The Blizzard is Over - Win in Ten

Yesterday’s Christmas Eve blizzard dropped more snow (14.1”) on Oklahoma City than any storm since 1890 when record keeping began. Hundreds of car accidents occurred, including a fifty-five car pile-up on one of the interstate highways. High snow drifts stranded many motorists for hours.

This morning, gloomy skies have passed. Even though temperatures are still in the twenties, the sun is shining brightly and melting, hopefully, will begin in earnest. The blizzard is a reminder of the disastrous economic year the State has experienced. Maybe the sunny skies are an omen that the economic storm has passed and the sun is beginning to shine on us again.

Times were financially tough in the oil patch during the early nineties and prompted a slogan often repeated wherever oilies congregated. It was “survive till ’95.” My partner Ray has coined a new slogan, “win in ’10.” The wonderful sunshine this morning gives me hope that we will.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

Eric'sWeb

Earthly Complexities

Fresh from the war, I started graduate school at the University of Arkansas. Separated from polite society for almost two years, I was trying desperately to regain some of its social graces. My new thesis advisor, Dr. K, reminded me as much every day.

Dr. K had an idea for a thesis project in the Ouachita Mountains. Arkansas is one of the most geologically diverse areas on earth. Many minerals occur there, some found nowhere else. Dr. K, a brilliant man and a graduate of Cornell University intimidated me at least a little.

I was not the only person returning from Vietnam. There were half a dozen of us, including an ex-Green Beret. Dr. K and I were walking down the hall one day when we came upon Mr. GB, his back to us and obviously in deep thought. When Dr. K tapped him on the shoulder, he wheeled around, coming up with a vicious blow to the good Dr's groin and laying him out on the hallway floor. When Dr. K regained his senses, and his breath, he dragged himself off the floor.

I understood GB's motivation. It took me months to keep from hitting the ground whenever a car backfired near me. Still, I fully expected Dr. K, the chairman of the department of geology, to lower the proverbial boom on the ex-green beret. Instead, he began speaking in a soft, friendly tone.

"I realize where you just came from and how horrible it must have been, but you're back in the States now. I'm going to let what you just did pass this time, but sometime in the future I'm going to tap you on the shoulder. If you ever lay a hand on anyone ever again, for any reason, you will be dismissed from the Arkansas geology department and you won't be welcomed back.

I was with Dr. K the next time he came up on Mr. GB from behind and believe me, I wouldn't have done what he did. He tapped Mr. GB's shoulder and stood there, waiting for the inevitable reaction. As if in slow motion, Mr. GB bent forward, almost touching the floor, and then began his karate twirl. This time he stopped abruptly before he ever made his turn, his deadly blow pulled before ever making contact. When he saw Dr. K, he began to shake uncontrollably.

Dr. K nodded, smiled slightly and said, "Welcome back to the world."

In southwest Arkansas, just south of the Ouachita Overthrust, is a geologically complex area known only to a few lucky people. Before I ever set foot on the terrain, I got a lesson in life from an amazingly complex person that understood the human heart as well as he knew the heart of the earth.

Eric'sWeb

Persistant Earthquakes Worry Residents of Small Oklahoma Community

A rash of unexplained earthquakes plague a central Oklahoma town.

http://newsok.com/quakes-still-shaking-jones/article/3426115

Eric'sWeb

Dog Story

I have told the story of how I gave my dog Slick to a caring family that apparently loved him more than me. Slick and his adopted family still live nearby. On a walk through the neighborhood a few days ago, they stopped by for a visit.

Slick, a beautiful black Gordon setter, will be thirteen in March. His black hair has turned gray and he walks now instead of runs. When he was my dog, he never stopped running. I was at work when Slick and his adopted parents dropped by, but their visit jogged a distant memory.

I have a tiny little oil and gas company and operate a few shallow gas wells in Noble County, Oklahoma. One summer, many years ago, I took Slick and Lucky with me to check out the wells. Both dogs loved riding in my 1992 Acura Vigor. It was hot, the temperature over 100 degrees when we reached the first well. It was then I made a mistake that I will never again repeat.

I got out of the car to check the gas meter, leaving the car running and the key in the ignition. Slick immediately jumped up to see where I was going and depressed the door lock. When I returned from the meter, I found myself locked out of the car, the two dogs, and their tails wagging, unable to open door.

I quickly learned that it is almost impossible to break out a window of tempered glass. Frustrated, I searched the ditches for a clothes hanger (yeah, sure!) to open the door. Twenty minutes later, a very nice young man drove up in a truck. Amazingly, he had a clothes hanger and we soon managed to open the car. I waved in appreciation as he drove away down the road. I wasn’t even upset when Slick and Lucky bailed out of the car and took off running.

Happy to be back in the air-conditioned Vigor, I simply followed the galloping dogs down the unpaved, section-line road. They ran for almost two miles before I finally corralled them at an abandoned oil lease. Slick and Lucky were pooped but happy when they finally jumped back into the Acura.

Lucky passed away in November after a long and wonderful life. Slick is old, but he has also had a wonderful life. He doesn’t run thirteen miles a day anymore, but then who among us still does?

Eric'sWeb

Eric Wilder's Famous 151 Proof Rum Punch

I had a bachelor’s pad just north of Oklahoma City’s Taft Stadium. The little house had two fireplaces, a redwood hot tub and a wet bar. I spent thousands landscaping the hilly front yard with sandstone walkways and retainer walls, courtesy of Jakob, a master stoneworker and Israeli expatriate (another story).

As a bachelor, I always wanted my guests to enjoy themselves and I always helped them along by preparing my famous rum punch. The last time I made rum punch was at a party at my last bachelor pad.

What I had found about my rum punch is that almost no one was too discernible when it came to taste. The ingredients consisted of crushed ice, three or four cans of Hawaiian Punch and copious amounts of 151 proof rum. Hell, after the first cup you had no taste left anyway.

The last time I served my famous rum punch was a night much like tonight - cold and dreary. The guests quickly finished a bowl of punch. By the time I had concocted a second bowl, all the guests had already lost total control of their inhibitions - and their bodily movements.

My good friend Mickey left the party, tumbling headfirst down the hill to his car. Several of my friends left with other guest’s wives and girlfriends. The next day Anne said, “No more. You are never making your famous punch again. You could have gotten someone killed.”

I always listened to Anne. That day, many years ago, was the last time I ever concocted my famous punch. Will I ever make it again? Maybe, but you will have to stay the night.

Eric'sWeb

Oklahoma Crow Pictures

Here are some pictures taken of some of the many crows that populate the Edmond, Oklahoma area. Hundreds of these large and noisy birds live near my house. They are hard to photograph because they are very skitsy when it comes to humans. Not because of me, I love them.

Eric'sWilder

Dr. M's Louisiana Cattle Ranch

Harvey, my former father-in-law raised cattle and had a small pasture behind his house in Chalmette where he ran a few head. Harvey had an old friend, a doctor that had a large cattle ranch in the eastern Louisiana town of Vidalia. Dr. M became very wealthy when a company found oil and lots of it on his ranch.

Shortly after the discovery of oil, Dr. M retired from medicine and spent his days trading stock and traveling. A devout Catholic, the Pope granted him and his family a private meeting during a visit to the Vatican. Dr. M was also a member of the Krewe of Rex and had once paid a million dollars for the privilege of being King of that Krewe during one Mardi Gras season.

Wanting to experiment with different breeds of cattle, Dr. M hired his old friend Harvey to oversee the operation. Relishing the challenge, Harvey and wife Lily began splitting their time between Vidalia and Chalmette. On a trip to Chalmette, Gail and I stopped along the way for a visit to the ranch.

Dr. M and his family rarely visited the ranch any more so Lily and Harvey had the main house all to themselves. The living room, I remember, had a large mirror on one wall made of one-way glass. Dr. M was apparently a voyeur and liked watching his guests through the one-way glass from an adjacent room that most knew nothing about.

The ranch was two full sections of land and abutted the levee on the west side of the Mississippi River. Harvey and Dr. M were trying to establish a new breed of cattle for the area - Black Angus. The weather turned out too hot and humid for this breed and the experiment ultimately ended in failure.

The ranch had a bunkhouse large enough to accommodate a dozen hired hands, if needed. During our visit there was no seasonal help and Gail and I had the bunkhouse to ourselves. We spent the day touring the ranch, examining the barns, stalls and cutting pens. Lily seemed unhappy when we left the following morning and I am sure she missed her large family in Chalmette.

Perhaps Harvey was also missing Chalmette and his own cows because shortly after our visit, he quit his job as foreman and he and Lily moved back to their own home. Gail and I were glad to see Lily happy again, but I am also glad that we had the chance to see Dr. M's large working cattle ranch before Harvey finally quit.

Gondwana

Damp Hibiscus and Butterfly - pictures

Here are two pictures taken in late September, when warm breezes still blew. Now it is December, the wind chilly, but spring can't be far behind.

Gondwana

Buzzards and Butterflies

There were at least a dozen Monarch Butterflies in my backyard when I went for a walk with my pugs. I only had my Nikon with the relatively short zoom and was unable to get any close-ups. Hurrying into the house, I returned with my Pentax and 200mm zoom lens.

Even though I didn’t manage to take any “drop dead gorgeous” pics, I had a great time clicking away at the fast moving little creatures. Most of the Monarchs had departed when I returned to the backyard but there were dozens of large yellow butterflies. Dressed in shorts, tee shirt and flip flops, I snapped away as mosquitoes made a meal of my legs and ankles.

After watching the first half of Alabama drubbing Arkansas, I threw in the towel and decided to take a walk through the neighborhood. Monarchs were everywhere, flitting in front of me but never quite close enough to get a shot with my Nikon. Reveling in the gorgeous creatures flying around me, I was unprepared for what I saw next.

As I topped the hill about a mile from my house, I saw a huge turkey buzzard in someone’s front yard. I stopped, extracted my camera, put it on full zoom and began clicking away. I was close enough to hit the huge buzzard with a spitball, but unfortunately not close enough to get a clear picture.

My little Nikon is great for taking still photos, mostly close-ups, but out of its element when taking action shots. As I looked at my pics upon returning to the house, I saw that all I had was a blur.

It was a gorgeous day in Central Oklahoma. I missed most of the good butterfly pics and totally flopped on the buzzard pic. Arkansas, my favorite team, was creamed but hey, it was a gorgeous day in central Oklahoma and you can’t have everything.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Oklahoma Pugs - pictures

Here are two pictures of Smashy (the mother) and her two pups Princess and Scooter. Princess is a year or so older than Scooter.

Fiction South

Honey Buns in Paradise

Years ago, I was a freshman in college at Northeast Louisiana in Monroe. At the end of the hall was a cigarette machine, a soda machine and one that sold Honey Buns. One night while I was studying my roommate came running into the room in an animated state of excitement.

"The honey bun machine is broke. Help me, quick!"

The machine was broken. Every time you pulled the retrieve handle, several Honey Buns would pour out of it. My roomy and I cleaned out the machine.

Several weeks or so later, after consuming many Honey buns, I never wanted to see a Honey Bun again as long as I lived. It made me think of the first time I got inebriated. The same year, I think. My roommate - yes, the same culprit - and I were at a piano bar in downtown Monroe, Louisiana.

Chuck was very cosmopolitan and had been drinking alcohol for years. At least that's what he said. My parents were teetotalers and I had never ever sipped a beer.

"Try a sloe gin fizz, honey," the pretty, but old -at least to me at the time - singer suggested.

I took her advice and had several. I think we were finally thrown out of the place, or at least asked to leave. I woke up before morning, very sick. You don’t want to know the details. Anyway, a month or so ago, I ordered a sloe gin fizz at a bar I frequent. It was the first I'd had in more than thirty years. I didn't finish it.

Before my Mother died, we took a trip back to Vivian. Along the way we stopped to buy groceries in Atlanta, Texas. While there, my mother bought, of all things, a box of Honey Buns. On the last leg home we stopped at a liquor store and I bought a twenty-four ounce Evil Eye High Density 10 % alcohol lager. I'm not making this up. I drank the strong beer after my parents turned in for the night.

I'm not particularly proud of the fact but the brew weakened me to the extent that I opened a Honey Bun and ate it.Well, unlike the sloe gin fizz, my first Honey Bun in more than thirty years wasn't so bad. Truth is, I even opened a second and ate it too. I guess what they say is true - time heals all wounds. Well, except for sloe gin.

Gondwana

Seven Lucky Charms

While walking to the mailbox, I picked up a circular bit of metal on the street. It turned out to be a penny that someone had bored a hole through to form part of a necklace. A good luck charm, I thought, since it was so lucky that I had even glanced down at that exact moment. As I put it in my pocket and continued up the hill to the mailbox, I remembered the seven good luck charms I carried with me at all times during the Vietnam War.

Am I crazy or just plain stupid to have carried seven lucky charms? While I am not sure, consider this. As an infantry foot soldier, I served in a line company, Charlie Company, 1/8 Cavalry, First Cavalry Division, in a part of Vietnam that was supposedly the hottest area of operation in the country at the time. Despite this, I survived unscathed.

Yes, I understand my good luck may have had nothing to do with the seven charms I carried. Common sense and intelligence tells me as much. Still, I did not want to take the chance that I was wrong, and I continued to carry the charms long after I had returned to the real world.

Over the years, one by one, all seven charms were either lost or permanently misplaced. I never tried to replace them because I could not remember why I had considered them lucky in the first place. Today, as I walked to the mailbox, it does not matter much anymore. They had already done their job.

What job did my new charm have in store? Not worrying about it or anything else, I rubbed the penny pendant in my pocket between my fingers and continued up the hill with a smile on my face and a little extra bounce in my step.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Louisiana Shrimp Boat - a picture

Here is a pic of a south Louisiana shrimp boat.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Mom's Pineapple Pie - a weekend recipe

Mom’s Pineapple Pie


My favorite pie has always been pineapple. My mother would bake pineapple pie for me whenever I came home from college. On holidays, I would have three, one from my mother and one each from my two grandmothers. They were all good, but different. While looking through some of Mother’s old cookbooks, I stumbled on her pineapple pie recipe. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

1 c. sugar
Pinch of salt
4 tbsp. flour
2 egg yolks, well beaten
2 c. evaporated milk
½ stick butter
1 large can crushed pineapple, drained
1 tsp vanilla or pineapple juice

Combine sugar and flour in saucepan; add salt, egg yolks, milk and butter. Stir until smooth; cook over low heat until thick. Add pineapple and vanilla; remove from heat. Pour into one 9-inch cooked pie shell. Top with meringue.

Fiction South

Family Spirits

The dictionary defines triskaidekaphobia as the fear of the number 13. Today is Friday the thirteenth, supposedly an unlucky day. My day started in frustration with me thinking things are going badly for me. It made me think, which spirit have I angered. My first thought was my Mother.

My Mom died of lymphoma about two years ago. She was eighty-five when she died and mentally as sharp as a twenty-year-old. She fought her cancer until the end because she didn’t want to leave my Dad, who has advanced Alzheimer’s, alone. I assured her, just before she died, that Brother Jack and I would look after him.

I have wondered lately if she is keeping an eye on things and somehow unhappy with the way Jack and I are managing things. I have thought this for sometime now because my “Magic Moonflowers” haven’t bloomed since she died.

I don’t know if any of this is true, but last night I called on the spirits of my Grandpa and Grandma Pitt, my Mom’s parents, to intercede if this is truly the situation. Jack and I are far from perfect and neither of us can be with Dad as many hours each week as he would like us to. I also know that no one could ever take care of him as good as my Mom Mavis.

Now I know lots of you out there don’t believe in spirits, but today my luck took a turn for the best. Two very positive things that I had almost given up on happened and I have had a mile-wide grin on my face since noon.

I know the world is an imperfect place. I have thought many times that no one can do anything as well as I. I also know that when things don’t go right you often tend to blame the ones you love the most. I’ve known this since I was a child.

My Mom and my Grandma Pitt were very close and never a day passed that they weren’t together. Brother Jack and I were no angels and got into trouble on a daily basis but we always knew that Grandma Pitt would intercede on our behalf, no matter what mischief we had caused. Grandpa Pitt would back her up and tell my Mom to cut us some slack.

“They are just being boys,” he would say.

Today is Friday the 13 and a chill wind is blowing outside the house. I am happy as I keyboard this story because I realize that “family” is the single strongest entity that exists and that I can still grab my Grandma’s spirit leg and ask her to protect me, and know that she will.

Happy Veteran's Day

My Dad was a soldier in WWII and has six battle stars. My brother Jack served in the Army in Germany while I was in Vietnam. We all understand service and we all understand the sacrifice service men and women undergo.

Marilyn and I sat on the patio of Kang’s Asian Restaurant tonight, drinking sake and Sapporo Beer. The night was warm, maybe a bit too warm for a date this late in November. It didn’t matter as we enjoyed Kang’s wonderful patio.

Kang asked if we liked venison. Even being from Louisiana, I had never tried it. Marilyn has. He treated us to bowls of venison soup that was nothing short of wonderful.

As I keyboard this story, I think how lucky I am to live in the greatest country this world has ever known. I also reflect on how lucky I am to live in a country where brave men and women risk their lives and limbs on a daily basis to protect our freedoms.

Happy Veteran’s Day and thanks for your service. We wouldn’t be here without you.

Gondwana

Oklahoma Hawk Pictures

Here are a couple of Oklahoma hawk pictures, and a posturized flower.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Poor People's Food

My sixteen-year-old stepdaughter Kate searched the refrigerator in vain for something to eat, or at least for something she wanted to eat.

“I’m hungry,” she proclaimed.

Marilyn recited the litany of food in the refrigerator, freezer and pantry. “I’m not taking you to Johnny’s for a burger,” she said. “It’s too late and I already have my nightgown on.”

Unhappy with any of her mother’s suggestions, Kate began pawing through the pantry. Marilyn joined her search, hoping to find something to satisfy her baby’s insatiable teenage hunger.

“Check this out, Kate,” she said, showing her a specially decorated commemorative can of Spam.

“No way,” Kate said. “Spam is horrible and only poor people eat it.”

“Have you ever tried it?” Marilyn asked.

“No way!”

“Then how do you know how it tastes?”

“Who cares? No one even knows what it’s made of.”

“It’s just ham in a can, Kate,” Marilyn said.

Kate was having none of her mother’s argument and finally microwaved a Hamburger Helper. Still, the discussion caused me to consider the food I ate while growing up in Louisiana and how much enjoyment people miss because they have preconceived notions.

My parents were simple working folks, my mother a homemaker, my dad a pipe fitter. My dad never made much money but I never thought of us as being poor, and I do not recall ever missing a meal. I remember my mother’s Spam and eggs for breakfast, Spam sandwiches for lunch, and Spam and green beans for dinner. Spam was not the only thing we ate by any means, but when we had it, I liked it.

Heck, I also enjoyed eating potted meat and Vienna sausages. My Aunt Dot sent me a care package when I was deep in the jungles of Vietnam and I remember enjoying the can of Vienna sausages included in the prize better than I would have a lobster or filet mignon.

Money supplies the necessities of life but do more expensive purchases equate to a happier existence. I think not. A Rolls-Royce will not take you a single mile further than a Chevrolet, or get you there any quicker.

As the saying goes, money cannot buy happiness. Now I wonder, how much happiness do rich folks miss because of their snobbery? This I know - sometimes what you miss most are the simple things you never even think about, until you lose them.

Gondwana

A Trick of the Mind

Like you, I do not believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality. I talked about telling the future using reflection from polished objects such as crystal balls. I suggested that veils, fractures and inclusions of other minerals might affect the transmittal of light through this media such that a person trained to do so could “see” into a different dimension. The last time I visited my father in the reminiscence center where he lives, I witnessed something that lends credence to such claims.

I arrived late, Dad eating dinner, so I waited for him outside on the enclosed patio. The patio is on the east side of the building. I sat in a lawn chair, facing west so that I might see my Dad walking past when he finished eating. It was early evening, the sun shining at an oblique angle through the windows behind me.

Several more windows separated the facility from the enclosed patio, light striking them such that I could see hazy movement from where I sat. I was doing other things, reading a letter and thinking about the events that had occurred that day when I saw, or thought I saw the almost translucent figure of a man strolling down the hall.

I stood and put my face against the glass to negate the glare coming from the window behind me. Even though my actions took less than ten seconds, it was not fast enough to get a look at the man. There was simply no man there. It was a trick of the mind, I thought, caused by the low angle of the sun shining through the window behind me, and then reflecting off the windows in front of me.

My Dad is usually a fast eater but that evening he had not finished even after thirty minutes. During that time, I saw a procession of reflections walking down the hall. Even though I tried my best, their images disappeared every time I put my face to the window.

My Dad has resided at this facility since January 2007 and I have visited him at least once every week since then. Many of the people in the facility when I began visiting are no longer there – the Walking Woman, the Roamer, and many other nameless individuals. It is likely that dozens, maybe hundreds of former inhabitants have died there. Maybe an essence of their souls remains and I was able to see them because of a perfect combination of reflection and refraction.

Like you, I do no believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality, or unreality, and nothing more than a simple trick of the mind. Well, maybe!

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Zombies, Images and Geomancers

Naomi (Shuchen), my accountant, is from Taiwan and is thinking about returning soon for a visit to see her mother. She has a few trepidations and one of them is visiting her Father’s grave. It was broad daylight when she explained the reasons for her reluctance, and her story chilled me.

The graveyards in Taiwan are far from the populated parts of the country. Located high in the mountains, they are remote. Many of the sarcophaguses are quite elaborate, almost like houses for the dead.

“Taiwan is very humid,” she explained. “There is a smell of death lingering in our cemeteries and no one ever visits after sundown.”

Naomi did visit her Grandfather’s grave after sundown once. When one of her teachers tried to discipline her by smacking her palm with a ruler, she hit back with a pencil holder and then ran away, hiding at her Grandfather’s grave until long after dark.

The grave was on her parent’s farm and not part of a cemetery. Still, she felt the presence of spirits around her as soon as it grew dark, and she ran back home to be punished by her Father for striking the teacher.

This is not the only experience Naomi had with cemeteries. She and her family lived in a small village; a place where everyone knows everyone else. One of the families was having problems and consulted a geomancer, a person practiced in the art of feng shui, and he told them they needed to move the grave of their mother that had passed some ten years prior.

No one visits a Taiwanese graveyard after dark, but the geomancer advised that the family should exhume the grave at nine at night. Everyone in the small village went to the cemetery for support of the family, although none of them allowed to dig, or to view the disinterred remains. What the family found when they opened the casket was a shock to the entire village.

The woman’s body had not decayed. She lay there before them - as if she had just died - her eyes open wide. Her hair and her fingernails had continued to grow and she appeared like a wraith, or a zombie, before the horrified relatives that stared down at her body.

The family moved the woman’s body to the spot the geomancer had prescribed, and a hunk of flesh removed from her arm to accelerate decay. The image remained locked in Naomi’s brain as she contemplated visiting Taiwan, her mother, and her father’s grave. The image is indelible and now remains locked in my own brain.

Gondwana

Goodbye, Lucky

My dog Lucky died today. He was twelve-plus, an advanced age for a Labrador retriever. My deceased wife Anne bought Lucky six months before she died and the big pup soon became my constant companion and best friend.

Lucky helped ease me through a hard time in my life. I am sad tonight, but I am happy that he lived such a long and happy life, and died on such a gorgeous day with no apparent trauma.

Goodbye Lucky and rest in peace. 11-02-2009.

Fiction South

Oklahoma Pug Pictures

Some pictures from my backyard, including my pugs Princess and Scooter.

Fiction South

Halloween Memories

Happy Halloween!

Halloween was my favorite holiday when I was young in Vivian, Louisiana. No one had yet heard of predators preying on unsuspecting kids, so my parents, and everyone else’s parents would let us go trick-or-treating as soon as it got dark. What’s more, no one expected us home anytime soon.

I couldn’t have been much more than five when I began staying out until the wee hours, dressed as a ghost or goblin, with my big brother Jack and close friend Wiley. Most people quit answering their doors at ten but that didn’t keep us from knocking, or turning over their trash cans if no one answered and rewarded us with candy.

The only thing I can remember that was slightly unsavory was that someone gave us weevil bread – cornbread with boll weevils cooked into it. We all decided that we had gotten the weevil bread from the mayor’s house.

I grew up in a different time, not better, just different, but I’ll never forget the feeling I had that I was somehow invisible, and that the darkness was where I was destined to be.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Another Place, Another Time

Weather in central Oklahoma is always unpredictable. Lately, it is downright crazy, almost a hundred degrees in early March, and cold, damp and rainy by the end of April. Tonight, as I prepared to feed my dogs, I fished around in my closet for a sweater. It is not that the weather is that inclement. It is just damp and chilly. The weather tonight and the sweater that I chose reminded me of a similar sweater that I owned during another place and time.

When I was in the boonies of Vietnam, I would go at least fifteen days with the same clothes. Socks, tee shirts and fatigue pants usually became pretty rank during that time. Underwear? We wore none. Whenever we returned to a forward firebase there was usually a bin where we could get clean clothes. The bin had tee shirts, socks, fatigue pants and shirts, all used. It also had a mixture of such things as boonie hats, neckerchiefs, and every now and then a monsoon sweater.

Digging through a clothes bin, I found two things of interest that I immediately confiscated - a neckerchief and a monsoon jacket. The black neckerchief had an embroidered skull with wings that said “Death from Above.” We were supposed to leave them on enemy bodies to show how bad we were. I stuffed mine in a pocket and kept it.

The monsoon sweater was a long-sleeved, drab green, light wool garment and I was in heaven from the time that I acquired my own. Temperatures were never cold in the tropics but there was always quite a divergence between the extreme heat of the day and the nighttime lows (seventies) experienced during rainy season.

When we finished humping for the day, I would tie my hammock between two strong bamboo shoots, stringing my poncho liner over the top. Then I would pull the monsoon sweater over my head, and heat a cup of coffee and a can of C-rations. Usually, by the time that I finished eating and crawled into the hammock, it would begin to rain. It is surprising how much a warm sweater can comfort you when you have nothing else in the world between you and the unknown.

I still have my “Death from Above,” neckerchief but my monsoon sweater is long gone. I recently did an Internet search, trying to find one online to purchase. I found none and apparently, they never existed. Well, they did exist, along with lots of other things polite society would rather forget, and probably already have.

Gondwana

Deep in the Forest

I have often talked about the mysterious Ouachita Mountains where I did my geology thesis. I am sure most everyone remembers the movie Deliverance that stared Jon Voight and Burt Reynolds and the frightening hillbillies encountered. On one of our field trips to the Ouachitas, my ex-wife Gail and I met our own pair of scary hillbillies. It was late fall, the days dull and weather dreary.

Gail and I had visited a mine so deep in the forest that we had to follow an azimuth with a Brunton compass (those were the days before GPS). The mine was not large, at least not as those in the western United States. Still, it formed an imposing edifice, a bald knob amid a sea of forest green.

The Davis Mine had not operated since the Civil War. Confederate soldiers mined lead there, employing Federal prisoners. The few old publications we could find about the mine hinted at torture and atrocities. I don't know if there were ghosts, but the place imparted a definite chill down my spine. It was late when Gail and I finally left the difficult to reach lead mine.

We had parked our old 62' Ford pickup on the side of a narrow dirt road. Before we reached it, we heard the rumble of an even older pickup truck moving in our direction. When we rounded a corner, we encountered it directly in our path. The bed of the truck was loaded with groceries and other supplies, and two unkempt men occupied the cab.

Gail and I both noticed the gun rack in the window behind the two men, rifles or shotguns behind them.

"You two lost?" the one-eyed driver asked, spitting a wad of chew out the window before either of us had a chance to answer. "We got a mine up by our place no one even knows about," he told us when we explained what we were doing in the middle of nowhere. "We'll take you there and show it to you," he offered.

We declined, then thanked them and began walking away at a rapid clip. "Don't look back," I told Gail.

Finally, we heard the pickup's engine fire and then rumble away in the opposite direction. I am a large man and I'm sure the two hillbillies noticed the pick hammer in my hand. Were they being friendly? No! I was freshly home from Vietnam and I still had a well-honed sense of danger. These two men were dangerous and I have no doubt that they had little regard for human life.

My memory of these two appear, almost verbatim, in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds. Now, years later, I still feel the dread when I recall this story.

Fiction South

Faces of Halloween

Pics from Halloween parties passed.

Gondwana

Fresh Pumpkin Pie - a weekend recipe

Halloween, my favorite holiday, is almost upon us and one of the reasons I love this time of year are the tasty pumpkin pies my Mother and Grandmothers used to make. Here is an old yet simple recipe that I hope you enjoy as much as I do.

1 ½ cups fresh pumpkin
¼ tsp nutmeg
¼ tsp cinnamon
1 cup milk
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 cup sugar
1 tbsp butter
¼ tsp salt

Combine ingredients. Mix thoroughly. Pour into pastry-lined pie pan. Bake in hot oven (425 degrees) for about 25 minutes, or until an inserted knife comes out clean. Serve with whipped cream on top.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Eric Takes a Ride

My first wife Gail loved horses and had two, Lady, a very gentle mare and Rodan, a large stallion. Not very friendly, Rodan did not tolerate carrying fools around on his back, a fact I quickly learned during my first visit to Gail’s home in Chalmette.

During those years, sprawling Chalmette felt like a family town. Gail’s father Harvey had a small working ranch right in the middle of town and ran a few horses and some cows. He also bought fur from the many trappers that worked the swamps and marshes south of New Orleans.

Ripley’s Believe it or Not featured one of Harvey’s cows in their feature that many newspapers once carried. The cow had a tail growing out of its head. Harvey was very proud of the cow and never failed to show visitors his yellowed newspaper clipping.

I had not ridden a horse since my brother Jack and I fell off the back of my grandmother’s plow horse named Buck. Buck was so large no saddle would fit him. Although not as big, nor as friendly as Buck, Rodan was no small horse. His size did not really matter because I had maintained an aversion to riding horses ever since falling off Buck.

Gail and I met at college in Monroe. On my first trip to meet her parents, I strived to do everything I could to please her and to make a good impression on her family. Because of my desire to present myself in the best possible light, I rashly agreed to go for a ride on Rodan. It was a decision that almost ended our fledgling romance prematurely.

Horses are perceptive animals and Rodan knew the moment that I threw my leg over his back that I was a complete and utter novice. Still, I was okay until Gail handed me the reins. When she did, Rodan took off like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate at Pimlico.

The big red horse headed straight for the St. Bernard Highway, congested with traffic even in those day. I could do little except pull on the reins and yell “Whoa, Rodan,” at the top of my lungs. My life passed before my eyes as we approached the crowded highway at what felt to me like breakneck speed.

I contemplated jumping but never got the chance. Rodan skidded to an abrupt halt just before plowing into the two lanes heavy traffic. Gail reached us shortly, grabbing Rodan’s reins and allowing me to exit the saddle as quickly as I could. Neither of us spoke on the short walk back to Harvey’s ranch.

Years have passed since that visit and I wish that I could proclaim that it was my last frightening ride on a horse. Well it was not. Gail’s brother Larry goaded me into another horse ride some years later, much to the same result, even though Larry’s horse was supposedly a friendly and docile mare.

Between Marilyn and her three kids, they own at least six horses. None of them is as big or mean as Rodan was, but it makes no difference to me. Horses and I do not get along and it will be a cold day in Chalmette before I mount another.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Veiled Reality

Conjure Man is a short story that appears in my book Murder Etouffee. Mama Mulate, a character reprised from my French Quarter murder mystery Big Easy, is the primary character. Mama is the quintessential embodiment of two cultures; she is a voodoo mambo, practicing the mysterious religion of Vodoun, but also holds a doctorate in English literature and teaches at Tulane University.

While well versed in spells, hexes and potions, Mama can see neither the past, nor the future. When a hapless couple hires her to help them learn the fate of their missing son, she takes them to a seer, an old black man named Zekiel that lives in a shack built on a high spot in the flood control area outside of New Orleans. Zekiel uses a crystal ball to “scry,” or see the future and the past.

Practitioners of the almost lost art of scrying don’t always use crystal balls. According to George Frederick Kunz, author of the book The Curious Lore of Precious Stones, says, “Mirrors, globules of lead, or quicksilver, polished steel, the surface of water and even pools of ink have been employed and have been found to insure quite as satisfactory results as the crystal ball.”

While Kunz is correct that seers can use any reflective media to achieve their results, many use the crystal ball, not just for its reflective properties, but also because of what lies inside the crystal. Unlike a sphere of glass, a transparent ball of polished quartz is not perfect. It contains vacuoles, fractures, veils and needles of other minerals that reflect and refract light. These very imperfections are what allow the experienced seer to tap into secrets of the past and the future.

Light and reflections are the means we use to experience reality when we see, but consider this: not everything we see reflects reality exactly. When we gaze into a mirror at our own reflection, we are not seeing ourselves as others see us. The right eye looking back at us is really our left eye. The way we perceive ourselves is only a mirrored reflection of reality.

Veils and imperfections in a crystal gazing ball reflect and refract light in such a way that they “reveal” a different dimension to the trained seer. Is it possible to see into the future or the past? My answer is yes.

While most of us cannot explain why we are able to receive wireless voices on our cell phones, there are people that can. It is just as plausible that seers can see into the past and the future, even if they cannot prove it to us, except for the secrets they reveal.

Gondwana

Skip's Salsa - a southwest recipe

When Anne and I first married, we lived in a large house with many windows that overlooked a small body of water called Ski Island Lake. My Cousin Skip worked for Capitol Records, recently transferred to OKC from Austin, Texas. Since he was new to the City, he spent lots of time with us and we enjoyed him immensely.

Skip would usually ride a bike from his apartment to our house. He was slender and had a goatee and thinning hair he usually covered with a jaunty Panama hat. Skip knows more about the recording industry than almost anyone on earth, and he and his wife Connie recently retired to Austin after years in New York City and Los Angeles.

Whenever Skip visited Anne and me during his short stay in Oklahoma City, he always brought us LP’s or tapes, mostly of new and rising artists that we had never heard of before, but soon would. He could make salsa and guacamole dip like no other person I have known, before or since and here is his simple recipe.

5 green onions
1 clove garlic
¼ cup fresh cilantro
1 half lemon or lime, squeezed
3 or 4 jalapeno peppers, seeded (How hot do you want it?)
3 ripe tomatoes
salt and pepper
1 Tbsp olive oil

After making sure all the ingredients are crisp and ripe, uniformly dice on a chopping block with a sharp knife and then blend very gently in a food processor. After transferring the ingredients to a large serving bowl add the lemon juice (or lime if that’s what floats your boat) and salt and pepper to taste.

Chill for an hour or so in the refrigerator while you slug a few Coronas or Tecates, or just grab a bag of your favorite tortilla chips and indulge yourself immediately. Either way you will be in Heaven.

Gondwana

Kafka for Breakfast

I had a dental appointment to fill a tooth. My dentist is great, the best I have ever had, and I trust him. Still, I do not like needles, probes and drills inside my mouth. Dr. K has a new assistant named Tina and she asked me if I would like to use nitrous oxide.

“It will help you relax,” she said.

Something ominous that I thought I perceived in her voice caused me to nod and answer yes.

“Just like a couple of cocktails before work,” Dr. K said with a smile.

I was a little worried as Tina adjusted the rubber device over my nose. I had tried nitrous years before and I’d had a strange reaction. The dentist (not Dr. K) had a very well endowed dental assistant. Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, I had an almost overwhelming urge to grab her large breasts and fondle them. Even though I managed to contain my animal lusts, I have remained leery of using nitrous again, until today.

I had no such reaction today with the gas although I did have the strange feeling that Tina was actually Sarah Palin. She does look like Governor Palin and Dr. K. possibly induced this reaction by quizzing me about politics as he prepped me for the drilling. I couldn’t really reply because he had a big hand and several instruments in my mouth. I could only mumble and this was probably a good thing, as you never want to disagree too vehemently with someone that has a needle near your jugular.

Oh yes, Dr. K is computerized now. Rather than taking impressions, Tina waved a probe over my teeth as the female computer voice said things like, “Number twelve, fourteen degrees distal.”

Or some such! Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, none of my senses was working perfectly – well, other than maybe one or two carnal thoughts about Sarah, uh, Tina. I cannot begin to tell you how strange that I felt when she put lip balm on my dry lips, as if she were applying bright red gloss to the pouting face of an aging diva about to go on stage.

Dr. K must have a million dollars worth of American Indian art on his walls and the atmosphere is very pleasant. He also has television screens playing scenes from Cirque de Soleil, an affront to your sanity even if you are not breathing nitrous oxide.

Dr. K finished my temporary crown almost two hours later, prompting me to realize why Tina had highly recommended the nitrous oxide in the first place. The tip of my nose was numb until an hour ago and my upper lip feels as if someone has played a serious game of tug-of-war with it.

I either learned something new today, or else remembered something that I had forgotten. Whichever, it is true that surrealism abounds in the dentist’s office. Said differently, if you want Kafka for breakfast have a cavity filled some morning – and request nitrous.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Colors of Oklahoma

At one of my book signings, an old friend explained tearfully how much he had enjoyed reading Prairie Sunset. But there was a catch.

“The only problem with the book is there is no prairie anywhere in it.”
Because of his emotional state, I did not argue but what he said is not factually true.

The great sprawling metropolis of Oklahoma City occupies an ancient prairie. Just because buildings, roads and the residue of commerce now cloak it does not lessen that fact.

None of this really matters because the title refers to a state of mind rather than a specific location.

John Warren, the unlikely eighty-year-old protagonist of the story has literally run away from home in search of the “magic fountain.” What he finds is an even more unlikely love affair with an attractive sixty-something woman of American Indian heritage.

In a passage near the book’s end, John explains to Attie Johnson, the newly found love of his life, the meaning of the title. They are on a hillside, near Eureka Springs, Arkansas, watching the western horizon as the sun sets.

“Once, on a spring night in western Oklahoma I saw a sunset almost as beautiful as this one. Particles of dust from some volcanic eruption in the Pacific filled the sky. Invisible during the day, the dispersed particles became fiery streaks of crimson incandescence at dusk.”

“A beautiful sunset is something to remember.”

“Attie, do you remember the horse races?”

“Course I do.”

“Remember when I told you which horse I was betting on? You said he was the biggest nag on the track and had never won a race.”

“And you were too stubborn to listen.”

“I bet on the name, Prairie Sunset, because until I met you that sunset I saw in western Oklahoma was the loveliest vision I’d ever seen.”

* * *

Tonight, outside my kitchen window the wind chimes are singing, blown into full throaty sound by forty-mile-an-hour winds. When I stepped into the front yard and glanced skyward, I caught a glimpse of the vision John must have witnessed in western Oklahoma. Full glowing crimson, bordered by diffused azure painted the western skyline. Prairie dust, blown high by prevailing winds had created the resplendent scene.

Prairie dust, pixie dust, whatever! At that moment, I knew just how John Warren must have felt.

Fiction South

Hot Dogs and Cold Beer

I graduated from college years ago and have been successful and become wealthy in the oil industry. I often meet other wealthy oil people and rarely a week goes by that someone does not look me square in the eye and palm my hand in some secret fraternal handshake.

My parents demanded that my brother and I attend college. Neither of us really wanted to go, but they would have it no other way. It cost very little to attend a Louisiana state college at that time - seventy-four dollars per month, as I recall, for room and board, tuition, and books another three-hundred dollars, or so. It did not matter because my Dad was a construction worker. He had barely enough to send us to college; little remained for much else.

Brother Jack and I had no money to join social fraternities. Neither, consequently, did most of our friends. The frat rats, as we called them, wore the most expensive clothes, drove the finest cars, and had the best pedigrees and prettiest girlfriends. We couldn’t even afford ugly girlfriends. The rest of us were just the street curs, and it did not matter much who possessed the largest brain.

We are all social animals so Jack and I joined a ROTC precision drill team called the Fusileers. Other nerds, misfits and social throwbacks populated the Fusileers’ ranks, but every one of us, down the line, was a smarter-than-average individual.

The campus of NLSC was several miles from downtown Monroe and none of us had a car. The downtown movie theatre was a converted opera house and I remember watching many a movie there. Often, after studying well into the night, we would catch a bus and go downtown to a little hole-in-the-wall café called Coney Island Hotdogs. The owner was Greek and sold us a hotdog and cold beer for about thirty cents. We each usually had enough money for a couple of both.

People grow up and they change. My business partner is a former frat rat and he is a good and caring person. Still, every time someone grasps my hand in a secret fraternity handshake, I wonder if that person is sincere, maybe a bigot, or worse.

Me, I have never been anything but a common street cur, and I still love hot dogs and cold beer.

Fiction South

Fall Pics

Pics of some fall flowers and Fang napping.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Collective Consciousness and Cosmic Coincidences

A few nights ago, I strolled into the backyard with my two pugs, Princess and Scooter, and noticed a reddish star in the northeastern sky. At least I thought it was a star at first. The more I stared at it, the less I was sure.

The object seemed too big to be a star and appeared to be wiggling around in the sky as I focused my attention on it. Maybe it is a distant plane, I thought. It wasn’t, but I had it framed by the branches of a tree and my vision told me that it was moving.

It was dark, my eyes probably playing tricks on me. Still, it caused me to think about how our minds perceive what our eyes see. Tonight in the kitchen, I saw a shadow move across the opposite wall and immediately thought that it was my shadow. It was not in the correct spot to be my shadow and when I moved around, trying to duplicate it, I could not.

Going through a box of my Mother’s possessions a few days ago, I found a pillowcase embroidered with the emblem of the 8th Army Division, my Father’s division. My brother Jack visited today. When he saw the pillowcase, he commented that the 8th was the same division that he had served in when he was in the Army, a fact that I had not known.

“Dad’s last days in Germany were probably spent in the same town that I spent my first days in.”

“Funny,” I said. “My lottery number for Vietnam was thirty-eight, the same lottery number Dad had when he was drafted into the Army during World War II.”

The strange things I had recently experienced, and the coincidences reminded me of a review I just read of a book by Diane Hennacy Powell called The ESP Enigma. Far from a tarot card reader, Powell is a Johns Hopkins trained neuropsychiatrist. Rather than pooh-poohing psychic phenomena, Powell documents many stories that defy scientific explanation. The book sounds fascinating and I have ordered a copy.

French social theorist Emile Durkheim used the term “collective consciousness” to explain why societies maintain analogous, if not the exact same beliefs. Carl Jung had a similar, although slightly different concept – the “collective subconscious” that considers all humanity, our minds and memories hardwire into a common collective into which we all tap.

Perhaps they were both right. Maybe the strange things we cannot explain and the cosmic coincidences we all experience are simply a peek into a netherworld that few of us will ever understand.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Brain Pictures

My new science fiction fantasy The Fourth Harmonic takes place in the future, during a stark and foreboding time. Words can paint a vivid picture but I finally concluded that a few pencil drawings could put the icing on the cake. This is a fine idea except that I am no artist and I do not know anyone that is. Before giving up on my idea, I decided to check out the resources on the Web.

After a bit of searching, I discovered a fantastic website called Guru.com. The site is an intermediary between client and artists. After signing up with Guru, a simple process, I posted my project and had forty-two proposals in less than forty-eight hours. That is where my problems began.

All forty-two artists are wonderful. They provided samples of their work that I have pored over for the past two days. The fun really began when I started communicating with a possible candidate.

“I’d like to know what visions are in your head,” the artist said. “Can you draw a few sketches for me?”

Well nothing is easy.

Of course, I have pictures in my head of every character and every scene in the book, but transforming them to a picture on paper is well beyond my capabilities, at least in a final form that someone might actually enjoy seeing. Alas, tomorrow I will attempt to put a few of my brain pictures on paper. Maybe the artist can interpret the blobs.

Eric'sWeb

Mr. B's Gumbo Ya Ya - a weekend recipe

My second wife Anne and I ate at Mr. B’s on Royal Street for the first time shortly after its opening in 1979. The B in Mr. B’s stands for Brennan, a name synonymous with fine dining. I love the restaurant and I featured it in a scene in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds. Here is a recipe for their version of gumbo (oh yes, it is very good!) from their website.

Mr. B’s Gumbo Ya Ya

Making a roux is tricky business. Some pointers to keep in mind: cook your roux over moderately low heat because too high heat will cause the roux to speckle and if that happens you’ll have to throw it away and start over; add the flour gradually to the butter or oil; you must stir the roux constantly with a wooden spoon, your arm will get a workout; and never, but never leave your roux unattended.

This recipe makes a lot of gumbo, 6 quarts, so you’ll have enough for a big party or you can freeze some for later.

1 lb. (4 sticks) unsalted butter
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 red bell peppers, in medium dice
2 green bell peppers, in medium dice
2 medium onions, in medium dice
2 celery stalks, in medium dice
1 1/4 gallon (20 cups) chicken stock
2 tablespoons Creole seasoning
1 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 teaspoon dried hot red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon chili powder
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
2 bay leaves
2 tablespoons kosher salt
1 lb. andouille sausage, cut into 1/4 inch-thick slices
3 1/2 lb. chicken, roasted and boned
hot sauce to taste
boiled rice as accompaniment

In a 12-quart stockpot, melt butter over moderately low heat. Gradually add a third of the flour, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, and cook, stirring constantly, 30 seconds. Add a third more flour and stir constantly 30 seconds. Add remaining third of flour and stir constantly 30 seconds. Continue to cook roux, stirring constantly, until it is the color of dark mahogany, about 45 minutes to 1 hour.

Add bell peppers and stir constantly 30 seconds. Add onions and celery and stir constantly 30 seconds. Add the stock to roux, stirring constantly to prevent lumps. Add all remaining ingredients except chicken, rice, and hot sauce and bring to a boil. Simmer gumbo, uncovered, 45 minutes, skimming off any fat and stirring occasionally. Add chicken and simmer 15 minutes. Adjust seasoning with hot sauce. Serve over rice.Yield: about 6 quarts

CREOLE SEASONING

1 1/2 cups paprika
3/4 cup ground black pepper
1/2 cup kosher salt
1/3 cup granulated garlic
1/3 cup dried thyme
1/3 cup dried oregano
1/3 cup dried basil
1/4 cup granulated onion
1/4 cup cayenne

In a bowl, combine all ingredients. Store in an airtight container

Yield: 4 cups

Eric'sWeb

How Ya'll Are?

Most Americans remember Justin Wilson as the humorous host of a long-running Cajun cooking show hosted by PBS, a pioneer and innovator in cooking shows. Arriving on television a decade, or so before Emeril or Rachel Ray, he helped change our perception of chefs performing in that media. With Mardi Gras in full swing in Louisiana, it is time we recognized his immense cultural contribution to this country.

Before Justin Wilson became a celebrity chef with his own television show, he was a very successful stand-up comedian. He was also a great Cajun cook and combined these two diverse talents to create a humorous and entertaining performance rather than just another dull – at least for most of us - “dump and stir” cooking show.

The Food Network began in 1993 and eventually - and quite successfully - changed the dry and dull cooking show into engrossing entertainment. They did this by hiring great chefs that also had the talent and personality to turn their cooking segments into highly entertaining television episodes with millions of viewers. Justin Wilson was, at least in my mind, the prototype for today’s culinary superstars such as Emeril, Rachel and Bobby Flay.

I had never seen Justin Wilson perform in person, even though he had twenty or so comedy albums in circulation and was a legendary performer in Louisiana. A newspaper article helped change that for me. I was a partner at the time with longtime friend John K. John, like me, was from the south, and a fan of Justin Wilson’s humor. He, also, had never seen a live performance of the Cajun comedian. When we noticed a small article almost hidden in the back pages of the Daily Oklahoman, that all changed.

The article said that Justin Wilson would be performing at the local clubhouse of the Fraternal Order of Police. This event was not open to the public, only police officers invited. John and I decided to sneak into the performance.

Waiting until the show had started, we slipped in the backdoor of the FOP clubhouse. The place was crowded with police officers and I don’t mind telling you that my rear end was more than a little puckered. The large room was dark and crowded, people standing shoulder-to-shoulder to see and hear the show. We had a few stares in our direction as we slipped through the crowded room and found an empty spot against one of the walls.

Justin Wilson’s performance was great and well worth our risk – at least considering that we managed to slip back out the back door undetected before the overhead lights came on. The mood of the crowd was jovial - everyone dressed in their street clothes and off the beat for the night. Still, John and I breathed sighs of relief as we drove away, neither of us thinking about what might have happened if someone had asked who we were.

Justin Wilson was an educated man, an engineer, but he maintained a thick Cajun accent during his performances. He would ask the audience “How ya’ll are?” and like Emeril’s trademark “bam,” Wilson would always say “I gar-on-tee.” Considering the consequences of sneaking into the FOP hall to see the comedian, our actions were probably stupid and juvenile. Still, realizing now that it was probably our only chance of ever seeing Justin Wilson in concert, the risk was worth it. And that I gar-on-tee!

Gondwana

Tiny Yellow Louisiana Bird - a pic

A picture of a tiny yellow bird, species unknown, taken in Livingston, Louisiana by my friend Dave Beatty.

Eric'sWeb

Every Day Except Sunday

Marilyn and I recently spent the afternoon with a personal injury attorney. Four years after Marilyn being rear-ended, we finally settled the case today. Despite an injury, resulting in having three donor bones surgically implanted in her neck, and then a brain aneurysm that almost killed her she wound up with little more than her medical expenses paid.

The problem is Oklahoma. The reddest state in the Union is ultraconservative and rarely finds for the plaintiff, no matter what the injury. Despite the lack of satisfaction, we finally received closure, and we were happy to have the episode in our lives finally at an end. Our very colorful attorney (a very good one, I might add) regaled us with one last legal story. It is good enough that I need to share.

Seems our attorney’s parents-in-law were rear-ended and he represented them in the resultant lawsuit. One of the claims was loss of consortium, defined in law as the losing of conjugal services. Well, you know what I mean.

According to our attorney, in a deposition, the opposing attorney always tries to embarrass the man. This tactic, he said, can backfire in a trial. J’s mother-in-law was less than a handsome woman, and he confided that he could barely imagine her even having sex, much less enjoying it. J, our attorney held his breath as the opposing attorney grilled his father-in-law.

“Sir, I need to know how the wreck affected your sex life. Since the accident, how many times a week does you and your wife have sex?”

“Once,” J’s father-in-law, a man approaching seventy answered.

J’s mouth dropped when his wife’s dad answered the question about how many times they had sex before the accident.

J’s parent-in-laws were good Oklahoma Baptists, and his father-in-law answered, “Six - everyday except Sunday.”

J and his parent’s-in-law won their case, including the claim for loss of consortium. Still, considering his own marriage, he couldn’t help but think that he’d been robbed, as he and his wife (the plaintiff’s daughter) had never had sex six times in any week, much less every week.

Eric'sWeb

February Spirits

It is a windy beginning to the month here in Oklahoma. Except for the wind, the weather is fifty degrees and gorgeous. Marilyn and I went to Pearl's Graveside for their Cajun brunch. There was once a Pearl's Lakeside on the banks of Oklahoma City's Lake Hefner. This restaurant abuts a large graveyard, thus the spooky reference.

Marilyn and I usually sit at the bar and all the bartenders and wait staff know us. Some nights when the crowd is “dead,” spirits wander in from the nearby graveyard for a zombie, or bloody Mary, the pretty blonde bartender told us. She was not kidding!

The young bartender’s story got me thinking about the dating habits of spirits. Do they chase after other spirits and where do they go for happy hour? Hey, is there a happy hour in the beyond? I am working on a ghostly short story to help answer my questions on the subject. When I finish it, I will let you know.

Gondwana

Garden Penis - a pic

Here is a pic of a strange plant Marilyn found growing in one of our flower beds. Any one know what it is?

Gondwana Press

Lily's Cajun Coffee

My first wife’s family lived in Chalmette, a city south of New Orleans devastated by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Gail and I would often leave work at night from our respective menial jobs and drive to Chalmette for the weekend. We would enter the old wood-framed structure quietly and go to sleep in the empty bedroom in back. At five, our nightly rest always ended with the booming bass voice of a distant cousin named Admiral.

"Hey Harvey, you and Lily gonna sleep all morning?"

Gail’s parents, Lily and Harvey were already awake, although barely, and Lily would let Admiral into the kitchen (he always came in the back door) and start a pot of strong coffee. Lily did not use a modern coffee pot. She made hers in a simple drip pot that she heated on the open natural gas flame of her little stove. Like many Cajuns, she used a blend of coffee and chicory that produced a strong, aromatic brew. I still remember the aroma of Lily’s Cajun coffee.

Admiral’s voice was so deep and booming, it actually shook the walls. At least it felt that way after only four hours of sleep. Soon, Gail and I would succumb to the cacophony, and stories about Fats Domino we had all heard before. She would roll out of bed, put on her robe and tread down the hall to the kitchen. Finally, I would rub my eyes, take a big whiff of the coffee aroma wafting from the kitchen, and follow her.

Two wives later, I still love coffee, but in all my travels I have never had a cup as good as Lily brewed, or smelled that wonderful aroma that can revive you fully from a hard day’s work, a long drive, and only four hours of sleep.

Fiction South

Novels, Screenplays and Free Time

I have completed almost seventy-thousand words of my novel-in-progress Bones of Skeleton Creek, and probably have less than ten-thousand words to go. Problem is, I stalled out about thirty days ago and have been unable, or unwilling to complete the last few chapters, even though I already know the ending, or at least much of it. I got a possible hint as to the reason for my malaise while reading Screenplay, the foundations of Screenwriting, one of Syd Field’s books.

Called the Guru of Screenwriting, Field has launched more screenwriting careers than possibly anyone alive has. In his book, just one of many that he has written, he mentions that it is a common occurrence for his students to experience the same phenomenon as I when nearing the end of a screenplay. The reason, he says, is that your characters begin talking to you, often moving in directions and situations you never predicted. The writer begins enjoying his involvement and interaction with the characters to the extent that he (or she) does not want it to end. To this, I say amen.

Why am I reading a book on screenwriting? Every novelist should read Screenplay because Field offers lots of good advice on writing that transcends genre. Oh, and I had a call from a Hollywood producer asking if Big Easy’s movie rights were optioned.

“You had never written a book until you finished your first one,” he said when I protested that I knew nothing about writing a screenplay.

Hey, maybe the real reason that I am having trouble finishing Bones of Skeleton Creek is because there are only so many hours in a day, and many of mine now filled with the adaptation of Big Easy into a movie script.

Eric'sWeb

Crawfish Etouffee - a weekend recipe

Perhaps the quintessential dish served in the Big Easy is Etouffee, made with either shrimp or crawfish. There are as many variations of this dish, but here is my favorite:

■ ½-cup cooking oil
■ 2 cups finely chopped white onion
■ 1 large bell pepper, medium diced
■ 1 stalk of celery, medium diced
■ 2 cups whole tomatoes, mashed
■ 2 cups tomato juice
■ 1/4 cup lemon juice
■ 6 tablespoons roux
■ 2 tablespoons Worcestershire
■ 1/4 cup minced parsley
■ ½ cup chopped leaf of garlic, or green onion tops
■ 2 cloves of minced garlic
■ 1/4 tablespoon of red pepper
■ 1/4 tablespoon of salt, or to taste
■ 1/4 tablespoon of pepper, or to taste
■ 1 pound of cleaned and de-veined crawfish

Pour oil into a heavy skillet and sauté onions, bell pepper, and celery until limp. Do not overcook. Add tomatoes, tomato juice, lemon juice, roux and Worcestershire.

Bring to a boil, then reduce to medium hat and add parsley, garlic leaf, garlic cloves, red pepper, and salt and pepper. Cook for about five minutes, then add crawfish and cook for fifteen more minutes. Simmer until ready to serve. Over rice, this dish serves four.

Hey, and read my book Murder Etouffee for more recipes, southern short stories and a taste of the French Quarter.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Chalmette Retrospective

I visited New Orleans for the first time when I was eleven. My Aunt Carmol was an elementary school teacher. She made sure my brother and I saw every historical site, museum and park in the City. Having grown up in rural northwest Louisiana, New Orleans was the first cosmopolitan area I ever visited. It wasn’t the last, but it remains in my mind as the most unique city in the United States and perhaps the world.

My first visit wasn’t my last. As a college freshman, I marched in the Venus parade during Mardi Gras, experiencing Bourbon Street and the French Quarter for the first time as an adult - or at least close. Most of that particular visit was spent in a drunken haze, much in the manner of college students today visiting the City and savoring Mardi Gras for the first time.

I worked in the City once during summer break from college. My job title was assistant micro-photographic technician seismologist. From my salary of two dollars per hour, you can tell the description was a bit overblown, but it did look good on my resume. I bought my first camera, a 35 mm Yashica range finder, that year. New Orleans provided a plethora of scenic opportunities.

Shortly after that sweltering summer I married a girl from Chalmette, a city separated from New Orleans only by name. My marriage to Gail didn’t last but during our seven years together, I learned to love her French Acadian parents, Lily and Harvey, and her entire family. It’s a shame sometimes that you can’t divorce a wife and keep her family.

Gail had two brothers, four sisters and many aunts, uncles and cousins. Most were wonderful cooks but none better than Gail’s mother Lily was. No two pots of gumbo are ever exactly alike. I know because I’ve consumed my fair share. Taste, like I guess just about everything else, is subjective. That said, Lily’s gumbo was the best I ever tasted and, in my opinion, the best in the world.

Harvey, Gail’s father, was a cattleman and fur buyer. During trapping season, Harvey filled the shed behind his house with raw fur. He gave me a lesson once on how to grade a nutria pelt. Like calculus and religion, the lesson didn’t stick. One short story: Harvey and Lily once found six hundred dollars in cash in their deep freeze. Since trappers do not take Visa or MasterCard, Harvey always had large amounts of cash around the house.

They did not own a safe, so -.

Fiction South

Born To Be Wilder

I had just started a new job in 1976 and was undergoing a divorce from my first wife. With the divorce finally finalized, I found myself truly free for the first time in seven years.

I was already drinking and partying too much, so the only thing left for me was to buy a motorcycle. When Dave, a fellow geologist and my closest friend, told me he was going to put an ad for his motorcycle in the newspaper, I naturally asked him how much he wanted for it.

"Five hundred bucks," he told me.

"I'll take it, but you'll have to teach me how to drive it." I had never been on a motorcycle.

A lesser friend would have told me to go jump in the lake. Dave, in fact, did grumble a bit but in the end he promised to teach me how to ride a motorcycle, even if I didn't buy his motorcycle. That Saturday, he drove it to my house and gave me my first lesson. The bike was a 500cc Triumph dirt bike. I know! There is no such thing anymore and the bike would probably be worth ten grand these days if you could even find one. Anyway, Dave showed me the ropes and persevered until I finally got the hang of it.

I began riding the bike to work but soon found its knobby tires were more suited for off-road than freeway. I also soon learned that my ex-girlfriend was a better rider than me. I found this out as the reluctant passenger on back as she demonstrated how to race around a corner while nearly kissing the pavement. I traded the little dirt bike for a 750cc Triumph Bonneville street bike, quickly discovering the gears and brakes are on opposite sides than those on the dirt bike. Again, my bud Dave helped me transition through the difficulty.

My ex and I were unable to sell our house immediately so we took turns living in it until we sold it. One night, we had an impromptu party that included many of my new friends and many of hers. Do not ask me to explain! We were incompatible and did not hate each other. I soon began getting requests to take people for rides on the Bonneville.

The long trip around the block would begin as uneventful but ended the same way a half dozen times. The grass on the front lawn was wet and every time I jumped the curb and hit the grass, I would lose control and we would slide across the wet yards on our rear ends. Did I mention that we were all drinking?

No one was hurt and the Bonneville suffered only a few superficial scratches. I have a picture of the Bonneville around somewhere but only a memory exists - not even a tiny scar - of my first motorcycle. It is a shame because that cycle and friends like Dave helped me through a very rocky patch in my life.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

A Night at VZD's

VZD’s is a little cafe that I used to frequent when I had an office in Oklahoma City. I often stopped in after work for a little conversation and a drink or two. To say the bar is eclectic is stating a fact rather than a supposition. Once the location of Veasey’s Drugs, thus VZD, bottles and assorted paraphernalia remain on the north wall - old bottles, without the drugs anymore, thanks to an order by the DEA.

The rectangular bar, about the size of a small swimming pool, hosts around fifty customers comfortably, but many more than that often jam the premises. The walls match the atmosphere, always dark and smoky. A group of patrons seems to live there because they are always present every time I visit.

Dr. Pete, a PhD political pundit, James, a carpenter from Louisiana and, of course, Brian - the names changed to protect the innocent. Many other denizens populate the bar, mostly lawyers and politicians since VZD’s is close to the Capitol. When the business of Oklahoma law is in session, politicos pack the place every night.

Brian is a former cop turned landman, turned death examiner, turned embalmer and cremator. We had all partaken of several drinks as light outside the big picture window finally gave way to darkness. Brian got a phone call from a new client. He needed to pick up a body.

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll give you something to write about.”

It was getting late and pretty Miss Lilly had just shown us the latest addition to the colorful tattoo on her backside. Who was looking at the tattoo? In a state of black and tan-induced euphoria, I acquiesced to go with Brian.

We picked up Ruby, the very recently deceased person, at the hospital. “Let me do all the talking,” Brian said. “They’ll know you’re drunk and these people are already upset enough.”

I did not bother pointing out that he had as much to drink, or more, than I did.

The relatives dutifully left and we lifted the body of the old woman onto a gurney. Her eyes were open, along with her mouth, her body stiff but surprisingly still slightly warm. We drove her downtown to the crematorium.

I helped Brian put Ruby into cold storage, and then watched in surreal amazement as he rolled out the body of an old man, fired up the furnace and preceded to cremate the body. Later, he removed the metal from the ashes.

“Most everyone these days has metal screws and clamps from some surgery or other,” he explained.

We headed back to VZD’s. Along the way, in downtown Oklahoma City, Brian stopped at a construction site in the road. There was a hole in the street, covered with a yellow tarp.

“Are you down there?” Brian called out the window.

Someone answered, obviously distraught, obviously crying. “The police are trying to get rid of me.”

“Do you need something to eat?” Brian asked.

“I haven’t eaten in two days,” was the answer.

Brian and I drove around the block to a McDonald’s, near the exit to the interstate, and bought a Big Mac, fries and a soda. The person under the tarp took our offering with the show of only a slender arm, and was appreciative.

The night was not over. After returning to VZD’s, Brian received a call. Bob worked for a livery company, a company that supplies hearses, mostly Cadillac’s, to various funeral homes around town. He needed someone to drive him home after delivering a hearse. When Bob arrived at VZD’s, he had a hamburger and then we followed him and the hearse he drove, to a funeral home in Midwest City, a suburb of OKC.

When Brian, Bob and I finally returned to VZD, I was sober enough to make it home to Edmond, the night’s memory girded around my brain for months to come.

Fiction South