It wouldn't be New Year's Eve without me and Mack Webb singing along with The Beatles the entire Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album, from "It was twenty years ago today..." all the way to "I'd love to turn you on." The lyrics were on back. Of course, we'd always try to guess a few more than last year of the famous people above the band on the front cover.
Mack was my down-the-street neighbor and good friend that I liked to hang around with a lot. He was a grade below me but insisted that he and I play endless games of smear football on his front lawn till we were spent! He was a bit more wealthier than I was and was always buying the latest music albums. His parents even gave him a Fender Stratocaster electric guitar and practice amp. one year for his birthday. He and I screeched out our first chords together on that guitar...he was a real Strat Cat that long hair, blond-headed Mackie! I remember his favorite line was, "Keep it cool!" He even wrote it in my yearbook below his picture.
I'd come over to his house about 8 pm earlier that evening. Mrs. Webb would have popcorn,
fudge, and plenty of Dr Pepper's on hand for the duration. They stayed in the after-living room while we two would retreat into Mack's back bedroom. We'd play selections from his vast collection of records, sometimes pretending to be d.j.'s on the radio. We talked about the Dallas Cowboys and other things that guys seemed to want to talk about. Looking at the clock, soon it was the magic stroke of midnight. We bundled up and went outside to see/hear the illegal fireworks. I told everyone "Happy New Year" and headed home.
I always enjoyed the brief walk back to my house, seeing my warm breath in the cold air and crunching the dead winter grass of the lawns I crossed. The corner street light glowed in the frosty air. It seemed to me to be such a peaceful time, this first hour of the early morning on a new day...a perfect evening to another year.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Walking Cemeteries
I started walking cemeteries as a freshman in college. There was an old cemetery located by an equally old church located just at the turnoff to some place called Apple Springs. I used to go there some weekends to get away from the campus awhile. I noticed there must have been about a thousand assorted soda bottle caps embedded in the red clay of the church's primitive parking lot as I walked down to the quaint and quiet cemetery out back. I think I'd rather be there among those that were enjoying their eternal rest than reclining in my dorm room watching NFL football this Sunday afternoon.
I like to try to read the names and dates on the old tombstones. Some monuments had pictures of the deceased, so you could put a face with a grave. As I stroll through the rock garden, I wonder how each of their lives ended, was it old age, illness, or accident? The years of our lives inscribed in stone don't reveal that, nor the nature and quality of our lives.
I try hard as hell to stay in the rows to keep from stepping on top of graves. I find that disrespectful, even though I bet "they" in their buried bodies don't even know you are doing it. Sometimes, it's unavoidable and can't be helped and it's difficult to know where one grave ends and another begins.
Since then, now long ago, I've walked many cemeteries located all through the state. The most unusual would probably be the Mexican cemetery at Terlingua with its twisted, weathered wooden crosses and piles of rocks in the form of makeshift mausoleums. The most remotest would be those forgotten cemeteries found along back county roads where I live in Central Texas that are only marked as a symbol on a topographical map, and you wouldn't even know they were there at all if you hadn't just happened upon them unexpectedly when driving down these lanes.
I've found unique objects adorning the final resting places of individuals, both young and old besides the usual faded plastic flowers. These are probably items that were identified with the individual or cherished by that person when they were alive; things like: little toy trucks, beads and trinkets, small stuffed animals, bells, shells, shiny rocks, spent brass ammo cartridges, little bottles, and an assortment of rusted metal objects.
The dearest cemeteries to me are the ones in East Texas where my ancestors are buried. Both sets of grandparents remain there where they lived and raised their families (my parents). I stop, even though not often enough, when I'm not in much of a hurry going or coming to sit awhile by my Grandfather/Grandmother Shaver's graves and talk to them. I may cry, not because I grieve, but because I miss them so much.
My favorite cemetery to walk is located a few miles outside of the small town of Edom, driving toward the community of Opelika on FM 2239. This is historic Asbury Cemetery, Van Zandt County, Texas; established 1855. In its confines are 400 recorded/marked graves and 30 unmarked graves. Here lay my immediate ancestors in a long row and orderly way...Shavers all by last name on their grave stones. Their first names read: Alice, Richard, J.R., "Baby," Thomas, Lilly Bell, Carmen Lee, James, Charlie, Ola Lon, John, and Eugene.
Over there is the now lichen-encrusted white marble military tombstone of my dad's cousin Cpl. Malcolm E. Shaver, "Oct 25, 1922 - June 25, 1944," killed in W.W. II. I only know about his end and legacy from stories my dad told me of him and not by any words written there. Next to him are my Great-Grandmother/Great-Grandfather Shaver beneath their pink granite tombstone. Incredibly, they were both born in the mid 1880s at a time when the "old world" was drawing to an end. He, Marion, died 21 years before I was ever on the scene, so I never knew him. I do remember my Great-Grandmother Pearl and visiting her before she died in 1962. By that time, her diabetes had advanced and claimed one of her legs. She remained in her wheelchair the whole time with a shawl which covered her warm and kept us kids from knowing. She still had her lap for us great-grand kids to sit on and her arms to hug us dearly.
I think the single-most thing that draws me back to walk Asbury Cemetery is its serene surroundings and the peaceful place that it represents. I envy my long-departed loved ones. I know their spirits have departed and just their remains linger here in this several acres of land set aside for internment. I would like to be buried here with them--these Shavers. (I'm sure my family and kids will see otherwise, but it is still my last desire.) I hope after I die, I will know that I've joined them here in our walk together through eternity.
I like to try to read the names and dates on the old tombstones. Some monuments had pictures of the deceased, so you could put a face with a grave. As I stroll through the rock garden, I wonder how each of their lives ended, was it old age, illness, or accident? The years of our lives inscribed in stone don't reveal that, nor the nature and quality of our lives.
I try hard as hell to stay in the rows to keep from stepping on top of graves. I find that disrespectful, even though I bet "they" in their buried bodies don't even know you are doing it. Sometimes, it's unavoidable and can't be helped and it's difficult to know where one grave ends and another begins.
Since then, now long ago, I've walked many cemeteries located all through the state. The most unusual would probably be the Mexican cemetery at Terlingua with its twisted, weathered wooden crosses and piles of rocks in the form of makeshift mausoleums. The most remotest would be those forgotten cemeteries found along back county roads where I live in Central Texas that are only marked as a symbol on a topographical map, and you wouldn't even know they were there at all if you hadn't just happened upon them unexpectedly when driving down these lanes.
I've found unique objects adorning the final resting places of individuals, both young and old besides the usual faded plastic flowers. These are probably items that were identified with the individual or cherished by that person when they were alive; things like: little toy trucks, beads and trinkets, small stuffed animals, bells, shells, shiny rocks, spent brass ammo cartridges, little bottles, and an assortment of rusted metal objects.
The dearest cemeteries to me are the ones in East Texas where my ancestors are buried. Both sets of grandparents remain there where they lived and raised their families (my parents). I stop, even though not often enough, when I'm not in much of a hurry going or coming to sit awhile by my Grandfather/Grandmother Shaver's graves and talk to them. I may cry, not because I grieve, but because I miss them so much.
My favorite cemetery to walk is located a few miles outside of the small town of Edom, driving toward the community of Opelika on FM 2239. This is historic Asbury Cemetery, Van Zandt County, Texas; established 1855. In its confines are 400 recorded/marked graves and 30 unmarked graves. Here lay my immediate ancestors in a long row and orderly way...Shavers all by last name on their grave stones. Their first names read: Alice, Richard, J.R., "Baby," Thomas, Lilly Bell, Carmen Lee, James, Charlie, Ola Lon, John, and Eugene.
Over there is the now lichen-encrusted white marble military tombstone of my dad's cousin Cpl. Malcolm E. Shaver, "Oct 25, 1922 - June 25, 1944," killed in W.W. II. I only know about his end and legacy from stories my dad told me of him and not by any words written there. Next to him are my Great-Grandmother/Great-Grandfather Shaver beneath their pink granite tombstone. Incredibly, they were both born in the mid 1880s at a time when the "old world" was drawing to an end. He, Marion, died 21 years before I was ever on the scene, so I never knew him. I do remember my Great-Grandmother Pearl and visiting her before she died in 1962. By that time, her diabetes had advanced and claimed one of her legs. She remained in her wheelchair the whole time with a shawl which covered her warm and kept us kids from knowing. She still had her lap for us great-grand kids to sit on and her arms to hug us dearly.
I think the single-most thing that draws me back to walk Asbury Cemetery is its serene surroundings and the peaceful place that it represents. I envy my long-departed loved ones. I know their spirits have departed and just their remains linger here in this several acres of land set aside for internment. I would like to be buried here with them--these Shavers. (I'm sure my family and kids will see otherwise, but it is still my last desire.) I hope after I die, I will know that I've joined them here in our walk together through eternity.
Monday, December 29, 2008
The Importance of Being Ernest
He felt he had left everything behind, the need for thinking, the need for writing, other needs. It was all back of him.
I believe the story that did it for me was Hemingway's "Big Two-Hearted River." After reading that, I knew I wanted to write. The high mountains had been for me my own escape and rescue from everything that went before. I had as much to say and in Ernest, I had the model and could learn to write a good declarative sentence to say it.
Already there was something mysterious and homelike...He had not been unhappy all day. This was different though. Now things were done....It had been a hard trip. He was tired. That was done. He had made his camp. He was settled. Nothing could touch him. It was a good place to camp. He was there, in the good place....His mind was starting to work. He knew he could choke it because he was tired.
I had been writing, poems mostly, and attempting to write about my life and things; about her. I didn't know when it would be that I'd begin to write, just that I knew I would write about it some day; not now, but later when things were right and I was ready to write.
He did not feel like going on into the swamp....did not want to go in there now....In the swamp fishing was a tragic adventure....He did not want to go down the stream any further today.
All I know is that I always wanted to write and write well. Sometimes it won't go. I'm "blocked," or it doesn't stream out the way it should. The right words don't come easy, and endless revision serves to demoralize me all the more into a full retreat and to thinking I should finally give up. I can't, for I've come too far. It's important to hold the ground already won and advance ever steadily forward toward capturing the story.
He climbed the bank and cut up into the woods, toward the high ground. He was going back to camp. He looked back. The river just showed through the trees. There were plenty of days coming when he could fish the swamp.
Writing, like painting a picture, directing a film, or composing music is a painstaking ordeal, not undertaken without serious intentions to see it through to the end, finish the masterpiece. A lot of it's a lonesome trail one travels in much the same way as we all individually do death; it really involves you and you only. And since appointed that you must go, there's no choice but to go at it desperately alone. No one can spell it out for you to do and for you, except yourself. Yours is to do it with the most courage and grace you can muster at facing the final task at hand, if you do.
I will.
I believe the story that did it for me was Hemingway's "Big Two-Hearted River." After reading that, I knew I wanted to write. The high mountains had been for me my own escape and rescue from everything that went before. I had as much to say and in Ernest, I had the model and could learn to write a good declarative sentence to say it.
Already there was something mysterious and homelike...He had not been unhappy all day. This was different though. Now things were done....It had been a hard trip. He was tired. That was done. He had made his camp. He was settled. Nothing could touch him. It was a good place to camp. He was there, in the good place....His mind was starting to work. He knew he could choke it because he was tired.
I had been writing, poems mostly, and attempting to write about my life and things; about her. I didn't know when it would be that I'd begin to write, just that I knew I would write about it some day; not now, but later when things were right and I was ready to write.
He did not feel like going on into the swamp....did not want to go in there now....In the swamp fishing was a tragic adventure....He did not want to go down the stream any further today.
All I know is that I always wanted to write and write well. Sometimes it won't go. I'm "blocked," or it doesn't stream out the way it should. The right words don't come easy, and endless revision serves to demoralize me all the more into a full retreat and to thinking I should finally give up. I can't, for I've come too far. It's important to hold the ground already won and advance ever steadily forward toward capturing the story.
He climbed the bank and cut up into the woods, toward the high ground. He was going back to camp. He looked back. The river just showed through the trees. There were plenty of days coming when he could fish the swamp.
Writing, like painting a picture, directing a film, or composing music is a painstaking ordeal, not undertaken without serious intentions to see it through to the end, finish the masterpiece. A lot of it's a lonesome trail one travels in much the same way as we all individually do death; it really involves you and you only. And since appointed that you must go, there's no choice but to go at it desperately alone. No one can spell it out for you to do and for you, except yourself. Yours is to do it with the most courage and grace you can muster at facing the final task at hand, if you do.
I will.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Songs of Christmas
I remember my mother would fill the house with the songs of Christmas from her collection of albums played on our old walnut monaural console in the living room. The voices were those of Nat King Cole, Elvis Presley, Perry Como, Bing Crosby, Andy Williams, Burl Ives, and other compilations. The old holiday songs of my youth sing out: "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire," "Blue Christmas," "Sleigh Ride," "Walking in a Winter Wonderland," "It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas," "Let It Snow" "Do You See What I See?" "Frosty the Snowman," Silver Bells," and "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas in all their various artists and versions. The list would not be complete without the wartime classics "White Christmas" and "I'll Be Home for Christmas" made ultra famous by Bing Crosby.
On the car radio at the time we listened to Brenda Lee's rendition of "Jingle Bell Rock," Chuck Berry's "Run, Rudolph," "Carol of the Bells," "The Little Drummer Boy," Alvin & The Chipmunks singing "The Christmas Song," "The Twelve Days of Christmas," and who couldn't forget the dogs barking out "Jingle Bells!"
I believe it was public domain really for kids to go around at Christmas time singing to themselves and together such songs as "Jingle Bells," "Deck the Halls," "Here Comes Santa Claus," and "O Christmas Tree." We knew the words by heart.
I will never forget the yearly Christmas program at David Crockett Elementary put on by our able director and second-grade teacher Mrs. Ball (with the aid of her grown son Kirby) , who attempted to whip our high youthful voices into some kind of harmonic sense to sing the traditional hymns of Christmas. There would be a blend of the Christmas Story drama ( I played a startled shepherd one year.) with readings from St. Luke, and the boys/girls choir that included the actors, too, on the stage risers. The program became a mellow moment of reflection and emotion as our child's voices sang "The First Noel," "O Little Town of Bethlehem," "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing," "Silent Night! Holy Night!," "What Child is This?" "Angels We Have Heard on High," and "Joy to the World."
And just before we ended our Christmas program with the traditional singing of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," the concluding chorus of "O Holy Night" echoed to the far back of the auditorium.
Fall on your knees!
O hear the angels' voices!
O night divine, the night when Christ was born
O night, O Holy Night, O night divine
For that one December weekday evening, we awed our anxious parents, squirming siblings, our fellow students, and skeptical teachers with entertaining sounds of comfort and joy.
On the car radio at the time we listened to Brenda Lee's rendition of "Jingle Bell Rock," Chuck Berry's "Run, Rudolph," "Carol of the Bells," "The Little Drummer Boy," Alvin & The Chipmunks singing "The Christmas Song," "The Twelve Days of Christmas," and who couldn't forget the dogs barking out "Jingle Bells!"
I believe it was public domain really for kids to go around at Christmas time singing to themselves and together such songs as "Jingle Bells," "Deck the Halls," "Here Comes Santa Claus," and "O Christmas Tree." We knew the words by heart.
I will never forget the yearly Christmas program at David Crockett Elementary put on by our able director and second-grade teacher Mrs. Ball (with the aid of her grown son Kirby) , who attempted to whip our high youthful voices into some kind of harmonic sense to sing the traditional hymns of Christmas. There would be a blend of the Christmas Story drama ( I played a startled shepherd one year.) with readings from St. Luke, and the boys/girls choir that included the actors, too, on the stage risers. The program became a mellow moment of reflection and emotion as our child's voices sang "The First Noel," "O Little Town of Bethlehem," "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing," "Silent Night! Holy Night!," "What Child is This?" "Angels We Have Heard on High," and "Joy to the World."
And just before we ended our Christmas program with the traditional singing of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," the concluding chorus of "O Holy Night" echoed to the far back of the auditorium.
Fall on your knees!
O hear the angels' voices!
O night divine, the night when Christ was born
O night, O Holy Night, O night divine
For that one December weekday evening, we awed our anxious parents, squirming siblings, our fellow students, and skeptical teachers with entertaining sounds of comfort and joy.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Boys & Bikes
I love the day after Christmas. That's the day you see all the kids zooming down the street or navigating the narrow sidewalks with their shiny brand new bikes! I owned a total of three bikes when I was boy.
I remember getting my first bike for Christmas. I must have just turned 11 when Santa (my dad) got me my very own red and white J.C. Higgins boy's bicycle straight from the Sears showroom. It was complete with white-wall tires, a chrome headlight on the front fender, red/white tassels, and a big round speedometer mounted on the handlebars. I must have put a thousand miles on the odometer going places in, around, and out of the neighborhood before I outgrew that bike. I mean I seldom walked anywhere except to school or up to Vandervoort's on the corner. I couldn't afford one, so I stole a Slaymaker padlock from the 5 & 10 store; it had a long shank to lock the wheels on the front yoke. That way, I could drop my bike anywhere I might be with no fear that it wouldn't be there when I came back.
I remember taking my Higgins bike on a especially long trip one Saturday. I had no city street map at the time but decided to ride up my street (Worth St.) until it ended. I crossed some major streets for the first time ever on my bike: Fitzhugh Ave., Munger Blvd., and Beacon St. It seemed like I had come a long way already and still no sign of a dead-end. I rode past an old school building that I recognized as William Lipscomb Elementary where I finished the first grade after my mother moved us kids back to Dallas from Houston. I pedalled past Abrams Rd. (which I would cross 3 years later much further to the north on another cycling adventure) and as I descended a long sloping hill, Worth St. ended at a T with Largent St. running next to a greenbelt. The houses along Worth Street here were definitely not like the ones in my neighborhood, massive brick mansions and with manicured lawns. I stopped and walked down into the woods and deep creek running over a white limestone bed, exploring awhile. Later, I was to learn this greenbelt bordered the exclusive Lakewood Country Club located on the other side. I turned around and headed home to the more familiar and comfortable surroundings of my Worth Street neighborhood as it neared Baylor Hospital and downtown. Upon my return home, it felt like a Christopher Columbus moment!
We moved out to the suburbs near Garland when I was entering the 7th grade. In a few months for my 13th birthday, I got a new Western Auto Flyer "mini-bike" in gold paint with long handle bars raised upward, smaller wheels, and a large white banana seat. It was the latest and greatest in boy's bikes. I rode it all the way up to the junior high school instead of walking or taking the city bus. This time we'd bought a chain and combination lock to secure it on the bike rack in back of the school gymnasiums. After class one day, I walked back to get on my bike along with a bunch of other teenagers to find the chains were cut and our means of transportation gone! I had had my bike for merely a month or so. It was heartbreaking to this 14-year old because the Dallas Police gave us little hope of them ever being found...probably the whole lot hocked off?
That next spring, I managed to save up enough money and buy a used, regular-size bike from a lawn mower shop near my house. Although not new and it would never replace that beautiful Flyer I loved so much, that bike would bring me great joy in the coming years. I rode it up to the small airport next to the highway, to explore all the streets and shopping centers in the area that was my new neighborhood. It was always my ready transport to my best friend Mike's house weekdays after school and on weekends. I used to pretend it was my Dauntless dive bomber as I pretended to catapult off the concrete carrier of a driveway or a Stuka dive bomber on the hunt for Russian T-34 tanks. Mike and I created an elaborate game in which we would gather together formations of bikes of all sorts and sizes, their riders were friends and neighbors conscripted to ride (fly) missions to bomb and strafe targets. Our bombs were Sunday morning newspapers rolled up tight and taped, and the bullets were smaller paper rolls we'd throw. Mike had one of those saddlebag wire racks suspended over his rear wheel. He could carry lots of big rolls, so he was considered a heavy bomber. He had escorts who were bent on protecting him by trying to maneuver close in and throw rolls to hit us attacking bikes (aircraft). We could not let him get through to pound the cardboard box city we had built in the front yard close to the sidewalk and street. It was all a crazy melee of fun as it turned out!
I rode this bike on my longest trip ever that summer. I watched a popular Dallas TV show, "Sump'n Else," every afternoon. It starred a local long-time radio disc jockey personality Ron Chapman. The show was in the format of the popular Bandstand, with music, celebrities, and go-go dancers. I even wrote off to the TV station for promotional pictures of Ron and his girls: Joni, the blond goddess and quite the "show-off," Kathy, with her short pageboy cut,somewhat chubby but always a cute smile for the camera, and several of the other regulars. They broadcast live from a remote studio at the then exclusive North Park Mall. I just had to get there somehow, and the only way I could go was by bike!
I had to estimate it so that I left the house to arrive early enough or just in time for the show. By that time in my life, I had been a Boy Scout for a few years and I had a Dallas street map to plan my route. I wanted to stay off of Northwest Highway (the direct road to the mall) as much as possible, since there were few sidewalks, many traffic lights, and hundreds of cars to contend with on the busy road. I would ride on residential streets as far as I could go; I thought it was do-able and I intended to do it.
I left around 1 pm one weekday afternoon from my house on Lanewood Circle, riding north on the sidewalk that lined Jupiter Rd., crossing Northwest Hwy. to Carissa Ln., taking that west across Plano Rd. This scenic route took me through the fine neighborhoods and easy riding streets of the Lake Highlands area. I passed near the McCree pool/park where I went to swim in the summer. At this juncture, I had to turn one block south to catch Lanshire Rd. to continue west toward the mall and eventually it turned back down into Northwest again at a location just north of White Rock Lake. Here, I recognized the drive-in where my stepfather and I like to go drink beer weekends. The young carhops would bring out his ice-cold bottles wrapped in napkins and my large mug of root beer on the aluminum trays that hung on the slightly-rolled up window glass. I liked to have landmarks as I went.
At this point I had no choice but to travel the traffic of Northwest Hwy. from there to the mall. It was kind of unnerving riding blind in the gutters with traffic, cars behind you always honking to let you know they were passing. I pressed on westward and soon passed the lengthy Abrams Road I had crossed once as a much younger boy and way to the south. Skillman Ave. was next, followed by Greenville Rd., and finally, I walked my bike across the monster sprawling Central Expressway exchange to North Park Mall. The immaculate indoor shopping center seemed like a Mecca to me!
I was somewhat early, so after locking my bike up on the rack, I went inside the cool air-conditioned mall and walked around some. I went into this large record store and browsed the albums and 45s. When it was about showtime, I scampered back to get a spot in front of the glass viewing area. The WFAA-Channel 8 studio was sunken below the windows, so you had an excellent view of the entire floor. The sound was piped out to speakers above you. It was exciting to see the show and all my favorite personalities live! During the TV break-away for commercials, the cast and couples just stood around, Ron would be reading from some last-minute script, there was more makeup applied to all, television cameras were moved around, and the go-go dancers would wave to us fans behind the glass. I couldn't stay the whole show and had to leave to go back home the same way, but it had been worth the trip.
I came; I saw; I conquered!
I remember getting my first bike for Christmas. I must have just turned 11 when Santa (my dad) got me my very own red and white J.C. Higgins boy's bicycle straight from the Sears showroom. It was complete with white-wall tires, a chrome headlight on the front fender, red/white tassels, and a big round speedometer mounted on the handlebars. I must have put a thousand miles on the odometer going places in, around, and out of the neighborhood before I outgrew that bike. I mean I seldom walked anywhere except to school or up to Vandervoort's on the corner. I couldn't afford one, so I stole a Slaymaker padlock from the 5 & 10 store; it had a long shank to lock the wheels on the front yoke. That way, I could drop my bike anywhere I might be with no fear that it wouldn't be there when I came back.
I remember taking my Higgins bike on a especially long trip one Saturday. I had no city street map at the time but decided to ride up my street (Worth St.) until it ended. I crossed some major streets for the first time ever on my bike: Fitzhugh Ave., Munger Blvd., and Beacon St. It seemed like I had come a long way already and still no sign of a dead-end. I rode past an old school building that I recognized as William Lipscomb Elementary where I finished the first grade after my mother moved us kids back to Dallas from Houston. I pedalled past Abrams Rd. (which I would cross 3 years later much further to the north on another cycling adventure) and as I descended a long sloping hill, Worth St. ended at a T with Largent St. running next to a greenbelt. The houses along Worth Street here were definitely not like the ones in my neighborhood, massive brick mansions and with manicured lawns. I stopped and walked down into the woods and deep creek running over a white limestone bed, exploring awhile. Later, I was to learn this greenbelt bordered the exclusive Lakewood Country Club located on the other side. I turned around and headed home to the more familiar and comfortable surroundings of my Worth Street neighborhood as it neared Baylor Hospital and downtown. Upon my return home, it felt like a Christopher Columbus moment!
We moved out to the suburbs near Garland when I was entering the 7th grade. In a few months for my 13th birthday, I got a new Western Auto Flyer "mini-bike" in gold paint with long handle bars raised upward, smaller wheels, and a large white banana seat. It was the latest and greatest in boy's bikes. I rode it all the way up to the junior high school instead of walking or taking the city bus. This time we'd bought a chain and combination lock to secure it on the bike rack in back of the school gymnasiums. After class one day, I walked back to get on my bike along with a bunch of other teenagers to find the chains were cut and our means of transportation gone! I had had my bike for merely a month or so. It was heartbreaking to this 14-year old because the Dallas Police gave us little hope of them ever being found...probably the whole lot hocked off?
That next spring, I managed to save up enough money and buy a used, regular-size bike from a lawn mower shop near my house. Although not new and it would never replace that beautiful Flyer I loved so much, that bike would bring me great joy in the coming years. I rode it up to the small airport next to the highway, to explore all the streets and shopping centers in the area that was my new neighborhood. It was always my ready transport to my best friend Mike's house weekdays after school and on weekends. I used to pretend it was my Dauntless dive bomber as I pretended to catapult off the concrete carrier of a driveway or a Stuka dive bomber on the hunt for Russian T-34 tanks. Mike and I created an elaborate game in which we would gather together formations of bikes of all sorts and sizes, their riders were friends and neighbors conscripted to ride (fly) missions to bomb and strafe targets. Our bombs were Sunday morning newspapers rolled up tight and taped, and the bullets were smaller paper rolls we'd throw. Mike had one of those saddlebag wire racks suspended over his rear wheel. He could carry lots of big rolls, so he was considered a heavy bomber. He had escorts who were bent on protecting him by trying to maneuver close in and throw rolls to hit us attacking bikes (aircraft). We could not let him get through to pound the cardboard box city we had built in the front yard close to the sidewalk and street. It was all a crazy melee of fun as it turned out!
I rode this bike on my longest trip ever that summer. I watched a popular Dallas TV show, "Sump'n Else," every afternoon. It starred a local long-time radio disc jockey personality Ron Chapman. The show was in the format of the popular Bandstand, with music, celebrities, and go-go dancers. I even wrote off to the TV station for promotional pictures of Ron and his girls: Joni, the blond goddess and quite the "show-off," Kathy, with her short pageboy cut,somewhat chubby but always a cute smile for the camera, and several of the other regulars. They broadcast live from a remote studio at the then exclusive North Park Mall. I just had to get there somehow, and the only way I could go was by bike!
I had to estimate it so that I left the house to arrive early enough or just in time for the show. By that time in my life, I had been a Boy Scout for a few years and I had a Dallas street map to plan my route. I wanted to stay off of Northwest Highway (the direct road to the mall) as much as possible, since there were few sidewalks, many traffic lights, and hundreds of cars to contend with on the busy road. I would ride on residential streets as far as I could go; I thought it was do-able and I intended to do it.
I left around 1 pm one weekday afternoon from my house on Lanewood Circle, riding north on the sidewalk that lined Jupiter Rd., crossing Northwest Hwy. to Carissa Ln., taking that west across Plano Rd. This scenic route took me through the fine neighborhoods and easy riding streets of the Lake Highlands area. I passed near the McCree pool/park where I went to swim in the summer. At this juncture, I had to turn one block south to catch Lanshire Rd. to continue west toward the mall and eventually it turned back down into Northwest again at a location just north of White Rock Lake. Here, I recognized the drive-in where my stepfather and I like to go drink beer weekends. The young carhops would bring out his ice-cold bottles wrapped in napkins and my large mug of root beer on the aluminum trays that hung on the slightly-rolled up window glass. I liked to have landmarks as I went.
At this point I had no choice but to travel the traffic of Northwest Hwy. from there to the mall. It was kind of unnerving riding blind in the gutters with traffic, cars behind you always honking to let you know they were passing. I pressed on westward and soon passed the lengthy Abrams Road I had crossed once as a much younger boy and way to the south. Skillman Ave. was next, followed by Greenville Rd., and finally, I walked my bike across the monster sprawling Central Expressway exchange to North Park Mall. The immaculate indoor shopping center seemed like a Mecca to me!
I was somewhat early, so after locking my bike up on the rack, I went inside the cool air-conditioned mall and walked around some. I went into this large record store and browsed the albums and 45s. When it was about showtime, I scampered back to get a spot in front of the glass viewing area. The WFAA-Channel 8 studio was sunken below the windows, so you had an excellent view of the entire floor. The sound was piped out to speakers above you. It was exciting to see the show and all my favorite personalities live! During the TV break-away for commercials, the cast and couples just stood around, Ron would be reading from some last-minute script, there was more makeup applied to all, television cameras were moved around, and the go-go dancers would wave to us fans behind the glass. I couldn't stay the whole show and had to leave to go back home the same way, but it had been worth the trip.
I came; I saw; I conquered!
Friday, December 19, 2008
New Town--Georgetown
We moved here in August of 1974, fresh out of college and hired as new teachers by the local school district. Georgetown was about half-way between parents, favoring me more in the distance to Dallas compared to her folks who lived on the other side of Houston. We had no relatives, no friends, no reason to be here in this Central Texas town except for jobs. I did not like the region at first, the smaller scrub oaks that grow here, nor the shallow streams that people around here called rivers. Where I came from, the hardwoods were taller and fuller and the rivers and creeks generally muddy and deep. It took awhile to accept this new town and part of the state as our home, as it would be for some 34 years now. We've seen a lot of changes around town and the area, I can imagine what the old timers must feel about their hometown. We looked at this move as an exciting new beginning for the both of us, and this first year here in Central Texas proved to be more than memorable.
- being the county seat of Williamson County, Georgetown had an old courthouse building on an historical square like the towns of East Texas
- shopping the famous Gold's Department Store downtown and buying Boy Scout uniform stuff
- our unleveled upstairs furnished two-bedroom apartment 13 at Valley View, R.R 3; mixing instant Nestea in a plastic pitcher and hamburger casseroles; our only aquarium and first female full-blooded Siamese kitty we brought back to the apartment and she stayed under the couch until she finally warmed up to us
- building my rocket on the breakfast table and launching it in the large field that stretched out in front of the apartment complex, watching the payload parachute way up high and float way over across the Highway 29 and onto the university's golf course
- walking the block over to Southwestern University's dancing water fountain evenings
- taking much needed naps those Sunday afternoons and listening to Joe Walsh's solo songs on the radio station KLBJ-FM at night alone in the bedroom
- getting my first full-time employment paycheck after waiting two months
- buying our first appliance: a new AM/FM stereo receiver and turntable with large separate speakers
- being a "floater" and having no assigned classroom of my own the first year teaching; teaching 7th grade language-arts in the library the first two periods, the kids at tables and with a portable chalk board; taking lessons straight from the textbook to be safe; reading most of Defoe's Gulliver's Travels to the class out loud with elaboration and embellishment...great fun!
- fishing afternoons on the San Gabriel River with a come-apart cane pole purchased at the Western Auto store down on the square; the deep pools were where the North and South forks of the Gabriel flowed together at the footbridge in the park
- the beautiful and abundant native pecan trees in the river park and around old town planted by the Indians and the first settlers here in the 1840s
- we went to the drive-in theater still in operation out on Business 81 just north of town; stop after school sometimes and have a banana malt made the old-fashion way at the white burger stand by the entrance to San Gabriel Park
- rafting down the flooding San Gabriel River that Saturday with my best friend and best man at my wedding in his two-man rubber raft, supposed to float/paddle down to Mankin's Crossing but made it only past Katy Lake when snagged and had to walk out via the railroad all the way back to town and to the apartment
- buying and reading and autographed copy of Clara Stearns Scarbrough's Land of Good Water about the history of Williamson Co.
- the paint on our Ford Mustang eaten off by the acidic sap of trees above where we parked in the shade beside the apartment
- washing our clothes with the poor people in the only wash-a-teria downtown
- hiking down the rural county road back of where we lived all the way out to where it crossed the spring branch that flowed toward the highway and formed the boundary of the field in front of the apartments where we lived
- slipping off to drive to Round Rock to buy a six-pack of Schlitz Beer in the evenings since Georgetown was dry
- noting the remains of the crumbling rock walls and old buildings of our new town
Thursday, December 18, 2008
When I Worked in the Movies
I once worked in the movies. No typical job for teenagers for me, like flipping burgers and stinking of over-cooked fries at the end of the shift or bagging and carrying out groceries for ungrateful and tight-tipping old blue-hairs. I wanted to work in a movie theater. I weighed the benefits: not many hours during the weekdays (schoolwork not affected), get to work with doubly-cute cashiers and girls working the refreshment stand, getting to see all the movie premieres for free, and able to sneak your friends in free at the door. It was a great place to meet girls and date some that worked there, although there was supposedly a "fraternization" rule or something that prohibited it, mainly because management thought you'd both want the same weekend night off.
The theater chain was General Cinema Corporation, which had a cool logo that looked like a movie projector (reels above and below) made from stacking the first letters of our company name:
C
G
C
There was also a snappy little jingle and screen shot they played before every feature presentation. Working in the movies suit me just fine.
True, I was forced to wear a light blue blazer with a black bow tie on a white shirt with black tuxedo pants and black dress shoes for all my shifts, but it eventually grew on you. I looked sharp and felt on the edge of greatness...after all, I was in the movies! I was issued a non-working flashlight and started as usher, checking to see if the inside doors down front were secure and so the side exit doors. Some kids would hang around suspiciously, trying to let their friends in. Since our eyes were already used to the darkness inside the auditorium, we would find seats for the individuals and couples who just entered. We also had to do some unpleasant duties like tell big guys to get their feet off the seat in front of them, tell loud people to shut up and watch the show, occasionally enforce the non-smoking law, and reassure the folks that the movie would soon start again after the film broke and the auditorium lights were raised, blinding the masses.
During intermission or between features, us ushers sometimes helped behind the concession stand and afterwards, we cleaned the lobby and mopped the tile at the vending machines and in the restrooms. Spills of popcorn on the lobby carpet will soon reproduce when stepped on and then you have thrice the mess, so it was important to get it swept up quickly. Almost without fail, there was some smart-ass who saw our efforts and still went out of his/her way to crunch a bunch for us.
Later, after working at the Cinema for awhile, the assistant manger (he was a real jerk, but I liked the manger okay), he put me on the door taking tickets. The girl cashier(s) in the glass booth out front would sell tickets and it would be my job to tear these tickets in two to consummate the sale. I also had to wear a watch set to show time because I got a million idiot questions about when the movie was starting, even when the show times were displayed on the roadside marquee, in the newspaper, and in the ticket booth! I didn't mind the job much because I got to smile a lot at the cute cashier manning the ticket booth who looked like a dreamy movie star encassed in her own crystal display case to me. I found out she was in the same grade as me, and even if a guy like me didn't ever stand a chance of going out with a girl like her (she, like most girls my age and grade took to the "older" guys), it was exciting to be able at least to work with them.
Once, I saw Janie M., a girl I went to elementary school with and hadn't seen in years, come through the door with her date. I think she recognized me, too, but didn't say anything. I thought that was kind of neat. The only thing I didn't like about working the door was that I soon became weary of the same old line, "Are you the doorman?" (I always acknowledged with a "yes," fully realizing what was coming next.) "Then, there's the door, man!" (a hearty laugh here) It was always some dumb big guy who thought to impress his friends or the girl on his arm. Oh well, it went with the job...just part of the stuff that goes with stardom.
Some downsides to this glamorous job were having to inventory the thousands of drink cups and the sizes we had stored in the locked closet upstairs. I had to count each cup of each stack in each of the open cases while the manager stood over me with clip board in hand; the reason being because each cup had a cost and figured into the profitability of the theater. Early Saturday mornings we'd meet for movie theater maintenance: pop 50 big bags of popcorn for the weekend shows, change light bulbs on the super high ceiling of the lobby and auditorium on a fireman's ladder, get the red-white-black colored pieces back in their respective places in the large rock garden out in front of the building, scrub the scuff marks off the white metal seat backs, and hot-mop down the sticky, syrupy concrete floor of the theater auditorium, a result of hundreds of dropped and smashed gooey candy and spilled drinks!
I was promoted to head usher by my senior year and was assigned the giant elevated movie marquee lit up in front of the shopping center where we were located. The best selling movies ran for two weeks and seldom for three. Most films showed for a week. I changed the marquee on Thursday night. The prick assistant manager wouldn't let me start until after the last movie for the night started...typically 8:30 PM or so. That made it late when I finished. He always sketched it out for me on a diagram with the name of the movie in large red letters, the names of the star(s) in little red letters, and below that the starting times in small black numerals. We always had enough of each to spell it out, but it was a double-sided marquee. Mr. Prick would have to approve it before I could go home for the night. The problem was I had to gather all the letters from storage upstairs and load them in my car along with the ladder (again) and drive around to the front. After I arranged the marquee according to the plan, I'd have to climb down and drive a distance to see if I spelled anything wrong or my show times were correct. It was easy to make mistakes when you're working close-up. Some nights in the winter months, I really froze my butt off up there on the high platform of the movie marquee, kind of like Duane working a shift on the oil derricks in The Last Picture Show!
Here are some movie myths dispelled: I could never prove that the popcorn warmer was hooked up to the air condition system somehow, which pumped the smell into the auditorium right before intermission. I could never get it straight from the union projectionists up in the booth that they spliced random frames with pictures and suggestive messages of Pepsi or Ju-Ju Fruits in the main attraction whirling from the large metal canisters we guys had to lug upstairs because their union contract forbade any heavy lifting on their part.
I developed a friendship with the projectionists of our theater, with names like Al or Jack. Man, did they smoke like chimneys and cigars, too! They'd let me spend my break up there, maybe look at the dirty books and magazines in their library. They had their own restroom, couch, and comfortable chair. Their trade skill was threading the wide 35MM film through all the intricate rollers of the double projectors, allowing large loops leading into and out of the projector. While one was running, the other would be ready at the end of the movie reel and timed perfectly to automatically begin and not interrupt the movie. A bell that sounded like an elevator sounded at the end of run that couldn't be heard by the audience through the thick glass portals in the projection booth. They also lit the magnesium rods inside the housing that burned with such brightness in the arc between the rods, thus supplying the intense, powerful light to project the image on the film to the two-storied screen a hundred feet beyond. I liked rubbing elbows so-to-speak with these men who made the movies go...besides, they seemed kind of lonely up there all by themselves, slipping away only to get a refill to their drink (also in their contract) from the concession girls. They had to scoot right back for fear of film breaks and such that could go wrong in the mechanical world. They were big flirts, all of them.
Those were the days when the movie houses still had one big screen. Behind the screen where we kept the long fireman's ladder, you could see that the screen was really porous and transparent, with a million holes in it, so that you could see through it into the lighted auditorium. They flooded the silver surface and white apron with a cool blue light and softly piped in Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" over the sound system as a kind of music overture played as the people came in and filled the seats.
A few years afterwards, when I was called back to work in the theaters, this time as an assistant manager myself working part-time and going one semester college at home, they had divided the auditorium into two "twin" theaters as was the trend then. The idea of course being to bring in more ticket sales by showing multiple movies at one time. Now, we have Megaplex Movies with 47 theaters! I lamented the passing of the premiere movies projected upon those magnificent screens of old.
This was show biz...the time when I worked in the movies.
The theater chain was General Cinema Corporation, which had a cool logo that looked like a movie projector (reels above and below) made from stacking the first letters of our company name:
C
G
C
There was also a snappy little jingle and screen shot they played before every feature presentation. Working in the movies suit me just fine.
True, I was forced to wear a light blue blazer with a black bow tie on a white shirt with black tuxedo pants and black dress shoes for all my shifts, but it eventually grew on you. I looked sharp and felt on the edge of greatness...after all, I was in the movies! I was issued a non-working flashlight and started as usher, checking to see if the inside doors down front were secure and so the side exit doors. Some kids would hang around suspiciously, trying to let their friends in. Since our eyes were already used to the darkness inside the auditorium, we would find seats for the individuals and couples who just entered. We also had to do some unpleasant duties like tell big guys to get their feet off the seat in front of them, tell loud people to shut up and watch the show, occasionally enforce the non-smoking law, and reassure the folks that the movie would soon start again after the film broke and the auditorium lights were raised, blinding the masses.
During intermission or between features, us ushers sometimes helped behind the concession stand and afterwards, we cleaned the lobby and mopped the tile at the vending machines and in the restrooms. Spills of popcorn on the lobby carpet will soon reproduce when stepped on and then you have thrice the mess, so it was important to get it swept up quickly. Almost without fail, there was some smart-ass who saw our efforts and still went out of his/her way to crunch a bunch for us.
Later, after working at the Cinema for awhile, the assistant manger (he was a real jerk, but I liked the manger okay), he put me on the door taking tickets. The girl cashier(s) in the glass booth out front would sell tickets and it would be my job to tear these tickets in two to consummate the sale. I also had to wear a watch set to show time because I got a million idiot questions about when the movie was starting, even when the show times were displayed on the roadside marquee, in the newspaper, and in the ticket booth! I didn't mind the job much because I got to smile a lot at the cute cashier manning the ticket booth who looked like a dreamy movie star encassed in her own crystal display case to me. I found out she was in the same grade as me, and even if a guy like me didn't ever stand a chance of going out with a girl like her (she, like most girls my age and grade took to the "older" guys), it was exciting to be able at least to work with them.
Once, I saw Janie M., a girl I went to elementary school with and hadn't seen in years, come through the door with her date. I think she recognized me, too, but didn't say anything. I thought that was kind of neat. The only thing I didn't like about working the door was that I soon became weary of the same old line, "Are you the doorman?" (I always acknowledged with a "yes," fully realizing what was coming next.) "Then, there's the door, man!" (a hearty laugh here) It was always some dumb big guy who thought to impress his friends or the girl on his arm. Oh well, it went with the job...just part of the stuff that goes with stardom.
Some downsides to this glamorous job were having to inventory the thousands of drink cups and the sizes we had stored in the locked closet upstairs. I had to count each cup of each stack in each of the open cases while the manager stood over me with clip board in hand; the reason being because each cup had a cost and figured into the profitability of the theater. Early Saturday mornings we'd meet for movie theater maintenance: pop 50 big bags of popcorn for the weekend shows, change light bulbs on the super high ceiling of the lobby and auditorium on a fireman's ladder, get the red-white-black colored pieces back in their respective places in the large rock garden out in front of the building, scrub the scuff marks off the white metal seat backs, and hot-mop down the sticky, syrupy concrete floor of the theater auditorium, a result of hundreds of dropped and smashed gooey candy and spilled drinks!
I was promoted to head usher by my senior year and was assigned the giant elevated movie marquee lit up in front of the shopping center where we were located. The best selling movies ran for two weeks and seldom for three. Most films showed for a week. I changed the marquee on Thursday night. The prick assistant manager wouldn't let me start until after the last movie for the night started...typically 8:30 PM or so. That made it late when I finished. He always sketched it out for me on a diagram with the name of the movie in large red letters, the names of the star(s) in little red letters, and below that the starting times in small black numerals. We always had enough of each to spell it out, but it was a double-sided marquee. Mr. Prick would have to approve it before I could go home for the night. The problem was I had to gather all the letters from storage upstairs and load them in my car along with the ladder (again) and drive around to the front. After I arranged the marquee according to the plan, I'd have to climb down and drive a distance to see if I spelled anything wrong or my show times were correct. It was easy to make mistakes when you're working close-up. Some nights in the winter months, I really froze my butt off up there on the high platform of the movie marquee, kind of like Duane working a shift on the oil derricks in The Last Picture Show!
Here are some movie myths dispelled: I could never prove that the popcorn warmer was hooked up to the air condition system somehow, which pumped the smell into the auditorium right before intermission. I could never get it straight from the union projectionists up in the booth that they spliced random frames with pictures and suggestive messages of Pepsi or Ju-Ju Fruits in the main attraction whirling from the large metal canisters we guys had to lug upstairs because their union contract forbade any heavy lifting on their part.
I developed a friendship with the projectionists of our theater, with names like Al or Jack. Man, did they smoke like chimneys and cigars, too! They'd let me spend my break up there, maybe look at the dirty books and magazines in their library. They had their own restroom, couch, and comfortable chair. Their trade skill was threading the wide 35MM film through all the intricate rollers of the double projectors, allowing large loops leading into and out of the projector. While one was running, the other would be ready at the end of the movie reel and timed perfectly to automatically begin and not interrupt the movie. A bell that sounded like an elevator sounded at the end of run that couldn't be heard by the audience through the thick glass portals in the projection booth. They also lit the magnesium rods inside the housing that burned with such brightness in the arc between the rods, thus supplying the intense, powerful light to project the image on the film to the two-storied screen a hundred feet beyond. I liked rubbing elbows so-to-speak with these men who made the movies go...besides, they seemed kind of lonely up there all by themselves, slipping away only to get a refill to their drink (also in their contract) from the concession girls. They had to scoot right back for fear of film breaks and such that could go wrong in the mechanical world. They were big flirts, all of them.
Those were the days when the movie houses still had one big screen. Behind the screen where we kept the long fireman's ladder, you could see that the screen was really porous and transparent, with a million holes in it, so that you could see through it into the lighted auditorium. They flooded the silver surface and white apron with a cool blue light and softly piped in Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" over the sound system as a kind of music overture played as the people came in and filled the seats.
A few years afterwards, when I was called back to work in the theaters, this time as an assistant manager myself working part-time and going one semester college at home, they had divided the auditorium into two "twin" theaters as was the trend then. The idea of course being to bring in more ticket sales by showing multiple movies at one time. Now, we have Megaplex Movies with 47 theaters! I lamented the passing of the premiere movies projected upon those magnificent screens of old.
This was show biz...the time when I worked in the movies.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Cuttin' Down Trees
Last year on Christmas Eve, I slipped away from the family and drove down to the Rotary Club's lot that was all lighted up by naked white bulbs like a firecracker stand. I wanted to see for myself just how many Christmas trees they had left over this year. By now, the lot of trees would be well picked-over: the finest Balsam, Fraser, Douglas, and Noble Firs; the traditional Scotch, Virginia, and White Pines would be up and decorated in living rooms all over town. Actually, there were none standing and maybe a half-a-dozen trees lying on the ground about. I couldn't afford to buy them all as I would have wanted, so I picked the runt and scrawniest one I could find and carried it up to the booth. Despite being a fundraiser for them, the attendant offered to discount the price (probably their cost), seeing the condition of the tree, it being the evening of Christmas and near closing time, and perhaps sensing some kind of desperation on my part. He was right about that...I was damn desperate to save even one tree from the humiliation of being rejected and not considered worthy of bringing beauty and essence to some one's home this holiday season. I insisted on paying the full inflated price.
As I loaded it into the back of my SUV, I turned to look again at the fallen and thought to myself, "What a waste." I noticed that I had parked by a large white sign with bold red letters that advertised LIVE TREES. That is the real tragedy about the selling of trees at Christmas time--the leftovers. They immediately become worthless at 12:01 A.M., December 25th; even the prized Silver Firs imported all the way from Alaska.
These remaining trees are the rejects or a result of over-cutting and over-pricing. Some are tortuously artificially flocked gaudy colors of blue and pink. Actually, the so-called "live" trees are not really live at all. They died at the hand of the chain saws that very moment back in Michigan. Do you really think they lay dormant on the open trucks that brought them south to market, and that all that we have to do is saw a little slice off the end and put in some sugar water to bring them back to life? They are like so many cattle, raised to die at the hands of man and for man's consumption; their cellulose and sap the same as our flesh and blood. And like cattle, too, they are crammed and piled upon each other in crushing numbers to make it profitable for the cost of shipping.
Did these trees that remain die for nothing, then? You bet they did. Any tree that never gets to be a "Christmas" tree, made alive again by the adorning with lights, decorating with ornaments, and freshening the house with its piny scent is no better than a bunch of cut brush and limbs. The saddest thing is that they served to bring no comfort and joy as was intended by their cutting. Of course, the tree itself can't know this, but I know it and it's just something sad to me whenever I think about it. In fact, all our dead trees become useless after our holiday and trash to be sawed in two and piled on the curb for pick-up. We can only hope that the trees are collected and recycled as pulp, instead of winding up in the landfill--hardly a fitting ending to a lovely creation of God.
I went home and set the tree up on a make-shift stand in the garage. It seemed as if the tree was relieved to be in a natural stance once again and relaxed it boughs. We had plenty of unused ornaments left over and several strings of colored lights...it was beautiful! I gave it a place of outdoor honor on our front lawn and left it lighted all that Holy Night and kept it up the rest of the holiday to celebrate its sacrifice: "O' Christmas tree, O' Christmas tree."
Postscript: There's just too many of us people now on this planet and that means too many trees being chopped down. I finally broke with tradition and went for an artificial one this year. I'm convinced it was the right thing to do.
It's coming on Christmas
They're cuttin' down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
-Joni Mitchell
As I loaded it into the back of my SUV, I turned to look again at the fallen and thought to myself, "What a waste." I noticed that I had parked by a large white sign with bold red letters that advertised LIVE TREES. That is the real tragedy about the selling of trees at Christmas time--the leftovers. They immediately become worthless at 12:01 A.M., December 25th; even the prized Silver Firs imported all the way from Alaska.
These remaining trees are the rejects or a result of over-cutting and over-pricing. Some are tortuously artificially flocked gaudy colors of blue and pink. Actually, the so-called "live" trees are not really live at all. They died at the hand of the chain saws that very moment back in Michigan. Do you really think they lay dormant on the open trucks that brought them south to market, and that all that we have to do is saw a little slice off the end and put in some sugar water to bring them back to life? They are like so many cattle, raised to die at the hands of man and for man's consumption; their cellulose and sap the same as our flesh and blood. And like cattle, too, they are crammed and piled upon each other in crushing numbers to make it profitable for the cost of shipping.
Did these trees that remain die for nothing, then? You bet they did. Any tree that never gets to be a "Christmas" tree, made alive again by the adorning with lights, decorating with ornaments, and freshening the house with its piny scent is no better than a bunch of cut brush and limbs. The saddest thing is that they served to bring no comfort and joy as was intended by their cutting. Of course, the tree itself can't know this, but I know it and it's just something sad to me whenever I think about it. In fact, all our dead trees become useless after our holiday and trash to be sawed in two and piled on the curb for pick-up. We can only hope that the trees are collected and recycled as pulp, instead of winding up in the landfill--hardly a fitting ending to a lovely creation of God.
I went home and set the tree up on a make-shift stand in the garage. It seemed as if the tree was relieved to be in a natural stance once again and relaxed it boughs. We had plenty of unused ornaments left over and several strings of colored lights...it was beautiful! I gave it a place of outdoor honor on our front lawn and left it lighted all that Holy Night and kept it up the rest of the holiday to celebrate its sacrifice: "O' Christmas tree, O' Christmas tree."
Postscript: There's just too many of us people now on this planet and that means too many trees being chopped down. I finally broke with tradition and went for an artificial one this year. I'm convinced it was the right thing to do.
It's coming on Christmas
They're cuttin' down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
-Joni Mitchell
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Fair Park
Our state fair is a great state fair,
Don't miss it, don't even be late.
It's dollars to donuts that our state fair
Is the best state fair in our state.
- Rogers & Hammerstein
If you lived in Dallas, you knew about Fair Park, you went to Fair Park; but come the last weekend in September and into the first few weeks of October, the State Fair of Texas took over the place. What I mean is the attractions on the Midway and the museums were open year round, it was just that the annual State Fair became the ultimate two-week carnival and highlighted the Fair Park arena. Even the Cotton Bowl was large enough to contain the annual rivalry between the University of Texas Longhorns and the Oklahoma University Sooners on one Saturday during the Fair.
Growing up in a neighborhood nearby, I frequented the Fair grounds year round on weekend nights-- the rides on the Midway and watching local talent on the Pepsi-Cola Stage; for school field trips to hear the Dallas Symphony Orchestra concerts at the magnificent Music Hall and the Dallas Texans and Dallas Cowboys Sunday afternoon professional football games in the Cotton Bowl (children under 12 free). I recall the tall broadcast antenna towering above the scoreboard end of the stadium, with its lighted beacon at the top and the huge red letters of the radio station "WRR" hanging on the supporting struts.
My mother would take me to the Aquarium and to the Museum of Natural History, where I thought that all the animals behind their glass houses stood frozen and quiet because I walked into the room and alarmed them. My mother had to explain to me that they were like "stuffed" animals, eternally still and indeed very real and life-like to show us how they lived in the wild. Later, we'd enjoy a picnic lunch beside the lake. She always brought along a bag of my favorite Fritos Corn Chips. I'd sit there and munch them for lunch while at the same time, you could smell them being cooked as the aroma escaped from the tops of the Frito factory smokestacks in the distance you could see lakeside.
Fair Park consisted of a collection of buildings constructed and documented under the Works Projects Administration (WPA) of FDR's administration during the Great Depression. They were ready by the celebration of the 1936 Texas Centennial Exposition held at Fair Park. The designers preferred a neo-classical architecture for the stately limestone structures arranged around a large landscaped lagoon (the lake mentioned above). Prominent among these buildings were the Museum of Fine Arts, Museum of Natural History, Aquarium, Hall of State, and the Amphitheater and Band Shell.
I have to mention the Esplanade of State--you just have to see this grand outdoor hallway to believe it! Overall, it looks like a temple, to each side of its front stand 3-30 foot figures which represent the 6 sovereign powers that ruled our great state, complete with murals, a popular art-form of that day painted by WPA artists. Their colors have withstood almost 75 years of weather and have not faded a shade. Also, down its center runs a shallow sunken reflecting pool with terraced fountains...a small boy's splashing dream!
One of my lasting impressions of Fair Park has to be the Skyway Monorail, which I was fortunate to ride only once before it was dismantled in 1964 due to low ridership...the novelty and futurism had finally worn off from its debut in 1956. I remember it was christened with the name "Trailblazer," emblazoned in brass on both ends. There wasn't any 21st Century magnetism or unusual Sci-Fi about it; its wheels simply ran atop a rail supported by arching towers. It only ran a 1/4 mile or less from elevated stations located in front of the Cotton Bowl to the Music Hall and reversed backwards. Someone said it could hold 60 people at a time, and to me, it looked like a large silver caterpillar slung beneath a long winding aluminum rail.
I suppose, next to the Exposition itself, the 1962 Technicolor movie production of State Fair, shot on location and starring a young Pat Boone, Bobby Darin, and the lovely Ann-Margret. The light-hearted musical romance and romp forever immortalized Fair Park. The musical score was written and directed by the famous team of Oscar Hammerstein and Richard Rogers (of The Sound of Music fame many years later). The film attempted to catch the flavor of the State Fair and the Fair Park scenery. It proved to be a great propaganda piece for the Fair for years following!
The city gave students free tickets and the Dallas Independent School District would give the elementary schools off one day to attend the fair with their parents or without, as was our case. Mother gave us a lot of loot to spend, so we walked up there in the early morning and left in time to walk home before dark. No worry about what we ate: we grazed on Atlantic Coast salt water taffy, the infamous sweet-battered State Fair Corn Dogs, pink clouds of cotton candy spun right in front of our eager eyes, the new powdered-sugar and strawberry-topped Belgium waffles, pints of Borden's milk handed out by helpers of the real live Elsie the cow, and samples of home cooking and canning, and delicious Hickory Farms smoked cheese and summer sausage (straight from Ohio) at their booth in the Education Building.
We'd also be sure to take in the new cars exhibited over in the Automobile Building next door, keeping tabs on how with each year the Thunderbird seemed to be growing longer. We stayed awhile looking at all the cool finned-cars on display, doors opened and inviting a crawl-through and play test drive!
Out on the Midway again, we walked by the creepy freak shows that we were too afraid to pay to see, and instead, frequently patronized the bumper cars, the large merry-go-round (hiding side-saddle and in seats to get another ride), the novel motor boats being really rolled along by submerged wheels and an artificial current, the enormous Fair Park Ferris wheel, and The Comet, that wonderful wooden roller coaster.
It was a tradition to always end my State Fair with a stand-off between myself and the 50-ft behemoth, Big Tex. This dude wore some big blue jeans and boots! I had had enough of hearing his big mouth all day long saying, "Howdy Folks!" and waving his mechanical arm, so I called him out on the street about it. I pretended we both wore pistols in holsters like real cowboy men, and I intended to slap leather with him. He was just too big and fast for me...I crumpled to the ground. "Oh well, there's always next year," I thought and shrugged my shoulders as I turned to pass through the turnstiles on my way out of Fair Park.
Don't miss it, don't even be late.
It's dollars to donuts that our state fair
Is the best state fair in our state.
- Rogers & Hammerstein
If you lived in Dallas, you knew about Fair Park, you went to Fair Park; but come the last weekend in September and into the first few weeks of October, the State Fair of Texas took over the place. What I mean is the attractions on the Midway and the museums were open year round, it was just that the annual State Fair became the ultimate two-week carnival and highlighted the Fair Park arena. Even the Cotton Bowl was large enough to contain the annual rivalry between the University of Texas Longhorns and the Oklahoma University Sooners on one Saturday during the Fair.
Growing up in a neighborhood nearby, I frequented the Fair grounds year round on weekend nights-- the rides on the Midway and watching local talent on the Pepsi-Cola Stage; for school field trips to hear the Dallas Symphony Orchestra concerts at the magnificent Music Hall and the Dallas Texans and Dallas Cowboys Sunday afternoon professional football games in the Cotton Bowl (children under 12 free). I recall the tall broadcast antenna towering above the scoreboard end of the stadium, with its lighted beacon at the top and the huge red letters of the radio station "WRR" hanging on the supporting struts.
My mother would take me to the Aquarium and to the Museum of Natural History, where I thought that all the animals behind their glass houses stood frozen and quiet because I walked into the room and alarmed them. My mother had to explain to me that they were like "stuffed" animals, eternally still and indeed very real and life-like to show us how they lived in the wild. Later, we'd enjoy a picnic lunch beside the lake. She always brought along a bag of my favorite Fritos Corn Chips. I'd sit there and munch them for lunch while at the same time, you could smell them being cooked as the aroma escaped from the tops of the Frito factory smokestacks in the distance you could see lakeside.
Fair Park consisted of a collection of buildings constructed and documented under the Works Projects Administration (WPA) of FDR's administration during the Great Depression. They were ready by the celebration of the 1936 Texas Centennial Exposition held at Fair Park. The designers preferred a neo-classical architecture for the stately limestone structures arranged around a large landscaped lagoon (the lake mentioned above). Prominent among these buildings were the Museum of Fine Arts, Museum of Natural History, Aquarium, Hall of State, and the Amphitheater and Band Shell.
I have to mention the Esplanade of State--you just have to see this grand outdoor hallway to believe it! Overall, it looks like a temple, to each side of its front stand 3-30 foot figures which represent the 6 sovereign powers that ruled our great state, complete with murals, a popular art-form of that day painted by WPA artists. Their colors have withstood almost 75 years of weather and have not faded a shade. Also, down its center runs a shallow sunken reflecting pool with terraced fountains...a small boy's splashing dream!
One of my lasting impressions of Fair Park has to be the Skyway Monorail, which I was fortunate to ride only once before it was dismantled in 1964 due to low ridership...the novelty and futurism had finally worn off from its debut in 1956. I remember it was christened with the name "Trailblazer," emblazoned in brass on both ends. There wasn't any 21st Century magnetism or unusual Sci-Fi about it; its wheels simply ran atop a rail supported by arching towers. It only ran a 1/4 mile or less from elevated stations located in front of the Cotton Bowl to the Music Hall and reversed backwards. Someone said it could hold 60 people at a time, and to me, it looked like a large silver caterpillar slung beneath a long winding aluminum rail.
I suppose, next to the Exposition itself, the 1962 Technicolor movie production of State Fair, shot on location and starring a young Pat Boone, Bobby Darin, and the lovely Ann-Margret. The light-hearted musical romance and romp forever immortalized Fair Park. The musical score was written and directed by the famous team of Oscar Hammerstein and Richard Rogers (of The Sound of Music fame many years later). The film attempted to catch the flavor of the State Fair and the Fair Park scenery. It proved to be a great propaganda piece for the Fair for years following!
The city gave students free tickets and the Dallas Independent School District would give the elementary schools off one day to attend the fair with their parents or without, as was our case. Mother gave us a lot of loot to spend, so we walked up there in the early morning and left in time to walk home before dark. No worry about what we ate: we grazed on Atlantic Coast salt water taffy, the infamous sweet-battered State Fair Corn Dogs, pink clouds of cotton candy spun right in front of our eager eyes, the new powdered-sugar and strawberry-topped Belgium waffles, pints of Borden's milk handed out by helpers of the real live Elsie the cow, and samples of home cooking and canning, and delicious Hickory Farms smoked cheese and summer sausage (straight from Ohio) at their booth in the Education Building.
We'd also be sure to take in the new cars exhibited over in the Automobile Building next door, keeping tabs on how with each year the Thunderbird seemed to be growing longer. We stayed awhile looking at all the cool finned-cars on display, doors opened and inviting a crawl-through and play test drive!
Out on the Midway again, we walked by the creepy freak shows that we were too afraid to pay to see, and instead, frequently patronized the bumper cars, the large merry-go-round (hiding side-saddle and in seats to get another ride), the novel motor boats being really rolled along by submerged wheels and an artificial current, the enormous Fair Park Ferris wheel, and The Comet, that wonderful wooden roller coaster.
It was a tradition to always end my State Fair with a stand-off between myself and the 50-ft behemoth, Big Tex. This dude wore some big blue jeans and boots! I had had enough of hearing his big mouth all day long saying, "Howdy Folks!" and waving his mechanical arm, so I called him out on the street about it. I pretended we both wore pistols in holsters like real cowboy men, and I intended to slap leather with him. He was just too big and fast for me...I crumpled to the ground. "Oh well, there's always next year," I thought and shrugged my shoulders as I turned to pass through the turnstiles on my way out of Fair Park.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Rock Hound
Along about the 5th grade or so, I decided I wanted to be a "rock hound." A rock hound is one who searches high and low for rocks, minerals, and gems. Rocks are essentially made up of minerals composed of various chemical elements formed by either extreme pressure or heat, and age. Gems are the unique minerals, including the highly precious and prized minerals such as gold and silver metals, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and opals, to name a few.
My dad got me interested when he took me to a roadside rock and mineral shop outside of Weatherford, Texas one weekend. He bought me some semi-precious polished gems: brilliant tiger eyes, amber & smoky quartz, jasper pieces of petrified wood, purple fluorite, sandstone, granite, and banded agate; I have every one of them to this day. That's all it took to give me a "fever" to go searching for special rocks wherever I might go.
My first manual was Rocks and Minerals, a pocket-sized Golden Nature Guide booklet published in 1957, easy to read and understand, with lots of color illustrations to help you identify rocks. My dad also loaned me one of his spare geologist's hammers whenever I was out with him and I was in business! The next Christmas, Santa brought me a Lionel-Porter Mineralogy Lab, complete with a manual and 30 mineral specimens collected from all across this nation. These are the treasures of my rock collection!
With my guide in hand, I went about the neighborhood and on camping trips, identifying and adding rocks to my collection. Some of the most common I collected were: milky quartz, quartzite, chert, calcite (chalk), sandstone, limestone, shale, red granite, iron ore, lava, sulphur, halite (rock salt), and flint. As a sidebar interest to collecting rocks came the discovery of fossils and arrowheads, too. On my vacation trips to Colorado, I was able to find the unique rose quartz, petrified wood, and lots of mica and iron pyrite or fool's gold. The streams and quartz rocks are loaded with the exciting glittering, golden stuff!
Rocks are meant to be put on display. This weekend I spent a few hours again with my rock collection, as I often do, holding and examining the individual rocks, reliving the moment of each find and discovery in my mind. They are older than we will ever be and perhaps, others have tried to tell their story in theory, but only theirs is a tale told in beautiful silence.
My dad got me interested when he took me to a roadside rock and mineral shop outside of Weatherford, Texas one weekend. He bought me some semi-precious polished gems: brilliant tiger eyes, amber & smoky quartz, jasper pieces of petrified wood, purple fluorite, sandstone, granite, and banded agate; I have every one of them to this day. That's all it took to give me a "fever" to go searching for special rocks wherever I might go.
My first manual was Rocks and Minerals, a pocket-sized Golden Nature Guide booklet published in 1957, easy to read and understand, with lots of color illustrations to help you identify rocks. My dad also loaned me one of his spare geologist's hammers whenever I was out with him and I was in business! The next Christmas, Santa brought me a Lionel-Porter Mineralogy Lab, complete with a manual and 30 mineral specimens collected from all across this nation. These are the treasures of my rock collection!
With my guide in hand, I went about the neighborhood and on camping trips, identifying and adding rocks to my collection. Some of the most common I collected were: milky quartz, quartzite, chert, calcite (chalk), sandstone, limestone, shale, red granite, iron ore, lava, sulphur, halite (rock salt), and flint. As a sidebar interest to collecting rocks came the discovery of fossils and arrowheads, too. On my vacation trips to Colorado, I was able to find the unique rose quartz, petrified wood, and lots of mica and iron pyrite or fool's gold. The streams and quartz rocks are loaded with the exciting glittering, golden stuff!
Rocks are meant to be put on display. This weekend I spent a few hours again with my rock collection, as I often do, holding and examining the individual rocks, reliving the moment of each find and discovery in my mind. They are older than we will ever be and perhaps, others have tried to tell their story in theory, but only theirs is a tale told in beautiful silence.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Past Times Pastimes
I tried to stay busy as a boy, always finding something to do to past the time. If I wasn't playing over in big Buckner Park across the street from my house, I was roaming around the general area off the central city where I lived. I had to be "active," especially in the summertime when I had all day until nightfall to occupy my waking hours with adventures and interesting things.
My uncle, W.J. Thedford, who worked for Carnation Dairies in Dallas then, would swing by every week on his route to see us relatives. Of course, he gave each of us who happened to be there a couple of solidly frozen ice cream sandwiches out of his delivery truck Also as a treat, we'd love it when he opened the small thick doors and clouds of cold carbon dioxide gas from the blocks of dry ice inside would billow out upon us!
One summer my Aunt Maudie (Mother's sister) lived down the block from us at one end of the park in a modern apartment complex. She had carpet and air conditioning...quite a luxury in the mid-1960s! I'd play on the carpeted stairs in her hallway with my toy cowboys and Indians. Her apartment was a refuge from the hot summer outside. We didn't have carpet in our house, only cold hardwood floors, and we had to be content with our noisy humongous evaporator cooler resting on the front porch and blowing in through the living room.
It wasn't difficult to entertain oneself with materials you had on hand like large cardboard boxes dragged from business alleys nearby to build a fortress or even the permanently red and purple-stained Popsicle sticks we saved from the many times we waylaid the ice-cream vendor who dared venture down our Worth Street. One time after it rained a lot and the gutters ran full, we used a little kid's creativity and fashioned tiny racing boats from the Popsicle sticks we had on hand. We'd first sharpen one end by scraping a point on the concrete curb. Then, we took crayons and colored the tips and the other end the same color and with a black crayon, wrote a number in the middle like a race car. There was a long run on our block, so we started our boats together at a spot way back and watched them go! They'd collided, careened, and cartwheeled in the swift current. We had to race ahead ourselves somewhat to carefully snatch them from
certain oblivion before they descended down the storm drain into the Trinity River!
My mother would have killed me if at the time if she had ever found out, but one idle night, some of us kids on the block went searching for "smokes." We didn't bother to sneak any from our parents' packs of cigarettes. Instead, we roamed around the surrounding streets looking in the gutters and grass for discarded half-smoked cigs. Some of us were fortunate to find whole cigarettes and a few crumpled packs thrown out of car windows in disgust or by accident. One member of our party had a booklet of matches, so we lit up and puffed (not inhaled) as we walked. No one cared nor gave a thought to germs...it was a bold move on our part, much the same as our daring raid we had planned and executed on the fried pie factory.
Some weekend nights we would scoot up to Fair Park near our neighborhood and "play" on the Midway. We were careful to stay with rides and snacks and stay away from the crooked booths who peddled their dashed promises of prizes in turn for stealing our nickels for 3-tosses or throws. My sister had a good friend whose dad ran The House of Mirrors. We went through that maze of mirrors a hundred times free admission, finally figuring our way out by looking at the floor instead of bumping into the reflecting walls!
Nothing could quite match our quest for playing hide-n-seek on a grand scale involving almost every kid we knew who lived there. We played it with our large front steps as home base, extending outward to the adjoining yards--I figured it was near an acre in total yardage from my present calculations. There were many excellent hiding places that served me well over numerous games. Like a thief that's reluctant to share the spoils, I never revealed them to anybody. All I know and what I still feel is that in hide-n-seek, as in the game of life (and baseball), there is great satisfaction in waiting and watching for just the right opportunity for an open base to tag home free, or in having hidden so well that no one could possibly find you, awaiting the sweet sounding words, "Ollie Ollie Oxen Free!"
My uncle, W.J. Thedford, who worked for Carnation Dairies in Dallas then, would swing by every week on his route to see us relatives. Of course, he gave each of us who happened to be there a couple of solidly frozen ice cream sandwiches out of his delivery truck Also as a treat, we'd love it when he opened the small thick doors and clouds of cold carbon dioxide gas from the blocks of dry ice inside would billow out upon us!
One summer my Aunt Maudie (Mother's sister) lived down the block from us at one end of the park in a modern apartment complex. She had carpet and air conditioning...quite a luxury in the mid-1960s! I'd play on the carpeted stairs in her hallway with my toy cowboys and Indians. Her apartment was a refuge from the hot summer outside. We didn't have carpet in our house, only cold hardwood floors, and we had to be content with our noisy humongous evaporator cooler resting on the front porch and blowing in through the living room.
It wasn't difficult to entertain oneself with materials you had on hand like large cardboard boxes dragged from business alleys nearby to build a fortress or even the permanently red and purple-stained Popsicle sticks we saved from the many times we waylaid the ice-cream vendor who dared venture down our Worth Street. One time after it rained a lot and the gutters ran full, we used a little kid's creativity and fashioned tiny racing boats from the Popsicle sticks we had on hand. We'd first sharpen one end by scraping a point on the concrete curb. Then, we took crayons and colored the tips and the other end the same color and with a black crayon, wrote a number in the middle like a race car. There was a long run on our block, so we started our boats together at a spot way back and watched them go! They'd collided, careened, and cartwheeled in the swift current. We had to race ahead ourselves somewhat to carefully snatch them from
certain oblivion before they descended down the storm drain into the Trinity River!
My mother would have killed me if at the time if she had ever found out, but one idle night, some of us kids on the block went searching for "smokes." We didn't bother to sneak any from our parents' packs of cigarettes. Instead, we roamed around the surrounding streets looking in the gutters and grass for discarded half-smoked cigs. Some of us were fortunate to find whole cigarettes and a few crumpled packs thrown out of car windows in disgust or by accident. One member of our party had a booklet of matches, so we lit up and puffed (not inhaled) as we walked. No one cared nor gave a thought to germs...it was a bold move on our part, much the same as our daring raid we had planned and executed on the fried pie factory.
Some weekend nights we would scoot up to Fair Park near our neighborhood and "play" on the Midway. We were careful to stay with rides and snacks and stay away from the crooked booths who peddled their dashed promises of prizes in turn for stealing our nickels for 3-tosses or throws. My sister had a good friend whose dad ran The House of Mirrors. We went through that maze of mirrors a hundred times free admission, finally figuring our way out by looking at the floor instead of bumping into the reflecting walls!
Nothing could quite match our quest for playing hide-n-seek on a grand scale involving almost every kid we knew who lived there. We played it with our large front steps as home base, extending outward to the adjoining yards--I figured it was near an acre in total yardage from my present calculations. There were many excellent hiding places that served me well over numerous games. Like a thief that's reluctant to share the spoils, I never revealed them to anybody. All I know and what I still feel is that in hide-n-seek, as in the game of life (and baseball), there is great satisfaction in waiting and watching for just the right opportunity for an open base to tag home free, or in having hidden so well that no one could possibly find you, awaiting the sweet sounding words, "Ollie Ollie Oxen Free!"
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Reading Ruess
What can one say about the young man Everett Ruess that hasn't already been by other writers such as W. L. Rusho and Edward Abbey who sought to know him well, even though, after the fact like all of us do many decades following his disappearance. He's been a called an adventurer, a lover of the wilderness in the vein of Emerson, Thoreau, and most certainly a "modern John Muir." He was a free spirited individual, daring in his attempts, and of a determined-mind; a "drop-out," some one who didn't quite fit in with the city-society and values of the 1930s. Being a frustrated painter, photographer, and blockprint artist, drove him to the peacefulness and the wild beauty of desolation.
I happened on Everett Ruess in my 55th year and purely by chance in Sundown Legends: A Journey into the American Southwest by the freelance writer (and avid fly fisherman) Michael Checchio. The brief excerpt aroused my curiosity and I soon located a pristine copy of the combined works of Everett Ruess: A Vagabond for Beauty and Wilderness Journals, edited by W. L. Rusho. I could not put it down. His writing engaged me from the beginning... with observations and insights so true and enchanting as I have never read before. Later, I was able to secure a special edition of his writings, prints, poems, photographs, and other writings concerning him which was published following his mysterious disappearance into the wilds of Davis Canyon/Colorado River (Southern Utah) below Escalante and his (presumed) death in November-December 1934. They found his corralled burros grazing contentedly near the canyon entrance. For two solid years, his parents and authorities followed up every lead and searched the vast area for him, but in vain. They found little sign of him like old campfires, some tracks, and inscriptions he had apparently made in rock, but no Ruess nor his gear...never.
He was never heard from again, although persons continued to claim to have sighted him for years afterwards all through the American Southwest and even as far as Mexico.
I'll not quote a lot of Ruess here since I've made reference to him elsewhere in my Big Bend pieces; permit me just this one excerpt which has had a profound affect on me from the first
time I read it until now.
It seems that only in moments of desperation is the soul most truly revealed. perhaps that's the reason why I am so often so unrestrained, for always I sense the brink of things. And as you say, it is impossible to grasp enough of life. There is always something that eludes one.
The last known sighting of the now thought-to-be extinct Ivory-Billed Woodpecker was the year 1935, confirmed by a rare photograph of the elusive bird. This came one year after Ruess's last sighting by some herders. The Ivory-Billed became endangered by hunters and society the same. This grand species of woodpecker could not long endure this, to survive co-habitation; in the end, it proved too much to expect and not to be. They both thought to be gone and their kind extinct once and for all. I'd like to think that the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker is still out there somewhere in the wildness of woods that are left, as is Everett, now an old man of 94 years of age, a little stooped over and weary, ivory-bearded, and wandering in the yet unexplored canyons of our West. I wish to God it's true.
I happened on Everett Ruess in my 55th year and purely by chance in Sundown Legends: A Journey into the American Southwest by the freelance writer (and avid fly fisherman) Michael Checchio. The brief excerpt aroused my curiosity and I soon located a pristine copy of the combined works of Everett Ruess: A Vagabond for Beauty and Wilderness Journals, edited by W. L. Rusho. I could not put it down. His writing engaged me from the beginning... with observations and insights so true and enchanting as I have never read before. Later, I was able to secure a special edition of his writings, prints, poems, photographs, and other writings concerning him which was published following his mysterious disappearance into the wilds of Davis Canyon/Colorado River (Southern Utah) below Escalante and his (presumed) death in November-December 1934. They found his corralled burros grazing contentedly near the canyon entrance. For two solid years, his parents and authorities followed up every lead and searched the vast area for him, but in vain. They found little sign of him like old campfires, some tracks, and inscriptions he had apparently made in rock, but no Ruess nor his gear...never.
He was never heard from again, although persons continued to claim to have sighted him for years afterwards all through the American Southwest and even as far as Mexico.
I'll not quote a lot of Ruess here since I've made reference to him elsewhere in my Big Bend pieces; permit me just this one excerpt which has had a profound affect on me from the first
time I read it until now.
It seems that only in moments of desperation is the soul most truly revealed. perhaps that's the reason why I am so often so unrestrained, for always I sense the brink of things. And as you say, it is impossible to grasp enough of life. There is always something that eludes one.
The last known sighting of the now thought-to-be extinct Ivory-Billed Woodpecker was the year 1935, confirmed by a rare photograph of the elusive bird. This came one year after Ruess's last sighting by some herders. The Ivory-Billed became endangered by hunters and society the same. This grand species of woodpecker could not long endure this, to survive co-habitation; in the end, it proved too much to expect and not to be. They both thought to be gone and their kind extinct once and for all. I'd like to think that the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker is still out there somewhere in the wildness of woods that are left, as is Everett, now an old man of 94 years of age, a little stooped over and weary, ivory-bearded, and wandering in the yet unexplored canyons of our West. I wish to God it's true.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Some Superstitious, A Bit Eccentric, and Radically Routine
At lunch the other day, the letters in my Campbell's Alphabet Soup spelled out, "HEY." I thought that strange and unusual...maybe someone or something from the Other World was trying to communicate with me, I don't know? It's much the same as my eccentric side and the fact that I've always been in kind of a routine rut. See if you'd consider these following descriptors to be sure indicators that I could classified as such.
I found that for the important meeting today at the annual Assessment Conference, I wore the same outfit as I wore last year and the year before that: tan slacks, light-blue buttoned down collar Oxford shirt, peacock-colored tie, navy blue blazer with gold buttons, and tan lace-up dress shoes. I think I wore the same stuff when I interviewed for this job 9 years ago?
No matter what may be and in my mind, I insist there always has to be 2 rolls of toilet paper at all times on top of the commode; it just wouldn't be right, otherwise. Also, in the morning, I must have to take down last night's wash cloth hanging on the rack above the bath tub, whether or not it is dry, and put it in the dirty clothes basket for whites only (I'm a segregationist.)
I seem to take the same ol' route to go somewhere I normally go, like the river park where I walk, when it is I could get there by a variety of ways--why is that, I ask? I even park in the same damn parking space the days it's my week to drive. Mornings, I shamp-shave-brush in that order and none other will do.
The saying, "Everything in its place and a place for everything" sure does apply to me! When I leave and when I come home, the things in my pockets and on my person all have a home slot in my bedside table organizer: watch, wedding band, loose change, security badge, billfold*, pocket knife, car keys, cell phone, hankie and comb. *$1 bills turned the same way. (Blame this on my retail cash register management training!)
Wait! It gets worse at work... I have bins for pens, paper clips, and Post-It notes. Calculator, tape dispenser, and stapler are slotted and near-at-hand. I've organized my cubicle work station so that files are labeled, Rolodex is current, world globe, atlas, dictionary, thesaurus all at ready, desk-top monthly organizer updated, and clock on Atomic time. I can not leave each day from work before changing the day and date on my desk calendar to tomorrow's settings.
I'm definitely taken back about anything that occurs that I find ironic. I have to pause to reflect and say to myself, "Coincidence or fate? I don't think so!" Like this very morning on our way in to work, my car-pool bud pulled up behind one of those new Volkswagen Beetles stopped at the same light. It was yellow and sporting a yellow state employee parking sticker in the lower left-hand corner of the rear window. Well, right alongside of it was another new Beetle: same year, same model, the color yellow exterior and same sticker. Now, that's strange and weird, even if this is Austin, Texas! Math people out there: What are the chances of that ever happening at any moment in time in this cosmic universe of ours?! It has to be a sign and have some significance, some effect on my life if only to stimulate me to write this interesting and introspective piece to post today on my blog.
I found that for the important meeting today at the annual Assessment Conference, I wore the same outfit as I wore last year and the year before that: tan slacks, light-blue buttoned down collar Oxford shirt, peacock-colored tie, navy blue blazer with gold buttons, and tan lace-up dress shoes. I think I wore the same stuff when I interviewed for this job 9 years ago?
No matter what may be and in my mind, I insist there always has to be 2 rolls of toilet paper at all times on top of the commode; it just wouldn't be right, otherwise. Also, in the morning, I must have to take down last night's wash cloth hanging on the rack above the bath tub, whether or not it is dry, and put it in the dirty clothes basket for whites only (I'm a segregationist.)
I seem to take the same ol' route to go somewhere I normally go, like the river park where I walk, when it is I could get there by a variety of ways--why is that, I ask? I even park in the same damn parking space the days it's my week to drive. Mornings, I shamp-shave-brush in that order and none other will do.
The saying, "Everything in its place and a place for everything" sure does apply to me! When I leave and when I come home, the things in my pockets and on my person all have a home slot in my bedside table organizer: watch, wedding band, loose change, security badge, billfold*, pocket knife, car keys, cell phone, hankie and comb. *$1 bills turned the same way. (Blame this on my retail cash register management training!)
Wait! It gets worse at work... I have bins for pens, paper clips, and Post-It notes. Calculator, tape dispenser, and stapler are slotted and near-at-hand. I've organized my cubicle work station so that files are labeled, Rolodex is current, world globe, atlas, dictionary, thesaurus all at ready, desk-top monthly organizer updated, and clock on Atomic time. I can not leave each day from work before changing the day and date on my desk calendar to tomorrow's settings.
I'm definitely taken back about anything that occurs that I find ironic. I have to pause to reflect and say to myself, "Coincidence or fate? I don't think so!" Like this very morning on our way in to work, my car-pool bud pulled up behind one of those new Volkswagen Beetles stopped at the same light. It was yellow and sporting a yellow state employee parking sticker in the lower left-hand corner of the rear window. Well, right alongside of it was another new Beetle: same year, same model, the color yellow exterior and same sticker. Now, that's strange and weird, even if this is Austin, Texas! Math people out there: What are the chances of that ever happening at any moment in time in this cosmic universe of ours?! It has to be a sign and have some significance, some effect on my life if only to stimulate me to write this interesting and introspective piece to post today on my blog.
Monday, December 8, 2008
A Malt at The Hungry Moose
Better have your bobbie socks and school letter sweaters on because walking into the local eatery The Hungry Moose located in the sleepy little town of Bertram on State Highway 29 between Liberty Hill and Burnet is like stepping back in time. The place is a town's secret and largely obscure to any traveler zipping by who wouldn't think to stop or come here except for the annual Oatmeal Festival (named for a community about 5 miles to the southwest of there) held here for fun on Labor Day Weekend as a spoof to spite the numerous other town festivals and chili cook-offs.
The front of the dinner as you enter is a gift store, but the back is where the "goods" are. It's advertised by a single sign east and west as an ice cream shoppe and so it is...50s style! There is no sit-down soda fountain counter to serve you, just tables mostly, even a modernized section with internet connection, but the atmosphere is definitely one of those of by-gone days' diners where teens hung out after school and some life-long romances started.
It and the accompanying hardware store next door are family run. The owner, whose name escapes me, was a Navy Vet who served in World War II aboard the battleship U.S.S. Colorado, one of the fortunate ships not present on Battleship Row at Pearl Harbor that fateful morning of 7 December 1941; he with his ship being stateside at the time undergoing an overhaul on the west coast. He's a Bertram native, graduate, and member in good standing with the ship's surviving crew scattered nationwide. He posts proudly pictures, a painting of the ship in wartime measure camouflage, and other memorabilia as a sort of memorial on displayed in his store.
The Hungry Moose is a museum with a large scoreboard salvaged from the old high school football stadium covering the whole back wall of the diner. The dials of the game clock are still, now, but the final home victory score numbers are posted ever proudly. Local alumni have donated year books, sweaters, uniforms, and pictures (you know the ones that the kids look like grown-ups) to make it full of Bertram High School memories! They had high school here until up int the 1980s before the junior/senior high was consolidated into the larger Burnet ISD, some 11 miles further west. The elementary school remains like it has ever since school and the town were first founded here in 1882.
I found out some of the history of the town that had once been a bustling town built because of the narrow gauge railroad that shipped granite to the construction of the State Capitol Building. When the railroad was later converted to standard gauge, it was one of the commercial shipping points for cotton headed to markets via Austin. The town, as did many of the rural Grangers, did not survive the Stock Market Crash of 1929 and the Great Depression.
I encountered The Hungry Moose quite by accident one day on my way back from browsing in Burnet antique and book stores. It was way after lunchtime and being hungry, I was sure they had sandwiches, so I pulled over. I was amazed at the decor and being immediately immersed in the mood of things, ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a large vanilla malt. She brought me first the most beautiful concoction of hand-dipped ice cream, whole milk, and Carnation Malted Milk Powder you can imagine...all in an original tall malt glasses with whipped cream, cherries on top, and two straws (just in case Peggy Sue was with me)! The waitress even brought out the metal mixer can with the rest of the malt inside and left it on the table. It was an wonderful experience to go back in time for a while and imagine eating a meal made popular 50 years ago. I've been back since then, the last time about a year or so ago. I've been meaning to get out that way again to The Hungry Moose, it's about time for another malt...my diet be damned!
The front of the dinner as you enter is a gift store, but the back is where the "goods" are. It's advertised by a single sign east and west as an ice cream shoppe and so it is...50s style! There is no sit-down soda fountain counter to serve you, just tables mostly, even a modernized section with internet connection, but the atmosphere is definitely one of those of by-gone days' diners where teens hung out after school and some life-long romances started.
It and the accompanying hardware store next door are family run. The owner, whose name escapes me, was a Navy Vet who served in World War II aboard the battleship U.S.S. Colorado, one of the fortunate ships not present on Battleship Row at Pearl Harbor that fateful morning of 7 December 1941; he with his ship being stateside at the time undergoing an overhaul on the west coast. He's a Bertram native, graduate, and member in good standing with the ship's surviving crew scattered nationwide. He posts proudly pictures, a painting of the ship in wartime measure camouflage, and other memorabilia as a sort of memorial on displayed in his store.
The Hungry Moose is a museum with a large scoreboard salvaged from the old high school football stadium covering the whole back wall of the diner. The dials of the game clock are still, now, but the final home victory score numbers are posted ever proudly. Local alumni have donated year books, sweaters, uniforms, and pictures (you know the ones that the kids look like grown-ups) to make it full of Bertram High School memories! They had high school here until up int the 1980s before the junior/senior high was consolidated into the larger Burnet ISD, some 11 miles further west. The elementary school remains like it has ever since school and the town were first founded here in 1882.
I found out some of the history of the town that had once been a bustling town built because of the narrow gauge railroad that shipped granite to the construction of the State Capitol Building. When the railroad was later converted to standard gauge, it was one of the commercial shipping points for cotton headed to markets via Austin. The town, as did many of the rural Grangers, did not survive the Stock Market Crash of 1929 and the Great Depression.
I encountered The Hungry Moose quite by accident one day on my way back from browsing in Burnet antique and book stores. It was way after lunchtime and being hungry, I was sure they had sandwiches, so I pulled over. I was amazed at the decor and being immediately immersed in the mood of things, ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a large vanilla malt. She brought me first the most beautiful concoction of hand-dipped ice cream, whole milk, and Carnation Malted Milk Powder you can imagine...all in an original tall malt glasses with whipped cream, cherries on top, and two straws (just in case Peggy Sue was with me)! The waitress even brought out the metal mixer can with the rest of the malt inside and left it on the table. It was an wonderful experience to go back in time for a while and imagine eating a meal made popular 50 years ago. I've been back since then, the last time about a year or so ago. I've been meaning to get out that way again to The Hungry Moose, it's about time for another malt...my diet be damned!
Friday, December 5, 2008
For the Birds
"As kingfishers catch fire...." - Gerard Manley Hopkins
I watched through the binoculars the solitary Belted Kingfisher on the distant shore perched upon a bolder above the water. His (her?) long thick black bill gave its identity away, plus its long shaggy crest like moussed feathers combed back. I had seen him come on the scene earlier, hovering and spear fishing in the shallows up stream. He himself has a distinct a bold and raspy rattle sound like a heavy fishing reel. Apparently, the kingfisher did not mind his competition of two vacationing sea gulls staying close by who probably figured this "local-yocal" knew just where the fish were biting! Presently, he dove straight in and back up on his stone throne again. He shook his head and ruffled his feathers as if he had caught a lot of water instead of a shad or some small fry. I hope he was rewarded with his supper for all his patience and trouble.
I was walking up the street on the outskirts of downtown near the capitol grounds when I was suddenly taken back by the whistling, buzzy trilling srees of a traveling swarm of Cedar Waxwings as they alighted in a rather small tree now bare of leaves. The great number of them about the branches almost formed the original shape of the tree in spring foliage, except now it was a mass of little busy brown birds with their black masks. It's been observed of them in peculiar that when at the end of a twig holding a supply of berries that only one waxwing at a time can reach, members of the team will line up along the branch and pass berries beak-to-beak down the line so that each bird gets its fill! They are a family of passerines flying through in large flocks from their breeding grounds in Canada on their way to Old Mexico and Central America, following the ripening of fruit and the abundance of berries, not necessarily seeking the sun. I'm glad I chanced to encounter all hundred of them (I bet) that day as they passed by.
The American Robins are my favorite and I mark the seasons by their predicted appearances twice a year, coming and going, the tug of migration programmed in their chromosomes. To my shame and confession here, I regret that I killed a robin carelessly and senselessly when a young boy wielding a new .22 rifle. I cried when I held the stricken bird in my hand still warm and the red breast feathers masking the blood from its fatal wound. I've seen the grassy floors of wooded parks literally filled with these brick red-breasted birds running-stopping erratically about, leaving no leaf unturned in their pursuit of bugs and grubs. They bark to each other upon your approach and fly to low branches only at last resort. I've know of some resident robins who said "Fooey!" to flying back up North and stayed the year round. I hear their serene song in the spring mornings as I'm getting in my car to go to work. They are truly the early bird that gets the worm.
My sighting of two Ladder-Backed Woodpeckers in Austin's Garrison Park one May when I was eating my sack lunch at a picnic table was a delight. I had finished my sandwich, minding my own business, and ready to read in my book, when this littlest of the woodpecker family of birds in tow with his friend/mate taunted me with their "tat-tat-tat-tat" on the trunks of trees right in front of me. I could see their tell-tale red crown and black-and-white jail bird feathered back. I thought I saw a nesting pair in a hollow of a dead limb at the same park in another spring year. I wished I had had my binoculars that day...I was so excited that when I got back to work, I couldn't wait to tell my bird-loving, terrific scientific friend M.W. about it! And my latest interaction with this wondrous woodpecker was last spring in my own backyard. A young ladder-back (unaware of me a few feet away sitting still as a statue as I rested after working hard in the yard) was attracted to the refreshing sprinkler I had turned on. He was playing just at the extreme edge where he enjoyed a spit-bath and not a shower. Thinking that no one was watching, he was really feeling his insects, hung upside down one time and looped the low-hanging branch with the help of his drill beak...amazing avian acrobatics!
I have yet to see a Painted Bunting. The bird map in most field books shows that it ranges all over Texas. So far, the bird's been elusive and hidden from my eyes in the cedar breaks that make up most of the land to the west of the interstate highway here. I thought I might have caught a glimpse once of one fleeing away from me, but its flight was so fast, I could not claim to confirm it was indeed a painted bunting. This is the most beautiful and striking of birds besides the crimson Northern Cardinal. Pictures of the male look as if he has been painting and his body is the colored palette itself: deep blue head, lime-green and yellow back, and scarlet underparts. I only hope to see one before they too are pushed out of existence as their nesting areas are diminishing with newer and ever newer developments.
I watched through the binoculars the solitary Belted Kingfisher on the distant shore perched upon a bolder above the water. His (her?) long thick black bill gave its identity away, plus its long shaggy crest like moussed feathers combed back. I had seen him come on the scene earlier, hovering and spear fishing in the shallows up stream. He himself has a distinct a bold and raspy rattle sound like a heavy fishing reel. Apparently, the kingfisher did not mind his competition of two vacationing sea gulls staying close by who probably figured this "local-yocal" knew just where the fish were biting! Presently, he dove straight in and back up on his stone throne again. He shook his head and ruffled his feathers as if he had caught a lot of water instead of a shad or some small fry. I hope he was rewarded with his supper for all his patience and trouble.
I was walking up the street on the outskirts of downtown near the capitol grounds when I was suddenly taken back by the whistling, buzzy trilling srees of a traveling swarm of Cedar Waxwings as they alighted in a rather small tree now bare of leaves. The great number of them about the branches almost formed the original shape of the tree in spring foliage, except now it was a mass of little busy brown birds with their black masks. It's been observed of them in peculiar that when at the end of a twig holding a supply of berries that only one waxwing at a time can reach, members of the team will line up along the branch and pass berries beak-to-beak down the line so that each bird gets its fill! They are a family of passerines flying through in large flocks from their breeding grounds in Canada on their way to Old Mexico and Central America, following the ripening of fruit and the abundance of berries, not necessarily seeking the sun. I'm glad I chanced to encounter all hundred of them (I bet) that day as they passed by.
The American Robins are my favorite and I mark the seasons by their predicted appearances twice a year, coming and going, the tug of migration programmed in their chromosomes. To my shame and confession here, I regret that I killed a robin carelessly and senselessly when a young boy wielding a new .22 rifle. I cried when I held the stricken bird in my hand still warm and the red breast feathers masking the blood from its fatal wound. I've seen the grassy floors of wooded parks literally filled with these brick red-breasted birds running-stopping erratically about, leaving no leaf unturned in their pursuit of bugs and grubs. They bark to each other upon your approach and fly to low branches only at last resort. I've know of some resident robins who said "Fooey!" to flying back up North and stayed the year round. I hear their serene song in the spring mornings as I'm getting in my car to go to work. They are truly the early bird that gets the worm.
My sighting of two Ladder-Backed Woodpeckers in Austin's Garrison Park one May when I was eating my sack lunch at a picnic table was a delight. I had finished my sandwich, minding my own business, and ready to read in my book, when this littlest of the woodpecker family of birds in tow with his friend/mate taunted me with their "tat-tat-tat-tat" on the trunks of trees right in front of me. I could see their tell-tale red crown and black-and-white jail bird feathered back. I thought I saw a nesting pair in a hollow of a dead limb at the same park in another spring year. I wished I had had my binoculars that day...I was so excited that when I got back to work, I couldn't wait to tell my bird-loving, terrific scientific friend M.W. about it! And my latest interaction with this wondrous woodpecker was last spring in my own backyard. A young ladder-back (unaware of me a few feet away sitting still as a statue as I rested after working hard in the yard) was attracted to the refreshing sprinkler I had turned on. He was playing just at the extreme edge where he enjoyed a spit-bath and not a shower. Thinking that no one was watching, he was really feeling his insects, hung upside down one time and looped the low-hanging branch with the help of his drill beak...amazing avian acrobatics!
I have yet to see a Painted Bunting. The bird map in most field books shows that it ranges all over Texas. So far, the bird's been elusive and hidden from my eyes in the cedar breaks that make up most of the land to the west of the interstate highway here. I thought I might have caught a glimpse once of one fleeing away from me, but its flight was so fast, I could not claim to confirm it was indeed a painted bunting. This is the most beautiful and striking of birds besides the crimson Northern Cardinal. Pictures of the male look as if he has been painting and his body is the colored palette itself: deep blue head, lime-green and yellow back, and scarlet underparts. I only hope to see one before they too are pushed out of existence as their nesting areas are diminishing with newer and ever newer developments.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
[empty]
the usefulness and purpose of anything
is the available space within
the empty pail
any vacant shelf
an unused cup
a paper bag
a cleared calendar
an effort at emptying oneself
in order to be filled
ever striving to become
full of emptiness
is the available space within
the empty pail
any vacant shelf
an unused cup
a paper bag
a cleared calendar
an effort at emptying oneself
in order to be filled
ever striving to become
full of emptiness
Monday, December 1, 2008
Weekend Woods
I went to the woods this weekend. It was one of those cool grey days with skies overcast and threatening to rain but not dreary at all. Actually, I was feeling quite the opposite as I went for a walk not long after arriving. It wasn't long before I stirred up a few deer lying in a clearing to the left of the path. We were both surprised by the encounter when and where none were expected.
The stately pines stood jacketed in evergreen while woods filled with a cornucopia of colored leaves soon swallowed me. The stingy sap had dyed the remaining leaflets on the hardwood trees and carpeted the forest at my feet deep reds, orangey oranges, and golden-yellows. It had rained the night before, and with my boots heavy in the wet grass/leaves, I made my way down the winding trail to the spring branch that flows down through the thick undergrowth of bottom land at the back of the property.
The small stream gurgled and ran dark, stained by the tea of rotted leaves and the iron-ore clay it cuts through. I paused a minute on the wooden bridge that spans its high banks to stare at the water; the surface disturbed by an occasional drip of water or from the drop of a leaf from trees above. I sat down on a log for awhile, body and mind released, watching and waiting as the woods grew dark and cloudy, listening to unseen squirrels barking and birds chattering; their sounds carrying distinctly in the damp air. In the distance, I thought I may had heard a hoot owl protesting the weather?
On my way back, I picked up some beautiful leaves with their new colored coats to press and share with those I love. I just made it to the cabin before the rumble of thunder and deluge, which slacked off after an hour or so, but continued steadily the rest of the afternoon. The noise of the rain on the trees and the roof top was soothing to skin and the soul. Later, I sat out on the porch in a rocker lapping up all of the experience to be had from these late November storms. At once, I felt refreshed, renewed, and revived by the relaxing sensations of the rain and the woods surround.
The stately pines stood jacketed in evergreen while woods filled with a cornucopia of colored leaves soon swallowed me. The stingy sap had dyed the remaining leaflets on the hardwood trees and carpeted the forest at my feet deep reds, orangey oranges, and golden-yellows. It had rained the night before, and with my boots heavy in the wet grass/leaves, I made my way down the winding trail to the spring branch that flows down through the thick undergrowth of bottom land at the back of the property.
The small stream gurgled and ran dark, stained by the tea of rotted leaves and the iron-ore clay it cuts through. I paused a minute on the wooden bridge that spans its high banks to stare at the water; the surface disturbed by an occasional drip of water or from the drop of a leaf from trees above. I sat down on a log for awhile, body and mind released, watching and waiting as the woods grew dark and cloudy, listening to unseen squirrels barking and birds chattering; their sounds carrying distinctly in the damp air. In the distance, I thought I may had heard a hoot owl protesting the weather?
On my way back, I picked up some beautiful leaves with their new colored coats to press and share with those I love. I just made it to the cabin before the rumble of thunder and deluge, which slacked off after an hour or so, but continued steadily the rest of the afternoon. The noise of the rain on the trees and the roof top was soothing to skin and the soul. Later, I sat out on the porch in a rocker lapping up all of the experience to be had from these late November storms. At once, I felt refreshed, renewed, and revived by the relaxing sensations of the rain and the woods surround.
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