Florida Lovebugs Massacre

I've mellowed a lot since my youthful days, especially now that I'm old enough to realize the truth of the statement that it's not worth it to sweat the little things and most things are little things. I'm mostly a peaceable person not wishing harm on anyone or anything, but there are a few exceptions. One exception is snakes. Most truly rational people feel the same as me - the only good snake is a dead snake. I've heard there are good snakes, but I haven't met one. If you are one of those people who like snakes, sorry, but you are weird and you will not be able to change my mind. Other exceptions are mosquitoes, gnats, chiggers, leeches, and ticks. The world would be so much better off without any of those. If you are reincarnated back as one of those things, you must have been really, really bad in your former life. There is one more exception, the Lovebugs in Florida. They don't bite or sting or eat your food growing in the vegetable garden or cause some strange, fatal disease, but when it comes to the annoyment factor, they wear the crown.

If you don't know the creature I'm speaking about, consider yourself lucky. They are small, black and orange lightweight bugs that mate in the air while flying. The female is less than 1/2" long and the male is about 1/2 of her size. They mate tail-to-tail (they are so repulsive looking they can't even stand to look at each other while having sex) and the female slowly flies around pulling her little fella behind her. This might explain why they don't fly smoothly, but seem to lurch around in the air and constantly fly into things. You very rarely, almost never, see one alone as the only time you see them is during the spring and fall mating seasons when they do nothing but mate and fly around while doing it. The little annoying buggers don't even eat, they just have sex constantly.

A while back, I made the unfortunate decision to visit Florida during the Lovebug mating season. When I was in the US Navy, I went to boot camp in Orlando during Lovebug mating season and then I lived in Florida for almost a year while attending a Naval school so I know about the Lovebugs, I had just forgotten about them and their seasons when I scheduled my trip. It won't happen again.

In boot camp in Orlando, Florida in the spring and summer months, there is a lot of physical activity in very hot, humid weather. You sweat a lot, a whole lot. You stand at attention in the hot sun for long periods of time while one instructor or another screams curses at you letting you know just how worthless you are and how you will never, ever be good enough to actually become a sailor in the United State's Navy. And you sweat. While you are standing there ramrod straight and absolutely motionless, the Lovebugs in their sexual ecstasy or sheer stupid clumsiness cannot avoid you and fly right into your stationary head. And there they stick in the sweat dripping down from your newly shorn, almost bald head. The bugs are so weak they can't even extricate themselves and fly away, they just crawl around, one trying to walk one way and the other trying to walk in the opposite direction. They crawl up your nose, in your ears, across your eyes, they flow down your shirt collar trapped by the sweat running down your neck. Little buggy feet crawling around causing itching and you know they are there and you can't do anything about it but endure because you are standing at attention and the slightest movement will result in screaming directed at you individually and even more exercise. Every day I heard, "Don't you dare touch those Lovebugs! Those are the Captain's Lovebugs and if you touch something that belongs to the Captain, you will be dead meat!" I endured and I came to hate Lovebugs.

During my fateful Florida trip. Lovebugs came swarming out of the woods and marshes by the trillions. Paired up to make even more of themselves, they stupidly flew their way over the highway and there I took my gleeful revenge. Their little squishy bodies covered the front bumper and grill of my truck and piled up on my windshield so thick I had to keep spraying windshield washer and employing the wipers just so I could somewhat see the road ahead through the goop. I had to stop twice just to fill up the washer fluid and clean the wipers. I knew later I would have a heck of a job cleaning my truck of all those squished bug bodies, but remembering the absolute misery they caused me those many years ago, I loved the massacre.

Postcard From Graphic - Small Town America





Graphic Road

The other day, I found myself driving through Graphic, Arkansas again. It was a place I had driven through a couple of months ago, in late fall. To say Graphic is located "in the country" isn't accurate. Graphic is so far out in the boonies that "the country" is where these people go to kick up their hills on a Saturday night.

I was listening to the news on the satellite radio. Muslims were still killing people just because; Iran was thumbing its nose at the world and threatening to kill everybody in Israel and America, just because; a teenager in a high school killed some of his classmates because of some perceived slight; a little 4 year-old girl's body had finally been found after she had been kidnapped, sexually molested and killed; gas prices were getting higher because somebody wearing a towel on their head sneezed; everybody in American government was still acting like a spoiled 12-year-old who wasn't getting his way; and the love and pursuit of the all-mighty dollar was of higher priority than being nice to each other.

The Graphic store

In Graphic, the person driving the one car I saw raised 2 fingers and a nod of his head in greeting as we passed each other; the cows were still contented out in the fields; when I stopped in and bought a coke at the Graphic Store, the girl behind the counter smiled, asked how I was doing, and said, "Have a nice day" as I walked out the door.

I stood in the empty parking lot and realized, there's no noise. I heard a couple of birds singing and, well, that was it. No cars, no airplanes overhead, nobody shouting, no hustle and bustle. I realized that except for the leaves having fallen from the trees, it was exactly the same as when I stopped here a couple of months ago.

Fall colors just outside Graphic

I opened the door to my truck, turned off CNN, popped in my newest CD and listened to the soothing sounds of Ale Garofalo - soothing music of Ale Garofalo. I sat in the seat with the door open, listening to "The Giant Trees" and slowly drank my Dr. Pepper. The first time I came through Graphic was basically an accident, a wrong turn. This time I was here simply because it was on my way to some other remote little town with an interesting name. I'll come back again in the spring, this time on purpose. I'm pretty sure, except for the new leaves on the trees, it will be exactly the same. I'm counting on it.


Bridge on the way out of Graphic



Even the cows seem to be very contented with
 life in Graphic.



 

Lead Hill - On This Date

Downtown Lead Hill, Arkansas

Lead Hill was a small mining town in north-central Arkansas from the early 1900's until the town was covered by the waters of the newly created Bull Shoals Lake in the early 1950's. The residents packed up and moved to higher ground where the new Lead Hill community was built. 287 folks call it home today. It's a quiet little town. The most excitement lately has been the opening of the new post office building. Yes, a very quiet little town.

I was on the road driving Arkansas Scenic Highway 7 when I drove through Lead Hill. Thirsty, I stopped at a convenience store for a Dr. Pepper. I was the only customer. I brought my DP to the counter and thinking maybe there is an interesting story about the town, tried to begin a friendly conversation with the young lady who took my money. She wasn't friendly. That's OK. I'm rarely more than a day away from a shower and shave and I don't think I look like a serial killer, but I understand. I handed her a business card indicating I write this blog and told her I was thinking about writing a story about her town. Most people are friendly, especially folks in small towns, and the vast majority of the rest relax and are friendly once they see my card and understand why I'm talking to them. Not this young lady. Not only did she not get friendly, she got antagonistic. No problem. She was probably just having a bad day like everyone has now and then. I said thanks, took my cold drink and drove on down the road.

As far as I know, on October 29, 2011, in Lead Hill, Arkansas, nothing happened; nothing at all.

Enjoy What You Have

All of us worry that we’re missing out on things. We work longer, we do more, we cram more into our daily lives because we don’t want to miss out. We spend our lives racing from one thing to another because we must be productive; we must feel like we've accomplished something.  And soon, we forget that life itself is about experiencing the journey, not racing to the finish.

The truth is, we're going to miss out no matter what we do. It’s inevitable. Nobody can do or try everything in the world. If our lives were twice as long, we still could not see every town and city and landmark, read every book that sounds interesting or hike every trail. We will always miss out. The fact is, if you always worry about what you are missing, you will miss out on what you already have.

We need to understand and fight this compulsion to be busy, to do as much as possible. We don't really need to do more, we need to enjoy more what we do. Don’t pack your vacation with plans to see every single highlight of the place you’re visiting; take your time, walk around, meet and talk to people, enjoy what you find. 

You don't have to travel far to see interesting things. A good friend of mine lived in Colorado for a number of years. People from all over the country, myself included, take their vacations from work, spend their money and travel to see the beauty of Colorado. When I asked my friend what it's like to live in such beauty, he said he usually doesn't stop to think about it or even notice it. When you contemplate that for a few seconds, that's pretty sad, but we all do it.

Nobody wants to race to the finish of their life. We all have only so long to live and then we cease in this life and go on to the next phase. Before we shuffle off though, let's try to enjoy the life we have right now.

Loafer's Glory

On the way from somewhere to somewhere else, I found this sign on the side of the road and thought, "Now that's my kind of church!"

If you must know, the town where this is located is named Fallsville, deep in the Buffalo River country of the Ozarks. The first name of the little town of Fallsville was Loafer's Glory, named such because it was a stopping place for men going down to the river bottoms to pick cotton. This area is even today very rural and peopled by individuals who are descendants of the southern Appalachians who settled here as early as 1825. The rugged terrain, few roads and no electricity until the late 1930's kept the people isolated. They learned to make what they needed and most of those old skills have survived. Oak furniture, handcrafted baskets, and pieced quilts were some of the homemade things every cabin had and which Ozark artisans still craft today.

The facts for the origin of the name may be a bit boring or anti-climatic, but it's still a cool name. If I ever get the little retirement cabin I want deep in the wooded mountains somewhere with a rocking chair on the front porch and a good dog to lay down beside me as I put miles on the rocker, I do believe I'll steal the name Loafer's Glory and carve it into a sign to hang over the front door. And that will be that.

The Road Trip

Like the quote in Field of Dreams, the builders of roads have tapped into something very basic and deep within Americans - build it and they will come. The adventure of the American road trip is a timeless tradition. Ever since Henry Ford rolled out that first Model T, we've had a love affair with cars. The country grew up around cars. North to south, east to west, cars have enabled us to travel this great country and feed our sense of freedom and adventure. For me, I travel because life is short and office chairs are no fun to sit in. So many places and so little time!

Whenever I leave on one of my trips, I feel regret for the people who must remain behind. Heading out, I feel the excitement of freedom, but everyone else has to live where they are.  The drive-through kid at Wendy's, the unemployment counselor looking up at the same endless line of people waiting to see her, the waitress at IHOP - all of them stuck in place while I have who knows what waiting for me around the next bend in the road or over the next hill. The prettiest and best place is always the one that lays just ahead of me.

I'm in love with movement. Not as a continuous way of life, but as a periodic tonic. I need to get out of town for a while, calm my head and see what I haven't yet seen. I think the urge to travel is an ancient human trait, a legacy  from when our ancestors roamed the earth as hunter-gatherers. In modern times, I think Americans in particular, dream of the road; adventure and freedom from routines and responsibilities, away from a state of mind, from having to live the way others expect us to live - the home with 2-car garage and a mortgage; the electric bill; the water bill; the gas bill; the car payment; the kid's braces; pulling weeds; going to work Monday morning. Who doesn't want to saddle up the horse and just ride away into the sunset? In 1530, Cabeza de Vaca said as he and his men were exploring America; "We ever held it certain that going toward the sunset we would find what we desired."

Not that long ago, geologically speaking, when "wild" Indians roamed North America, they sometimes captured white folk. If the captives were taken as children, the vast majority of them would easily assimilate into the tribe and live their lives as Indians. When Indians were captured, they invariably had no desire to join white society with its laws, punishments, taboos and permanent houses. In 1764, a captive exchange took place along the Muskingum River in Ohio. The Indian prisoners ran back to their tribe laughing with tears of joy running down their faces. The white captives had to be bound hand and foot and forcibly dragged, kicking and screaming, back to civilization. In a short period of time, most of them ran away and went back to live with the Indians.

There is a whole continent at my back door, 2,700 miles wide and 1,200 miles tall, with no border crossings or language barriers to break the flow of the trip. Total freedom to go where I want, to see what I want, to stop where I want. It's something people around the world dream about - to come to America, rent a car and drive the country. I'm so thankful I can do it anytime.

"A good traveler has no fixed plans and is 
not intent on arriving."

Laozi

Caddo Indian Memorial

Entrance to the memorial park.

I had put Norman, Arkansas in the rear view mirror of my pickup and just a short piece down the road I came upon Caddo Indian Memorial Park. It wasn't much really, just an open area with a trail around it; a couple of vague mounds in the middle that apparently were built by the Indians long ago for some purpose nobody is really sure of. You had to kind of squint your eyes and use a bit of imagination to see them. I thought it would be something interesting, but sometimes what sounds interesting isn't. I certainly appreciated the fact that somebody or some organization constructed this memorial to the Indians that lived here until the late 1700's; there just wasn't much to it. There was a sign with a nice Caddo Indian Memorial Poem.





Blessed are all who enter here, for this is hallowed ground.
Look around and hear the heartbeat of a different time.
My ancestors are buried here, amongst nature.
Holy are the beauties of this earth.
Holy are the glories of the skies above.
Feel their essence in the air, exalted in the sunshine and the clouds.
Each leaf, each tree, each insect, beloved parts of the whole of creation
Not to be done without.

Here, I remember Grandmother's long gray braids, once shiny, black as satin.
Her cooking pot full of stew, rich aroma whetting my appetite;
Her daily chanting, comforting as the chirping birds.
I miss her warmth, her knowing eyes.
Grandfather too, who now dwells by her side.
He taught me to hunt game, made my first bow and arrows with his gnarled hands.
He showed me respect for the gifts of the earth.
Fishing with Grandfather on the river not only brought food,
but was one of the real pleasure's of life.

Feel the presence within these grounds you encircle.
Take time to walk a little taller, to feel more alive.
Breath deep of the soil,
You will strive for excellence and be better than you were when first you arrived.
Enjoy my family.
Enjoy my people.
Know that in truth, we are all one.

 I stood there in the heat of an excessively hot August day with sweat dripping down my neck and contemplated the poem. I didn't have to worry about someone else impatiently waiting behind me; I was the only person there. Like a lot of people, I have a certain affinity for Native Americans, imagining a much simpler time, a time when people didn't rape the earth, but lived with what the earth provided; a time when people didn't kill women and children just because they didn't believe the same. Of course, reality was different from our idealized vision. That vision is really just a projection of the way we should live, the way we would like to live if but only we could.

I finally grew too uncomfortable, the sun beating down, the heat suffocating. I made my way back to the air conditioned comfort of my truck and started to pull out of the little gravel parking lot. I glanced over and noticed a road sign just down from the Caddo Indian Memorial sign. I thought, "How appropriate. What better way to show how far we've come." The Indians had lived right here for who knows how long. We come into the picture and here in this remote place, surrounded with hundreds, even thousands of acres of nothing but woods, right next to this memorial place, we put a solid waste station. It upset me at first. I thought of Iron Eyes Cody, the crying Indian in the "Keep America Beautiful" commercial back in the early 1970's.

But then, in spite of my great desire to keep that idealized version of Indian life in my head, I thought, "Indians had to poop too. And they probably had one area where they all went so they wouldn't be nervous about walking around the village and stepping in something."  Maybe that area was right here. Most likely, all we did was put our version of a big outhouse right on top of theirs. Then I turned right onto the road and put this place in my rear view mirror too.

Snake in the Grass

I don’t like snakes. Let me rephrase that – I hate snakes.  I don’t think you understand yet – I really hate snakes.  They are the devil’s spawn, his playmates, his friends, his compatriots.  I've never established any kind of enjoyable relationship with a snake except one - it dies and I live. 

Actually, there haven’t been very many snakes die at my hands. That’s mostly because if I see one I give up all pretension of being manly and brave and run in the opposite direction trying not to squeal like a little girl. I can be in a car driving 70 MPH, see a snake on the other side of the road and every hair on my body will stand on end; chill bumps will pop out looking like small mountains; I stop breathing for a few seconds; I am embarrassingly unreasonably, uncontrollably afraid.

I’ve been told there are “good” snakes. Somebody once tried to convince me there are snakes who eat other snakes. I doubt it. That’s probably an absolutely false story propagated by poor misguided foolish people who think all creatures are equal.  Give me a break. Look at a cute little puppy or an adorable little kitten. Now look at a baby snake. Difference!  There’s not even a sweet little name for a baby snake. A baby dog is a puppy. A baby cat is a kitten. They conjure up images of sweet little adorable balls of fluff. A baby snake is a snake.  I've never laughed at the antics of a baby snake.

So the other day I was in the back of the house pulling flowers from one of our weed gardens.  Actually it’s a grass garden, but don’t get the wrong idea; Bermuda grass is what I’m talking about. I water, fertilize, trim the grass in the yard and can barely keep it alive most of the time, but the patches in the former flower beds can go months in 100+ degree heat with no water and still flourish; growing densely up to my knees in deep, dark green.  With the amount of neglect we heap on those beds, one would think nothing would grow in them, but one would be wrong.  Every now and then, I get a bee in my bonnet about making the beds into flower beds again and for a few days attack the grass and weeds like a man possessed. It usually lasts for about a week or less until my back hurts from bending over hour after hour, my hands hurt from pulling handfuls of tough, stubborn grass/weeds and I have a bunch of cuts on my arms and hands from the few wooden stemmed flowers and bushes hardy enough to not have died yet. At that point I declare the beds to look better than they did and beat a hasty retreat back into the air conditioned comfort of my abode.

I was in the 3^rd day of my weeding frenzy, wearing thick gloves to assist in gripping handfuls of grass for pulling, tugging, and yanking. I reached into a particularly dense clump, back where I couldn’t see, grabbed a good handful and pulled. I felt some break, but some held so I pulled again and then a third time when the clump came loose. And that’s when I saw that along with a few blades of grass, I had grabbed a huge, squirming, man-eating snake! It was in my hand, slithering!  I’m telling you, it was about the size of my arm and that’s just the part I could see!  I wondered why there were not as many dogs in the neighborhood as there had been in years past and now I knew why. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure there are a couple of teenage boys missing too! I’m not overly religious, but oh my Lord God Jesus Mary and Joseph I've got a *%&$# snake in my hand!!!

Blink your eyes. Go ahead and blink them as fast as you can. Pretty fast, huh?  Well that was glacier speed compared to how fast I threw that snake down. I threw it down so fast it didn't have a chance to rear up, unlock its lower jaw and eat me whole. In my mind I could see it above me, its mouth open, coming down around my head and slowly working its way downward, swallowing me agonizing inch by agonizing inch. So yes, I speed of lightning quick flung it down, down and away from me, and off to the side.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief and started to turn back to the task at hand when oh blessed Jesus the damn thing starting slithering back toward me! I cannot believe this; it really is coming back at me!  I had a pair of grass clippers right there beside me so I quickly grabbed them up and brandished them at the evil monster. I warned it. I swear I did. "I have clippers and I’m not afraid to use them!" It fazed him not. He continued slithering through the grass right at me. I do believe he had only one thing on his little snaky mind and he was not looking for a best friend.

So I did it. I held my breath, extended the clippers toward him and quick as a guillotine, scissored the blades together, cutting it neatly in half, 3 inches on one end, 3 inches on the other. And I felt no regret. The monster had been dispatched and I had once again somehow, someway, cheated death.

Difference Makers

If you think back on your life, you will see how even the smallest things have affected you. Most of all you remember the people who have made a difference. Sometimes the biggest influence might be somebody who doesn’t remember you or doesn’t  even know you exist, but without that person, you would not be who or where you are today.

Maybe you have made a difference in someones life, a big difference. And you don't even know it. I like to think I have. It doesn't have to be a big thing you had to go out of your way to do. Maybe it's a smile given to a person when nobody but they knew they really needed one.  Maybe it's the quick little phone call to a friend at just the right moment. Maybe it's just the calm way you react to a delay in the checkout line at the grocery store. There's really no telling what could make a positive difference in someones life.

It's so trite to say and we've all heard it so many times, but it doesn't hurt to pay it forward; to live each day like it's your last chance to be a good example. It's a lot harder to do than it sounds, but really, what harm would it do to try?
 

Schools Out

For my youngest daughter, today was the last day of school for the summer. She'll be in 7th grade this fall. I don't seem able to recall grades 3 - 5. She must have completed those grades in about 3 days or most likely jumped from 2nd grade straight to 6th because she's so smart and knows everything - I asked her and that's what she told me.

I used to have a little girl who loved for her daddy to show up at her school to eat lunch with her. All of a sudden there is now a young lady, an almost-a-teenager living in my house and showing up for lunch at school is no longer exactly desirable. I used to be big Daddy-man, knower of all things, able to leap tall buildings, faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive. But here in just the last year, my big red S seems to have gotten washed with the bleach laundry and I no longer hold the key to knowledge. As a matter of fact, I seem to now be an Opposite - I somehow say the opposite of the truth. I'm getting used to being wrong about everything, but I still can't recall when I fell on my head or developed a tumor or whatever occurred for me to go so dumb so quick. It's a feeling all parents eventually have in common.

She's a good kid though, a really good kid and I'm proud as can be. It's time to start spreading her wings and figuring things out on her own, but I'm going to ensure she always has a safe place to retreat to, a sanctuary filled with love. My baby girl is growing up fast and I just might be having a bit of difficulty with that, but I'll just have to get over it because for now it's summer time and for her, the living is easy. And that's the way it should be. Wonderful summer-time memories are waiting to be born. Enjoy it while you can, Baby-girl. Daddy will take the pictures.

 

Postcard From God's Country



She ran right in front of my truck and jumped 
the ditch by the road.

After leaving Cherry Mountain School, a little ways down the "found a nugget" road was another little road that called to me. I still had a few hours before meeting with my old RV friends that evening so I answered the call. No more specific nuggets were found, but I drove down this little country road for 45 minutes and never did see another car or person - a nugget in and of itself. I did see deer - lots of deer. I saw enough deer it seemed for all God's children to each have one of their very own.

Quiet, peaceful family cemetery out in
God's country.

I saw several small, family cemeteries, a handful of headstones fenced in, out in the fields of cactus and mesquite trees. Old timers deeply connected to their land who didn't want to leave it even in death. In my opinion, they chose wise - eternity in God's country.

And as I drove back in the general direction of Kerrville and traffic and McDonalds and Starbucks and my Hampton Inn upgraded room with a couch and a great view of the overly bright "Welcome To Kerrville" sign, I saw lots and lots of God's country.

Texas Hill Country vista.

After I hit the lottery or convince a million nice folks to pay me $1 each to read my musings, this is where you will find me; a nice little 100 acre ranchette on a hill with a little cabin right in the middle of it. And when my days are over, look for a memorial headstone inside a little fence that marks where my ashes were spread and know I'm a happy camper spending eternity in God's country.



(Please click here to read the first post of this series.)



Hitting The Road

There is still an America out there, begging to be driven, begging to be found. Have the interstates, the price of gas and the rush of our daily lives sucked the romance out of road trips? Has the compulsion to see what's around the next bend or over the next rise been killed? Are road trips now just a relic of days gone by? Sadly, for most people, I think so.

But not for all of us. Most people like the idea of a road trip; rolling down the byways just to see what's out there, but few actually do it. I sometimes look on a map and pick out a place that catches my fancy because of its name - Fly, Tenessee; Ben Hur, Arkansas; Happy, Texas - and plot a course from here to there, taking only the 2-lane blacktop roads. I want to see country not infested with dozens of fast food places, large office buildings and traffic backed up at traffic lights. I want to be in towns where you park on the street on the town square a few feet from the front door of the business. I want to see old men sitting on benches in a park and talk to them for a while, finding where to eat the best bar-b-que and the best pies this side of heaven and yes, I'll tell Alice hi for you when she serves me. I don't mind getting stuck behind the occasional tractor using the same road I am. I want to go to places between nowhere and never heard of.

Invariably, when I tell someone I've just returned from a road trip, they ask, "Where'd you go?" And I'm stuck on how to answer, how to tell the story. They seem confused if I tell them my destination wasn't Dallas or Memphis or New York City or some other large or at least well-known spot. They don't seem to understand it's not where you went, it's what happened on the way. It's about contentment with the land you are driving through, listening to good music and loudly singing along sounding good only to yourself, thinking about your life and the choices you made (both good and bad), wondering whatever happened to old flames, and planning what you will do when you hit the lottery.

It's the joy of running into Mabel, the 88-year-old lady who still single-handedly runs the old wooden-floored convenience store on Route 66 in Oklahoma that she and her husband built "back in the day" and the house next door where they lived, loved, and raised 6 children and getting her autograph on a bottle of Route 66 root beer I bought from her. She put down her cigarette long enough to find a felt pen and sign it. Nobody was, by God, going to tell her she couldn't smoke in her own damn store. It saddened me greatly when 2 years later, I heard she had recently died and the store was closed. I'm glad I stopped. Now, when I think of the word "feisty," she is my mental image.

It's the fun of the cute small-town girl who served me a delicious bar-b-que sandwich plate in some forgotten spot along the road (hand-painted on the front window - "Almost World Famous!") with the top two buttons of her blouse undone, leaning over and smiling big as she took my order, obviously working me for a big tip. I left a $20 bill for a $9 tab and didn't mind.

When I see a map of the United States, I don't want to just see boundaries and squiggly road lines. I want my mind to see mountains and rivers and forests and wide open spaces and the 2-mile stretch of blacktop in west Texas where I encountered thousands of tarantula's crossing the road en mass one evening, my car exploding their little hairy bodies as I drove onward in pursuit of the horizon. I want to look at that map and think that's where Mabel lived and that's where cute b-b-q girl lives.

So many places, so much road. Always another bend to go around, another rise to drive over. And so very little time.

Sunsets

Along the Arkansas River

I like pretty sunsets - a lot. I have a number of sunset pictures - ok, I have a lot of sunset pictures. Beautiful sunsets are a perfect way to end the day. They always calm me, make me introspective.

Some of the most awesome I have ever seen were in the middle of the ocean. For 3 years I served on an aircraft carrier and I would often make it a point to come up to the hanger bay or on the flight deck to see what kind of sunset we were having. Red sky at night, sailor's delight. I would often just sit there and watch until it got dark - listening to the underway noises and feeling the vibrations of this colossal war machine I called home, the slapping of waves on her hull, surrounded by nothing, but thousands of miles of blue Pacific ocean, watching that fireball in the sky going down, looking for all the world like it was slowly settling beneath the waves and in its last act of defiance, turning the sky into brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. And there, living with 5,000 other guys on the most destructive piece of equipment the world has ever seen, within a stone's throw of nuclear bombs, thousands of miles from home and loved ones, for at least a few minutes, I would be at peace.

At my home in Texas

Peggy's Cove in Nova Scotia




My back yard



Mt. Magazine in Arkansas

Today

Today, on this day of Thanksgiving, I will succumb to the temptation to overindulge of the bounty that will be placed before me. I will not go to work, clean the house, do the laundry or pull weeds out of the flower bed. I will sit my butt in my proper place at the end of the couch in front of the TV and, along with the other male members of my family and the lone female football fan in the family, cheer loudly and quietly hurl invectives (if there are no children in the room) when my Texas Longhorns and Dallas Cowboys deserve it.

I will occasionally wander into the kitchen and dining room where the women folk congregate and nibble on whatever food items remain after the big chow down. I will not limit myself to one piece of pecan pie covered in whipped cream. I will take at least a 30-minute nap on the couch if it is quiet enough, or sneak off to a bedroom. Woe be any child who wakes me.

Late this evening, I will retire for the night, bloated and sluggish, murmuring how I shouldn't have eaten that last piece of pie. I will feel no guilt. And I will be thankful for the many, many blessings I have been given, especially the ones I will enjoy today.
 

Alone

Sometimes I need to get away. By myself. Alone.

Its not that I don't love my family. My friends.

I just need to get away from the world.

Away from stress. From pressure. From the weight.

To sit in my church. To think. To be.

No people. Just nature. Beauty. Peace.

The world the way it should be.

So I can come back to the world the way it is.

Baby Girl

Youngest-daughter is growing up. She's reached the age where, at least in public in front of her friends, she's a bit embarrassed for her dad to give her a hug and kiss. It makes me sad. It wasn't long ago she didn't care who saw her give her old man a hug. She said I love you all of the time. When I came home, her eyes would smile and she would come running to greet me, wrapping her arms around my knees and, as she grew taller, around my waist. I miss those days.

It won't be long until she starts wanting to date some nasty little pig of a boy. My nightmare coming true. I know I'm over-protective, but don't really care. When she was young, we had a tree swing and her mom would push her higher and higher. I couldn't watch. All I could see was my baby girl falling and breaking an arm or hitting her head. A couple of times when her mom couldn't do it, I've had to take her to the dentist for teeth cleaning and it was ridiculously hard on me. I can't watch. And with every little squirm or slight moan of uncomfortableness, I wanted to shout, "That's enough!" and get her out of there. A doctor giving her a shot? Forget about it. Years ago, after it took everything I had to keep from bopping a nurse when a shot made my baby cry, the wife has always had the doctor duty.

I plan to keep my baby girl as safe as possible when it comes to little piggy boys. I know what is on their minds - I was a little piggy boy myself. So when they come to pick her up, I have no hesitation in greeting them with a big knife in my hand, slowly sharpening it while I tell them they are going out with my baby girl and how much I cherish her and they best not get any little piggy ideas in their head. And I'll be waiting up for her return, watching what happens on the front porch and turning on the light at the wrong time (in my opinion the right time!). And if it embarrasses her, oh well. She can tell it to her therapist on down the line.

She may be getting older, but to me, no matter how old she is, I will always see her as my sweet, loving, innocent, gapped-tooth baby girl.
 

I Saw A Man Die Today

I had to run into town yesterday and on the way back I passed a bad car accident. It reminded me of a fatal accident I saw a while back. It really depressed me and I still think of it to this day. I'm aware of it every time I get into the car. You wake up one morning, all is fine and you have no idea that today will be the last day of your life.

I used to write and publish a newsletter, back before the time of blogs, and I wrote about the accident I saw and the feelings I had. Seeing this recent accident, although it didn't appear to be the end of someone, it reminded me of the little piece I wrote and I thought I would share it. Let's be careful out there.

I saw a man die today. I was coming home from a long, frustrating day at work. On the freeway, the traffic was heavy, but moving. Then the cars in front of me stopped. “Damn,” I said to no one but myself, “some stupid idiot ran into the back of someone, I bet. How long is this going to take before I get home?”

Then a police car came roaring by me on the shoulder, and another, and then a motorcycle cop, all with their siren’s blaring. Then came a different sound, the wail of an ambulance. “Uh oh,” I thought, “somebody must be hurt in this one.” I noticed more police had blocked off the freeway behind me, forcing all the cars to take the exit I had just passed, not a good sign. Then radio and TV helicopters were buzzing overhead, so many that I expected them to run into each other. I watched, but somehow they didn’t.

Finally, we started moving again, slowly, in fits and starts. Then it was my turn to proceed past the accident, on the freeway shoulder, the only avenue of escape. They were loading a sheet-covered body into the ambulance as I passed. I saw a shoe lying on the road, a leather glove, a motorcycle helmet, along with other unidentifiable debris. A motorcycle was crushed under the back wheels of an 18-wheeler.

The victim was probably going home from a long, frustrating day at work just like me. Does he have a wife; children waiting for Daddy to come home? For their sake, I hoped not. If he did, I wonder if he told them he loved them and gave them a hug before walking out the door this morning - a morning that on the face of it was just like any of the other hundreds of work days. He wouldn't have had any idea today would be so different. I wasn’t frustrated any more, ashamed of my first thoughts, and very sad. I may be late, but I’ll be home soon. He never will be.
 

Spooky Time Coming

At the Pumpkin Patch - choices, choices!

Halloween is coming soon; a pretty big occasion around our house. The first order of business is to climb up into the attic and haul down the house decorations. Over the years, the wife and Youngest-daughter have insured the Halloween store in town comes back every year. Box after box after box of stuff. We have blood on the windows, crime scene tape to hang on the house, skeletons rising from their graves in our front yard, and flying witches to name a few. And that's just on the outside of the house.

A couple of years ago we made the mistake of putting up the crime scene tape and the fake blood in the windows and retired for the evening before putting out the rest of the decorations. The next day we had neighbors coming over asking what terrible crime had occurred at our house!

The wife, bless her, did most of the work this year. She got big points for that. It's only fair though since she gets into the spirit of things as much as Youngest-daughter, which is more enthusiasm than I can work up for this particular task. She loves the decorating while my favorite part is getting costumed up and going out trick-or-treating with Youngest-daughter.



Pumpkin selected.

Next up is the task of going to the "Pumpkin Patch" just outside of town to pick out the pumpkins we'll inflict mortal damage to. Youngest-daughter gets to pick the largest one and the wife picks a big one and usually numerous small pumpkins and gourds also. The owners like to see us coming.

And then the "fun" begins. And the part I really dislike. We have numerous patterns to help carve faces, spiders, witches, and other ghoulish things into the pumpkins so once we get past the choosing of what we want to carve, it's not that difficult. Well, not that difficult except for the gutting of the poor pumpkins. That is one of the foulest, most disgusting things I can think to do. Strings of slimy, smelly tendrils that you can never fully remove with any implement except your fingers. Disgusting. And on top of that, the wife wants to save the seeds for roasting along with a handful for planting next year. Pumpkins must know I don't like them (the only good pumpkin is after its been made into pumpkin pie) as we've never been able to grow our own. Oh, the vines grow and sometimes they even make a couple of small, little baby pumpkins, but they never get big before dying or splitting. Just as well because I would probably feel bad about carving up a pet pumpkin.

I haven't been informed by the house activity director yet as to the day of the great pumpkin selection, but I know it's coming soon. The outside of our home has been decorated (the neighbors are accustomed to crime scene tape around the house now) and Halloween is just a couple of weeks away so it can't be far off. Poor pumpkins.

Barnes & Noble

I love Barnes & Noble bookstores. I've always loved reading and find a lot of things interesting so when I walk into a good library or a Barnes & Noble, a kind of excited peace infuses my soul. Surrounded by so many books on so many subjects, all is right in my little piece of the world. I wish I was a sponge and could just roll down the aisles soaking up all the words. I can spend hours and hours there in perfect contentment. Sometimes I bring my laptop with me so I can look up stuff I find interesting in the books and magazines, bookmarking sites to come back to later. A cup or two of Starbucks coffee, a piece of chocolate or strawberry swirl cheesecake, a selection of books and magazines around me, an internet connection, and I'm a happy camper. High maintenance I am not.

Fortunately, my wife and youngest daughter enjoy doing this also and it has become an unofficial ritual we do every 4 - 6 weeks. There's an Olive Garden across the street from our nearest Barnes & Noble so on a Saturday afternoon, we supper at Olive Garden then head to the bookstore for about 3 hours. The only challenge is seating (I consider it a sport actually). There are several electrical outlets in the Starbucks seating area, but they are all located on one wall behind 4 tables which, of course, means those tables are a premium for folks like my wife and youngest daughter who almost always bring their laptops. For me, usually sans laptop, it's still a primo spot because they face outward toward the store, making them perfect people watching perches, another activity I enjoy. So the first thing we do is head over to the tables to snag one of the electrical outlets. If they are occupied, we stake our claim on the nearest available table. We then take turns browsing the aisles, always leaving at least one of us to keep watch on the wall tables. That way, when someone abandons one of those coveted spots, we pounce and homestead it for the duration. I'm still fairly quick so usually there's no problem beating out the other people waiting on a wall table. Well, there was this one time when an old woman in a wheelchair came rolling by me just as a table opened up. The nice guy in me waited for her to get by because I thought she was just going down the aisle, but then that crafty she-devil made an abrupt turn and headed straight for the table. No problem. I just quickly stuck my foot out behind her and engaged the wheelchair brakes. Stopped her dead in her tracks and before she figured it out, I was sitting down at the wall table smiling at her.

Now don't go thinking we're a bunch of freeloaders getting our reading fix for free. In addition to the coffee and food we buy, we always end up purchasing numerous books and a few magazines or some other odds and ends. And then there's the B&N gift cards we give our book-loving friends and family members at Christmas and other occasions.  It's rare for us to get out of there without dropping a minimum of $50 - $100. I consider it a rather cheap, but fun family night out. There's a book bag I've seen in there with writing on the front that I really like - "I spend my money on books and if there's any left, I buy food and clothes." If it weren't for little things like my family and bills, that would be me.

And if you must know, that crafty old lady in the wheelchair cutting in front of me? Well, it didn't really happen. I made that up. Literary creative license. But I wouldn't say I wouldn't. It's a jungle out there, you know.
 

Frightening

In less than 2 weeks, I'll be going to London on a business trip so today, I stopped off at the AT&T store to inquire about temporary international calling & receiving of emails on my Blackberry. It was very frightening. Not the cost for getting the service, rather the person who attempted to help me. After patiently waiting for 15 minutes, a young lady, probably in her mid to late 20's called my name and said she would assist me. The following is a totally accurate and factual account of our conversation.

AT&T Rep: Hello. My name is Showanda. How can I help you today?

Me: I'll be traveling to London, England on a business trip and need to know how I can get international service on my Blackberry.

AT&T Rep: OK, I can help you with that. (she started typing into a computer screen for a few seconds) And what state is London in?

Me: What state? (smiling) I believe it's current state is cool and rainy.

AT&T Rep: No, I mean which state is it in?

Me: As in which United States state?

AT&T Rep: Right.

Me: It's not in the United States. If it was, I wouldn't need international service. It's in England.

AT&T Rep: England?

Me: (with eyebrows furrowed and head cocked to the side) You know, the English Channel, Winston Churchhill, God Save the Queen?

AT&T Rep: (blank stare)

Me: Across the ocean? Great Britain?

AT&T Rep: (types some more on her computer) I don't show any England or Great Britain. Is it Russian or something?

Me: (after about 5 seconds of stunned confusion during which my mouth was moving, but I was totally unable to speak) Perhaps I need someone else to help me.

AT&T Rep: I can help you. I just need to find it on my screen.

Me: Try United Kingdom.

AT&T Rep: No, no United Kingdom.

Me: UK?

AT&T Rep: Oh, you're right! Here it is. Wow, I've never heard of somewhere named UK before. London, UK?

Me: Really? Are you just messing with me?

AT&T Rep: No sir.

Me: Am I on Candid Camera or being punked or something?

AT&T Rep: What?

Me: Never mind. Just tell me, do I need a Sim card or is this just a service that can be turned on or what?

AT&T Rep: No, you don't need a Sim card. You can just turn on the service. It will be $59.95 for calls or $99.95 for a data plan so you can get your emails. Do you want me to do that now?

Me: That's for a month, right? I'll only need it for 10 days.

AT&T Rep: But you want to get your emails, don't you?

Me: Right. Um, thanks, but I believe I'll call and get it turned on just before I leave.

AT&T Rep: Here's my card. If you'll call me, then I can do that for you.

Me: OK. Thanks.

Here it is almost 8 hours later and I continue to be stunned, confused and unbelieving. I know I'm in Arkansas, but still...

No way will I be calling her to do anything. And if I see her on the sidewalk I'll cross the street due to fear of stupid somehow leaking  on me. I think you are supposed to have at least a high school diploma to work in an AT&T store. If so, then either she lied or a high school diploma isn't what it used to be or should be. For the sake of my youngest daughter who is still in school and the future of America, please God, let her be a liar.