starring Rod Taylor, Dick Martin, Paul Lynde, Dom DeLuise, Arthur Godfrey, and many more comedy actors. Lots of fun, if a totally ridiculous plot.
On Moonlight Bay and By the Light of the Silvery Moon. These are early Doris movies, co-starring Gordon McRae and based on stories by Booth Tarkington (of Penrod fame). These period pieces, set at the turn of the century, are a delight.
The Thrill of if All and Move Over, Darling. These two movies teamed Doris with James Garner. I love James Garner in anything and he is almost as good a teammate for Doris as Rock was. He does frustrated husband really well.
The Ballad of Josie. A western where Doris accidentally kills her abusive husband with a pool cue and then takes on the entire male population when she decides to raise sheep in the midst of cattle ranches. This movie never got much attention, but I enjoy it and I wish it would be released on DVD.
Calamity Jane. Doris at her scruffiest, playing the quintessential tomboy. Also the source of the song "Secret Love".
That Touch of Mink. I never quite bought the combination of Cary Grant and Doris, but it's fun anyway.
Teacher's Pet. Another odd combination, pairing Doris with Clark Gable. Gable is always nice to watch, but the 23 year difference in their ages made the romance a little hard to believe.
And, even though Doris was the queen of light comedy, she could turn in a stellar dramatic performance from time to time. In fact, many of her early films were dramas. I don't make it a point to catch her dramas, but I can say the following two are worth a watch.
The Man Who Knew Too Much. Hitchcock, James Stewart, and Doris Day. And she sings "Que Sera, Sera" for the first time in a film (it won the Oscar for best song that year). Enough said. Give it a watch.
Midnight Lace. A story akin to Gaslight. Is she crazy or is someone trying to kill her?
Hard to believe that Doris made her last movie in 1968. But then, again, the times were changing and people were losing their taste for fluffy romances. I'm sure she could have reinvented herself and maintained her popularity, but I admire her for refocusing her energies on behalf of animal rights. She turned 81 this year, but I'll always remember her as that trim little blonde who drove Rock Hudson crazy. The perpetual sweet, young thing.
After Doris Day, I guess the actor most likely to get me to sit through the 100th showing of a movie would be Audrey Hepburn. That's another list for another time.
LSW
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Back to Work
My workload has not decreased by much, but I did let myself off the night shift for a few nights to finish the new Harry Potter book. Hard to concentrate on dull programming when that thick green book is winking at you from the bedside table, so I figured I might as well finish it so I could get my mind on something else. Like work that pays for the book habit.
Yes, a major character died in the end. No, I'm not going to spill the beans. Just suffice it to say that my analogy of the plot as following along the Star Wars path remains intact. Figure it out yourself. I had it pretty well nailed by the half-way mark, but kept hoping I would be surprised.
If you are a Harry Potter fan and want to while away some time, visit the official J. K. Rowling site at www.jkrowling.com . I have not solved the mystery of how to open the door yet. Not enough time available to waste on solving games these days.
I've made another change lately and have started getting a regular massage at Bastrop Massage & Therapy Services. Every other week, as long as I can afford it. I'm hoping that eventually we will convince that knot in my back to go away and stay away. Wonder if the folks at Hogwarts have a spell for that?
Working at home two days a week has had many benefits. First of all, I'm saving gas money. That 47-mile one-way trip burns up $2.19/per gallon at an alarming rate. Secondly, I get about double the production in a day at home. You really don't realize how much time you lose being available to folks at the office who find it necessary to call at least once a day to find out how you are doing on their project. I've bitten my tongue many a time to avoid telling them I would be 20 minutes a day ahead if they would let me call them when I'm finished. The addition of email has helped tremendously, but there are still those folks who must use the phone.
Next, I get to spend some quality time with my babies. It's a great stress reducer to sit in bed, working on the laptop, with a little fur-butt snuggled against my hip. They are all for this working at home business. They think it would be a fine idea to make it 5 days a week.
I don't know how long I will keep this schedule going, but I'm already sleeping better and feeling better. It's bad enough to have a heavy work load, but add to that the daily stress of caretaking and sooner or later you end up with a twisted back. Mine was beginning to look like a pretzel, but an hour massage session earlier today with Angie has got me feeling like I might just get some of the program snarls straightened out this afternoon.
Who knows. I'm thinking about yoga next. This stress-reduction theme I have going these days is a good thing.
LSW
Yes, a major character died in the end. No, I'm not going to spill the beans. Just suffice it to say that my analogy of the plot as following along the Star Wars path remains intact. Figure it out yourself. I had it pretty well nailed by the half-way mark, but kept hoping I would be surprised.
If you are a Harry Potter fan and want to while away some time, visit the official J. K. Rowling site at www.jkrowling.com . I have not solved the mystery of how to open the door yet. Not enough time available to waste on solving games these days.
I've made another change lately and have started getting a regular massage at Bastrop Massage & Therapy Services. Every other week, as long as I can afford it. I'm hoping that eventually we will convince that knot in my back to go away and stay away. Wonder if the folks at Hogwarts have a spell for that?
Working at home two days a week has had many benefits. First of all, I'm saving gas money. That 47-mile one-way trip burns up $2.19/per gallon at an alarming rate. Secondly, I get about double the production in a day at home. You really don't realize how much time you lose being available to folks at the office who find it necessary to call at least once a day to find out how you are doing on their project. I've bitten my tongue many a time to avoid telling them I would be 20 minutes a day ahead if they would let me call them when I'm finished. The addition of email has helped tremendously, but there are still those folks who must use the phone.
Next, I get to spend some quality time with my babies. It's a great stress reducer to sit in bed, working on the laptop, with a little fur-butt snuggled against my hip. They are all for this working at home business. They think it would be a fine idea to make it 5 days a week.
I don't know how long I will keep this schedule going, but I'm already sleeping better and feeling better. It's bad enough to have a heavy work load, but add to that the daily stress of caretaking and sooner or later you end up with a twisted back. Mine was beginning to look like a pretzel, but an hour massage session earlier today with Angie has got me feeling like I might just get some of the program snarls straightened out this afternoon.
Who knows. I'm thinking about yoga next. This stress-reduction theme I have going these days is a good thing.
LSW
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Requiescat in Pace
The Starship Enterprise has lost a second crew member. James Doohan, also known as Lt. Cmdr. Montgomery Scott, Chief Engineer, died yesterday. DeForest Kelley, Dr. McCoy, died in 1999. (I guess we should also count the ultimate Captain, creator Gene Roddenberry, who died in 1991.)
Having grown up with television, it's always a shock to me when we lose someone who was a regular visitor in my home. I spent many afternoons watching reruns of Star Trek. (I'm sorry, but in my opinion none of the spin-offs ever had the charm of the original.) Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Scotty, Uhura, Sulu and Chekov were a team that has never been equaled.
Rest in peace, Scotty. We'll miss you.
LSW
Having grown up with television, it's always a shock to me when we lose someone who was a regular visitor in my home. I spent many afternoons watching reruns of Star Trek. (I'm sorry, but in my opinion none of the spin-offs ever had the charm of the original.) Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Scotty, Uhura, Sulu and Chekov were a team that has never been equaled.
Rest in peace, Scotty. We'll miss you.
LSW
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Out of Control
I have a serious book problem. I haul in at least 1 book a week and that's a slow week. Usually I haul in a sack of books. My bookshelves runneth over. My to-read pile beside the bed has taken on the characteristics of a bedside table. Just about every cabinet in the house hides a cache of books. Everywhere in my house is books, books, books.
It's genetic. I can't help it. Don't think I would even want to help it, if I could. Just walking into a bookstore can lower my blood pressure and calm my nerves. My idea of a good day off is going to a research library and rustling the pages of old, musty books. I nearly swoon when I walk into a courthouse vault and see ancient record books lining the room.
I wanted to be a librarian. I could have been happy spending my working life cataloguing books. I spent a summer or two substituting part time for the public library in Bastrop, back in my college years. There were days when hours would pass without my seeing another living soul. I didn't care. I was in charge of a building full of books and that was more enjoyable than anything else I could think of at the time.
To my sorrow, there was no college anywhere close that offered a library science degree, so I opted for second best - a business degree. I probably came off a lot better financially for that choice, but I will always regret that I didn't find a way to spend my life among books.
My bookshelves groan under a weight of history books, reference books, knitting/spinning/crocheting books, dollhouse related books, and the recent addition of audio books yet to be listened to. In my upstairs hallway is a collection of antique books by turn of the century author Amelia E. Huddleston Barr. On a small shelf in my bedroom is my collection of miniature books. In Mother's bedroom are the mysteries, the poetry volumes, the novels, and the gardening books. A cabinet in the dining room and a cabinet in the kitchen hide my large collection of cookbooks. In the garage are the books that haven't yet made it to the Goodwill donation center.
And still I bring in books. I hit Half-Price Books at least every other week. On the alternate weeks I will hit a Barnes and Noble or a Borders. I don't think I've ever walked into a bookstore and left without at least one book.
Books have always been my escape. No matter how bad things get, you can escape into another world for a few minutes. I try to keep a book in my purse or in the car for those times when you're stuck in a traffic jam, or waiting at the doctor's office. Nowadays I usually have an audio book playing while I drive.
I'm currently reading a series of 17 books by Elizabeth Peters (I'm on number 8) involving the adventures of a Victorian lady Egyptologist. I love finding a new series to read. Nothing makes me happier than to look over at the bedroom bookcase and see a pile of unread books involving characters I've come to love. It's nice to know that I have the rest of the summer's reading on hand and ready to go. Not only am I provided with a means to escape the troubles of real life, I'm learning a lot about Egyptian history. Elizabeth Peters aka Barbara Michaels aka Barbara Mertz has a PhD in Egyptology and brings her stories alive with factual information.
I feel sorry for people who don't know the joy of recreational reading. I would hate to think that I was stuck in the world of data processing and tax law with no chance to expand my knowledge of other times and places.
Yes I'm addicted to books. No, I don't want to be cured. And maybe someday, when I decide to retire from delinquent tax collection, I can snag a job as an assistant at a library. I can't think of a better way to spend my old age.
LSW
(By the way, other writers who have written series that are well worth seeking out are Joan Hess, Sharyn McCrumb, P. D. James, Dorothy L. Sayers, Rex Stout, Agatha Christie, Ann B. Ross, Janet Evanovich, Anne Tyler [not so much a series as a style of writing], J. K. Rowling, Lemony Snicket, Ellis Peters...I could go on for quite awhile and will stop here. Go out and read something!)
It's genetic. I can't help it. Don't think I would even want to help it, if I could. Just walking into a bookstore can lower my blood pressure and calm my nerves. My idea of a good day off is going to a research library and rustling the pages of old, musty books. I nearly swoon when I walk into a courthouse vault and see ancient record books lining the room.
I wanted to be a librarian. I could have been happy spending my working life cataloguing books. I spent a summer or two substituting part time for the public library in Bastrop, back in my college years. There were days when hours would pass without my seeing another living soul. I didn't care. I was in charge of a building full of books and that was more enjoyable than anything else I could think of at the time.
To my sorrow, there was no college anywhere close that offered a library science degree, so I opted for second best - a business degree. I probably came off a lot better financially for that choice, but I will always regret that I didn't find a way to spend my life among books.
My bookshelves groan under a weight of history books, reference books, knitting/spinning/crocheting books, dollhouse related books, and the recent addition of audio books yet to be listened to. In my upstairs hallway is a collection of antique books by turn of the century author Amelia E. Huddleston Barr. On a small shelf in my bedroom is my collection of miniature books. In Mother's bedroom are the mysteries, the poetry volumes, the novels, and the gardening books. A cabinet in the dining room and a cabinet in the kitchen hide my large collection of cookbooks. In the garage are the books that haven't yet made it to the Goodwill donation center.
And still I bring in books. I hit Half-Price Books at least every other week. On the alternate weeks I will hit a Barnes and Noble or a Borders. I don't think I've ever walked into a bookstore and left without at least one book.
Books have always been my escape. No matter how bad things get, you can escape into another world for a few minutes. I try to keep a book in my purse or in the car for those times when you're stuck in a traffic jam, or waiting at the doctor's office. Nowadays I usually have an audio book playing while I drive.
I'm currently reading a series of 17 books by Elizabeth Peters (I'm on number 8) involving the adventures of a Victorian lady Egyptologist. I love finding a new series to read. Nothing makes me happier than to look over at the bedroom bookcase and see a pile of unread books involving characters I've come to love. It's nice to know that I have the rest of the summer's reading on hand and ready to go. Not only am I provided with a means to escape the troubles of real life, I'm learning a lot about Egyptian history. Elizabeth Peters aka Barbara Michaels aka Barbara Mertz has a PhD in Egyptology and brings her stories alive with factual information.
I feel sorry for people who don't know the joy of recreational reading. I would hate to think that I was stuck in the world of data processing and tax law with no chance to expand my knowledge of other times and places.
Yes I'm addicted to books. No, I don't want to be cured. And maybe someday, when I decide to retire from delinquent tax collection, I can snag a job as an assistant at a library. I can't think of a better way to spend my old age.
LSW
(By the way, other writers who have written series that are well worth seeking out are Joan Hess, Sharyn McCrumb, P. D. James, Dorothy L. Sayers, Rex Stout, Agatha Christie, Ann B. Ross, Janet Evanovich, Anne Tyler [not so much a series as a style of writing], J. K. Rowling, Lemony Snicket, Ellis Peters...I could go on for quite awhile and will stop here. Go out and read something!)
Monday, July 18, 2005
Hell Hath no Fury
You have not seen high dudgeon until you have seen a very little dog who has just had a needle jabbed in his butt. He was incensed and he let everyone in the room know it. At least he didn't blame me. Then. Later on when I absent-mindedly picked him up and put my thumb on his sore spot - well, then he blamed me. It's something when a dog with a short stub manages to tuck his tail between his legs and look at you balefully. Broke my heart.
But we are friends again. And the good news is he is in perfect health and now weighs 2.8 pounds. Sister Coco is now 4.4 pounds and weathered her rabies vaccination with no problem. She's done for now, but Mojo has to go back in 3 weeks for another shot. I may wait in the hall next time. That little boy has got my number.
In other news, my copy of the new Harry Potter book arrived today. Probably be August before I get a chance to read it. I continue to be amazed at the uproar that accompanies the release of each book in the series. One pious fellow interviewed in the Austin paper ripped the books apart and then admitted he had never read any of them. Probably a Republican. They are used to spouting opinions on things they know nothing about. God forbid they should make an informed decision on anything.
What's funny is that the plot thread of this series is similar to the Star Wars saga. Good vs. evil. Young protagonist vs. former great warrior gone wrong. You don't see the religious nuts picketing the movie houses. And all because the stories have a background of wizards and magic. For Pete's sake, did any of us suffer moral decay because we watched Mary Poppins or The Sword in the Stone or The Wizard of Oz or Bedknobs and Broomsticks? Not to mention years of Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie. Apparently today's kids can't tell truth from fantasy. What a tempest in a teapot.
I think the real issue is that the naysayers are jealous. J. K. Rowling is a gifted writer with a real knack for characterization. In another's hands the story would be a stale remake of a tried and true formula. The lady is an artist and deserves to reap the rewards of her talent and hard work. I plan to enjoy every word. Those who have their noses in the air, sniffing disapprovingly, deserve to miss the fun.
The babies have snuggled down and are fast asleep. I think I will follow suit.
LSW
But we are friends again. And the good news is he is in perfect health and now weighs 2.8 pounds. Sister Coco is now 4.4 pounds and weathered her rabies vaccination with no problem. She's done for now, but Mojo has to go back in 3 weeks for another shot. I may wait in the hall next time. That little boy has got my number.
In other news, my copy of the new Harry Potter book arrived today. Probably be August before I get a chance to read it. I continue to be amazed at the uproar that accompanies the release of each book in the series. One pious fellow interviewed in the Austin paper ripped the books apart and then admitted he had never read any of them. Probably a Republican. They are used to spouting opinions on things they know nothing about. God forbid they should make an informed decision on anything.
What's funny is that the plot thread of this series is similar to the Star Wars saga. Good vs. evil. Young protagonist vs. former great warrior gone wrong. You don't see the religious nuts picketing the movie houses. And all because the stories have a background of wizards and magic. For Pete's sake, did any of us suffer moral decay because we watched Mary Poppins or The Sword in the Stone or The Wizard of Oz or Bedknobs and Broomsticks? Not to mention years of Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie. Apparently today's kids can't tell truth from fantasy. What a tempest in a teapot.
I think the real issue is that the naysayers are jealous. J. K. Rowling is a gifted writer with a real knack for characterization. In another's hands the story would be a stale remake of a tried and true formula. The lady is an artist and deserves to reap the rewards of her talent and hard work. I plan to enjoy every word. Those who have their noses in the air, sniffing disapprovingly, deserve to miss the fun.
The babies have snuggled down and are fast asleep. I think I will follow suit.
LSW
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Double, double, toil and trouble
I hate May and July. Those are heavy work months for me and I spend a lot of Sundays working, when I would rather be napping with the puppies. (I did sneak in a 1/2 hour nap today, cuddling the two babies, regardless of the piles of work staring me in the face.) Personal time during those two months is pretty much nil, so I get even more behinder than usual in answering my email, following up on my research leads, and cleaning the house.
In a bid for a moment of freedom, I took myself off to the Hallmark Shop yesterday to attend the 2005 ornament premiere. I try to get my annual collectible ornaments purchased on that weekend to take advantage of the extra points you get for buying at the premiere. I hauled away a bag full of ornaments.
Sometimes I wish I weren't so honest. When I got home and began to review what I had purchased, I discovered that I had not been charged for 10 of the ornaments. (No wonder I thought I had gotten off cheap this year.) I had been waited on by two clerks, one ringing up and one bagging, and all I can figure is that some got bagged before they got rung. So Tuesday I have to return to the scene of the crime and pay up. My conscience might have excused one missed ornament, but it's hard to ignore 10 at the prices those things cost. All I can say is I hope they were more on the ball the rest of the time. There are a lot of folks out there that would just chortle to themselves and let the store take the loss. Not me. I would hear my grandparents clucking their tongues from the other side. I have enough on my mind without that.
I'm not looking forward to Monday either. I have to take the babies in for shots and I already dread having to hurt them, however briefly and for however good a cause. Mojo tangled with a couple of fire ants this weekend and cried until Mom found the culprits and dispatched them. I can't stand for the little guy to be unhappy. He had his first lesson with the leash today and it was an utter failure. As soon as he realizes he's tied, he starts doing his imitation of a catfish on the hook. Flip, flop, flutter and squeal. He ended up getting carried while the other two enjoyed their walk. He was utterly content to cruise down the street cuddled against Mom. No, he's not spoiled.
To round out the day, Mother got it in her head that she was supposed to go to the vet's with me tomorrow and fell while trying to get a dress out of the closet. Did I mention I threw my back out yesterday? After a day of Advil and heat, it was almost back to normal. It remains to be seen how much ground I lost hauling her up.
So today was pretty much a pain in the back, except for the 1/2 hour nap. And the periodic breaks to play with the babies. And the rain, which we sorely needed. How I look forward to August.
LSW
In a bid for a moment of freedom, I took myself off to the Hallmark Shop yesterday to attend the 2005 ornament premiere. I try to get my annual collectible ornaments purchased on that weekend to take advantage of the extra points you get for buying at the premiere. I hauled away a bag full of ornaments.
Sometimes I wish I weren't so honest. When I got home and began to review what I had purchased, I discovered that I had not been charged for 10 of the ornaments. (No wonder I thought I had gotten off cheap this year.) I had been waited on by two clerks, one ringing up and one bagging, and all I can figure is that some got bagged before they got rung. So Tuesday I have to return to the scene of the crime and pay up. My conscience might have excused one missed ornament, but it's hard to ignore 10 at the prices those things cost. All I can say is I hope they were more on the ball the rest of the time. There are a lot of folks out there that would just chortle to themselves and let the store take the loss. Not me. I would hear my grandparents clucking their tongues from the other side. I have enough on my mind without that.
I'm not looking forward to Monday either. I have to take the babies in for shots and I already dread having to hurt them, however briefly and for however good a cause. Mojo tangled with a couple of fire ants this weekend and cried until Mom found the culprits and dispatched them. I can't stand for the little guy to be unhappy. He had his first lesson with the leash today and it was an utter failure. As soon as he realizes he's tied, he starts doing his imitation of a catfish on the hook. Flip, flop, flutter and squeal. He ended up getting carried while the other two enjoyed their walk. He was utterly content to cruise down the street cuddled against Mom. No, he's not spoiled.
To round out the day, Mother got it in her head that she was supposed to go to the vet's with me tomorrow and fell while trying to get a dress out of the closet. Did I mention I threw my back out yesterday? After a day of Advil and heat, it was almost back to normal. It remains to be seen how much ground I lost hauling her up.
So today was pretty much a pain in the back, except for the 1/2 hour nap. And the periodic breaks to play with the babies. And the rain, which we sorely needed. How I look forward to August.
LSW
Saturday, July 09, 2005
All the Gruesome Details
My grandmother was a terrific person and I remember her fondly. She had one habit, though, that gave me the willies. She had a voracious appetite for true crime magazines and books. I thought of that last week as newscast after newscast replayed the recital of the BTK killer's confessions to the murders he had committed.
She would have been sitting there at her tv set, soaking up all the gruesome details. I had to change channels before he made it through recounting the second murder. I never understood her fascination with the psychotic mind. We would ask her every now and then why she read that stuff. Her answer was that it was important for people to understand what could happen. Maybe she had a point, because it only took reading a couple of her magazines to convince me that you always had to be on guard against the good-looking, glib-talking stranger who drives a van.
Books that delve into psycopathic murders have been banned from my reading list since the summer I read Helter Skelter. I was just home between college semesters, spending a week pretty much alone since Mother and David were not yet out of school for the summer and Daddy was off doing whatever the church required of him. I have never been so spooked in my life. It got so bad that the slightest rustle of wind outside my window would make me jump a foot. I finished the book somehow, but the grisly details stayed in my subconscious for weeks. It was quite awhile before I quit looking over my shoulder.
My grandmother never tired of the gruesome details. Even when she lived alone in her later years, practically an invalid, she kept up her habit of reading true crime. I would have been a basket case, but it never seemed to disturb her. She would recount details of murders in nearby Austin that would make my flesh crawl. I think her appetite for the local grisly details was even greater after her son became an Austin cop. Something about that quasi-personal connection to the scene of the crime, as it were.
There were times when she managed to freak me out pretty well, and in fact I can still hear her in my mind reciting facts of a few of the Austin cases. After awhile I learned to protect myself by basically tuning her out when the conversation turned to murder. I assiduously avoid true crime literature and pretty much confine myself to headlines when the newspapers are wallowing in the blood and gore of the latest mass murderer. I'll read murder mysteries of the fictional variety, but like my mother, I prefer the cozy murder stories where the killings are committed by nice people.
Come to think of it, seems like those cozy murders would be more disturbing in a way. The idea that a nice person could be moved to murder. That would make anybody you know capable of murder under the right circumstances. But the stories are so patently fiction. No, it's the real thing, committed by psychotic sociopaths that chill me to the bone. I don't like to think about the real crazies moving in our midst. Maybe my grandmother was right about one thing. I keep my guard up because I know what could happen.
That's enough for me. I don't want to know the gruesome details. I think instead I shall go prowl the bookshelf for one of those cozy murders in turn of the century England that was committed by a nice person. They always put me to sleep.
LSW
She would have been sitting there at her tv set, soaking up all the gruesome details. I had to change channels before he made it through recounting the second murder. I never understood her fascination with the psychotic mind. We would ask her every now and then why she read that stuff. Her answer was that it was important for people to understand what could happen. Maybe she had a point, because it only took reading a couple of her magazines to convince me that you always had to be on guard against the good-looking, glib-talking stranger who drives a van.
Books that delve into psycopathic murders have been banned from my reading list since the summer I read Helter Skelter. I was just home between college semesters, spending a week pretty much alone since Mother and David were not yet out of school for the summer and Daddy was off doing whatever the church required of him. I have never been so spooked in my life. It got so bad that the slightest rustle of wind outside my window would make me jump a foot. I finished the book somehow, but the grisly details stayed in my subconscious for weeks. It was quite awhile before I quit looking over my shoulder.
My grandmother never tired of the gruesome details. Even when she lived alone in her later years, practically an invalid, she kept up her habit of reading true crime. I would have been a basket case, but it never seemed to disturb her. She would recount details of murders in nearby Austin that would make my flesh crawl. I think her appetite for the local grisly details was even greater after her son became an Austin cop. Something about that quasi-personal connection to the scene of the crime, as it were.
There were times when she managed to freak me out pretty well, and in fact I can still hear her in my mind reciting facts of a few of the Austin cases. After awhile I learned to protect myself by basically tuning her out when the conversation turned to murder. I assiduously avoid true crime literature and pretty much confine myself to headlines when the newspapers are wallowing in the blood and gore of the latest mass murderer. I'll read murder mysteries of the fictional variety, but like my mother, I prefer the cozy murder stories where the killings are committed by nice people.
Come to think of it, seems like those cozy murders would be more disturbing in a way. The idea that a nice person could be moved to murder. That would make anybody you know capable of murder under the right circumstances. But the stories are so patently fiction. No, it's the real thing, committed by psychotic sociopaths that chill me to the bone. I don't like to think about the real crazies moving in our midst. Maybe my grandmother was right about one thing. I keep my guard up because I know what could happen.
That's enough for me. I don't want to know the gruesome details. I think instead I shall go prowl the bookshelf for one of those cozy murders in turn of the century England that was committed by a nice person. They always put me to sleep.
LSW
Monday, July 04, 2005
July 4th, 1973
It doesn't seem like it's been 32 years. On the other hand, it seems like a hundred years ago. And at this point in my life, when I've become a staid member of the establishment, I could almost be convinced that I was never stupid enough to pull some of the stunts I was guilty of that long ago. Almost.
I was between my freshman and sophomore years at Mary Hardin-Baylor College, a nice small Baptist college that had been co-ed only a couple of years in 1973. The wildest thing I did back in those days was to, uh, hmm. I don't think I did anything wild back in those days. I was a nice quiet, well-behaved child of 19.
But I was tempted that summer by an all-day concert that was to be held on July 4th out in the country just west of Dripping Springs. There was a new movement in country music by a group of singers that had been labeled as "outlaws" and their ringleader was Willie Nelson, who had recently moved his headquarters to Austin. He had decided to lend his name to a 4th of July picnic and concert, and a stellar list of country music legends had agreed to attend. This was not the first picnic/concert to be held in Dripping Springs, but it was the first to be associated with Willie Nelson. The list of performers was very tempting to a country music fan, but the thing that sold me on attending was the announcement that Kris Kristofferson and Rita Coolidge were to perform. I had to go.
The men of the family weren't interested, but Mother agreed to go with me. Also on board for the adventure was a country music loving friend from Smiley, the mother of my brother's best friend. That morning, the three of us loaded our lawn chairs and cooler in the 1968 Ford Galaxie and headed out for Dripping Springs. We had not one idea what we were in for.
Our first clue was just after we turned off Highway 290 onto the narrow gravel road that would take us about 20 miles deep into the country to a ranch where the concert was to be held. It was bumper to bumper traffic and was moving at a snail's pace. If I remember right, it took us more than a hour to creep our way to the concert site. It was a miserably hot day and that old Galaxie started over-heating before we had gone very far, so we had to forego air-conditioning for the last part of the trip. After parking, we had to hike a ways to the stage area, carrying our gear.
When we got there, it was to find that the stage was set up in something of a natural bowl, with not a scrap of shade to be seen. Filling that bowl was a sea of sweating humanity. We found a spot for our lawn chairs and made ourselves as comfortable as possible, considering the lack of shade and breeze and the hot sun bearing down on us. But as we arrived, Charlie Rich started his set and we were re-energized with the thoughts of who else would be performing. I can't remember everyone who performed that afternoon, but I do remember Waylon Jennings, Sammie Smith, Billie Joe Shaver, and of course Willie. It was really an impressive lineup and we couldn't complain about getting our money's worth for the price of admission. Which, I believe, was $10.00.
It was late in the afternoon when I began to get nervous. There were a lot of normal folks like us around, but there was a whole lot of folks there with pretty rough edges. At one point in the afternoon an announcement was made that some bad heroin was being circulated and people were getting sick. It was quite a shock to three Baptist ladies to know that we were in the presence of illegal drugs. (It was along about the same point that we suddenly realized what that sickly sweet smell in the air was.) Between the drug users and the beer drinkers and the heat, the crowd was becoming increasingly woozy. The later it got, the wilder the crowd got, and the edgier I got.
And Kris and Rita had still not performed. It was almost dark when they finally took the stage. By that time, I was having a hard time enjoying the music. My thoughts were a constant spin of all the things that could go wrong - from the car failing to start to getting knocked over the head by a stoned out addict. We were definitely out of our element and at 9:30 we all decided we had had enough, even though Kris and Rita were still singing, and we started the hike back to the car.
The ride back to the highway was almost as bad as the ride in, since we weren't the only ones calling it quits for the day. People were exhausted and many had parked a considerable ways down the road. As we drove by, some would try to leap up on the hood for a ride back to their cars. I don't know what worried me more - that I would have these odd-balls hanging on to the car, or that they would fall under my wheels and get mashed. We finally made it out to the highway and headed back to Bastrop.
It was a weird experience, but in retrospect I'm glad we went. I would never attempt something like that now. Crowds bother me, heat bothers me, drunks bother me, and the idea of being that far out in the middle of nowhere with a flaky car and no communication to civilization is mind-boggling. I guess it's true that the Lord protects fools. He took care of at least three of them that day.
Who knew that Willie Nelson picnics would become a regular event? I'm glad I went to the first one. I'm glad I never went to another one. Not too long after that, we attended a Kris and Rita concert (with Willie crashing the party for a few songs) at Palmer Auditorium, and it was a much more satisfying experience. I decided that outdoor concerts were not for me.
These days I generally spend July 4th somewhere with air-conditioning. Every year at some point I think about that day out in the Hill Country, even all this time later. It may have been a fool hardy thing to do, but we had an unforgettable experience and I don't regret one moment of it.
LSW
I was between my freshman and sophomore years at Mary Hardin-Baylor College, a nice small Baptist college that had been co-ed only a couple of years in 1973. The wildest thing I did back in those days was to, uh, hmm. I don't think I did anything wild back in those days. I was a nice quiet, well-behaved child of 19.
But I was tempted that summer by an all-day concert that was to be held on July 4th out in the country just west of Dripping Springs. There was a new movement in country music by a group of singers that had been labeled as "outlaws" and their ringleader was Willie Nelson, who had recently moved his headquarters to Austin. He had decided to lend his name to a 4th of July picnic and concert, and a stellar list of country music legends had agreed to attend. This was not the first picnic/concert to be held in Dripping Springs, but it was the first to be associated with Willie Nelson. The list of performers was very tempting to a country music fan, but the thing that sold me on attending was the announcement that Kris Kristofferson and Rita Coolidge were to perform. I had to go.
The men of the family weren't interested, but Mother agreed to go with me. Also on board for the adventure was a country music loving friend from Smiley, the mother of my brother's best friend. That morning, the three of us loaded our lawn chairs and cooler in the 1968 Ford Galaxie and headed out for Dripping Springs. We had not one idea what we were in for.
Our first clue was just after we turned off Highway 290 onto the narrow gravel road that would take us about 20 miles deep into the country to a ranch where the concert was to be held. It was bumper to bumper traffic and was moving at a snail's pace. If I remember right, it took us more than a hour to creep our way to the concert site. It was a miserably hot day and that old Galaxie started over-heating before we had gone very far, so we had to forego air-conditioning for the last part of the trip. After parking, we had to hike a ways to the stage area, carrying our gear.
When we got there, it was to find that the stage was set up in something of a natural bowl, with not a scrap of shade to be seen. Filling that bowl was a sea of sweating humanity. We found a spot for our lawn chairs and made ourselves as comfortable as possible, considering the lack of shade and breeze and the hot sun bearing down on us. But as we arrived, Charlie Rich started his set and we were re-energized with the thoughts of who else would be performing. I can't remember everyone who performed that afternoon, but I do remember Waylon Jennings, Sammie Smith, Billie Joe Shaver, and of course Willie. It was really an impressive lineup and we couldn't complain about getting our money's worth for the price of admission. Which, I believe, was $10.00.
It was late in the afternoon when I began to get nervous. There were a lot of normal folks like us around, but there was a whole lot of folks there with pretty rough edges. At one point in the afternoon an announcement was made that some bad heroin was being circulated and people were getting sick. It was quite a shock to three Baptist ladies to know that we were in the presence of illegal drugs. (It was along about the same point that we suddenly realized what that sickly sweet smell in the air was.) Between the drug users and the beer drinkers and the heat, the crowd was becoming increasingly woozy. The later it got, the wilder the crowd got, and the edgier I got.
And Kris and Rita had still not performed. It was almost dark when they finally took the stage. By that time, I was having a hard time enjoying the music. My thoughts were a constant spin of all the things that could go wrong - from the car failing to start to getting knocked over the head by a stoned out addict. We were definitely out of our element and at 9:30 we all decided we had had enough, even though Kris and Rita were still singing, and we started the hike back to the car.
The ride back to the highway was almost as bad as the ride in, since we weren't the only ones calling it quits for the day. People were exhausted and many had parked a considerable ways down the road. As we drove by, some would try to leap up on the hood for a ride back to their cars. I don't know what worried me more - that I would have these odd-balls hanging on to the car, or that they would fall under my wheels and get mashed. We finally made it out to the highway and headed back to Bastrop.
It was a weird experience, but in retrospect I'm glad we went. I would never attempt something like that now. Crowds bother me, heat bothers me, drunks bother me, and the idea of being that far out in the middle of nowhere with a flaky car and no communication to civilization is mind-boggling. I guess it's true that the Lord protects fools. He took care of at least three of them that day.
Who knew that Willie Nelson picnics would become a regular event? I'm glad I went to the first one. I'm glad I never went to another one. Not too long after that, we attended a Kris and Rita concert (with Willie crashing the party for a few songs) at Palmer Auditorium, and it was a much more satisfying experience. I decided that outdoor concerts were not for me.
These days I generally spend July 4th somewhere with air-conditioning. Every year at some point I think about that day out in the Hill Country, even all this time later. It may have been a fool hardy thing to do, but we had an unforgettable experience and I don't regret one moment of it.
LSW
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Awww
They were mean and ornery all evening. Finally wore themselves out.Coco still thinks he was an unnecessary addition, but he makes a pretty good chew toy.
Mojo thinks this house was seriously in need of someone to be in charge.
I think I'm seriously in love.
LSW
Blast It!
Dangnation, the fireworks stands opened yesterday. Highway 71 is littered with the things. I just don't get it.
For a week prior to every July 4th, my worry mode kicks into high gear. I live in a pine forest. And I live in Texas, which is usually dry as a bone this time of year. My yard has years' worth of mounded up pine needles around it. The grass in my yard is brittle and brown. One spark and it's poof. Surrounding counties have already issued burn bans. Grass fire burns are visible on the side of the road every few miles between Bastrop and Austin. And yet I know, come July 4th, that there will be idiots all around setting off fireworks. There oughta be a law.
Yes, the cities of Bastrop and Austin do have laws against fireworks. Not that it does any good. God forbid that our independent Texas spirit be forbidden to fire a bottle rocket whenever we damn well feel like it. So what if we lose several hundred acres of forest or a few homes. It's our God given right to buy and use fireworks.
How I wish that fireworks would be outlawed to the average American. I enjoy a municipal display, presented by professionals, as much as anybody. I can ooh and aah with the best of them. But to strike pure terror in my heart, all it takes is the moron down the street to light up a bottle rocket and aim it for the top of a pine tree. The first year I lived in the woods, I watched a guy down the road do exactly that insane thing for about an hour.
Yes, I live within the city limits. Yes, I could have called the cops. No, I didn't. I figured by the time they got out there, the ignoramus would have gotten his fill of it and I would have gotten that "yes, ma'am" followed by an eye-roll from the cop. And as soon as the cop left, someone else would start up on the next street. Believe you me, they don't like getting a second call in the same night from the same little old lady.
So I stay up late and keep an eye on the trees. My insides clench every time I hear a *bang*. I cannot believe that people are so stupid as to keep buying the things, let alone set them off. It's sheer stupidity and I'll say it to your face. Fireworks are dangerous. You can blow off a finger, blow out an eye, set a whole subdivision on fire. All for a snap, crackle, and pop. Big damn deal.
As many things that our government worries about protecting us from (can we say cheap Canadian prescriptions?), they don't seem to give a rat's patootie about really dangerous stuff like guns and fireworks. I'll take my chance with a Canadian pharmacist anyday if they'll run the fireworks manufacturers out of the country.
Now ask me what I really think.
LSW
For a week prior to every July 4th, my worry mode kicks into high gear. I live in a pine forest. And I live in Texas, which is usually dry as a bone this time of year. My yard has years' worth of mounded up pine needles around it. The grass in my yard is brittle and brown. One spark and it's poof. Surrounding counties have already issued burn bans. Grass fire burns are visible on the side of the road every few miles between Bastrop and Austin. And yet I know, come July 4th, that there will be idiots all around setting off fireworks. There oughta be a law.
Yes, the cities of Bastrop and Austin do have laws against fireworks. Not that it does any good. God forbid that our independent Texas spirit be forbidden to fire a bottle rocket whenever we damn well feel like it. So what if we lose several hundred acres of forest or a few homes. It's our God given right to buy and use fireworks.
How I wish that fireworks would be outlawed to the average American. I enjoy a municipal display, presented by professionals, as much as anybody. I can ooh and aah with the best of them. But to strike pure terror in my heart, all it takes is the moron down the street to light up a bottle rocket and aim it for the top of a pine tree. The first year I lived in the woods, I watched a guy down the road do exactly that insane thing for about an hour.
Yes, I live within the city limits. Yes, I could have called the cops. No, I didn't. I figured by the time they got out there, the ignoramus would have gotten his fill of it and I would have gotten that "yes, ma'am" followed by an eye-roll from the cop. And as soon as the cop left, someone else would start up on the next street. Believe you me, they don't like getting a second call in the same night from the same little old lady.
So I stay up late and keep an eye on the trees. My insides clench every time I hear a *bang*. I cannot believe that people are so stupid as to keep buying the things, let alone set them off. It's sheer stupidity and I'll say it to your face. Fireworks are dangerous. You can blow off a finger, blow out an eye, set a whole subdivision on fire. All for a snap, crackle, and pop. Big damn deal.
As many things that our government worries about protecting us from (can we say cheap Canadian prescriptions?), they don't seem to give a rat's patootie about really dangerous stuff like guns and fireworks. I'll take my chance with a Canadian pharmacist anyday if they'll run the fireworks manufacturers out of the country.
Now ask me what I really think.
LSW
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Unforeseen Complication
Mojo Wilcoxenborn April 27, 2005
He's here! I picked up Mojo this afternoon. As you can see from the following, Xana's reaction was "Oh, my God!" I've promised her there will be no more. At least for awhile.
This little guy is teeny. He is so teeny that his breeder was having problems mixing him with the other puppies, so we decided to bring him home a little early. Thinking that Coco would welcome him with open arms and he would have more company than he's had. Coco welcomed him with open teeth, is more like it. She's jealous.In response to Coco's jealous little nips, Mr. Mojo displayed a majestic temper. It had not really sunk in until now that Coco has not growled or barked since she arrived. Mr. Mojo has done both very well. Repeatedly. It's pretty funny to see this little bitty guy whale into his big sister until she backs down. I know they will be best friends before the week is out, but for now I'm having to watch them closely to make sure nobody gets hurt.
Sorta reminds me of 1959 when I lost my only child status to a little brother. Couldn't do without him now, but there for a little while....
LSW
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Puppy Update
She thinks she's cute. She may be right.
Her gran thinks so. So does her mom.
If you know Xana, this will give you an idea of Coco's size.
Little bro Mojo arrives later this week.
We may overdose on cute.
What a way to go.
LSW
Groans and Moans to Spare
Ow.
I'm sitting here today suffering aches and pains from yesterday's mission to beat back the red-tipped photinia menace. I'm either older than I thought or I'm way, way more out of shape than I thought.
This house came with a healthy hedge of red-tipped photinia surrounding the decks. I don't really dislike photinia, so long as I don't have to do the maintenance. The stuff grows at a frightening pace after a rain. I bought an electric hedge trimmer to help me keep ahead of it, but I finally had to admit that the photinia was edging ahead in the battle. So two weeks ago I came to the decision that it was time to resort to evil, drastic measures.
Sneaking out in the warm, humid morning of last Sunday, I made my attack on the southern photinia ranks. Armed with my trusty brush cutters, I ruthlessly cut the bushes down to a 3-foot height. (We started at about 7 feet.) Virtually no green remained. It took about 3 hours altogether to win the battle on about 20 linear feet of photinia. After the cutting, I had to drag the mutilated carcasses off to the ditch. By that time I was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. But I could see my back yard again and it was good.
Monday I could barely move.
Yesterday, the pain and misery a dim memory, I sprang without warning on the northern ranks and reduced them to 3-foot stubs. Chortling all the while. "Take that. And that!" Laughing maniacally, and again drenched, I decided that the bodies could lie there until the next day.
The trouble started last night. I could barely walk, my feet hurt so bad. Which is probably the reason I took another tumble in the yard while playing with the dog. (Plus, I had those dratted flip-flops on again.) My shoulder ached and my hands throbbed. I had the beginnings of a heat headache. And the back yard is littered with photinia bodies that have to be dragged off today. I have no choice but to get my aching body out there and finish the job.
The old grey mare just ain't what she used to be. I've even started contemplating buying some tacky cotton housedresses to wear in the evenings, thinking comfort options. I refuse to go there. Must. fight. back.
So the question here is how does someone with no free time figure out a way to tone up a little? I refuse to give in and become a little old lady wearing a housedress, wandering the yard with a hose in hand. Maybe a Pilates class? There's a class starting not far from the house. Should I get the bicycle out of storage and cleaned up? That hurts to even think about.
Maybe I should just haul myself out of bed every weekend and continue to fight the yard wars. Five years of neglect have created lots of opportunities. A summer of brush cutting and weed pulling could rid me of those extra twenty pounds. Or kill me.
Beginning today: yard 0, Cindy 1. Let the war begin.
LSW
How does that song go?
"How do I know my youth is all spent?
My get up and go has got up and went.
In spite of it all, I'm able to grin
When I think of the places my get up has been."
I'm sitting here today suffering aches and pains from yesterday's mission to beat back the red-tipped photinia menace. I'm either older than I thought or I'm way, way more out of shape than I thought.
This house came with a healthy hedge of red-tipped photinia surrounding the decks. I don't really dislike photinia, so long as I don't have to do the maintenance. The stuff grows at a frightening pace after a rain. I bought an electric hedge trimmer to help me keep ahead of it, but I finally had to admit that the photinia was edging ahead in the battle. So two weeks ago I came to the decision that it was time to resort to evil, drastic measures.
Sneaking out in the warm, humid morning of last Sunday, I made my attack on the southern photinia ranks. Armed with my trusty brush cutters, I ruthlessly cut the bushes down to a 3-foot height. (We started at about 7 feet.) Virtually no green remained. It took about 3 hours altogether to win the battle on about 20 linear feet of photinia. After the cutting, I had to drag the mutilated carcasses off to the ditch. By that time I was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. But I could see my back yard again and it was good.
Monday I could barely move.
Yesterday, the pain and misery a dim memory, I sprang without warning on the northern ranks and reduced them to 3-foot stubs. Chortling all the while. "Take that. And that!" Laughing maniacally, and again drenched, I decided that the bodies could lie there until the next day.
The trouble started last night. I could barely walk, my feet hurt so bad. Which is probably the reason I took another tumble in the yard while playing with the dog. (Plus, I had those dratted flip-flops on again.) My shoulder ached and my hands throbbed. I had the beginnings of a heat headache. And the back yard is littered with photinia bodies that have to be dragged off today. I have no choice but to get my aching body out there and finish the job.
The old grey mare just ain't what she used to be. I've even started contemplating buying some tacky cotton housedresses to wear in the evenings, thinking comfort options. I refuse to go there. Must. fight. back.
So the question here is how does someone with no free time figure out a way to tone up a little? I refuse to give in and become a little old lady wearing a housedress, wandering the yard with a hose in hand. Maybe a Pilates class? There's a class starting not far from the house. Should I get the bicycle out of storage and cleaned up? That hurts to even think about.
Maybe I should just haul myself out of bed every weekend and continue to fight the yard wars. Five years of neglect have created lots of opportunities. A summer of brush cutting and weed pulling could rid me of those extra twenty pounds. Or kill me.
Beginning today: yard 0, Cindy 1. Let the war begin.
LSW
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Lucious Lemon
Since I have not had a chance this week to go to the grocery store for supplies, I found myself short on breakfast options this morning. Fortunately, I always keep several boxes of muffin mix on hand and I quickly whipped up a batch of lemon poppy seed muffins. Suddenly I found myself thinking back to a time when I was about 5-years-old and first discovered how much I love things flavored with lemon.
There was a lady in our church (I think during the San Gabriel years) who baked me a birthday cake. It was my first experience eating lemon cake with lemon frosting. I fell in love and the love affair with lemon has lasted all my life. It became traditional for my birthday cake to be a lemon one. Over the years I've shifted my preference for gobs of gooey lemon icing to a lemon glaze over a lemon pound cake. It's wonderful (the recipe is on my website), and was a particular favorite of Bebop's, too. I usually make it once a year, between my birthday and his. That never happened this year because of his last illness, so I haven't had my yearly lemon fix for 2005.
It's not just lemon flavor that I love; I also love the scent of lemon. I bought a tiny highlighter yesterday at a teacher supply store and was surprised to discover that the ink is scented with lemon. I buy citrus air freshener (usually orange, but that's close enough). I love lemon scented dishwashing liquid and furniture polish. I've recently become addicted to Diet Coke with lime, which grew out of my initial hankering for Coke with lemon. Lemonade, lemon sherbet, lemon ice, lemon meringue pie, etc. Given the choice between chocolate and lemon for the rest of my life, I think I would choose lemon.
Don't you ever wonder why some things have such appeal for one person and no appeal at all for another? I know some people who despise lemon and all of the things I just listed above. To me it smells clean and fresh and tastes like a bite of spring.
Maybe it all started with that birthday cake long ago. I wish I could remember the lady's name. It's slipped out of Mother's memory, too. It was a highlight of my early years and little did she know that she would be remembered 40+ years later for a wonderful cake she baked for a little girl once upon a time.
LSW
There was a lady in our church (I think during the San Gabriel years) who baked me a birthday cake. It was my first experience eating lemon cake with lemon frosting. I fell in love and the love affair with lemon has lasted all my life. It became traditional for my birthday cake to be a lemon one. Over the years I've shifted my preference for gobs of gooey lemon icing to a lemon glaze over a lemon pound cake. It's wonderful (the recipe is on my website), and was a particular favorite of Bebop's, too. I usually make it once a year, between my birthday and his. That never happened this year because of his last illness, so I haven't had my yearly lemon fix for 2005.
It's not just lemon flavor that I love; I also love the scent of lemon. I bought a tiny highlighter yesterday at a teacher supply store and was surprised to discover that the ink is scented with lemon. I buy citrus air freshener (usually orange, but that's close enough). I love lemon scented dishwashing liquid and furniture polish. I've recently become addicted to Diet Coke with lime, which grew out of my initial hankering for Coke with lemon. Lemonade, lemon sherbet, lemon ice, lemon meringue pie, etc. Given the choice between chocolate and lemon for the rest of my life, I think I would choose lemon.
Don't you ever wonder why some things have such appeal for one person and no appeal at all for another? I know some people who despise lemon and all of the things I just listed above. To me it smells clean and fresh and tastes like a bite of spring.
Maybe it all started with that birthday cake long ago. I wish I could remember the lady's name. It's slipped out of Mother's memory, too. It was a highlight of my early years and little did she know that she would be remembered 40+ years later for a wonderful cake she baked for a little girl once upon a time.
LSW
Monday, June 20, 2005
Word Play
If you ever watch In the Actor's Studio, you know that every interview ends with the same series of questions. The answers can give you a glimpse into who the real person vs. the celebrity is. While surfing around last week, I happened across a blog that played a similar game. She admits to having stolen the idea from another blog, so I figure I can steal the idea from her. Interesting how difficult some of the categories were to complete.
1. List 10 words you like in your own language.
mellifluous
loquacious
luminescent
serendipity
meretricious
sonata
melodious
alabaster
perspicuity
2. List 9 words you like in other languages.
querida
siesta
ciao
verde
liebchen
comida
smorgasbord
arroyo
beaucoup
3. List 8 city names that are fun to say.
Walla Walla (WA)
Ashtabula (OH)
Saskatoon (Canada)
Booger Hollow (AR)
Kalamazoo (MI)
Thermopolis (WY)
Missoula (MT)
Timbuktu (West Africa)
4. List 7 words that make you uncomfortable.
dishonesty
bias
deceit
cancer
parasitic
terminal
hopeless
5. List 6 words that relate to your job.
pressure
keyboard
taxes
attorney
paper
postage
6. List 5 words that describe someone that you love greatly.
tolerant
genuine
generous
caring
patient
7. List 4 words you would use to describe yourself.
reliable
capable
trustworthy
solitary
8. List 3 words that describe your pet.
tiny
love
bouncy
9. List 2 words that describe your higher power.
friend
solace
10. List 1 word to end with.
serenity
LSW
1. List 10 words you like in your own language.
mellifluous
loquacious
luminescent
serendipity
meretricious
sonata
melodious
alabaster
perspicuity
2. List 9 words you like in other languages.
querida
siesta
ciao
verde
liebchen
comida
smorgasbord
arroyo
beaucoup
3. List 8 city names that are fun to say.
Walla Walla (WA)
Ashtabula (OH)
Saskatoon (Canada)
Booger Hollow (AR)
Kalamazoo (MI)
Thermopolis (WY)
Missoula (MT)
Timbuktu (West Africa)
4. List 7 words that make you uncomfortable.
dishonesty
bias
deceit
cancer
parasitic
terminal
hopeless
5. List 6 words that relate to your job.
pressure
keyboard
taxes
attorney
paper
postage
6. List 5 words that describe someone that you love greatly.
tolerant
genuine
generous
caring
patient
7. List 4 words you would use to describe yourself.
reliable
capable
trustworthy
solitary
8. List 3 words that describe your pet.
tiny
love
bouncy
9. List 2 words that describe your higher power.
friend
solace
10. List 1 word to end with.
serenity
LSW
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Veni, Vidi, Vici
Answer: One week. Question: How long does it take a rat terrier to take over her environment? She came, she saw and she's conquered. She has firmly wrapped herself around our hearts.
I had forgotten what it's like to have a baby around. Everything goes into her mouth to be tasted and evaluated. I spend a good part of my evenings chasing her down and prying various contraband out of her jaws. She has found innumerable candy wrappers that have been hiding under furniture. I've had to drape electric cords above her reach. When she goes outside, she immediately grabs a leaf or a piece of pine bark to carry around with her. I, who hate touching dead things, had to twice wrestle pieces of bird away from her. Leftovers from an afternoon cat snack. Surprising what you can manage to grab and dispose of when it's your baby that's in danger of eating something bad for her.
It's taken the better part of a week, but big sister Xana has finally started playing with her. Coco follows Xana around like a groupie, soaking up the knowledge to be a "cool" dog. Xana is being extraordinarily patient with her, allowing Coco to lay claim to the toys that I throw for them. She will occasionally growl and Coco will immediately roll over on her back in submission. I can almost see Xana's satisfaction that another lesson has been learned.
It's not easy to find a collar that will fit a 2 pound dog, but I finally located one at Tomlinson's. We started leash lessons this morning. We have a l-o-n-g way to go. She surprised me by immediately taking the leash into her mouth to lead me. That was a Bebop trick. Sometimes I think she's channeling the old boy. When I get home from work, she runs to me, wiggling her little bottom just like he did. She's claimed his spot in bed, tucked into my side, and she snores just as loud as he did.
From the first, Coco has liberally doled out lavish affection to Mother. She doesn't seem at all fazed by Mother's physical limitations. She will eagerly run up the bed and cover her gran's face with puppy kisses. A fall out of bed this evening resulted in Mother crying out for help. Little Coco was right on the spot, trying desperately to figure out what was wrong and trying to kiss away the problem.
I've always felt that somehow the right pet will find its way to our house. Coco came into the house and acted like she had known all of us before. She's already made her spot in the family, helping our hearts heal and bringing laughter back to the house. She's truly a special gift from heaven. May she rule the household for many years to come.
LSW
I had forgotten what it's like to have a baby around. Everything goes into her mouth to be tasted and evaluated. I spend a good part of my evenings chasing her down and prying various contraband out of her jaws. She has found innumerable candy wrappers that have been hiding under furniture. I've had to drape electric cords above her reach. When she goes outside, she immediately grabs a leaf or a piece of pine bark to carry around with her. I, who hate touching dead things, had to twice wrestle pieces of bird away from her. Leftovers from an afternoon cat snack. Surprising what you can manage to grab and dispose of when it's your baby that's in danger of eating something bad for her.
It's taken the better part of a week, but big sister Xana has finally started playing with her. Coco follows Xana around like a groupie, soaking up the knowledge to be a "cool" dog. Xana is being extraordinarily patient with her, allowing Coco to lay claim to the toys that I throw for them. She will occasionally growl and Coco will immediately roll over on her back in submission. I can almost see Xana's satisfaction that another lesson has been learned.
It's not easy to find a collar that will fit a 2 pound dog, but I finally located one at Tomlinson's. We started leash lessons this morning. We have a l-o-n-g way to go. She surprised me by immediately taking the leash into her mouth to lead me. That was a Bebop trick. Sometimes I think she's channeling the old boy. When I get home from work, she runs to me, wiggling her little bottom just like he did. She's claimed his spot in bed, tucked into my side, and she snores just as loud as he did.
From the first, Coco has liberally doled out lavish affection to Mother. She doesn't seem at all fazed by Mother's physical limitations. She will eagerly run up the bed and cover her gran's face with puppy kisses. A fall out of bed this evening resulted in Mother crying out for help. Little Coco was right on the spot, trying desperately to figure out what was wrong and trying to kiss away the problem.
I've always felt that somehow the right pet will find its way to our house. Coco came into the house and acted like she had known all of us before. She's already made her spot in the family, helping our hearts heal and bringing laughter back to the house. She's truly a special gift from heaven. May she rule the household for many years to come.
LSW
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Fashion Maven--Not
I keep protesting that I don't watch reality shows. But, in reality, I've been watching quite a few lately. Just not the Survivor, Fear Factor, Big Brother variety. I'm often camped over on TLC watching Clean Sweep or What Not to Wear. (And lately I've been compulsively watching Dancing With the Stars on ABC. My defense on that one is that they put it in Lost's time slot and there's nothing else on.)
What Not to Wear leaves me with very ambivalent feelings. The premise is that two so-called fashionistas rework some poor shlump of a woman into the fashion plate that she could be if she had taste and an unending source of money. They drill the poor thing with "the rules" for her shopping, essentially throw everything away that resides in her present wardrobe, and give her a loaded credit card ($5,000) to restock her closets. The first day they hide and watch while the pathetic lady attempts to do their bidding and then the second day they force their clothing choices on her.
There's no getting around the fact that the before pictures are pretty awful. These ladies do need help. And there's no getting around the fact that in most cases they do look much, much better when it's all over. But my basic problem is that with $5,000 I could do just as well as they do and have 4 times the clothes in my closets. You can be stylish without buying $300 slacks.
The episodes I really love are when they get hold of someone like me who doesn't particularly care for the current style trends and the outrageous prices at Stacy's & Clinton's choice of shops and boutiques. Then it's really fun to see Stacy and Clinton pout about how their "expertise" is being questioned. They see no problem with building a wardrobe of dry-cleaning required outfits. First of all they don't live in Texas. Second of all, I don't see them handing out an additional check to cover the dry-cleaning charges for the next year. They are really big on jackets and cashmere and silk. Nice idea, but try living in those outfits when you live in a state with 2 days of winter per year and you're plagued with menopausal hot-flashes throughout each and every day. I don't think so. What I need is a built-in cooling system in every outfit.
Then the shoes. High, high heels and pointy toes. Good night, nurse. I would love to be around in about 15 years or so when Stacy has to deal with arthritic pains in her feet and see if she's still torturing herself with 3-inch heels. Quite frankly, I've been there and done that. Now I look for low heels and arch support. Every time I put a pair of heels on, I spend the next day massaging cramps out of my feet.
One episode dealt with a lady who works with UNICEF and sees poverty up close and personal. No way was she going to lay out gobs of money on a single blouse. In that case, Stacy and Clinton were behind the 8-ball and had to give in to a more conservative approach. They would have looked really, really bad insisting that it was more important to dress in high fashion than feeding starving children. In another case, the lady hated cashmere and refused to buy dry-clean items. I do love when the fashion-challenged victim digs in her heels. Stacy and Clinton puff up in high-dudgeon and don't look too stylish themselves with their pout faces on.
The one part where I would love to personally participate is in the hair and makeup redos. If anything makes a real difference in your looks, it's those two areas. I am so distrustful of strange beauticians, but Nick can have a go at my hair anytime and I wouldn't say a word.
The one saving grace for these poor fashion victims is that they are getting the American treatment. If you really want to see some fashion barbarism, catch the original version of the show on BBC. Those fashionistas are brutal. They ought to be followed by the reality show "Saving the Suicidally Depressed".
Poor ole Stacy and Clinton ought to experience this girl. I live in tapered leg pants (horrors!) and men's cotton shirts from Eddie Bauer (quelle nightmare), worn untucked to cover my old lady rear. My shoes come from SAS (old lady shoe suppliers) and my hair and makeup take a maximum of 10 minutes in the morning. I carry one neutral colored bag because I don't have time to switch out purses to suit my outfits. I may not be a fashion maven, but I'm comfortable and that's what's important to me. Stacy and Clinton can go sit on a tack.
LSW
What Not to Wear leaves me with very ambivalent feelings. The premise is that two so-called fashionistas rework some poor shlump of a woman into the fashion plate that she could be if she had taste and an unending source of money. They drill the poor thing with "the rules" for her shopping, essentially throw everything away that resides in her present wardrobe, and give her a loaded credit card ($5,000) to restock her closets. The first day they hide and watch while the pathetic lady attempts to do their bidding and then the second day they force their clothing choices on her.
There's no getting around the fact that the before pictures are pretty awful. These ladies do need help. And there's no getting around the fact that in most cases they do look much, much better when it's all over. But my basic problem is that with $5,000 I could do just as well as they do and have 4 times the clothes in my closets. You can be stylish without buying $300 slacks.
The episodes I really love are when they get hold of someone like me who doesn't particularly care for the current style trends and the outrageous prices at Stacy's & Clinton's choice of shops and boutiques. Then it's really fun to see Stacy and Clinton pout about how their "expertise" is being questioned. They see no problem with building a wardrobe of dry-cleaning required outfits. First of all they don't live in Texas. Second of all, I don't see them handing out an additional check to cover the dry-cleaning charges for the next year. They are really big on jackets and cashmere and silk. Nice idea, but try living in those outfits when you live in a state with 2 days of winter per year and you're plagued with menopausal hot-flashes throughout each and every day. I don't think so. What I need is a built-in cooling system in every outfit.
Then the shoes. High, high heels and pointy toes. Good night, nurse. I would love to be around in about 15 years or so when Stacy has to deal with arthritic pains in her feet and see if she's still torturing herself with 3-inch heels. Quite frankly, I've been there and done that. Now I look for low heels and arch support. Every time I put a pair of heels on, I spend the next day massaging cramps out of my feet.
One episode dealt with a lady who works with UNICEF and sees poverty up close and personal. No way was she going to lay out gobs of money on a single blouse. In that case, Stacy and Clinton were behind the 8-ball and had to give in to a more conservative approach. They would have looked really, really bad insisting that it was more important to dress in high fashion than feeding starving children. In another case, the lady hated cashmere and refused to buy dry-clean items. I do love when the fashion-challenged victim digs in her heels. Stacy and Clinton puff up in high-dudgeon and don't look too stylish themselves with their pout faces on.
The one part where I would love to personally participate is in the hair and makeup redos. If anything makes a real difference in your looks, it's those two areas. I am so distrustful of strange beauticians, but Nick can have a go at my hair anytime and I wouldn't say a word.
The one saving grace for these poor fashion victims is that they are getting the American treatment. If you really want to see some fashion barbarism, catch the original version of the show on BBC. Those fashionistas are brutal. They ought to be followed by the reality show "Saving the Suicidally Depressed".
Poor ole Stacy and Clinton ought to experience this girl. I live in tapered leg pants (horrors!) and men's cotton shirts from Eddie Bauer (quelle nightmare), worn untucked to cover my old lady rear. My shoes come from SAS (old lady shoe suppliers) and my hair and makeup take a maximum of 10 minutes in the morning. I carry one neutral colored bag because I don't have time to switch out purses to suit my outfits. I may not be a fashion maven, but I'm comfortable and that's what's important to me. Stacy and Clinton can go sit on a tack.
LSW
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Klutz 101
I've always longed to be a dancer. And/or an ice skater. I love when a dance or routine is perfectly choreographed to the music and the partners are in sync with each other. It's a beautiful thing to watch.
Instead, I can't dance a lick. And I shudder to think what would happen if I attempted ice skating. I really don't have time to sit around and wait for broken bones to heal. I blame genetics for my basic ineptitude. Nobody in my family (that I'm aware of) can dance, skate or do anything that requires physical agility. When klutz was doled out, we all went through the line twice. Probably thought it was the dessert line.
Waiting for David at Threadgill's the other day, I sat at the bar and sipped a diet Coke. When he arrived, I got off the stool without incident (no easy feat in itself), but when I reached back for my Coke, I knocked it over spilling ice and coke from one end of the bar to the other. They were really nice about it. Nobody even rolled their eyes.
Yesterday I was taking the dogs for a stroll around the yard when Xana asserted herself and headed off for her accustomed afternoon walk. She has not appreciated having her activities reeled in because Mom is busy watching the baby. So I scooped Coco up and headed off after Xana. Or intended to. What I really did was get my flip flop tangled up and I hit the ground. Thankfully I fell backward, with Coco tucked safely against my chest. Xana did roll her eyes. Coco was all bouncy and ready to take that ride again. The neighbors watching from down the street must have decided I was ok and acted like they hadn't seen anything. I took the cat approach of acting like I had meant to do that all along. I limped after Xana, blowing on the first skint elbow I've had in quite some time.
I can't dance, skate, swim, bat, throw, dribble, or bowl. I am really good at holding dogs. I think I'll just decide to concentrate on where my real talents lie.
LSW
Instead, I can't dance a lick. And I shudder to think what would happen if I attempted ice skating. I really don't have time to sit around and wait for broken bones to heal. I blame genetics for my basic ineptitude. Nobody in my family (that I'm aware of) can dance, skate or do anything that requires physical agility. When klutz was doled out, we all went through the line twice. Probably thought it was the dessert line.
Waiting for David at Threadgill's the other day, I sat at the bar and sipped a diet Coke. When he arrived, I got off the stool without incident (no easy feat in itself), but when I reached back for my Coke, I knocked it over spilling ice and coke from one end of the bar to the other. They were really nice about it. Nobody even rolled their eyes.
Yesterday I was taking the dogs for a stroll around the yard when Xana asserted herself and headed off for her accustomed afternoon walk. She has not appreciated having her activities reeled in because Mom is busy watching the baby. So I scooped Coco up and headed off after Xana. Or intended to. What I really did was get my flip flop tangled up and I hit the ground. Thankfully I fell backward, with Coco tucked safely against my chest. Xana did roll her eyes. Coco was all bouncy and ready to take that ride again. The neighbors watching from down the street must have decided I was ok and acted like they hadn't seen anything. I took the cat approach of acting like I had meant to do that all along. I limped after Xana, blowing on the first skint elbow I've had in quite some time.
I can't dance, skate, swim, bat, throw, dribble, or bowl. I am really good at holding dogs. I think I'll just decide to concentrate on where my real talents lie.
LSW
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Love and Blue Skies
Yesterday I drove through much of Bastrop and Milam Counties on my way to visit the puppy farm. It's country drives like that that remind me of how much I love Texas as only a native Texan can. It is already hot and humid. God help us when August rolls around. But there is something about driving down a straight highway with rolling green fields on either side, fluffy white clouds in the brilliant blue skies above and the heat visibly rising off the highway. My gut suddenly relaxes and I feel an internal satisfaction that I'm home.
When I go back and visit Smiley in the summertime, I hit that feeling when I head south from Gonzales on that two-lane blacktop road that takes you to beautiful downtown Smiley. Mesquite trees and chicken houses mean home to me. Heat, thorns and stink. How totally weird is that?
I saw some truly Texas sights yesterday. Between San Gabriel and Cameron I saw a buzzard convention meeting over the carcass of a dead deer. I very nearly stopped and took a picture. Later on I wished I had. Now who but a Texan would find a gathering of buzzards over a pile of rotting carrion to be photogenic? There was something about them that reminded me of board meetings or maybe deacon meetings. A group of elder statesmen, dealing with the day's business.
When I reached my destination, I turned onto a narrow dirt road, bumped over a cattle guard, stopped to open a gate, drove through, stepped out of my car to close the gate and had to pick my way around massive piles of steaming, uh, cow leavings. And I loved it. It's been a very long time since I drove down to an honest-to-goodness farmhouse and the smell of the stuff was a not unpleasant flash from the past. As I approached the house, a big white cow was lying across the road. She gave me a put-upon look, but lumbered to her feet and ambled off just far enough for me to pass. I can't remember the last time I was that close to a cow. The lady of the house apologized to me for my having to deal with the gate. I laughed and told her it was no problem - that I came from a long line of farmers and felt right at home.
Yesterday was so radically different from my usual activities that it felt like a real vacation day. I love rural Texas. I sometimes forget that there are parts of Texas that aren't yet covered by concrete. I temporarily stepped back in time to a simpler period of my life when I regularly visited rural families who kept gardens in their back yard and cows in the field just across the fence from their front yards.
The only thing that would have made the day any better would have been if it was cotton harvest time. I can remember driving through Thorndale as a child and smelling the cotton gins. It may sound odd, but the smell always reminded me of hot, buttered popcorn.
The day was a total success in any case, because I brought home a little package of brown fur that is about two pounds of solid love. Little Coco is lying at my side, in Bebop's old place, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. More about her at another time. Let me just say that she has already lifted the spirits of the house and reminded us that the circle of life continues.
Blue skies, buzzards, country roads and puppies. Take joy in the simple things. They are still out there if you look.
LSW
When I go back and visit Smiley in the summertime, I hit that feeling when I head south from Gonzales on that two-lane blacktop road that takes you to beautiful downtown Smiley. Mesquite trees and chicken houses mean home to me. Heat, thorns and stink. How totally weird is that?
I saw some truly Texas sights yesterday. Between San Gabriel and Cameron I saw a buzzard convention meeting over the carcass of a dead deer. I very nearly stopped and took a picture. Later on I wished I had. Now who but a Texan would find a gathering of buzzards over a pile of rotting carrion to be photogenic? There was something about them that reminded me of board meetings or maybe deacon meetings. A group of elder statesmen, dealing with the day's business.
When I reached my destination, I turned onto a narrow dirt road, bumped over a cattle guard, stopped to open a gate, drove through, stepped out of my car to close the gate and had to pick my way around massive piles of steaming, uh, cow leavings. And I loved it. It's been a very long time since I drove down to an honest-to-goodness farmhouse and the smell of the stuff was a not unpleasant flash from the past. As I approached the house, a big white cow was lying across the road. She gave me a put-upon look, but lumbered to her feet and ambled off just far enough for me to pass. I can't remember the last time I was that close to a cow. The lady of the house apologized to me for my having to deal with the gate. I laughed and told her it was no problem - that I came from a long line of farmers and felt right at home.
Yesterday was so radically different from my usual activities that it felt like a real vacation day. I love rural Texas. I sometimes forget that there are parts of Texas that aren't yet covered by concrete. I temporarily stepped back in time to a simpler period of my life when I regularly visited rural families who kept gardens in their back yard and cows in the field just across the fence from their front yards.
The only thing that would have made the day any better would have been if it was cotton harvest time. I can remember driving through Thorndale as a child and smelling the cotton gins. It may sound odd, but the smell always reminded me of hot, buttered popcorn.
The day was a total success in any case, because I brought home a little package of brown fur that is about two pounds of solid love. Little Coco is lying at my side, in Bebop's old place, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. More about her at another time. Let me just say that she has already lifted the spirits of the house and reminded us that the circle of life continues.
Blue skies, buzzards, country roads and puppies. Take joy in the simple things. They are still out there if you look.
LSW
Friday, June 03, 2005
Another Stroll Down Memory Lane
June finally got here. I really wondered there for awhile if I would live to see it. But, as usual, the May work finally got done somehow and we are in recover mode. Which, for me, consists of trying to avoid any kind of mental strain for at least a week. I'm reading, going to bed early, and watching TV, when I can find something other than reality drivel to watch.
I have an appointment on Monday to see some puppies. Xana and I have decided we must bring aboard one or two new members to join our den and replenish the ranks. So I will be driving northward about an hour and a half, with the hopes of finding another rat terrier soulmate.
The breeder's location is not far from a small community where I lived for a couple of years back in my pre-school days. San Gabriel is but a small spot in the road, just a short distance from Rockdale, Thorndale and Cameron. When we lived there, the community still had its own school. Now it has a small quick-stop grocery, a couple of churches and a lot of farm land. The Baptist church and parsonage look virtually unchanged from the pictures in my memory.
I stopped by San Gabriel a couple of years back when a genealogical research trip took me within a few miles. I had not been there for many years, yet I drove straight to the Church as if I had been there daily. I was only 5 years old when we moved from there to Oak Hill, so my ability to find my early home was a surprise to me. You never know what your subconscious is holding onto.
A few things stand out in my memories of those early days. We lived in the parsonage, directly behind the church. It was (and still is) a white frame bungalow and at that time had hard wood floors throughout. Naturally we had a cat. I'm not sure whether that was Miss Tabby Gray or Buttons, but she earned the nickname "Thunderfoot" because of her penchant for running down the long hall, pounding that hard wood floor with her back feet.
One of our parishioners happened across a nest of baby skunks while we lived there. We ended up adopting one of them as a pet. Life in the country. How many people do you know who have had a pet skunk? Pansy was a cute little thing, who trailed after my mother constantly. To get a bed made, Mother had to shut her outside in the hall or risk stepping on her. Pansy would stand outside the door of the bedroom, stamping her little feet in irritation. As she grew older, my parents became concerned that her little anger fits might result in some spraying. So they arranged for her to be de-stinked. Sadly, she did not make it through the procedure. I'm not sure if it was a lack of skunk expertise on the vet's part or a reaction to the anesthesia. Now that I think about it, Pansy was probably the first in a series of black and white pets we've adopted. I seem to have a real weakness for that color combination.
The first Halloween carnival I remember attending was at the San Gabriel school. I was enchanted by the "fishing pond". I loved throwing the little fishing line over the counter and reeling in a toy. We had some friends in the country who we regularly visited and the older boys of the family would entertain their younger sister and me with a "fishing pond" at their house on a couple of occasions after that. I also remember a Christmas party at the church where my gift was a set of plastic dollhouse furniture. I can still see the yellow pieces of furniture clearly in my mind's eye. Perhaps that was my initial inspiration for my future hobby of dollhouse construction. My smell memory reacts when I come across the combination of oranges, apples and peppermint. The church passed out bags of fruit and candy to the kids that Christmas and the smell always takes me back to that party.
It was at San Gabriel that my parents made an attempt at becoming foster parents. We took in two girls, a few years older than me, from the Texas Baptist Childrens' Home. It was an experiment that didn't work out, but for a short while I had the experience of sisterhood. I can remember that they once surprised me by redressing one of my favorite dolls. The only time I ever had the opportunity to be the kid sister and I enjoyed being spoiled.
Some folks of my acquaintance have probably long suspected that I was dropped on my head as a baby. Well, I wasn't quite a baby but I did get a big bump on my head while we were in San Gabriel. The church was surrounded by long sidewalks and one day I was walking backwards on the sidewalk, talking to my foster sisters. My dog Sissy was dancing along with us and somehow got behind me and I tripped over her, cracking my head on the sidewalk. I had a real goose egg raise up on the back of my head. Nowadays you would rush a kid to the doctor for xrays, but that was in the 1950s and you didn't run to the doctor for a mere bump on the head. Thankfully, no lasting damage was done. I think.
I was quite full of myself back then. After all, foster sisters notwithstanding, I was an only child with lots of attention and convinced I was the center of my universe. It was the custom of my Sunday School teacher to have her class say a series of prayers, with each student saying a small prayer. I was generally the one chosen to begin the prayer chain. One day my teacher decided that wasn't really fair and started with another student and ended with me. I was incensed. When the prayers finally rolled around to me, I puffed up and announced "Mama don't pray, Daddy don't pray, and I don't pray neither!" I'm sure the teacher was non-plussed to hear such a pronouncement from the preacher's daughter. I have no memory of whether she tried putting me at the end again. I never did like taking the backseat.
I have many pieces of memories of the folks in the church. Mostly fragments that flutter just outside my grasp. It's the first place we lived that really exists in my conscious mind. The folks there were good people. I recall no bad incidents involved with our life there. I hope the community is still the quiet, friendly place I remember. Perhaps I will have to wander over that way on Monday and make a quick visit. I had some good times there.
LSW
I have an appointment on Monday to see some puppies. Xana and I have decided we must bring aboard one or two new members to join our den and replenish the ranks. So I will be driving northward about an hour and a half, with the hopes of finding another rat terrier soulmate.
The breeder's location is not far from a small community where I lived for a couple of years back in my pre-school days. San Gabriel is but a small spot in the road, just a short distance from Rockdale, Thorndale and Cameron. When we lived there, the community still had its own school. Now it has a small quick-stop grocery, a couple of churches and a lot of farm land. The Baptist church and parsonage look virtually unchanged from the pictures in my memory.
I stopped by San Gabriel a couple of years back when a genealogical research trip took me within a few miles. I had not been there for many years, yet I drove straight to the Church as if I had been there daily. I was only 5 years old when we moved from there to Oak Hill, so my ability to find my early home was a surprise to me. You never know what your subconscious is holding onto.
A few things stand out in my memories of those early days. We lived in the parsonage, directly behind the church. It was (and still is) a white frame bungalow and at that time had hard wood floors throughout. Naturally we had a cat. I'm not sure whether that was Miss Tabby Gray or Buttons, but she earned the nickname "Thunderfoot" because of her penchant for running down the long hall, pounding that hard wood floor with her back feet.
One of our parishioners happened across a nest of baby skunks while we lived there. We ended up adopting one of them as a pet. Life in the country. How many people do you know who have had a pet skunk? Pansy was a cute little thing, who trailed after my mother constantly. To get a bed made, Mother had to shut her outside in the hall or risk stepping on her. Pansy would stand outside the door of the bedroom, stamping her little feet in irritation. As she grew older, my parents became concerned that her little anger fits might result in some spraying. So they arranged for her to be de-stinked. Sadly, she did not make it through the procedure. I'm not sure if it was a lack of skunk expertise on the vet's part or a reaction to the anesthesia. Now that I think about it, Pansy was probably the first in a series of black and white pets we've adopted. I seem to have a real weakness for that color combination.
The first Halloween carnival I remember attending was at the San Gabriel school. I was enchanted by the "fishing pond". I loved throwing the little fishing line over the counter and reeling in a toy. We had some friends in the country who we regularly visited and the older boys of the family would entertain their younger sister and me with a "fishing pond" at their house on a couple of occasions after that. I also remember a Christmas party at the church where my gift was a set of plastic dollhouse furniture. I can still see the yellow pieces of furniture clearly in my mind's eye. Perhaps that was my initial inspiration for my future hobby of dollhouse construction. My smell memory reacts when I come across the combination of oranges, apples and peppermint. The church passed out bags of fruit and candy to the kids that Christmas and the smell always takes me back to that party.
It was at San Gabriel that my parents made an attempt at becoming foster parents. We took in two girls, a few years older than me, from the Texas Baptist Childrens' Home. It was an experiment that didn't work out, but for a short while I had the experience of sisterhood. I can remember that they once surprised me by redressing one of my favorite dolls. The only time I ever had the opportunity to be the kid sister and I enjoyed being spoiled.
Some folks of my acquaintance have probably long suspected that I was dropped on my head as a baby. Well, I wasn't quite a baby but I did get a big bump on my head while we were in San Gabriel. The church was surrounded by long sidewalks and one day I was walking backwards on the sidewalk, talking to my foster sisters. My dog Sissy was dancing along with us and somehow got behind me and I tripped over her, cracking my head on the sidewalk. I had a real goose egg raise up on the back of my head. Nowadays you would rush a kid to the doctor for xrays, but that was in the 1950s and you didn't run to the doctor for a mere bump on the head. Thankfully, no lasting damage was done. I think.
I was quite full of myself back then. After all, foster sisters notwithstanding, I was an only child with lots of attention and convinced I was the center of my universe. It was the custom of my Sunday School teacher to have her class say a series of prayers, with each student saying a small prayer. I was generally the one chosen to begin the prayer chain. One day my teacher decided that wasn't really fair and started with another student and ended with me. I was incensed. When the prayers finally rolled around to me, I puffed up and announced "Mama don't pray, Daddy don't pray, and I don't pray neither!" I'm sure the teacher was non-plussed to hear such a pronouncement from the preacher's daughter. I have no memory of whether she tried putting me at the end again. I never did like taking the backseat.
I have many pieces of memories of the folks in the church. Mostly fragments that flutter just outside my grasp. It's the first place we lived that really exists in my conscious mind. The folks there were good people. I recall no bad incidents involved with our life there. I hope the community is still the quiet, friendly place I remember. Perhaps I will have to wander over that way on Monday and make a quick visit. I had some good times there.
LSW
Monday, May 30, 2005
In Memory
On this Memorial Day, I remember those in my family who served in the military:
Veterans of the Revolutionary War
James B. Rylee
John Henry Lentz
Veteran of the War for Texas Independence
Jacob G. Lentz
Veteran of the Mexican War
Henry Clay Lentz
Veterans of the Civil War, Confederate
Joseph Sheppard Mobley
Hezekiah Madison Mobley
Stephen Mobley
Andrew Jackson Mobley
William Peter Mobley
James Monroe Morgan
Richard Morgan
George Washington Sewell
George Washington Huddleston
Thomas Young Huddleston
Joseph W. Huddleston
Gabriel Moore Lentz
Ashley Rozelle Lentz
Thomas Hansen Lentz
William W. Frankum
William T. Frankum
Samuel V. Frankum
Albert McAfee
Veterans of the Civil War, Union
Jacob McAfee
Charles E. McAfee
George Washington Huddleston
Veteran of the Indian Wars
Albert McAfee
Non-wartime Naval service, 1909
Elmo Elisha Hodge (enlisted as Frank Stanford)
Veteran of World War I
Jesse J. McAfee
Veterans of World War II
Charles Benner
Clarence Benner
Arvid Benner
Archie Benner
George Benner
Herbert Hodge Burch
Veterans of the Korean War
Donald Wilcoxen
Chester Dwight Lamb
Jesse S. Bell
Allen Earl McVay
I'm sure there are others whose service records I have not yet discovered. To those who gave their service to and especially to those who gave their lives for their country, thank you.
LSW
Veterans of the Revolutionary War
James B. Rylee
John Henry Lentz
Veteran of the War for Texas Independence
Jacob G. Lentz
Veteran of the Mexican War
Henry Clay Lentz
Veterans of the Civil War, Confederate
Joseph Sheppard Mobley
Hezekiah Madison Mobley
Stephen Mobley
Andrew Jackson Mobley
William Peter Mobley
James Monroe Morgan
Richard Morgan
George Washington Sewell
George Washington Huddleston
Thomas Young Huddleston
Joseph W. Huddleston
Gabriel Moore Lentz
Ashley Rozelle Lentz
Thomas Hansen Lentz
William W. Frankum
William T. Frankum
Samuel V. Frankum
Albert McAfee
Veterans of the Civil War, Union
Jacob McAfee
Charles E. McAfee
George Washington Huddleston
Veteran of the Indian Wars
Albert McAfee
Non-wartime Naval service, 1909
Elmo Elisha Hodge (enlisted as Frank Stanford)
Veteran of World War I
Jesse J. McAfee
Veterans of World War II
Charles Benner
Clarence Benner
Arvid Benner
Archie Benner
George Benner
Herbert Hodge Burch
Veterans of the Korean War
Donald Wilcoxen
Chester Dwight Lamb
Jesse S. Bell
Allen Earl McVay
I'm sure there are others whose service records I have not yet discovered. To those who gave their service to and especially to those who gave their lives for their country, thank you.
LSW
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
T-Minus 6 days
Every year I say this may be the last time I get through May with my sanity. And every year I plunge into the flood of work and paddle like crazy until May 31st. Thanks to certain statutory requirements, I end up doing as much work during the month of May as I do for any quarter of the rest of the year. I don't have a personal life during May, work many nights and weekends to keep up, and look like Phyllis Diller when it's all over. And this year is no different.
Yesterday was one of those days that make me want to pull every hair out of my head. I had a very difficult program to write and I had dedicated Tuesday to get it done. When I walked in the door, one of our biggest clients was on the phone with the bad news that quite a few accounts had been mishandled during their mailing. One of my team dropped by while the phone was still warm to let me know that two other clients were upset because of an entry mixup that had ended up with about 100 accounts for one client being entered into the data file of the other client. Another client discovered that some new taxes they had begun collecting had been left out of the letters that had already gone. And then the software developers for another large client wanted me to call and discuss in detail how I was processing their data. One of our attorneys then dropped by, wanting help in formatting a "genealogy" tree chart for a case he's working involving multiple heirs of a deceased property owner. I spent Tuesday writing several programs to fix all the problems and to isolate accounts that needed correction letters, and quickly entering the property heirs into my Family Treemaker program to generate a family tree to assist in tracking the inherited split of the property. When I left the office, I had not written one line in the program that I had designated for that day's project.
So I worked at home last night, spending 4 hours writing the neglected program, while Xana sat on the chair across from me issuing loud sighs on a regular basis to remind me that it was past her bedtime. There's no nagging like the nagging of a rat terrier who wants you to go to bed so she can.
I've still got three new programs to write for clients who have upgraded to new software, 4 files to finalize, and 3 more clients who have yet to get their data to me. It very much looks like I will be working right up to the bitter end on May 31st. Believe me, this month is tough on an old lady. The further we get into May, the grouchier I get and the more I look like I've been dragged to work behind a dump truck. The newer employees are skirting waaaay around me at this point. The older, wiser employees just wave from a distance and head the other direction when they see me coming.
Every May is difficult, but I think this year has been harder than usual since I still have a bruised heart from the loss of Bebop. I've begun looking around for rat terrier puppies and plan to get really serious about the hunt come June 1st. The house is just too quiet. We need some kids around to liven things up.
June 1st. Ah, bliss. Back to genealogy, dollhouses, puppy belly rubbing. So nice to have something to look forward to when you're stuck in a black hole of work.
LSW
Yesterday was one of those days that make me want to pull every hair out of my head. I had a very difficult program to write and I had dedicated Tuesday to get it done. When I walked in the door, one of our biggest clients was on the phone with the bad news that quite a few accounts had been mishandled during their mailing. One of my team dropped by while the phone was still warm to let me know that two other clients were upset because of an entry mixup that had ended up with about 100 accounts for one client being entered into the data file of the other client. Another client discovered that some new taxes they had begun collecting had been left out of the letters that had already gone. And then the software developers for another large client wanted me to call and discuss in detail how I was processing their data. One of our attorneys then dropped by, wanting help in formatting a "genealogy" tree chart for a case he's working involving multiple heirs of a deceased property owner. I spent Tuesday writing several programs to fix all the problems and to isolate accounts that needed correction letters, and quickly entering the property heirs into my Family Treemaker program to generate a family tree to assist in tracking the inherited split of the property. When I left the office, I had not written one line in the program that I had designated for that day's project.
So I worked at home last night, spending 4 hours writing the neglected program, while Xana sat on the chair across from me issuing loud sighs on a regular basis to remind me that it was past her bedtime. There's no nagging like the nagging of a rat terrier who wants you to go to bed so she can.
I've still got three new programs to write for clients who have upgraded to new software, 4 files to finalize, and 3 more clients who have yet to get their data to me. It very much looks like I will be working right up to the bitter end on May 31st. Believe me, this month is tough on an old lady. The further we get into May, the grouchier I get and the more I look like I've been dragged to work behind a dump truck. The newer employees are skirting waaaay around me at this point. The older, wiser employees just wave from a distance and head the other direction when they see me coming.
Every May is difficult, but I think this year has been harder than usual since I still have a bruised heart from the loss of Bebop. I've begun looking around for rat terrier puppies and plan to get really serious about the hunt come June 1st. The house is just too quiet. We need some kids around to liven things up.
June 1st. Ah, bliss. Back to genealogy, dollhouses, puppy belly rubbing. So nice to have something to look forward to when you're stuck in a black hole of work.
LSW
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Color Me Disgusted
New favorite bumper sticker, spotted this morning on 6th Street:
Not bad. So glad there are creative people still out there. Now on to our scheduled rant.
I was raised in a Christian home. I consider myself a Christian. My fervent prayer is that my heaven is nowhere close to that heaven where the fanatical right-wing, so-called Christians are planning to spend their eternity. A more narrow-minded, bigoted, group I can't imagine. What happened to that ideology that we should love our fellow man, warts and all? I love the old Kris Kristofferson song "Jesus Was a Capricorn". Sums it up pretty well.
I get a strong feeling that Jesus wouldn't be too popular with the right-wing folks if he showed up today.
These fanatics can twist the scripture to mean anything they want you to believe, but I sometimes wonder how they reconcile their gay-bashing, liberal-hating, "my way or the highway" attitudes with some basic verses that I remember well from my church-going days:
I mean, really, what do you think of first when you hear these idiots braying their opinions? Love of their neighbor? I think not. These loud-mouthed jerks, piously proclaiming their Christianity while every action speaks the opposite, do more to drive people away from the Church than bring them to it. I really don't think that when the Lord directed his followers to go out and be missionaries that he had in mind for them to sit on your chest and push their beliefs down your throat until you gagged.
You know, it strikes me how similar the fanatics of the right-wing Christian movement are to their fanatical counterparts in the Holy Land who are blowing each other up right and left. God forbid we should try to see the other person's point of view if it differs from ours. We're right, by God! So you're wrong!
Unfortunately many of these clowns are Baptists, as am I. There are days when I seriously consider hitching my religious wagon to the Quakers. There is something seriously wrong with a group that makes me feel, by association, that I have to hang my head in shame. That's one reason I no longer attend worship services.
I stopped going to church the day I found myself so incensed by an ill-educated substitute pastor, who felt the need to personally take on the subject of evolution vs. creationism, that I came very close to standing up before God and everybody and calling him a moron. I decided that if that was the type of feeling I got from attending worship services, I was in the wrong place. Now to feel God's presence, I go out in the woods and drink in the sounds, sights and smells of nature. One of the times I've felt closest to God was when I stood on the brink of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison in Colorado. Church isn't a building full of people, but the feeling you get in your heart when you stand in the presence of the wonders of nature.
People come to God in their own way and come to terms with God one on one. Some never find him and it's a true tragedy. Others never really know him because of the constant drone of the narrow-minded who drown out the inner voice that connects directly to God. I can only pray that they will someday stop listening to the pious hypocrites and start listening to God.
LSW
"Where are we going?
Why am I in this handbasket?"
Not bad. So glad there are creative people still out there. Now on to our scheduled rant.
I was raised in a Christian home. I consider myself a Christian. My fervent prayer is that my heaven is nowhere close to that heaven where the fanatical right-wing, so-called Christians are planning to spend their eternity. A more narrow-minded, bigoted, group I can't imagine. What happened to that ideology that we should love our fellow man, warts and all? I love the old Kris Kristofferson song "Jesus Was a Capricorn". Sums it up pretty well.
"Jesus was a Capricorn, he ate organic foods.
He believed in love and peace and never wore no shoes.
Long hair, beard and sandals and a funky bunch of friends.
Reckon they'd just nail him up if He come down again."
I get a strong feeling that Jesus wouldn't be too popular with the right-wing folks if he showed up today.
These fanatics can twist the scripture to mean anything they want you to believe, but I sometimes wonder how they reconcile their gay-bashing, liberal-hating, "my way or the highway" attitudes with some basic verses that I remember well from my church-going days:
Matthew 7:1 (KJV)
Judge not, that ye be not judged.
Judge not, that ye be not judged.
Matthew 22:39 (KJV)
And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
John 8:7 (KJV)
So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.
So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.
Romans 12:19 (KJV)
Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
I mean, really, what do you think of first when you hear these idiots braying their opinions? Love of their neighbor? I think not. These loud-mouthed jerks, piously proclaiming their Christianity while every action speaks the opposite, do more to drive people away from the Church than bring them to it. I really don't think that when the Lord directed his followers to go out and be missionaries that he had in mind for them to sit on your chest and push their beliefs down your throat until you gagged.
You know, it strikes me how similar the fanatics of the right-wing Christian movement are to their fanatical counterparts in the Holy Land who are blowing each other up right and left. God forbid we should try to see the other person's point of view if it differs from ours. We're right, by God! So you're wrong!
Unfortunately many of these clowns are Baptists, as am I. There are days when I seriously consider hitching my religious wagon to the Quakers. There is something seriously wrong with a group that makes me feel, by association, that I have to hang my head in shame. That's one reason I no longer attend worship services.
I stopped going to church the day I found myself so incensed by an ill-educated substitute pastor, who felt the need to personally take on the subject of evolution vs. creationism, that I came very close to standing up before God and everybody and calling him a moron. I decided that if that was the type of feeling I got from attending worship services, I was in the wrong place. Now to feel God's presence, I go out in the woods and drink in the sounds, sights and smells of nature. One of the times I've felt closest to God was when I stood on the brink of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison in Colorado. Church isn't a building full of people, but the feeling you get in your heart when you stand in the presence of the wonders of nature.
People come to God in their own way and come to terms with God one on one. Some never find him and it's a true tragedy. Others never really know him because of the constant drone of the narrow-minded who drown out the inner voice that connects directly to God. I can only pray that they will someday stop listening to the pious hypocrites and start listening to God.
LSW
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
What's the Statute of Limitations on a Move?
Is it just me or does everybody go through 5+ years of wondering where things have gotten to following a move? Just today I was reminded of a tool I used frequently in a hobby that has been neglected in recent years and I realized that I have absolutely no idea where the thing is. I haven't seen it since THE MOVE.
I've spent a few spring weekends this year purging junk from the garage. There were many things that surfaced as I worked that had been in the category of "where the heck is that?" since THE MOVE. I swear, I even found a white plastic sack filled with what was essentially garbage that got moved across town rather than into the dumpster 5 years ago. But there are a lot of things that still elude me, probably packed away in a box in the back of the closet or, God forbid, resting in the storage unit a few streets over. (I'm seriously thinking of slinking off in the middle of the night and leaving that particular hellhole for someone else to clean up.)
It's been five years since my mother and I combined households. I have multiple sets of dishes, 4-5 sets of flatware, bowls out the wazoo, complete sets of pans that are tucked back in the far recesses of the cabinets, and God knows what else. Some of it I'm hoping to get cleared away in the next year. What I can't sell on EBAY, I'll donate to Goodwill, and what Goodwill doesn't want, I'll drop surreptitiously on the porches of neighbors and relatives who make the mistake of leaving town for a weekend.
But a lot of this stuff is good junk. Or things that I have a sentimental attachment to at the moment. I'm a sucker for bargains and will buy something on sale that I can forsee a future need for. I have several hobbies, some active and some on hiatus, that I have amassed materials for "one day when I have some time to do what I want". I have become something of a family archivist, storing various relics that belonged to previous generations. Someday someone else will be designated custodian, but for now I have no intention of letting these pieces of history slip away.
Anyway, I still go on regular forays into the storage shed, the storage unit and the corners of the garage, looking for that elusive "I know I had it before THE MOVE" item. But, as bad as it is, it could be worse. Have you ever watched Clean Sweep on TLC? The people at the center of this show are pitiful. I may have trouble navigating the garage, but my house doesn't look all that bad. These people can't even find their bed to sleep in, the rooms are so stacked and piled. I find it hard to understand how anyone can abide the kind of clutter that these folks have been living with before the saviors from Clean Sweep come and show them the error of their ways. But I'm really appalled at how easily they give up their personal history because the CS people say they have to. I've seen folks put their mother's paintings in the garage sale. I'll bet they wouldn't understand why I keep a pile of old Bibles (without any family history in them) tucked into a dresser drawer. Because my grandmother gave them to me, that's why. Maybe there's no good practical reason to hang on to them, but I'll do it for as long as I feel like doing it.
I'm hoping that someday I can say I've finished unpacking. I have not the faintest idea how people manage to find anything at all when they move every 3-5 years. Or maybe that's the way to keep the stuff from accumulating. Five years may not be that bad, considering we had lived in our houses a respective 12 and 28 years when we initiated THE MOVE.
On other topics, life is hectic these days. April showers may bring May flowers, but I never have the time to stop and smell anything in May. May brings statutory tax notices and a work load that just won't quit. I have a tale to tell of dollhouses and a tale to tell of family reunions, but they will have to wait for awhile. Provided I survive another May.
LSW
I've spent a few spring weekends this year purging junk from the garage. There were many things that surfaced as I worked that had been in the category of "where the heck is that?" since THE MOVE. I swear, I even found a white plastic sack filled with what was essentially garbage that got moved across town rather than into the dumpster 5 years ago. But there are a lot of things that still elude me, probably packed away in a box in the back of the closet or, God forbid, resting in the storage unit a few streets over. (I'm seriously thinking of slinking off in the middle of the night and leaving that particular hellhole for someone else to clean up.)
It's been five years since my mother and I combined households. I have multiple sets of dishes, 4-5 sets of flatware, bowls out the wazoo, complete sets of pans that are tucked back in the far recesses of the cabinets, and God knows what else. Some of it I'm hoping to get cleared away in the next year. What I can't sell on EBAY, I'll donate to Goodwill, and what Goodwill doesn't want, I'll drop surreptitiously on the porches of neighbors and relatives who make the mistake of leaving town for a weekend.
But a lot of this stuff is good junk. Or things that I have a sentimental attachment to at the moment. I'm a sucker for bargains and will buy something on sale that I can forsee a future need for. I have several hobbies, some active and some on hiatus, that I have amassed materials for "one day when I have some time to do what I want". I have become something of a family archivist, storing various relics that belonged to previous generations. Someday someone else will be designated custodian, but for now I have no intention of letting these pieces of history slip away.
Anyway, I still go on regular forays into the storage shed, the storage unit and the corners of the garage, looking for that elusive "I know I had it before THE MOVE" item. But, as bad as it is, it could be worse. Have you ever watched Clean Sweep on TLC? The people at the center of this show are pitiful. I may have trouble navigating the garage, but my house doesn't look all that bad. These people can't even find their bed to sleep in, the rooms are so stacked and piled. I find it hard to understand how anyone can abide the kind of clutter that these folks have been living with before the saviors from Clean Sweep come and show them the error of their ways. But I'm really appalled at how easily they give up their personal history because the CS people say they have to. I've seen folks put their mother's paintings in the garage sale. I'll bet they wouldn't understand why I keep a pile of old Bibles (without any family history in them) tucked into a dresser drawer. Because my grandmother gave them to me, that's why. Maybe there's no good practical reason to hang on to them, but I'll do it for as long as I feel like doing it.
I'm hoping that someday I can say I've finished unpacking. I have not the faintest idea how people manage to find anything at all when they move every 3-5 years. Or maybe that's the way to keep the stuff from accumulating. Five years may not be that bad, considering we had lived in our houses a respective 12 and 28 years when we initiated THE MOVE.
On other topics, life is hectic these days. April showers may bring May flowers, but I never have the time to stop and smell anything in May. May brings statutory tax notices and a work load that just won't quit. I have a tale to tell of dollhouses and a tale to tell of family reunions, but they will have to wait for awhile. Provided I survive another May.
LSW
Friday, May 06, 2005
Keeping Austin Weird
One of the things I love about Austin is that it is one place where you can march to the beat of your own drummer and nobody thinks twice about it. You get used to seeing the out of ordinary. But this week I did a doubletake when I saw something too weird for even Austin.
I was on my way to work, crusing down Highway 71, when a Ford F150 pickup passed me. The tailgate was down, which caught my attention. In the back of the truck was a long white box that ran the entire length of the truck bed and onto the tailgate. Roughly 6 feet by 3 feet, looking much like an ordinary packing box, except that across the end of the box were stamped the words "Human Remains". My reaction was an immediate "gross!".
Okay, you have to wonder here. Who drives around town with a pickup load of human remains? Was the hearse in the shop? And would it have been asking too much to cover the box with a tarp? I'm a fairly level-headed person and it bugged me. Sure hope no fragile little old lady was behind him when he pulled up to a stoplight.
Granted it's spring time in Texas, but we're already having days that are topping 80 degrees. Is it a good idea to be transporting cargo like that under a hot Texas sun? And where the heck was he headed anyway?
He took the left fork in the road and I took the right, so I didn't have long to observe anyone else's reaction. But I found myself wondering...if a cop pulls up behind something like that, what does he do? Accept that there's a good reason for someone to be hauling down the highway with a box stamped "Human Remains" and go on by? Stop him and ask to see his manifest? What if he was some psycho murderer that was headed to the dump and had the gall to slap a semi-official looking label on his victim? Eeewww.
Don't guess I'll ever know. Probably never see anything like it again. Quite frankly, I would much rather see Leslie in his thong and bikini top standing on 6th and Congress instead.
Yep, Austin's weird. No doubt about it.
LSW
I was on my way to work, crusing down Highway 71, when a Ford F150 pickup passed me. The tailgate was down, which caught my attention. In the back of the truck was a long white box that ran the entire length of the truck bed and onto the tailgate. Roughly 6 feet by 3 feet, looking much like an ordinary packing box, except that across the end of the box were stamped the words "Human Remains". My reaction was an immediate "gross!".
Okay, you have to wonder here. Who drives around town with a pickup load of human remains? Was the hearse in the shop? And would it have been asking too much to cover the box with a tarp? I'm a fairly level-headed person and it bugged me. Sure hope no fragile little old lady was behind him when he pulled up to a stoplight.
Granted it's spring time in Texas, but we're already having days that are topping 80 degrees. Is it a good idea to be transporting cargo like that under a hot Texas sun? And where the heck was he headed anyway?
He took the left fork in the road and I took the right, so I didn't have long to observe anyone else's reaction. But I found myself wondering...if a cop pulls up behind something like that, what does he do? Accept that there's a good reason for someone to be hauling down the highway with a box stamped "Human Remains" and go on by? Stop him and ask to see his manifest? What if he was some psycho murderer that was headed to the dump and had the gall to slap a semi-official looking label on his victim? Eeewww.
Don't guess I'll ever know. Probably never see anything like it again. Quite frankly, I would much rather see Leslie in his thong and bikini top standing on 6th and Congress instead.
Yep, Austin's weird. No doubt about it.
LSW
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Collecting History
Back in High School, I was not much interested in history. My required history courses in College did nothing to change that fact. In both cases, I blame uninspired teachers who were either not that interested in history themselves (football coaches who had to teach something in addition to the time spent out on the playing field) or so focused on a particular period or aspect of history that they couldn't be bothered to teach anything else. Case in point is a professor I was told about that taught the U.S. history course just fine up to the point of the Civil War and then never made it to Reconstruction and beyond.
I almost understand that last one, since I get bogged down in the period of 1861-1865 myself sometimes as I go about collecting dead relatives. So far I have four direct ancestors who fought for the South and two who fought for the yankees.
The more information I dig up in my genealogical research, the more I find myself fascinated with studying the times when these ancestors lived. Finding an ancestor who died in 1918 led me to study the flu outbreak that took so many lives that year. Learning that my ggg-grandparents lived in Texas in the direct path taken by Santa Anna when chasing the Texians toward the Texas coast, after the massacre at the Alamo, led me to research the period known as the Runaway Scrape. There's nothing like knowing that your ancestor was in a particular place during an important historical event to suddenly make history come alive for you.
This historical interest has a bleed-over effect. I've begun to look closely at those bins of unclaimed photos in antique stores. I'm surprised how often the folks in the pictures are identified on the back. I've begun to buy some of these and post them on my website, in hopes that some family historian out there will find them and claim them as long-lost family members.
Another side-effect to my research has been to inspire me to collect early memorabilia of my college alma mater. Mary Hardin-Baylor started out as Baylor Female College and Academy and it is surprising how many pieces of Baylor College history turn up for sale on EBAY. For about a year or so I've been buying yearbooks from the 1920s, postcards, and miscellaneous programs and other ephemera from the early, pre "Mary-Hardin" years. You might think that my interest was formed strictly from the fact that I am an alumnus of that institution. Actually, it came about from, you guessed it, genealogical research. My initial purchases of 1920 material was spurred from an attempt to locate my great-aunt in a yearbook. I never found her, but I found myself fascinated at the fashions and the snapshots of flappers in locations I knew well from personal experience.
Yesterday I received my most recent EBAY find and it is a real treasure. Someone decided to sell a scrapbook kept by a 1920s student. I figured it would be a few pages of photos and maybe a few programs. What I received was a crumbling leatherette album of about 100 pages, each page filled with not only photos and the odd program, but numerous newspaper clippings about events at the College and letters from the girl's family. On the one hand, I'm tickled to get so much historical data, but on the other hand I grieve that this woman either had no family to pass it to or no one in her family cared to take custody of this wonderful album of memories. I fully intend to use much of this material in a historical website for the College and share with others this window into the past.
It makes you stop and wonder what will happen to your own collections. I have 17 notebooks of family history on my bookshelves, one whole shelf of Baylor-College history, numerous rare county histories and assorted ephemera that speaks to me for one reason or another. And here I sit with no descendants to inherit this material. In my case, I intend for the bulk of this collection to go to a historical society or library. I don't want my precious history collection to end up on EBAY when I'm gone. There may not be someone like me out there at the right time to volunteer to take custody of my artifacts.
Not sure what my point is here. I guess I want to encourage others to catalog family treasures and put them into the hands of a caring custodian. The gentleman who sold this album to me was a friend of the lady who created it in her youth. He could have decided it was junk and pitched it in the dumpster. After all, most of the photos are unidentified and if you are not connected to Baylor College in some way, what use is it? But something led him to put it up for sale and I happened to find it. I will treasure it for as long as it's in my possession. I hope that Alvan Carpenter knows that her memories have found a friendly caretaker.
Preserve history. Someday, maybe several generations away, your history will be someone's treasure to find.
LSW
I almost understand that last one, since I get bogged down in the period of 1861-1865 myself sometimes as I go about collecting dead relatives. So far I have four direct ancestors who fought for the South and two who fought for the yankees.
The more information I dig up in my genealogical research, the more I find myself fascinated with studying the times when these ancestors lived. Finding an ancestor who died in 1918 led me to study the flu outbreak that took so many lives that year. Learning that my ggg-grandparents lived in Texas in the direct path taken by Santa Anna when chasing the Texians toward the Texas coast, after the massacre at the Alamo, led me to research the period known as the Runaway Scrape. There's nothing like knowing that your ancestor was in a particular place during an important historical event to suddenly make history come alive for you.
This historical interest has a bleed-over effect. I've begun to look closely at those bins of unclaimed photos in antique stores. I'm surprised how often the folks in the pictures are identified on the back. I've begun to buy some of these and post them on my website, in hopes that some family historian out there will find them and claim them as long-lost family members.
Another side-effect to my research has been to inspire me to collect early memorabilia of my college alma mater. Mary Hardin-Baylor started out as Baylor Female College and Academy and it is surprising how many pieces of Baylor College history turn up for sale on EBAY. For about a year or so I've been buying yearbooks from the 1920s, postcards, and miscellaneous programs and other ephemera from the early, pre "Mary-Hardin" years. You might think that my interest was formed strictly from the fact that I am an alumnus of that institution. Actually, it came about from, you guessed it, genealogical research. My initial purchases of 1920 material was spurred from an attempt to locate my great-aunt in a yearbook. I never found her, but I found myself fascinated at the fashions and the snapshots of flappers in locations I knew well from personal experience.
Yesterday I received my most recent EBAY find and it is a real treasure. Someone decided to sell a scrapbook kept by a 1920s student. I figured it would be a few pages of photos and maybe a few programs. What I received was a crumbling leatherette album of about 100 pages, each page filled with not only photos and the odd program, but numerous newspaper clippings about events at the College and letters from the girl's family. On the one hand, I'm tickled to get so much historical data, but on the other hand I grieve that this woman either had no family to pass it to or no one in her family cared to take custody of this wonderful album of memories. I fully intend to use much of this material in a historical website for the College and share with others this window into the past.
It makes you stop and wonder what will happen to your own collections. I have 17 notebooks of family history on my bookshelves, one whole shelf of Baylor-College history, numerous rare county histories and assorted ephemera that speaks to me for one reason or another. And here I sit with no descendants to inherit this material. In my case, I intend for the bulk of this collection to go to a historical society or library. I don't want my precious history collection to end up on EBAY when I'm gone. There may not be someone like me out there at the right time to volunteer to take custody of my artifacts.
Not sure what my point is here. I guess I want to encourage others to catalog family treasures and put them into the hands of a caring custodian. The gentleman who sold this album to me was a friend of the lady who created it in her youth. He could have decided it was junk and pitched it in the dumpster. After all, most of the photos are unidentified and if you are not connected to Baylor College in some way, what use is it? But something led him to put it up for sale and I happened to find it. I will treasure it for as long as it's in my possession. I hope that Alvan Carpenter knows that her memories have found a friendly caretaker.
Preserve history. Someday, maybe several generations away, your history will be someone's treasure to find.
LSW
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