I’ve been working on some shallow gas wells in Noble County, Oklahoma lately. The area is wide open, with few farm houses and trees, and an absolutely huge sky that lends itself to numerous pictures. The sky is beautiful but even more interesting when you add some effects with your favorite photo editing software.
Being the software junkie that I am, I have a half-dozen or so photo editing programs. Tonight I was fiddling with an Oklahoma sky picture using Roxio Photo Suite because I like its filter set. What I created is a psychedelic version of an oil well tank battery back dropped by an anomalously red sky. The result is, well, psychedelic.
As I gazed at the picture I could almost imagine that the created picture was real and not contrived. The lens of a camera, after all, is similar to the human eye, the digital image it creates like a well-formed thought. It made me wonder if what I see is always the same as what the person beside me sees.
Just like the picture of the sky that I just modified with Photo Suite, my mind is capable of modifying everything I taste, see and hear. How do we know when it is telling the truth, and does it really matter anyway?
Fiction South
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Dog-Faced Man
Anne and I lived in an Oklahoma subdivision called Summerfield for a while. The house was tiny, but it had a small swimming pool and hot tub. It backed up to a creek alive with wildlife and we loved the place.
Summerfield was originally part of the Gaylord dairy farm, a pristine area just north of what was then Oklahoma City. Gaylord, founder of the Oklahoman, was one of the first Oklahoma millionaires and his family now owns The Grand Ole Opry.
Once the epitome of conservatism, the Oklahoman is now one of the finest newspapers in the United States. I read it every day and have for thirty years. So much for my commercial for the Oklahoman, an entity that does not need my paltry accolades.
Anyway, when I lived in Summerfield, I was an avid jogger. I had a three-mile course laid out which I ran practically every day. Part of it was on the west side of Lake Hefner, one of Oklahoma City’s water supplies, and it was then in an unpopulated area of the City.
I know this is strange, but this is true. When I jogged along the river path, I often saw a very strange person. Hair covered his entire face and he looked like Lon Chaney in the Werewolf. I kid you not! I described him to Anne and called him the dog-faced man.
This person was smaller than I was but he still frightened me. Once I encountered him urinating in the bushes. I am not making any of this up!
I do not really know where I am going with this except to say there are strange things around us every day that we often overlook, or never tell anyone else because we will feel like fools and think no one will believe us.
Yes, Virginia, there is a dog-faced man, and he lives in Oklahoma City.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Summerfield was originally part of the Gaylord dairy farm, a pristine area just north of what was then Oklahoma City. Gaylord, founder of the Oklahoman, was one of the first Oklahoma millionaires and his family now owns The Grand Ole Opry.
Once the epitome of conservatism, the Oklahoman is now one of the finest newspapers in the United States. I read it every day and have for thirty years. So much for my commercial for the Oklahoman, an entity that does not need my paltry accolades.
Anyway, when I lived in Summerfield, I was an avid jogger. I had a three-mile course laid out which I ran practically every day. Part of it was on the west side of Lake Hefner, one of Oklahoma City’s water supplies, and it was then in an unpopulated area of the City.
I know this is strange, but this is true. When I jogged along the river path, I often saw a very strange person. Hair covered his entire face and he looked like Lon Chaney in the Werewolf. I kid you not! I described him to Anne and called him the dog-faced man.
This person was smaller than I was but he still frightened me. Once I encountered him urinating in the bushes. I am not making any of this up!
I do not really know where I am going with this except to say there are strange things around us every day that we often overlook, or never tell anyone else because we will feel like fools and think no one will believe us.
Yes, Virginia, there is a dog-faced man, and he lives in Oklahoma City.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Monday, July 27, 2009
Shotguns and Bloody Noses
Five years of age sounds sort of young, but I started the first grade, learned to read and shot my first gun when I was five.
During visits to my grandparents in Cass County, Texas, my Dad would often take his shotgun and go hunting. He rarely returned with any game and was probably just trying to get a little peace and quiet. One Sunday, Brother Jack and I raised a ruckus until Dad took us with him. We followed him, single file, into the woods. Feeling confident I began begging him to let me shoot the big gun.
Dad's Uncle Jim had given him the loud old twelve-gauge shotgun that packed quiet a punch."You're too little to shoot it," he told me.
"I can do it," I begged.
"Okay," he finally said, handing me the gun that was longer than me. "Hold it tight against your shoulder, point it that way and squeeze the trigger real slow."
I found the shotgun big and heavy, and much too long to wedge its butt against my right armpit. Instead, I had to allow most of the stock to protrude behind my back. When I jerked the trigger, things happened faster than I could handle. The blast blew the gun out of my grasp after hitting me in the face and bloodying my nose.
My old man could hardly stop laughing, along with Brother Jack. He finally yanked me up off the ground, wiped my bloody nose with his handkerchief, and then retrieved his gun. I was crying then, but I got the last laugh.My Dad was an only son, my Grandma adored him. It didn't matter. When we returned to the farmhouse, she saw the blood caked on my face and shirt, and my rapidly swelling eye, and began giving old Dad pure Holy Hell. My mother, hearing the ruckus, quickly joined the fray.
The rest of the day, I basked in the attention heaped upon me by Mother and Grandma. Maybe I felt just a wee bit guilty at the abuse heaped on Dad, but I didn't feel a whit bad about my jealous brother. The attention I reveled in quickly wore off, and I was soon again just little Eric. It didn't matter. I had shot Dad's gun before big brother had. To this day, that moment of elation has never left me.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
During visits to my grandparents in Cass County, Texas, my Dad would often take his shotgun and go hunting. He rarely returned with any game and was probably just trying to get a little peace and quiet. One Sunday, Brother Jack and I raised a ruckus until Dad took us with him. We followed him, single file, into the woods. Feeling confident I began begging him to let me shoot the big gun.
Dad's Uncle Jim had given him the loud old twelve-gauge shotgun that packed quiet a punch."You're too little to shoot it," he told me.
"I can do it," I begged.
"Okay," he finally said, handing me the gun that was longer than me. "Hold it tight against your shoulder, point it that way and squeeze the trigger real slow."
I found the shotgun big and heavy, and much too long to wedge its butt against my right armpit. Instead, I had to allow most of the stock to protrude behind my back. When I jerked the trigger, things happened faster than I could handle. The blast blew the gun out of my grasp after hitting me in the face and bloodying my nose.
My old man could hardly stop laughing, along with Brother Jack. He finally yanked me up off the ground, wiped my bloody nose with his handkerchief, and then retrieved his gun. I was crying then, but I got the last laugh.My Dad was an only son, my Grandma adored him. It didn't matter. When we returned to the farmhouse, she saw the blood caked on my face and shirt, and my rapidly swelling eye, and began giving old Dad pure Holy Hell. My mother, hearing the ruckus, quickly joined the fray.
The rest of the day, I basked in the attention heaped upon me by Mother and Grandma. Maybe I felt just a wee bit guilty at the abuse heaped on Dad, but I didn't feel a whit bad about my jealous brother. The attention I reveled in quickly wore off, and I was soon again just little Eric. It didn't matter. I had shot Dad's gun before big brother had. To this day, that moment of elation has never left me.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Hoodooed in Oklahoma
I came home early this afternoon because Marilyn had left for Ardmore earlier today to pick up our daughter Kate. My new pup Princess had been alone inside the house for a while and I wanted to give her a potty break. When I opened the back door I got a big surprise. A large snake dropped down from somewhere above me and landed directly at my feet.
The snake was as startled as I was. It started into the house but turned away when I emitted a yelp. I know what you’re thinking but no, it wasn’t a scream, just a mild yelp. It was enough however to cause Mr. or Mrs. Snake, whichever the case might be, to think better of joining me inside.
The reptile was about three feet long and had a maximum diameter of about two inches. It had no rattler and looked to me like a garden variety snake, maybe a king snake. It was black and had several red stripes the length of its back and sides. Whatever kind of snake it was, I watched from a distance as it crawled away into the grass and disappeared.
I’ve been wondering ever since Mr. or Mrs. Reptile dropped by for a visit (yes, I know, bad pun) what it was doing above my door. I inspected the area carefully but found no evidence that someone had played a prank on me. It didn’t come from the roof because the patio on the back of our house is covered.
The snake and I both had quite a start and the incident made me think of voodoo priestess Mama Mulate from my French Quarter mystery Big Easy. Mama wouldn’t hoodoo me. I created her for heavens sake! Still, maybe I crossed somebody out there and they hired a local mambo or houngan to teach me a lesson.
Nah! No one practices voodoo in Edmond America. Or do they?
Fiction South
The snake was as startled as I was. It started into the house but turned away when I emitted a yelp. I know what you’re thinking but no, it wasn’t a scream, just a mild yelp. It was enough however to cause Mr. or Mrs. Snake, whichever the case might be, to think better of joining me inside.
The reptile was about three feet long and had a maximum diameter of about two inches. It had no rattler and looked to me like a garden variety snake, maybe a king snake. It was black and had several red stripes the length of its back and sides. Whatever kind of snake it was, I watched from a distance as it crawled away into the grass and disappeared.
I’ve been wondering ever since Mr. or Mrs. Reptile dropped by for a visit (yes, I know, bad pun) what it was doing above my door. I inspected the area carefully but found no evidence that someone had played a prank on me. It didn’t come from the roof because the patio on the back of our house is covered.
The snake and I both had quite a start and the incident made me think of voodoo priestess Mama Mulate from my French Quarter mystery Big Easy. Mama wouldn’t hoodoo me. I created her for heavens sake! Still, maybe I crossed somebody out there and they hired a local mambo or houngan to teach me a lesson.
Nah! No one practices voodoo in Edmond America. Or do they?
Fiction South
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Caddo Lake and Big Cypress Bayou Bridge
Here are four pics of Caddo Lake and the Big Cypress Bayou bridge. All were shot on the Texas side of the lake.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Oysters Rockefeller - a recipe
Antoine’s is just one of many wonderful restaurants in New Orleans but it is universally accepted as the one that created the recipe for Oysters Rockefeller. Marilyn was lucky enough to find a difficult to find edition of Antoine’s Restaurant – since 1840 Cookbook published in 1979 and written by Roy F. Guste, Jr., a fifth generation proprietor of the fabled restaurant. Antoine’s recipe for Oysters Rockefeller is a secret but Guste, Jr. provides some insight into its creation.
According to Guste, Jr. the recipe for Oysters Rockefeller was created by Jules Alciatore, his Great-Grandfather. Snails from Europe were in short supply at the time. Unlike snails, oysters were abundant in New Orleans but almost no one had experimented with eating them. Alciatore concocted a sauce that was so rich and magnificent that he named it after John Rockefeller, one of the richest men in the world at the time. Guste, Jr. estimated that the restaurant had already served more than three and a half million servings by 1979.
Guste, Jr. went on to say that “As many times as I have seen recipes printed in books and articles, I can honestly say that I have never found the original outside of Antoine’s.”
This is likely true as recipes are many for the fabled dish. Here is the best version of the dish that I could find, at http://www.gumbopages.com/food/app/erstas-rock.html. Check out this site as it features even more history on the recipe. To taste the real thing, you’ll still have to visit the Big Easy.
Oysters Rockefeller
Two dozen fresh oysters on the half shell, oyster liquor reserved
4 springs flat-leaf Italian parsley
4 green onions (including the green part)
A handful of fresh celery leaves
At least 6 fresh tarragon leaves
At least 6 fresh chervil leaves
1/2 cup dried fresh French bread crumbs (homemade, not out of a can)
12 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened (hey, it's supposed to be "rich enough for Rockefeller"!) Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Tabasco or Crystal hot sauce, to taste
2 tablespoons Herbsaint or Pernod (optional)
Rock salt or kosher salt
Mince together the parsley, green onions, celery leaves, tarragon and chervil as finely as you possibly can. Take as much time as you need. Mince them more finely than anything you've ever minced in your life. Mix this together with the bread crumbs and the softened butter into a mortar and mix the whole thing together into a smooth paste, but do leave a little texture to it.
(You can do this in a blender or food processor, but you'll leave a lot of it behind, stuck to the inside, and it'll be just easier to do it by hand in a mortar; you'll have an easier time getting it all out, and you'll have the satisfaction of serving something truly hand-made.) Season to taste with salt and pepper, Tabasco or Crystal and, if you like, the Herbsaint.
Preheat your broiler. Lower the top rack to the middle of the oven. Spread the rock salt (preferable) or kosher salt over a large baking sheet; this will keep the oysters level under the broiler, so that they won't tip over. Moisten the salt very slightly. Plant the shells in the salt, making sure they're level. Place one oyster in each shell, plus a little bit of oyster liquor. Spoon an equal amount of the prepared herb/butter mixture over each oyster.
Place the baking sheet on the middle rack and broil until the edges of the oysters have curled and the herb butter is bubbling, about five minutes. Watch carefully to make sure you don't overdo it. Serve immediately.
YIELD: Six servings of four oysters each (regular people-sized serving), or four servings of six oysters each (New Orleanian-sized serving)
Louisiana Mystery Writer
According to Guste, Jr. the recipe for Oysters Rockefeller was created by Jules Alciatore, his Great-Grandfather. Snails from Europe were in short supply at the time. Unlike snails, oysters were abundant in New Orleans but almost no one had experimented with eating them. Alciatore concocted a sauce that was so rich and magnificent that he named it after John Rockefeller, one of the richest men in the world at the time. Guste, Jr. estimated that the restaurant had already served more than three and a half million servings by 1979.
Guste, Jr. went on to say that “As many times as I have seen recipes printed in books and articles, I can honestly say that I have never found the original outside of Antoine’s.”
This is likely true as recipes are many for the fabled dish. Here is the best version of the dish that I could find, at http://www.gumbopages.com/food/app/erstas-rock.html. Check out this site as it features even more history on the recipe. To taste the real thing, you’ll still have to visit the Big Easy.
Oysters Rockefeller
Two dozen fresh oysters on the half shell, oyster liquor reserved
4 springs flat-leaf Italian parsley
4 green onions (including the green part)
A handful of fresh celery leaves
At least 6 fresh tarragon leaves
At least 6 fresh chervil leaves
1/2 cup dried fresh French bread crumbs (homemade, not out of a can)
12 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened (hey, it's supposed to be "rich enough for Rockefeller"!) Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Tabasco or Crystal hot sauce, to taste
2 tablespoons Herbsaint or Pernod (optional)
Rock salt or kosher salt
Mince together the parsley, green onions, celery leaves, tarragon and chervil as finely as you possibly can. Take as much time as you need. Mince them more finely than anything you've ever minced in your life. Mix this together with the bread crumbs and the softened butter into a mortar and mix the whole thing together into a smooth paste, but do leave a little texture to it.
(You can do this in a blender or food processor, but you'll leave a lot of it behind, stuck to the inside, and it'll be just easier to do it by hand in a mortar; you'll have an easier time getting it all out, and you'll have the satisfaction of serving something truly hand-made.) Season to taste with salt and pepper, Tabasco or Crystal and, if you like, the Herbsaint.
Preheat your broiler. Lower the top rack to the middle of the oven. Spread the rock salt (preferable) or kosher salt over a large baking sheet; this will keep the oysters level under the broiler, so that they won't tip over. Moisten the salt very slightly. Plant the shells in the salt, making sure they're level. Place one oyster in each shell, plus a little bit of oyster liquor. Spoon an equal amount of the prepared herb/butter mixture over each oyster.
Place the baking sheet on the middle rack and broil until the edges of the oysters have curled and the herb butter is bubbling, about five minutes. Watch carefully to make sure you don't overdo it. Serve immediately.
YIELD: Six servings of four oysters each (regular people-sized serving), or four servings of six oysters each (New Orleanian-sized serving)
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Love in a Time of Angst
Most colleges and universities require that geology students complete a summer course in the elements of field geology, i.e. surface mapping, plane table and alidade and use of Brunton Compass. I was a sophomore when I took my field course at Northeast Louisiana’s camp near Batesville, Arkansas. For you NASCAR fans, Batesville is the hometown of racer Mark Martin.
I’ve already chronicled many of the adventures – or more likely misadventures – that happened during my time at field camp. This story is neither, more like a sad tale of one of those lifetime opportunities that you somehow let slip through your fingers and have regretted it ever since.
My mapping partner, Russell B. and I were working a quadrangle twenty or so miles out of Batesville. The field camp lay square atop the Ozark Uplift, a wonderfully scenic cluster of gently rolling hills topped with stunning sea green vegetation. The terrain reminded me of the Austrian Alps in the movie, Sound of Music. Russell was similarly affected one particular afternoon.
We were finished with our mapping for the day and heading down the road to where Professor D and his field assistant awaited with the vehicles. My partner threw down his mapping board, extended his arms in a Shirley Andrews imitation and began singing the hills are alive with the sound of music, his voice raised in his best basso rendition.
“Russell, you are a scream,” I said, realizing his spontaneous outburst provided us both with a momentary release from the heat, humidity and mosquitoes.
“We’ll both be screaming if we don’t make it back to the cars by three.”
“Dr. D’s never left anyone up here.”
“Not yet,” he said.
He was right. Both of us had already had an encounter with Dr. D, suffering the lecturing attack of his sharp tongue, and threat of an impending zero on this particular portion of field camp. Neither of us wanting to suffer Dr. D’s wrath again, we double-timed our way to the County blacktop – just as a green Ford Pickup truck came tooling down the road. Rather than flying past, the truck braked to a stop in front of us.
It was in the days before serial killers and mass murderers. And besides, we’d seen the truck and its driver several times before as it passed us on the blacktop. Russell and I sprinted forward in anticipation of a ride down the road to where Dr. D and the other students awaited, and meeting the driver that had also seen us a time or two as we worked our way down the road.
The driver was a pretty blonde young lady, her smile as broad and friendly as she was double gorgeous. “You boys need a ride?” she asked, her words as twangy as a Dobro played with a slide formed from the neck of a Budweiser bottle.
“You bet we do,” I said, tossing my map board in the truck bed and sliding in next to her before Russell had a chance to beat me to it.
Russell followed, his miffed expression telling me how unhappy he was about being taken advantage of. I had no time to worry about his appearance of utter hurt as I was too busy ogling the young woman sitting so close to me that I could feel the warmth of her legs.
Did I already mention that she was gorgeous? She was, with flawless skin wonderfully tanned by a friendly Arkansas sun, big flashing eyes the color of an Irish vale in springtime, and teeth that reminded me of a perfect strand of pearls.
Oh, and what a bod! A shapely pair of tanned legs protruded from cutoff blue jeans whose frayed hemline provided little more cover than a bikini bottom, and twice as sexy. My vivid imagination informed me that she was also panty-less. Maybe, but I didn’t care. Her blouse was one of those low-cut, braless strap-arounds so popular at the time. I must have been staring – I know that I was drooling – because Russell elbowed me sharply in the ribs.
“I’m Susan Love,” she said, her coy smile indicating that she hoped I was getting an eyeful. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Russ and this is Eric,” Russell said, reaching across my chest to shake Susan’s hand.
“I’ve seen you two up on the mountain. You’re college boys, aren’t you?”
We both smiled and nodded, Susan’s nuance indicating that she thought our studenthood a good thing.
“There’s an old quarry filled with water up in the hills. I’m going swimming there with some of my girlfriends. You boys want to come along?”
I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter of three. Realizing the consequences of failing to return to the cars by departure time was tantamount to failing the course and I said, “We have to get back to the camp but we’ll be back here tomorrow. Can we go then?”
Susan just shook her pretty head. “Sometimes we go skinny-dipping. Sure you boys can’t make it today?”
By this time, Russell and I were both blubbering. Susan’s smile told us she knew it and fully understood her physical control over us. There were parts of me that craved to go with her. Well, at least one part, but I couldn’t and I knew that Russell felt the same. We had obligations to fulfill, parents to appease.
Russell was begging when he said, “There’s nothing in the world we’d rather do than go swimming with you and your girlfriends but we’ll flunk if we do. Can’t we meet you tomorrow?”
Wielding her power, Susan just grinned and shook her head. “Maybe I’ll see you boys on the road again, or in town at the ice cream place.”
Lovely Susan let us off at the geology cars, our only consolation the envious looks of the other students as we climbed out of the truck. We visited the ice cream place in Batesville several times that summer but we never saw Susan again, either there or on the road.
Years have passed since that summer in Arkansas but I can still feel the palpable warmth of Susan’s thighs next to mine and still remember the unfulfilled promise in her sexy smile. But hey, at least I made a C in field geology.
Eric'sWeb
I’ve already chronicled many of the adventures – or more likely misadventures – that happened during my time at field camp. This story is neither, more like a sad tale of one of those lifetime opportunities that you somehow let slip through your fingers and have regretted it ever since.
My mapping partner, Russell B. and I were working a quadrangle twenty or so miles out of Batesville. The field camp lay square atop the Ozark Uplift, a wonderfully scenic cluster of gently rolling hills topped with stunning sea green vegetation. The terrain reminded me of the Austrian Alps in the movie, Sound of Music. Russell was similarly affected one particular afternoon.
We were finished with our mapping for the day and heading down the road to where Professor D and his field assistant awaited with the vehicles. My partner threw down his mapping board, extended his arms in a Shirley Andrews imitation and began singing the hills are alive with the sound of music, his voice raised in his best basso rendition.
“Russell, you are a scream,” I said, realizing his spontaneous outburst provided us both with a momentary release from the heat, humidity and mosquitoes.
“We’ll both be screaming if we don’t make it back to the cars by three.”
“Dr. D’s never left anyone up here.”
“Not yet,” he said.
He was right. Both of us had already had an encounter with Dr. D, suffering the lecturing attack of his sharp tongue, and threat of an impending zero on this particular portion of field camp. Neither of us wanting to suffer Dr. D’s wrath again, we double-timed our way to the County blacktop – just as a green Ford Pickup truck came tooling down the road. Rather than flying past, the truck braked to a stop in front of us.
It was in the days before serial killers and mass murderers. And besides, we’d seen the truck and its driver several times before as it passed us on the blacktop. Russell and I sprinted forward in anticipation of a ride down the road to where Dr. D and the other students awaited, and meeting the driver that had also seen us a time or two as we worked our way down the road.
The driver was a pretty blonde young lady, her smile as broad and friendly as she was double gorgeous. “You boys need a ride?” she asked, her words as twangy as a Dobro played with a slide formed from the neck of a Budweiser bottle.
“You bet we do,” I said, tossing my map board in the truck bed and sliding in next to her before Russell had a chance to beat me to it.
Russell followed, his miffed expression telling me how unhappy he was about being taken advantage of. I had no time to worry about his appearance of utter hurt as I was too busy ogling the young woman sitting so close to me that I could feel the warmth of her legs.
Did I already mention that she was gorgeous? She was, with flawless skin wonderfully tanned by a friendly Arkansas sun, big flashing eyes the color of an Irish vale in springtime, and teeth that reminded me of a perfect strand of pearls.
Oh, and what a bod! A shapely pair of tanned legs protruded from cutoff blue jeans whose frayed hemline provided little more cover than a bikini bottom, and twice as sexy. My vivid imagination informed me that she was also panty-less. Maybe, but I didn’t care. Her blouse was one of those low-cut, braless strap-arounds so popular at the time. I must have been staring – I know that I was drooling – because Russell elbowed me sharply in the ribs.
“I’m Susan Love,” she said, her coy smile indicating that she hoped I was getting an eyeful. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Russ and this is Eric,” Russell said, reaching across my chest to shake Susan’s hand.
“I’ve seen you two up on the mountain. You’re college boys, aren’t you?”
We both smiled and nodded, Susan’s nuance indicating that she thought our studenthood a good thing.
“There’s an old quarry filled with water up in the hills. I’m going swimming there with some of my girlfriends. You boys want to come along?”
I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter of three. Realizing the consequences of failing to return to the cars by departure time was tantamount to failing the course and I said, “We have to get back to the camp but we’ll be back here tomorrow. Can we go then?”
Susan just shook her pretty head. “Sometimes we go skinny-dipping. Sure you boys can’t make it today?”
By this time, Russell and I were both blubbering. Susan’s smile told us she knew it and fully understood her physical control over us. There were parts of me that craved to go with her. Well, at least one part, but I couldn’t and I knew that Russell felt the same. We had obligations to fulfill, parents to appease.
Russell was begging when he said, “There’s nothing in the world we’d rather do than go swimming with you and your girlfriends but we’ll flunk if we do. Can’t we meet you tomorrow?”
Wielding her power, Susan just grinned and shook her head. “Maybe I’ll see you boys on the road again, or in town at the ice cream place.”
Lovely Susan let us off at the geology cars, our only consolation the envious looks of the other students as we climbed out of the truck. We visited the ice cream place in Batesville several times that summer but we never saw Susan again, either there or on the road.
Years have passed since that summer in Arkansas but I can still feel the palpable warmth of Susan’s thighs next to mine and still remember the unfulfilled promise in her sexy smile. But hey, at least I made a C in field geology.
Eric'sWeb
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Gold is Where You Find It
I had intended to put up a short story on the blog tonight, a ghostly tale set in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Fate got in the way and instead I’m writing about something totally different. Perhaps it still involves a ghost.
Frequent readers to Musings know that a horrible computer virus all but disabled me for the past week. First, it took out my laptop. When I transferred files to my desktop it took that computer out also. I’ve had computer viruses before but this one Antivirus XP 2008 is by far the worst. Hey, and my TV sets were also on the blink this week.
I got one of my computers back on line today, as well as my TV sets and like millions of other fans I began watching Olympic coverage from Beijing. I had meant to do something else as I watched the beginning of the women’s marathon but I was soon hooked and I watched it until the end.
I am a huge fan of racing. I follow everything from NASCAR, to Iditarod and Tour de France, to the Triple Crown. I also love track and field and think the marathon is the single-most difficult event in the Olympics. The race I witnessed tonight convinced me of that.
The race started at a very mundane pace, no one wanting to break away from the pack. The race was more than an hour old before thirty-eight year old Constantina Tomescu-Dita began stepping up the pace. I continued to watch with rapt attention as Tomescu-Dita entered the Olympic stadium to a cheering crowd. Falter she did not.
Tomescu-Dita is now the oldest-ever winner of the women’s marathon. The best was yet to come. As I began watching the swimming coverage, I set amazed as Dara Torres at forty-one years of age won a silver medal in her last individual race. Minutes later she anchored the 400 Meter Medley for yet another Silver medal.
The excitement wasn’t over. I watched Michael Phelps set Olympic history by winning his eighth gold medal in the 400 Medley Relay. The hero wasn’t Michael but the thirty-two year old Jason Lezak. He anchored the world record-setting race.
I had my ghost experience when I went to the utility room to feed my hounds and kitties. On the floor was a neckerchief – one of my neckerchiefs. I quit jogging about ten years ago but when I jogged I always wore a neckerchief around my neck. I don’t have a clue where this one came from but it was mine, and it was knotted for action.
As I peck out this story tonight, I wonder about the mystery neckerchief, where it came from, and what the message means. As I ponder the mystery, Dara Torres’ words rattle in my head. Forty-one year old Torres said “Don’t put an age limit on your dreams.”
I’m a baby boomer. I was a hippie in the sixties and served in Vietnam. Still, I believe my best days are still ahead and tomorrow I’m going to hit the track. Will I win gold or set a world record? You bet I will!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Frequent readers to Musings know that a horrible computer virus all but disabled me for the past week. First, it took out my laptop. When I transferred files to my desktop it took that computer out also. I’ve had computer viruses before but this one Antivirus XP 2008 is by far the worst. Hey, and my TV sets were also on the blink this week.
I got one of my computers back on line today, as well as my TV sets and like millions of other fans I began watching Olympic coverage from Beijing. I had meant to do something else as I watched the beginning of the women’s marathon but I was soon hooked and I watched it until the end.
I am a huge fan of racing. I follow everything from NASCAR, to Iditarod and Tour de France, to the Triple Crown. I also love track and field and think the marathon is the single-most difficult event in the Olympics. The race I witnessed tonight convinced me of that.
The race started at a very mundane pace, no one wanting to break away from the pack. The race was more than an hour old before thirty-eight year old Constantina Tomescu-Dita began stepping up the pace. I continued to watch with rapt attention as Tomescu-Dita entered the Olympic stadium to a cheering crowd. Falter she did not.
Tomescu-Dita is now the oldest-ever winner of the women’s marathon. The best was yet to come. As I began watching the swimming coverage, I set amazed as Dara Torres at forty-one years of age won a silver medal in her last individual race. Minutes later she anchored the 400 Meter Medley for yet another Silver medal.
The excitement wasn’t over. I watched Michael Phelps set Olympic history by winning his eighth gold medal in the 400 Medley Relay. The hero wasn’t Michael but the thirty-two year old Jason Lezak. He anchored the world record-setting race.
I had my ghost experience when I went to the utility room to feed my hounds and kitties. On the floor was a neckerchief – one of my neckerchiefs. I quit jogging about ten years ago but when I jogged I always wore a neckerchief around my neck. I don’t have a clue where this one came from but it was mine, and it was knotted for action.
As I peck out this story tonight, I wonder about the mystery neckerchief, where it came from, and what the message means. As I ponder the mystery, Dara Torres’ words rattle in my head. Forty-one year old Torres said “Don’t put an age limit on your dreams.”
I’m a baby boomer. I was a hippie in the sixties and served in Vietnam. Still, I believe my best days are still ahead and tomorrow I’m going to hit the track. Will I win gold or set a world record? You bet I will!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Gimme a Shot, Doc!
I was deleting spam from my email address this morning when an errant program appeared on my computer screen. It was a program call Super Virus Scan 2008 and it began scanning my computer. Before I could say scat the rogue program reported to me that I had a bezillion spy ware objects on my computer and the only way to remove them was to go to the rogue program’s website, purchase their software and use it to clean their virus off my computer.
This didn’t sit very well with me. I’m not very bright but I wasn’t born yesterday. Giving my credit card to a company that had just purposely infected my computer was something that wasn’t going to happen. Well, it’s almost nine P.M. and the infection is still on my computer despite my best efforts to correct the situation.
I’m writing my new novel on this computer and it is where my website and blog information is located. I have the info backed up to an external hard drive but I suspect that it is also infected with Monsieur Virus. What to do, what to do?
Irritating? No way! It is nothing less than maddening to have someone obviously more knowledgeable than I am to take control of something that is almost an extension of my hands, and certainly my brain. Maybe I should go back to a standard typewriter but at which junk store would I buy one. Even if I had a Remington Selectric, where would I find someone to clean and service it? Hey! And things didn’t go very well at the office today either.
Fiction South
This didn’t sit very well with me. I’m not very bright but I wasn’t born yesterday. Giving my credit card to a company that had just purposely infected my computer was something that wasn’t going to happen. Well, it’s almost nine P.M. and the infection is still on my computer despite my best efforts to correct the situation.
I’m writing my new novel on this computer and it is where my website and blog information is located. I have the info backed up to an external hard drive but I suspect that it is also infected with Monsieur Virus. What to do, what to do?
Irritating? No way! It is nothing less than maddening to have someone obviously more knowledgeable than I am to take control of something that is almost an extension of my hands, and certainly my brain. Maybe I should go back to a standard typewriter but at which junk store would I buy one. Even if I had a Remington Selectric, where would I find someone to clean and service it? Hey! And things didn’t go very well at the office today either.
Fiction South
Monday, July 20, 2009
Pinball Geologist
I never had much money when I was pursuing my undergraduate degree. You didn’t really need a lot because the cost of an advanced education in the 60s was far less than it is today. As I remember, tuition, room and board at what was then Northeast Louisiana State College was only seventy-four dollars a month.
We had a wonderful student center complete with snack bar, pool tables and pinball machines. I was never very good at pool but I was a wizard when it came to pinball. The games in those days were all mechanical (as opposed to digital - either not yet invented or else too expensive for common use) and cost only a nickel to play (five games for a quarter).
Every college student had an angle and when it came to pinball the angle was this: a skilled and lucky player might win a hundred games. Four players could play at a time so he would charge his three challengers a total of fifteen cents to punch off four games. If one of the players also won games then he (mostly always a he) would split the take until all the games were played. A skilled pinball player could support his pinball habit while making a few extra spending bucks every day. And yes, pinball was an addiction.
I was a great pinball player but a horrible business man and even worse con man (you had to be a little of both to really make money at pinball). I usually ended up sharing my free games with buddies, and my brother Jack who was a needy (and I use the word kindly) pinball player.
During the last oil boom I was lucky enough to own a couple of analog pinball machines, including Aztec, possibly the greatest pinball machine ever created. Like the oil bust my machines went the way of my money – gone and might as well forgotten. Oh well! It was fun while it lasted.
I somehow managed to graduate from Northeast after four or so years but to this day I know more about pinball than geology (my college major). What a career move! They don’t even have analog pinball machines now and any self respecting ten year old (male or female) can whip my butt on Wii. Let ‘em try it on Aztec though and I’ll teach the young pups a lesson they’ll never forget.
Fiction South
We had a wonderful student center complete with snack bar, pool tables and pinball machines. I was never very good at pool but I was a wizard when it came to pinball. The games in those days were all mechanical (as opposed to digital - either not yet invented or else too expensive for common use) and cost only a nickel to play (five games for a quarter).
Every college student had an angle and when it came to pinball the angle was this: a skilled and lucky player might win a hundred games. Four players could play at a time so he would charge his three challengers a total of fifteen cents to punch off four games. If one of the players also won games then he (mostly always a he) would split the take until all the games were played. A skilled pinball player could support his pinball habit while making a few extra spending bucks every day. And yes, pinball was an addiction.
I was a great pinball player but a horrible business man and even worse con man (you had to be a little of both to really make money at pinball). I usually ended up sharing my free games with buddies, and my brother Jack who was a needy (and I use the word kindly) pinball player.
During the last oil boom I was lucky enough to own a couple of analog pinball machines, including Aztec, possibly the greatest pinball machine ever created. Like the oil bust my machines went the way of my money – gone and might as well forgotten. Oh well! It was fun while it lasted.
I somehow managed to graduate from Northeast after four or so years but to this day I know more about pinball than geology (my college major). What a career move! They don’t even have analog pinball machines now and any self respecting ten year old (male or female) can whip my butt on Wii. Let ‘em try it on Aztec though and I’ll teach the young pups a lesson they’ll never forget.
Fiction South
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Drinking With the Locals
After spreading Anne’s ashes, Angela and I stayed another night on Cape Cod before returning to Boston. We stopped for dinner in Salem, Massachusetts (at least I think it was Salem. I wasn’t very coherent at the time) and met some very friendly folks.
I don’t remember the name of the restaurant but it was in a two-storied wood-framed building that overlooked the bay. Angela and I went upstairs to a room that featured a large picture window affording a wonderful view of the boats moored in the marina. The bar wrapped around in a 360 degree oval and was manned by a friendly waiter that introduced himself as Matt. Affable darkness draped the room with comforting shadows.
At least twenty-five feet long, the bar was expansive enough to seat fifty patrons. It was nearly empty but we weren’t alone. I ordered a Sam Adams when Matt asked us what we wanted.
“I don’t usually drink beer but I think I might like one tonight,” Angela said. “Do you have a suggestion, Matthew?”
Angela is an attractive woman and she instantly enamored Matt with the flash of her eyes and tone of her voice. “Why don’t I let you taste some samples,” he said.
Matt, a slender young man with wavy brown hair was youthful enough to be Angela’s son. It didn’t matter because Angela exercises, watches what she eats and usually passes as someone at least twenty years younger than she is. In addition to her youthful good looks and expressive eyes, she has the wonderful resonating voice of a radio talk show host (which she was at the time).
Matt proceeded to open a selection of different beers and then pour small samples into shot glasses. Angela sipped each proffered selection, turning her nose up at all of them. Matt didn’t seem to mind. He just kept smiling and pouring. She finally decided on a glass of chardonnay instead of beer.
Matt gave me what she didn’t drink and I was soon feeling eerily loose. Never at a loss for words, I asked, “Where is everybody?”
“We don’t get many tourists after Labor Day,” the man across the bar answered.
“We’re not from around here but we’re not tourists,” I said, already tipsy enough to explain our mission on the Cape to the stranger.
The couple introduced themselves as Beth and Dutch. After my story, they became immediately friendlier. “I could tell by your accent that you aren’t from here,” Beth said.
At first glance the couple looked to be in their fifties but the timbre of their voices suggested they were both much older, Beth’s well coiffed and bouffant hair popular during a decade past. I had the notion that her highlighted brown tresses had cost a bundle at an expensive salon and the big diamond on her finger did nothing to belie my observation. She was shoe-horned into a low-cut slinky black dress that went perfectly with expensive accessory jewelry adorning her slender bod. I couldn’t see her legs but imagined she was wearing black, fishnet stockings.
Dutch’s hair was also perfect – maybe a bit too perfect. The diamond encrusted Rolex on his wrist clashed with his diamond pinkie ring. The cut of his handmade shirt indicated wealth and my fiction author’s mind surmised he could have attended Harvard with the Kennedy’s.
“Born in Louisiana,” I told her, “But I’ve lived in Oklahoma so long now that I call it home.”
Jay and Linda were sitting to the left of us. A burly man with dark wavy hair, Jay had a small tattoo visible beneath the sleeve of his flowered Hawaiian shirt. He looked younger than he probably was because Linda’s hair had gone totally gray. Their shorts revealed athletic legs that likely took many long walks along the beach.
“I was in Louisiana during Vietnam,” Jay said. “Fort Polk.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Basic training,” he explained without being asked. “I was on my way to Nam but blew out a knee. They sent me home after that.
“Where in Oklahoma are you from?” the man sitting to the right of Angela asked.
“Oklahoma City,” I told him, along with a brief description of my past twenty years.
His name was Ray, his wife’s Sandra. They were also garbed in shorts, and matching tee shirts featuring a procession of ships sailing into New York harbor. The caption said “Tall Ships.” They were drinking draw beers and eating bowls of chowder. Ray had a Wyatt Earp moustache that drooped to his chin. Sandra was a pretty blonde whose blue eyes twinkled when she smiled, even in the interminable darkness of the bar.
Matt had implanted himself in front of Angela, his elbows on the bar and his chin resting in the palms of his hand as he hung on every word she uttered.
“This is wonderful,” she said. “The view is gorgeous. I wish I lived here.”
“It’s hell until after Labor Day,” Dutch said. “We rarely get out during tourist season.”
The three couples had lived in Salem their entire lives. They knew each other and all hated tourists. Angela and I dined on lobster thermidor, drank more beer and wine than either of us needed, and continued to kibbutz with the locals. Before the evening ended, it seemed as if we had known each other all our lives. I invited them to visit me in Oklahoma and they asked Angela and me to call them next time we were in the area. Finally, it was time to leave.
Matt held Angela’s hand, beseeching her to stay until he got off work.
“I’m married,” she said, showing him her wedding ring.
I have never returned to Salem since that night and Angela now lives in California. Still, I’m grateful to the wonderful folks we met in the bar that night because they momentarily took my mind off Anne’s passing.
Driving as if unimpaired, Angela returned us to Boston. I sat in moody silence, battling without success as aching melancholy crept slowly back into my soul.
Fiction South
I don’t remember the name of the restaurant but it was in a two-storied wood-framed building that overlooked the bay. Angela and I went upstairs to a room that featured a large picture window affording a wonderful view of the boats moored in the marina. The bar wrapped around in a 360 degree oval and was manned by a friendly waiter that introduced himself as Matt. Affable darkness draped the room with comforting shadows.
At least twenty-five feet long, the bar was expansive enough to seat fifty patrons. It was nearly empty but we weren’t alone. I ordered a Sam Adams when Matt asked us what we wanted.
“I don’t usually drink beer but I think I might like one tonight,” Angela said. “Do you have a suggestion, Matthew?”
Angela is an attractive woman and she instantly enamored Matt with the flash of her eyes and tone of her voice. “Why don’t I let you taste some samples,” he said.
Matt, a slender young man with wavy brown hair was youthful enough to be Angela’s son. It didn’t matter because Angela exercises, watches what she eats and usually passes as someone at least twenty years younger than she is. In addition to her youthful good looks and expressive eyes, she has the wonderful resonating voice of a radio talk show host (which she was at the time).
Matt proceeded to open a selection of different beers and then pour small samples into shot glasses. Angela sipped each proffered selection, turning her nose up at all of them. Matt didn’t seem to mind. He just kept smiling and pouring. She finally decided on a glass of chardonnay instead of beer.
Matt gave me what she didn’t drink and I was soon feeling eerily loose. Never at a loss for words, I asked, “Where is everybody?”
“We don’t get many tourists after Labor Day,” the man across the bar answered.
“We’re not from around here but we’re not tourists,” I said, already tipsy enough to explain our mission on the Cape to the stranger.
The couple introduced themselves as Beth and Dutch. After my story, they became immediately friendlier. “I could tell by your accent that you aren’t from here,” Beth said.
At first glance the couple looked to be in their fifties but the timbre of their voices suggested they were both much older, Beth’s well coiffed and bouffant hair popular during a decade past. I had the notion that her highlighted brown tresses had cost a bundle at an expensive salon and the big diamond on her finger did nothing to belie my observation. She was shoe-horned into a low-cut slinky black dress that went perfectly with expensive accessory jewelry adorning her slender bod. I couldn’t see her legs but imagined she was wearing black, fishnet stockings.
Dutch’s hair was also perfect – maybe a bit too perfect. The diamond encrusted Rolex on his wrist clashed with his diamond pinkie ring. The cut of his handmade shirt indicated wealth and my fiction author’s mind surmised he could have attended Harvard with the Kennedy’s.
“Born in Louisiana,” I told her, “But I’ve lived in Oklahoma so long now that I call it home.”
Jay and Linda were sitting to the left of us. A burly man with dark wavy hair, Jay had a small tattoo visible beneath the sleeve of his flowered Hawaiian shirt. He looked younger than he probably was because Linda’s hair had gone totally gray. Their shorts revealed athletic legs that likely took many long walks along the beach.
“I was in Louisiana during Vietnam,” Jay said. “Fort Polk.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Basic training,” he explained without being asked. “I was on my way to Nam but blew out a knee. They sent me home after that.
“Where in Oklahoma are you from?” the man sitting to the right of Angela asked.
“Oklahoma City,” I told him, along with a brief description of my past twenty years.
His name was Ray, his wife’s Sandra. They were also garbed in shorts, and matching tee shirts featuring a procession of ships sailing into New York harbor. The caption said “Tall Ships.” They were drinking draw beers and eating bowls of chowder. Ray had a Wyatt Earp moustache that drooped to his chin. Sandra was a pretty blonde whose blue eyes twinkled when she smiled, even in the interminable darkness of the bar.
Matt had implanted himself in front of Angela, his elbows on the bar and his chin resting in the palms of his hand as he hung on every word she uttered.
“This is wonderful,” she said. “The view is gorgeous. I wish I lived here.”
“It’s hell until after Labor Day,” Dutch said. “We rarely get out during tourist season.”
The three couples had lived in Salem their entire lives. They knew each other and all hated tourists. Angela and I dined on lobster thermidor, drank more beer and wine than either of us needed, and continued to kibbutz with the locals. Before the evening ended, it seemed as if we had known each other all our lives. I invited them to visit me in Oklahoma and they asked Angela and me to call them next time we were in the area. Finally, it was time to leave.
Matt held Angela’s hand, beseeching her to stay until he got off work.
“I’m married,” she said, showing him her wedding ring.
I have never returned to Salem since that night and Angela now lives in California. Still, I’m grateful to the wonderful folks we met in the bar that night because they momentarily took my mind off Anne’s passing.
Driving as if unimpaired, Angela returned us to Boston. I sat in moody silence, battling without success as aching melancholy crept slowly back into my soul.
Fiction South
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Hungry Acrobat
Here is a picture of one of the many squirrels that live in my backyard. Yes, he is hanging by his back feet.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Joy's Wild Sand Plum Jelly
Marilyn and I were taking my Dad to lunch on Sunday when she pointed out to me a bushy tree loaded with small reddish-orange fruit.
“Do you know what it is?” she asked.
She explained that it was a sand plum bush, the fruit of which produced her mother Joy’s second favorite jelly; blackberry was her first. Sand plums grow wild in parts of Kansas and Oklahoma and served as an important food source to the native Indians and early settlers.
Joy isn’t around to make us any sand plum jelly and the last jar we had we purchased in Guthrie, Oklahoma while shopping for souvenirs. Marilyn and I agreed that we would find a sand plum bush and plant it in our yard. Maybe then she will take a stab at Joy’s simple recipe.
Wild Sand Plum Jelly
4 c. wild sand plum juice
4 c. cane sugar
1 tbsp. butter
Wash well and barely cover with water both ripe red wild sand plums and partially ripe pink plums. Boil until fruit is soft and liquid is bright red. Cool until warm only and strain through cheese cloth to obtain clear pulp free juice.
Make jelly in proportion listed above. Bring strained juice to a boil, stir in butter to keep juice from boiling over sides of pan. Slowly stir in sugar, stirring constantly until mixture reaches 220 degrees on candy thermometer. Remove from heat immediately and pour into dry, warm sterilized 1/2 pint jelly jars, leaving approximately 1/2 inch at top of jar for expansion when jelled. Seal jars tightly.
Wild plums contain natural pectin. Do not over cook because jelly will continue to jell while cooling in the jars
Yields approximately 8 to 10 jars.
Fiction South
“Do you know what it is?” she asked.
She explained that it was a sand plum bush, the fruit of which produced her mother Joy’s second favorite jelly; blackberry was her first. Sand plums grow wild in parts of Kansas and Oklahoma and served as an important food source to the native Indians and early settlers.
Joy isn’t around to make us any sand plum jelly and the last jar we had we purchased in Guthrie, Oklahoma while shopping for souvenirs. Marilyn and I agreed that we would find a sand plum bush and plant it in our yard. Maybe then she will take a stab at Joy’s simple recipe.
Wild Sand Plum Jelly
4 c. wild sand plum juice
4 c. cane sugar
1 tbsp. butter
Wash well and barely cover with water both ripe red wild sand plums and partially ripe pink plums. Boil until fruit is soft and liquid is bright red. Cool until warm only and strain through cheese cloth to obtain clear pulp free juice.
Make jelly in proportion listed above. Bring strained juice to a boil, stir in butter to keep juice from boiling over sides of pan. Slowly stir in sugar, stirring constantly until mixture reaches 220 degrees on candy thermometer. Remove from heat immediately and pour into dry, warm sterilized 1/2 pint jelly jars, leaving approximately 1/2 inch at top of jar for expansion when jelled. Seal jars tightly.
Wild plums contain natural pectin. Do not over cook because jelly will continue to jell while cooling in the jars
Yields approximately 8 to 10 jars.
Fiction South
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Karmic Highway
I never believed my wife Anne would lose her battle with cancer but she must have had an inkling. “Cremate me and spread my ashes on that beach I liked so much on Cape Cod.” Five or so months after she died, I flew to Boston to do just that.
My Cousin Angela and her then husband Bob accompanied me to Cape Cod. They had a vacation cottage on John’s Pond and we spent the night there, spreading her ashes the following day. Bob had to return to Boston but Angela and I stayed at the cottage.
“There’s a very good movie playing at the theatre. It’s gotten great reviews and I think we should see it. It will take our minds off everything.”
I wasn’t up for a movie but I decided to go anyway because I really wasn’t up for anything. The movie was called Smoke Signals and those of you that saw the movie will probably know where I’m going with this story.
The movie received many accolades and was the first film ever created totally by Native Americans. Two young men live on a reservation in Idaho. The drunken, abusive father of one of the men has just died in Phoenix, Arizona and the two heroes set out to return his ashes and belongings to the Rez. Both men are conflicted by their relationships with the older man and the trip becomes a journey of self discovery.
I won’t ruin the movie for everyone because it is worth seeing. The final scene was unexpected and traumatic for me. The two young men stopped at a river the father always admired. Standing on the rustic bridge, they dumped his ashes into the water. I can not begin to tell you how the scene affected me.
One of the stages of grief is denial and yes, my mind had latched on firmly to that particular stage and was refusing to let go. As the father’s ashes wafted off the bridge and into the rapidly moving water, the sledgehammer of realization crashed unexpectedly into the back of my head. I began to sob like a baby and I couldn’t shut up, even though every person in the darkened theatre turned to see what fool was causing such an embarrassing scene.
I’m positive that my poor cousin Angela had no idea what was about to occur. Even though the mother of two, she had no frame of reference to deal with the blubbering man beside her. She patted my hand but I know she’d have rather taken a quick trip to the ladies room.
I finally got a grip, just as the credits began scrolling across the screen. Grabbing Angela’s wrist, I said, “I’m not leaving here until everyone is gone.” We finally hurried out of the theatre, my face red with both tears and embarrassment.
Even today, I can’t explain the coincidence of having spread Anne’s ashes the same day I saw the movie Smoke Signals, but I know that it jolted me out of denial and into yet another stage of grief. When tragedy hits you upside the head it often leaves you dazed and mired for months in a muddy ditch beside your life’s path. Like me, you’ll remain there until something quite unexpected happens – like seeing Smoke Signals - and propels you, once again, down life’s karmic highway.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
My Cousin Angela and her then husband Bob accompanied me to Cape Cod. They had a vacation cottage on John’s Pond and we spent the night there, spreading her ashes the following day. Bob had to return to Boston but Angela and I stayed at the cottage.
“There’s a very good movie playing at the theatre. It’s gotten great reviews and I think we should see it. It will take our minds off everything.”
I wasn’t up for a movie but I decided to go anyway because I really wasn’t up for anything. The movie was called Smoke Signals and those of you that saw the movie will probably know where I’m going with this story.
The movie received many accolades and was the first film ever created totally by Native Americans. Two young men live on a reservation in Idaho. The drunken, abusive father of one of the men has just died in Phoenix, Arizona and the two heroes set out to return his ashes and belongings to the Rez. Both men are conflicted by their relationships with the older man and the trip becomes a journey of self discovery.
I won’t ruin the movie for everyone because it is worth seeing. The final scene was unexpected and traumatic for me. The two young men stopped at a river the father always admired. Standing on the rustic bridge, they dumped his ashes into the water. I can not begin to tell you how the scene affected me.
One of the stages of grief is denial and yes, my mind had latched on firmly to that particular stage and was refusing to let go. As the father’s ashes wafted off the bridge and into the rapidly moving water, the sledgehammer of realization crashed unexpectedly into the back of my head. I began to sob like a baby and I couldn’t shut up, even though every person in the darkened theatre turned to see what fool was causing such an embarrassing scene.
I’m positive that my poor cousin Angela had no idea what was about to occur. Even though the mother of two, she had no frame of reference to deal with the blubbering man beside her. She patted my hand but I know she’d have rather taken a quick trip to the ladies room.
I finally got a grip, just as the credits began scrolling across the screen. Grabbing Angela’s wrist, I said, “I’m not leaving here until everyone is gone.” We finally hurried out of the theatre, my face red with both tears and embarrassment.
Even today, I can’t explain the coincidence of having spread Anne’s ashes the same day I saw the movie Smoke Signals, but I know that it jolted me out of denial and into yet another stage of grief. When tragedy hits you upside the head it often leaves you dazed and mired for months in a muddy ditch beside your life’s path. Like me, you’ll remain there until something quite unexpected happens – like seeing Smoke Signals - and propels you, once again, down life’s karmic highway.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce - a recipe
Marilyn and I collect old New Orleans cook books and this week she found Creole Feast – 15 Master Chefs of New Orleans Reveal Their Secrets. This extraordinary cookbook was published in 1978 and written by Nathaniel Burton and Rudolph Lombard. It features a recipe of one of my favorite desserts, one I always order whenever visiting the Crescent City.
This recipe is by Austin Leslie, master chef and one-time owner of Chez Helene, a wonderful New Orleans restaurant no longer in business. Leslie died in September, 2005 after being trapped in an attic for two days by Hurricane Katrina. He was the first person to be honored by a jazz funeral after Katrina in what was then a largely deserted Big Easy.
Austin Leslie was the inspiration for the short-lived television show Frank’s Place. He was also known as the Godfather of Fried Chicken and if you are like me, an aficionado of that particular dish, you really should read the book, if only for his personal description of the absolute best way to cut up a chicken and fry it
Chicken wasn’t the only thing Austin Leslie knew how to cook, he could also prepare absolutely wonderful deserts. I’ve published other bread pudding recipes and every one is slightly different. If you enjoy bread pudding as much as I, give this one a try because it is a good one.
Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce
1 loaf stale French bread
¼ can evaporated milk
1 pound butter
1 ¼ cups sugar
¼ pound raisins
1 small can crush pineapple
3 eggs, beaten
3 tablespoons vanilla extract
¼ cup brown sugar
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Wet the bread and squeeze the water out of it. Melt the butter and mix with all other ingredients. Pour mixture into a well-greased 4 x 10-inch baking pan. Bake for 2 ½ hours. The pudding will rise in the first hour. After an hour, remove pan from oven and stir the mixture to tighten it. Return to the oven for the second hour of cooking.
Rum Sauce
¼ stick butter, melted
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
½ cup rum
Place all ingredients in double boiler and cook for 10 minutes. Beat until fluffy. Serves 10
This recipe is by Austin Leslie, master chef and one-time owner of Chez Helene, a wonderful New Orleans restaurant no longer in business. Leslie died in September, 2005 after being trapped in an attic for two days by Hurricane Katrina. He was the first person to be honored by a jazz funeral after Katrina in what was then a largely deserted Big Easy.
Austin Leslie was the inspiration for the short-lived television show Frank’s Place. He was also known as the Godfather of Fried Chicken and if you are like me, an aficionado of that particular dish, you really should read the book, if only for his personal description of the absolute best way to cut up a chicken and fry it
Chicken wasn’t the only thing Austin Leslie knew how to cook, he could also prepare absolutely wonderful deserts. I’ve published other bread pudding recipes and every one is slightly different. If you enjoy bread pudding as much as I, give this one a try because it is a good one.
Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce
1 loaf stale French bread
¼ can evaporated milk
1 pound butter
1 ¼ cups sugar
¼ pound raisins
1 small can crush pineapple
3 eggs, beaten
3 tablespoons vanilla extract
¼ cup brown sugar
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Wet the bread and squeeze the water out of it. Melt the butter and mix with all other ingredients. Pour mixture into a well-greased 4 x 10-inch baking pan. Bake for 2 ½ hours. The pudding will rise in the first hour. After an hour, remove pan from oven and stir the mixture to tighten it. Return to the oven for the second hour of cooking.
Rum Sauce
¼ stick butter, melted
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
½ cup rum
Place all ingredients in double boiler and cook for 10 minutes. Beat until fluffy. Serves 10
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
French Hunter's Meal - a weekend recipe
Here is an incredibly easy meal to prepare that is often eaten on Louisiana hunting trips in front of an open fire. It is hearty and very tasty.
1 can Lima beans
1 pkg. Spaghetti
1 large can tomatoes
1 lb. cubed beef or pork, cooked
1 can whole corn
Cook spaghetti, drain and rinse. Add other ingredients and salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot over toast or biscuits, using part of juice of meat for liquid. Serves six.
Eric'sWeb
1 can Lima beans
1 pkg. Spaghetti
1 large can tomatoes
1 lb. cubed beef or pork, cooked
1 can whole corn
Cook spaghetti, drain and rinse. Add other ingredients and salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot over toast or biscuits, using part of juice of meat for liquid. Serves six.
Eric'sWeb
Friday, July 10, 2009
Tim and Eric Go Camping
Ida is a village of less than three-hundred people that is located in Louisiana a few miles south of Miller County, Arkansas. It is about seven kilometers from an attraction known to locals as the Ida Hills. The Hills are a destination for campers and picnickers because of the scenic and distant vista from their steep bluffs. The bluffs rise more than one-hundred-forty feet above the ancient peneplaned course of the Red River.
Years ago my friend Tim and I camped out one night at the top of one of the bluffs. The area is heavily forested, the hills no exception. Tim’s large German shepherd, whose name escapes me, but I’ll call him Shep, accompanied us. Before it grew dark we could see all the way to the Red River and hear the horns of semis as they crossed the high bridge over the river.
Interminable forest in the valley below us nestled a small wooden church rumored to host voodoo ceremonies on occasion. There were also rumors of a crazed logger that wandered the hills, murdering anyone he encountered. We knew it was only a contrived story told around campfires, but it still caused us some apprehension when we finally turned off the lantern and darkness draped the spooky forest around us.
“No one will surprise us with ol’ Shep here protecting us,” Tim said. “Shepherds have the best hearing and sense of smell of any dog.”
The presence of Shep did give me lots of comfort as night sounds quickly engulfed us and I petted his big head before closing my eyes. I awoke sometime later, disturbed by movement in the vegetation surrounding us. I wasn’t the only one that heard it.
“What’s that?” Tim asked.
“I don’t know but it’s coming toward us.”
Shep apparently didn’t hear what Tim and I were hearing, or smell it. He remained asleep, breathing blissfully in the throes of some doggy dream. It didn’t matter because something was making lots of racket as it bulled its way through the underbrush towards us.
Oh shit! I thought. It’s the deranged logger and it must be a ghost or something or else the dog would hear it too. The only weapons either of us remotely had were our geologic pick hammers. We wielded them, shaking with fright – at least I was - and waiting for whatever was moving toward us to show itself in the tiny clearing where we had pitched camp. Finally it did.
The ugly marsupial head of an opossum suddenly appeared and the beast lumbered right up to us before Tim switched on his flashlight and shined it into the fiery red of his beady eyes. The startled creature took a step backward, then turned and hurried away through the pine forest.
Tim and I were relieved that we hadn’t had to defend ourselves against a ghost logger or voodoo deity. Shep never woke up. So much for the honed senses of German shepherds. Needless to say neither of us got much sleep the remainder of the night after realizing that we were protecting the dog rather than the other way around.
Fiction South
Years ago my friend Tim and I camped out one night at the top of one of the bluffs. The area is heavily forested, the hills no exception. Tim’s large German shepherd, whose name escapes me, but I’ll call him Shep, accompanied us. Before it grew dark we could see all the way to the Red River and hear the horns of semis as they crossed the high bridge over the river.
Interminable forest in the valley below us nestled a small wooden church rumored to host voodoo ceremonies on occasion. There were also rumors of a crazed logger that wandered the hills, murdering anyone he encountered. We knew it was only a contrived story told around campfires, but it still caused us some apprehension when we finally turned off the lantern and darkness draped the spooky forest around us.
“No one will surprise us with ol’ Shep here protecting us,” Tim said. “Shepherds have the best hearing and sense of smell of any dog.”
The presence of Shep did give me lots of comfort as night sounds quickly engulfed us and I petted his big head before closing my eyes. I awoke sometime later, disturbed by movement in the vegetation surrounding us. I wasn’t the only one that heard it.
“What’s that?” Tim asked.
“I don’t know but it’s coming toward us.”
Shep apparently didn’t hear what Tim and I were hearing, or smell it. He remained asleep, breathing blissfully in the throes of some doggy dream. It didn’t matter because something was making lots of racket as it bulled its way through the underbrush towards us.
Oh shit! I thought. It’s the deranged logger and it must be a ghost or something or else the dog would hear it too. The only weapons either of us remotely had were our geologic pick hammers. We wielded them, shaking with fright – at least I was - and waiting for whatever was moving toward us to show itself in the tiny clearing where we had pitched camp. Finally it did.
The ugly marsupial head of an opossum suddenly appeared and the beast lumbered right up to us before Tim switched on his flashlight and shined it into the fiery red of his beady eyes. The startled creature took a step backward, then turned and hurried away through the pine forest.
Tim and I were relieved that we hadn’t had to defend ourselves against a ghost logger or voodoo deity. Shep never woke up. So much for the honed senses of German shepherds. Needless to say neither of us got much sleep the remainder of the night after realizing that we were protecting the dog rather than the other way around.
Fiction South
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Old Friends and Ex-wives
While digging through a box in my garage I found an old photo of me and ex-wife Gail. With us were three of my four best early friends. The picture was taken at the Vivian bowling alley, a business defunct for thirty years. A wave of memories swept over me as I gazed at the faded photo causing me to ponder all my friends, ex-wives and ex-lovers.
Gail is long gone; I haven’t seen her in years, but I still stay in touch – although infrequently – with Tim, Rod and Wiley. Although married three times (a fact I would have never dreamed) Gail is my only ex. Anne and I were married twenty years when she died. Marilyn and I are still married. While I only have one ex-wife I have a slew of ex-lovers. About the only difference is a signed marriage license.
An ex-lover is not simply someone you once had sex with. During the pre-AIDS era one-night stands were commonplace and I had my share of nameless and faceless encounters. An ex-lover is someone you were close to for months, or maybe even years, and someone you remember vividly. I can count my ex-lovers on one hand.
No matter how memorable they were, all my ex-lovers and ex-wives are long gone. It’s different with my friends. As I look at the old photo I realize all my friends - while they may be far away - are all still around.
Fiction South
Gail is long gone; I haven’t seen her in years, but I still stay in touch – although infrequently – with Tim, Rod and Wiley. Although married three times (a fact I would have never dreamed) Gail is my only ex. Anne and I were married twenty years when she died. Marilyn and I are still married. While I only have one ex-wife I have a slew of ex-lovers. About the only difference is a signed marriage license.
An ex-lover is not simply someone you once had sex with. During the pre-AIDS era one-night stands were commonplace and I had my share of nameless and faceless encounters. An ex-lover is someone you were close to for months, or maybe even years, and someone you remember vividly. I can count my ex-lovers on one hand.
No matter how memorable they were, all my ex-lovers and ex-wives are long gone. It’s different with my friends. As I look at the old photo I realize all my friends - while they may be far away - are all still around.
Fiction South
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Winning the Lottery
In 1969 I won the lottery but it wasn’t a prize anyone would want to win. In the first draft lottery conducted in this country since World War II, 366 numbers were drawn, one for each day of the year. The number coinciding with your birthday became your lottery number. While I wasn’t first my number thirty-eight was good enough to get me drafted in the first round.
I was in my first semester of graduate school and had lost my student deferment after earning my bachelor’s degree the previous term. My first wife Gail and I were in our fifth month of marriage when I got my orders to report for a physical examination in Shreveport, Louisiana. It was the one and only physical I’ve ever taken that I was hoping to fail. I didn’t and less than two months later I was standing with a group of several hundred young men being sworn into the U.S. Army as a draftee.
Shortly after lowering our arms we were informed that we were now the property of the U.S. Army and expected to follow orders, like them or not. Within the hour I was on a bus loaded with draftees on our way to Fort Polk, Louisiana.
Louisiana has a large black population and I was the only white person on the bus, except for the driver. Because I had a college degree and not because I was white, I was told by an unfriendly sergeant that I was the squad leader for the busload of men.
“Wilder, you’re responsible for getting these men to Fort Polk. If you stop for a potty break and one of those boys wants to take a crap, you go with him into the shitter. Every last person that gets on the bus better damn well get off of it at Fort Polk or I guarantee it’ll be your ass and not theirs.”
Yes, we all made it to Fort Polk but not because of my exemplary leadership abilities. I was the oldest and most out of shape person on the bus and realized there was little I could do if someone decided to go AWOL. It was well after dark when we unloaded and we got little sleep that night, spending most of it being poked, prodded, injected and questioned. It was my first day in the Army and I felt more like an unwilling participant in a waking nightmare than a lottery winner.
Fiction South
I was in my first semester of graduate school and had lost my student deferment after earning my bachelor’s degree the previous term. My first wife Gail and I were in our fifth month of marriage when I got my orders to report for a physical examination in Shreveport, Louisiana. It was the one and only physical I’ve ever taken that I was hoping to fail. I didn’t and less than two months later I was standing with a group of several hundred young men being sworn into the U.S. Army as a draftee.
Shortly after lowering our arms we were informed that we were now the property of the U.S. Army and expected to follow orders, like them or not. Within the hour I was on a bus loaded with draftees on our way to Fort Polk, Louisiana.
Louisiana has a large black population and I was the only white person on the bus, except for the driver. Because I had a college degree and not because I was white, I was told by an unfriendly sergeant that I was the squad leader for the busload of men.
“Wilder, you’re responsible for getting these men to Fort Polk. If you stop for a potty break and one of those boys wants to take a crap, you go with him into the shitter. Every last person that gets on the bus better damn well get off of it at Fort Polk or I guarantee it’ll be your ass and not theirs.”
Yes, we all made it to Fort Polk but not because of my exemplary leadership abilities. I was the oldest and most out of shape person on the bus and realized there was little I could do if someone decided to go AWOL. It was well after dark when we unloaded and we got little sleep that night, spending most of it being poked, prodded, injected and questioned. It was my first day in the Army and I felt more like an unwilling participant in a waking nightmare than a lottery winner.
Fiction South
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Lily's Famous Eggplant Dressing
The best Cajun cook I ever knew was my former mother-in-law Lily. Every meal was an experience and always served up in authentic fashion. One of my favorite side dishes was her famous eggplant dressing that she prepared, like all her other culinary creations, sans cookbook.
I watched her make this dish many times and I’m recounting it now from memory, but I think it is pretty close.
2 large purple eggplants, cubed and diced
5 slices of bacon
¾ pound ground pork
1 ½ teaspoons black pepper
Salt to taste
1 large can whole tomatoes
2 ½ cups cooked rice
French bread crumbs
1 ½ cups onion, garlic, sweet pepper, chopped
Cook the eggplants in salted water until soft. Drain, mash and set aside. Sauté bacon in large cast-iron skillet and then add onion, garlic and sweet pepper mixture. Sauté until vegetables are wilted and then add to eggplants.
Cook the ground pork until brown, drain the fat and then stir in the eggplant mixture. Add the can of tomatoes, salt and pepper and bread crumbs. Mix well and then simmer on medium-low heat for about twenty minutes.
Pour the mixture into a casserole dish, add the rice and more bread crumbs and then bake at 350 degrees for thirty minutes. Enjoy.
Fiction South
I watched her make this dish many times and I’m recounting it now from memory, but I think it is pretty close.
2 large purple eggplants, cubed and diced
5 slices of bacon
¾ pound ground pork
1 ½ teaspoons black pepper
Salt to taste
1 large can whole tomatoes
2 ½ cups cooked rice
French bread crumbs
1 ½ cups onion, garlic, sweet pepper, chopped
Cook the eggplants in salted water until soft. Drain, mash and set aside. Sauté bacon in large cast-iron skillet and then add onion, garlic and sweet pepper mixture. Sauté until vegetables are wilted and then add to eggplants.
Cook the ground pork until brown, drain the fat and then stir in the eggplant mixture. Add the can of tomatoes, salt and pepper and bread crumbs. Mix well and then simmer on medium-low heat for about twenty minutes.
Pour the mixture into a casserole dish, add the rice and more bread crumbs and then bake at 350 degrees for thirty minutes. Enjoy.
Fiction South
Monday, July 06, 2009
A Cat Named Max
Cats are graceful creatures that never really have an owner and I’ve told lots of stories about those that have occupied large places in my heart. One of them was a big tom, a little special and just a bit more memorable than most.
All our acquaintances knew that Anne and I were cat people and rarely a week passed that someone didn’t try to give us one. We almost always resisted or else we would have had hundreds of cats instead of the handful we felt responsible for. A cry for assistance occurred one day that we couldn’t ignore.
Friends of friends owned a small apartment complex and someone had abandoned two cats in an upstairs apartment. A week had passed before the landlord found out and by this time the two felines were traumatized. Anne and good friend Bruce rescued them from the locked apartment after much ado and lots more trauma.
Both cats were solid white, one a young female, the older a grown male. Bruce fell in love with the little female and took her to care for. The big tom was half crazy from his stay in the apartment and it was soon apparent that if Anne and I didn’t take him we would have to have him put down.
We named him Max because there was a Mel Gibson movie out at the time called Mad Max and this new addition to our family qualified as more than a little wacky. Max was a cross between a Siamese and a Manx. He was solid white with gorgeous, slightly crossed blue eyes. He had only the semblance of a tail and his hind legs were longer than the front ones. He was fixed but had a heavily muscled torso and tufted ears that caused him to look like a white bobcat. Oh, and he was very strong.
For the first few days we fed and watered Mad Max while giving him a wide berth. There were other cats in the family and soon he began to cozy up to us. He liked King Tut and followed him wherever he went. Tut was as regal as his name implied and I think he liked having a lieutenant around.
After a year or so we noticed Mad Max was looking sick so we put him in the cat carrier and took him to Dr. D our friendly vet. He spent the day there and when we picked him up, Dr. D explained what had happened.
“Tailless cats tend to rub their rear ends in the grass and occasionally get plugged up. Max had an excretion ball that solidified to the point it wouldn’t pass. We gave him a sedative and then soaked his rear in warm water until we could extract it.”
Dr. D gave us some antibiotics for Max and the big boy was back to his normal self in a day or so. As time passed, he became an integral part of the family. He loved his daily full body strokes and began demanding his share of the attention. He was still sort of nuts and if you rubbed him once too often he would take a swipe at you with his powerful paw.
Another couple of years passed, along with the oil boom. Anne and I were struggling and had little money to go to the doctor or dentist ourselves. The cats were relegated to emergency only vet visits. One incident finally occurred that we had no money to let the vet remedy. Max had developed another petrified poop ball in his rear and he was miserable by the time we noticed it.
“You’ll have to fix it or he will die,” Anne said.
I knew that she was correct. Drawing a bucket of very warm water, I pulled on a pair of gloves and prepared for the worst. I needn’t have worried. Powerful Max was too sick to fight. He didn’t even squirm when I lifted him and lowered his rear into the warm water.
I don’t know how long it took but the petrified poop soon began to soften. I finally got hold of it with my gloved hand and worked on it until it finally came loose, Max and me both breathing huge sighs of relief as it did.
Max and I both survived the petrified poop ordeal and he lived with us altogether for almost ten years. He met his demise early one morning in a dramatic fashion. Anne was walking outside to get the morning paper when she heard a commotion in the garage. The cats liked to sleep there, roosted on the hoods of our car and we always kept the door cracked so they could go in and out.
As Anne stood looking at the garage door, a large German shepherd came bounding out with Max in his mouth. Anne chased them down the street in her robe and nightgown, yelling at him to stop as she ran. The dog paid her no mind and quickly outdistanced her, disappearing down the block. We never found Max’s body.
Max was limp, his eyes closed when the large dog came running out of the garage with him. Our vet told us that he was likely killed the moment the dog got him by the neck. “He probably never knew what hit him and I’m sure he never suffered,” Dr. D told us, hoping to make us feel better.
Mad Max met his dramatic demise, hopefully without suffering, and Anne and I consoled each other with the knowledge that he was a grown cat when we got him. He lived another ten very good years with people that cared for him deeply before the dog got him.
Yes, Max was a little different and slightly crazy but we loved him despite his less than perfect qualities. Max was a special cat, and sometimes you love special beings in ways hard to explain – except in your heart.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
All our acquaintances knew that Anne and I were cat people and rarely a week passed that someone didn’t try to give us one. We almost always resisted or else we would have had hundreds of cats instead of the handful we felt responsible for. A cry for assistance occurred one day that we couldn’t ignore.
Friends of friends owned a small apartment complex and someone had abandoned two cats in an upstairs apartment. A week had passed before the landlord found out and by this time the two felines were traumatized. Anne and good friend Bruce rescued them from the locked apartment after much ado and lots more trauma.
Both cats were solid white, one a young female, the older a grown male. Bruce fell in love with the little female and took her to care for. The big tom was half crazy from his stay in the apartment and it was soon apparent that if Anne and I didn’t take him we would have to have him put down.
We named him Max because there was a Mel Gibson movie out at the time called Mad Max and this new addition to our family qualified as more than a little wacky. Max was a cross between a Siamese and a Manx. He was solid white with gorgeous, slightly crossed blue eyes. He had only the semblance of a tail and his hind legs were longer than the front ones. He was fixed but had a heavily muscled torso and tufted ears that caused him to look like a white bobcat. Oh, and he was very strong.
For the first few days we fed and watered Mad Max while giving him a wide berth. There were other cats in the family and soon he began to cozy up to us. He liked King Tut and followed him wherever he went. Tut was as regal as his name implied and I think he liked having a lieutenant around.
After a year or so we noticed Mad Max was looking sick so we put him in the cat carrier and took him to Dr. D our friendly vet. He spent the day there and when we picked him up, Dr. D explained what had happened.
“Tailless cats tend to rub their rear ends in the grass and occasionally get plugged up. Max had an excretion ball that solidified to the point it wouldn’t pass. We gave him a sedative and then soaked his rear in warm water until we could extract it.”
Dr. D gave us some antibiotics for Max and the big boy was back to his normal self in a day or so. As time passed, he became an integral part of the family. He loved his daily full body strokes and began demanding his share of the attention. He was still sort of nuts and if you rubbed him once too often he would take a swipe at you with his powerful paw.
Another couple of years passed, along with the oil boom. Anne and I were struggling and had little money to go to the doctor or dentist ourselves. The cats were relegated to emergency only vet visits. One incident finally occurred that we had no money to let the vet remedy. Max had developed another petrified poop ball in his rear and he was miserable by the time we noticed it.
“You’ll have to fix it or he will die,” Anne said.
I knew that she was correct. Drawing a bucket of very warm water, I pulled on a pair of gloves and prepared for the worst. I needn’t have worried. Powerful Max was too sick to fight. He didn’t even squirm when I lifted him and lowered his rear into the warm water.
I don’t know how long it took but the petrified poop soon began to soften. I finally got hold of it with my gloved hand and worked on it until it finally came loose, Max and me both breathing huge sighs of relief as it did.
Max and I both survived the petrified poop ordeal and he lived with us altogether for almost ten years. He met his demise early one morning in a dramatic fashion. Anne was walking outside to get the morning paper when she heard a commotion in the garage. The cats liked to sleep there, roosted on the hoods of our car and we always kept the door cracked so they could go in and out.
As Anne stood looking at the garage door, a large German shepherd came bounding out with Max in his mouth. Anne chased them down the street in her robe and nightgown, yelling at him to stop as she ran. The dog paid her no mind and quickly outdistanced her, disappearing down the block. We never found Max’s body.
Max was limp, his eyes closed when the large dog came running out of the garage with him. Our vet told us that he was likely killed the moment the dog got him by the neck. “He probably never knew what hit him and I’m sure he never suffered,” Dr. D told us, hoping to make us feel better.
Mad Max met his dramatic demise, hopefully without suffering, and Anne and I consoled each other with the knowledge that he was a grown cat when we got him. He lived another ten very good years with people that cared for him deeply before the dog got him.
Yes, Max was a little different and slightly crazy but we loved him despite his less than perfect qualities. Max was a special cat, and sometimes you love special beings in ways hard to explain – except in your heart.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Sunday, July 05, 2009
Storyville
I realized there was something exciting and quite different about New Orleans the first time that I visited the city. Today, if you go south on Canal Street you will eventually end up at the Mississippi River. The City is in the process of rebuilding, but if you had followed Canal to the River before Hurricane Katrina you would have encountered many tourist attractions such as the Aquarium of the Americas, the World Trade Center and the Canal Street Wharf. Unlike today’s tourist-driven atmosphere you would have found something quite different had you taken the same journey in the 1950's.
I first visited New Orleans during the Eisenhower Era and remember standing on south Canal Street and staring down the hill toward the Mississippi River. New Orleans is a major international seaport and what I saw was a bunch of seedy bars that sailors from many countries frequented when they were in port. The bars were off-limits to American military personnel, and for good reason. They were dangerous, the women you met there "loose," and venereal diseases rampant.
"Those bars are a good place to get killed," my Aunt Carmol, an ex-marine during World War II and no shrinking violet herself, had told my brother and me. "Don’t ever go there."
The Canal Street bars were long gone before I ever had the opportunity to defy Aunt Carmol’s advice. Still, even as a youngster I felt the potential danger and lingering intrigue present around nearly every corner of New Orleans. One less dangerous but very intriguing place that was eventually cleaned up by the U.S. Navy was Storyville, the Big Easy’s early-day fantasy land that did as much to establish the City’s reputation as a latter-day Gomorrah as anything else in its history.
During the early days of New Orleans there was a shortage of females. To alleviate this situation, street prostitutes were released from French prisons on the condition that they migrate to the new colony. In 1744, the number of bordellos and houses of prostitution prompted a French army officer to comment that there were not ten women of blameless character in New Orleans. City-wide prostitution continued until 1897 when a puritanical city official devised a plan to control the problem. The plan resulted in the formation of Storyville.
Locals called Storyville "The District." It existed from 1897 until 1917, the concept of New Orleans’ alderman Sidney Story. Story’s plan wasn’t to legalize prostitution, but to control it by defining the boundaries within which it would not be prosecuted as a crime. The concept worked for nearly two decades and ironically the District became one of the City’s leading tourist attractions.
Despite the belief of many - likely propagated by fictional accounts in literature - Storyville wasn’t located in the French Quarter. It encompassed an area north of the Quarter, just east of Canal Street between N. Rampart and N. Claiborne. Elaborate bordellos, fancy restaurants and dance halls quickly appeared and flourished, along Basin, the street that became a legend because of its association with early jazz.
Jazz flourished in Storyville, although it didn’t originate there. Each bordello was a place for music as well as prostitution and each establishment generally had a piano player to entertain its guests. The bordellos often hired bands to perform, as did the restaurants and clubs that sprang up in the District. Jazz superstars such as Buddy Bolden and Louis Armstrong often performed there. Storyville was near a train station and many visitors to the City also frequented the bordellos and the clubs to listen to jazz. These visitors, as well as sailors of all nationalities, took this new sound back with them to their cities and countries of origin.
In 1917 the Secretary of the Navy was Josephus Daniels and his nickname "Tea Totaling" perfectly described his tolerance for sin. Daniels insisted that New Orleans either shut down Storyville, or else he would close the naval base across the river in Algiers. The base provided too much income to New Orleans for the City fathers to see it close so they shut down Storyville instead.
A wave of Puritanism swept across the United States during the era of World War I and the residents of New Orleans weren’t exempt from this phenomena. Embarrassed by Storyville, city fathers began systematically dismantling the District. In the years following 1917, all the elaborate bordellos were demolished leaving only a metaphorical scar in place of nearly two decades of irreplaceable history. Even the street names were changed, world famous Basin Street becoming North Saratoga.
Toward the end of World War II, city fathers made yet another planning blunder. Soldiers were returning home from war and needed a place to live, so the Iberville Housing Project was built on the site of Storyville. Never spoken about in travel brochures or in tourist information, the low-cost Iberville Housing Project quickly became dangerous and crime-ridden. Close to the French Quarter, the Project was a place to avoid at all costs instead of the tourist attraction that the District had once been.
Even with the dismantling of Storyville, prostitution never left New Orleans. It simply spread out across the city to places like the seedy bars frequented by sailors on south Canal. Unlike south Canal, transformed now into a tourist attraction rather than a city blight, the area around Storyville remains largely unknown and off limits to tourists.
New Orleans’ city fathers made a colossal blunder when they demolished the historical District. They compounded their error when they covered up their mistake by building the infamous Iberville Project. Finally realizing their horrible error in judgment, they did return the name Basin to the famous street that was home of legendary jazz and fabulous bordellos.
New Orleans still exudes a well deserved aura of danger and intrigue and there are still more than enough historical sights to see, even though one of the most famous is forever gone. Few vestiges of Storyville remain, yet like the tang of Tabasco Sauce on the palette, its memory remains long after the last spicy bite of Etouffee has been consumed.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
I first visited New Orleans during the Eisenhower Era and remember standing on south Canal Street and staring down the hill toward the Mississippi River. New Orleans is a major international seaport and what I saw was a bunch of seedy bars that sailors from many countries frequented when they were in port. The bars were off-limits to American military personnel, and for good reason. They were dangerous, the women you met there "loose," and venereal diseases rampant.
"Those bars are a good place to get killed," my Aunt Carmol, an ex-marine during World War II and no shrinking violet herself, had told my brother and me. "Don’t ever go there."
The Canal Street bars were long gone before I ever had the opportunity to defy Aunt Carmol’s advice. Still, even as a youngster I felt the potential danger and lingering intrigue present around nearly every corner of New Orleans. One less dangerous but very intriguing place that was eventually cleaned up by the U.S. Navy was Storyville, the Big Easy’s early-day fantasy land that did as much to establish the City’s reputation as a latter-day Gomorrah as anything else in its history.
During the early days of New Orleans there was a shortage of females. To alleviate this situation, street prostitutes were released from French prisons on the condition that they migrate to the new colony. In 1744, the number of bordellos and houses of prostitution prompted a French army officer to comment that there were not ten women of blameless character in New Orleans. City-wide prostitution continued until 1897 when a puritanical city official devised a plan to control the problem. The plan resulted in the formation of Storyville.
Locals called Storyville "The District." It existed from 1897 until 1917, the concept of New Orleans’ alderman Sidney Story. Story’s plan wasn’t to legalize prostitution, but to control it by defining the boundaries within which it would not be prosecuted as a crime. The concept worked for nearly two decades and ironically the District became one of the City’s leading tourist attractions.
Despite the belief of many - likely propagated by fictional accounts in literature - Storyville wasn’t located in the French Quarter. It encompassed an area north of the Quarter, just east of Canal Street between N. Rampart and N. Claiborne. Elaborate bordellos, fancy restaurants and dance halls quickly appeared and flourished, along Basin, the street that became a legend because of its association with early jazz.
Jazz flourished in Storyville, although it didn’t originate there. Each bordello was a place for music as well as prostitution and each establishment generally had a piano player to entertain its guests. The bordellos often hired bands to perform, as did the restaurants and clubs that sprang up in the District. Jazz superstars such as Buddy Bolden and Louis Armstrong often performed there. Storyville was near a train station and many visitors to the City also frequented the bordellos and the clubs to listen to jazz. These visitors, as well as sailors of all nationalities, took this new sound back with them to their cities and countries of origin.
In 1917 the Secretary of the Navy was Josephus Daniels and his nickname "Tea Totaling" perfectly described his tolerance for sin. Daniels insisted that New Orleans either shut down Storyville, or else he would close the naval base across the river in Algiers. The base provided too much income to New Orleans for the City fathers to see it close so they shut down Storyville instead.
A wave of Puritanism swept across the United States during the era of World War I and the residents of New Orleans weren’t exempt from this phenomena. Embarrassed by Storyville, city fathers began systematically dismantling the District. In the years following 1917, all the elaborate bordellos were demolished leaving only a metaphorical scar in place of nearly two decades of irreplaceable history. Even the street names were changed, world famous Basin Street becoming North Saratoga.
Toward the end of World War II, city fathers made yet another planning blunder. Soldiers were returning home from war and needed a place to live, so the Iberville Housing Project was built on the site of Storyville. Never spoken about in travel brochures or in tourist information, the low-cost Iberville Housing Project quickly became dangerous and crime-ridden. Close to the French Quarter, the Project was a place to avoid at all costs instead of the tourist attraction that the District had once been.
Even with the dismantling of Storyville, prostitution never left New Orleans. It simply spread out across the city to places like the seedy bars frequented by sailors on south Canal. Unlike south Canal, transformed now into a tourist attraction rather than a city blight, the area around Storyville remains largely unknown and off limits to tourists.
New Orleans’ city fathers made a colossal blunder when they demolished the historical District. They compounded their error when they covered up their mistake by building the infamous Iberville Project. Finally realizing their horrible error in judgment, they did return the name Basin to the famous street that was home of legendary jazz and fabulous bordellos.
New Orleans still exudes a well deserved aura of danger and intrigue and there are still more than enough historical sights to see, even though one of the most famous is forever gone. Few vestiges of Storyville remain, yet like the tang of Tabasco Sauce on the palette, its memory remains long after the last spicy bite of Etouffee has been consumed.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, July 04, 2009
My Favorite 4th
My Brother Jack was born on July the Third and he and I loved fireworks. We both wanted to be soldiers and we practiced war our entire childhood. Because of our obsession my favorite holiday, and my Brother Jack’s, was and is the Fourth of July and the one I remember best is the first one that I can remember.
While growing up in small town Vivian, there were no City ordinances barring the use of fireworks. Every manner of explosives was sold including M-80s and Two-Inchers. Jack and I are both lucky to have all our digits as we later experimented with everything we could strike a match too.
My buddy Timmy Jon and I even mixed our own batch of gunpowder and almost burned up the house with it. The first Fourth that I can remember, however, we made do with firecrackers, bottle rockets, sparklers and Roman candles.
On the Fourth of July my Mom and Dad would buy us about ten dollars worth of fireworks. Ten bucks doesn’t sound like much but you could pop lots of firecrackers for that amount in the sixties. We always began the fireworks as soon as it was dark enough.
I don’t remember my age but I was old enough to feel the excitement of impending danger. With our Dad’s help we began lighting sparklers, popping firecrackers and launching one bottle rocket after another. We soon got down to the good stuff.
‘Hold it in the air and shake it,” My Dad directed as he lit my first-ever Roman candle.
I can still remember the percussion and slight recoil as incandescent flame burst from the coiled-paper barrel of the explosive device. I couldn’t count at the time but I had a seat-of-the-pants feel for how many fiery rounds the candle contained. When it was over I held the warm rod in my hand, inhaling acrid smoke and burned powder. It was an odor I will never forget.
My red-headed Brother Jack was next at bat and he had mischief in mind before my Dad ever lit the candle’s fuse. My Mother was standing behind us in the open door of our house. Soon as the candle started spitting fire, Jack began pointing it at anything that caught his fancy - a tree, the family car, me, and finally toward the open door of the house.
Dodging the oncoming fireball, my Mom screamed and jumped off the porch. Jack put at least three fireballs through the house, luckily catching nothing on fire. When he finally threw down the spent Roman candle my Dad just shook his head, grabbed the remaining fireworks and walked into the house. Mom followed him, but not before unloading verbally on Jack.
Nothing much else was ever said about the incident, Mom and Dad giving Brother Jack the benefit of the doubt that what he did was caused by inexperience and lack of good sense. After living in close proximity to him until I was fifteen, I know better. He went to sleep that night giggling about scaring my Mom and Dad and getting away with it.
The Fourth of July means a lot more to me than just fireworks and hot dogs and we should all reflect on the sacrifices this wonderful holiday immortalizes. Still, my favorite holiday remains the Fourth of July and the one I remember best is the first one that I can remember.
Fiction South
While growing up in small town Vivian, there were no City ordinances barring the use of fireworks. Every manner of explosives was sold including M-80s and Two-Inchers. Jack and I are both lucky to have all our digits as we later experimented with everything we could strike a match too.
My buddy Timmy Jon and I even mixed our own batch of gunpowder and almost burned up the house with it. The first Fourth that I can remember, however, we made do with firecrackers, bottle rockets, sparklers and Roman candles.
On the Fourth of July my Mom and Dad would buy us about ten dollars worth of fireworks. Ten bucks doesn’t sound like much but you could pop lots of firecrackers for that amount in the sixties. We always began the fireworks as soon as it was dark enough.
I don’t remember my age but I was old enough to feel the excitement of impending danger. With our Dad’s help we began lighting sparklers, popping firecrackers and launching one bottle rocket after another. We soon got down to the good stuff.
‘Hold it in the air and shake it,” My Dad directed as he lit my first-ever Roman candle.
I can still remember the percussion and slight recoil as incandescent flame burst from the coiled-paper barrel of the explosive device. I couldn’t count at the time but I had a seat-of-the-pants feel for how many fiery rounds the candle contained. When it was over I held the warm rod in my hand, inhaling acrid smoke and burned powder. It was an odor I will never forget.
My red-headed Brother Jack was next at bat and he had mischief in mind before my Dad ever lit the candle’s fuse. My Mother was standing behind us in the open door of our house. Soon as the candle started spitting fire, Jack began pointing it at anything that caught his fancy - a tree, the family car, me, and finally toward the open door of the house.
Dodging the oncoming fireball, my Mom screamed and jumped off the porch. Jack put at least three fireballs through the house, luckily catching nothing on fire. When he finally threw down the spent Roman candle my Dad just shook his head, grabbed the remaining fireworks and walked into the house. Mom followed him, but not before unloading verbally on Jack.
Nothing much else was ever said about the incident, Mom and Dad giving Brother Jack the benefit of the doubt that what he did was caused by inexperience and lack of good sense. After living in close proximity to him until I was fifteen, I know better. He went to sleep that night giggling about scaring my Mom and Dad and getting away with it.
The Fourth of July means a lot more to me than just fireworks and hot dogs and we should all reflect on the sacrifices this wonderful holiday immortalizes. Still, my favorite holiday remains the Fourth of July and the one I remember best is the first one that I can remember.
Fiction South
Friday, July 03, 2009
Dirty Rice Dressing - a recipe
Dirty rice is a Cajun specialty. Here is an authentic recipe for Dirty Rice Dressing from the French Acadian Cookbook published by the Louisiana Acadian Handicraft Museum, Inc. in 1955. The recipe was contributed by Dr. W.E. Hunt of Lake Charles, Louisiana.
1 cup rice
1 cup rice
1 clove chopped garlic
1 pound ground meat
1 pound ground meat
Salt, pepper and hot sauce to taste
1 pound ground giblets
1 pound ground giblets
(from fowl or separate giblets)
Pinch of thyme and sweet basil
1 cup chopped onion
1 cup chopped onion
1 bunch green onions and tops chopped
½ cup chopped bell pepper
½ cup chopped bell pepper
1 tablespoon minced parsley
½ cup chopped celery
½ cup chopped celery
Cook rice in double boiler until fluffy, using enough salted water to 1 inch above rice. Allow to cook unstirred until all water is gone. In one skillet sauté ground meat and giblets in ¼ pound butter until brown; in another skillet sauté onions, pepper, celery and seasoning in ¼ pound butter. Add other ingredients. In large pan mix all above ingredients well, using natural gravy from fowl to moisten.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Summer Heat and Cool Guitar
It’s summer in Oklahoma, the weather hot and humidity out of sight. As I drink a beer and dink on my laptop, I’m reminded of the many similar summers I experienced while growing up in northwest Louisiana.
We had no air conditioning then, only a ceiling fan and a lot of open windows. As I pay attention to my new Eagle’s CD I’m also reminded that the music we listened to back then was either on scratchy LP’s or radios with tinny speakers.
I like the new Eagle’s album. It has some good songs on the two CD’s, although most a little too country for my tastes. My personal favorite is Last Good Time in Town sung, and I guess written, by Joe Walsh.
Age-wise I’m contemporaries with the Eagles and I’m happy to hear that in their sixties the boys haven’t lost their creative spark. I grew up about thirty miles from the equally tiny town where Don Henley lived but hey, thirty miles across the Texas border may as well have been a thousand miles away.
Walsh’s song features one of his patented guitar riffs, his style as catchy as any musician that ever played the instrument. The lyrics are meaningful but don’t weigh your soul down with some maudlin message. The beat and back-up instrumentation keep enticing you to get out of your seat and start dancing. Yes I did!
A new steamy summer and a fresh Eagles album make me happy and I’m glad the boys, in their sixties, haven’t lost their creative spark. Maybe there’s hope for me yet!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
We had no air conditioning then, only a ceiling fan and a lot of open windows. As I pay attention to my new Eagle’s CD I’m also reminded that the music we listened to back then was either on scratchy LP’s or radios with tinny speakers.
I like the new Eagle’s album. It has some good songs on the two CD’s, although most a little too country for my tastes. My personal favorite is Last Good Time in Town sung, and I guess written, by Joe Walsh.
Age-wise I’m contemporaries with the Eagles and I’m happy to hear that in their sixties the boys haven’t lost their creative spark. I grew up about thirty miles from the equally tiny town where Don Henley lived but hey, thirty miles across the Texas border may as well have been a thousand miles away.
Walsh’s song features one of his patented guitar riffs, his style as catchy as any musician that ever played the instrument. The lyrics are meaningful but don’t weigh your soul down with some maudlin message. The beat and back-up instrumentation keep enticing you to get out of your seat and start dancing. Yes I did!
A new steamy summer and a fresh Eagles album make me happy and I’m glad the boys, in their sixties, haven’t lost their creative spark. Maybe there’s hope for me yet!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Running on Empty
I’ve never run a marathon but I have competed in a half marathon, a 15 K and more 10 Ks than I can count. I was overweight and out of shape when I ran the half marathon. I didn’t win the event but I didn’t finish last either, well at least not dead last.
Oklahoma City inaugurated a yearly marathon event several years ago to commemorate the heroism and sacrifice of the people of our City, and others that lent helping hands during the aftermath of the Oklahoma City Bombing. Before that there was only the yearly running of the Jim Thorpe Half Marathon around Lake Overholser.
I ran track in junior high and kept up the practice through most of my life. Even so, I never ran a 10 K until the oil crash of the eighties when my little oil company went belly up. It was a strange time in my life. I had a bloated body and a deflated ego. I needed something to regain my self esteem and somehow decided that running was the ticket. Since I was too fat to run I began walking laps through the house. Soon I was jogging through the neighborhood at what I thought was a healthy clip. Feeling better than I had in years I entered my first 10 K.
To the uninitiated 10 K is short for ten kilometers, a distance of six-point-two miles. My first was the Red Bud, a yearly Oklahoma City running event that recently celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary. I finished the distance in less than sixty minutes and I was hooked.
It was during my first 10 K that I learned I wasn’t the only busted oilie that had turned to jogging as therapy. Hell! Half the oil community was competing, and finding so many kindred spirits only bolstered my desire to continue running.
Many events followed but somewhere along the line I quit training and did nothing as my weight ballooned back up to one-eighty-five. I had made excuses for the past three Jim Thorpe’s and decided that I couldn’t live with myself another year without at least attempting the distance of a bit more than thirteen miles.
I arrived for the event late and unregistered. Only the convincing of some of my oilie brethren got me registered and I was still filling out papers when the starter pistol fired. It didn’t matter because I hadn’t come to win, only to compete and prove to myself that I still had the goods, even if they had shrunken slightly.
Months had passed since I had entered an event and word began trickling down through my group of friends. Amazingly, many waited on me, or dropped back in the pack to pat me on the back and offer encouragement. Before long I felt like a fat Forrest Gump, surrounded by friends determined that they were going to will me to finish the race.
Somewhere near the halfway mark I convinced my friends both male and female to run their race and that I would run mine. One by one they broke away, disappearing into the distance, leaving me alone in a pack of twenty or so very slow runners. It was then that I realized that I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.
Lake Overholser is a City Park and I soon spotted a bathroom. Breaking from the pack I headed straight for it. When I finished my business there were no runners around and I was, I realized, really bringing up the rear.
I somehow continued trudging forward, although I was already spent. A Seven-Eleven convenience store marked the three-quarter mark. Having a few dollar bills stashed in my shorts I stopped for a cold drink but once inside I settled on an ice cold Coors instead.
“Why not?” I told the clerk. “I’m so far behind that I can do no better than last anyway.”
“No way,” the pretty cashier told me. “At least ten runners just left here. They were all drinking beer.”
My dim hopes suddenly bolstered I slammed the Coors, gave the pretty girl a confident wink and hurried out the door. The potty and beer breaks were what I needed. I soon saw a group of runners ahead of me and could tell that if I continued my pace I would catch them before the finish line. With that goal in mind I began moving at a rate I soon realized I couldn’t maintain.
Most of the runners ahead of me continued their pace and when I reached the last turn before the finish line there was only one runner still ahead of me. I was out of shape but I wasn’t particularly old at the time. The runner in front of me looked at least ten years older than me and about the same weight. It didn’t matter because I could see the finish line in the distance and she was somehow managing to pull away. Closing my eyes tightly, I made a wish, took a deep breath and started to sprint.
Don’t ask me how but by some superhuman effort I managed to overtake the old lady and beat her by a foot or two across the finish line. My efforts didn’t impress her as she just frowned and shook her head as she walked past me. Everyone, it seemed, had already gone home and not even the scorers were left to welcome us to the finish line.
I was so sore that I could barely get out of bed the next morning and I had difficulty walking up the stairs. Still, I had a grin on my face that didn’t disappear for the rest of the weekend. Maybe I had beat out an old woman just to keep from finishing dead last but at least I had finished, and it came flowing back to me why I had begun running in the first place.
I learned a good lesson in life that day. No matter how bad you feel just keep putting one foot in front of the other. And, maybe more importantly, before giving up, stop, slug an ice cold Coors, then regroup and get after it again.
Fiction South
Oklahoma City inaugurated a yearly marathon event several years ago to commemorate the heroism and sacrifice of the people of our City, and others that lent helping hands during the aftermath of the Oklahoma City Bombing. Before that there was only the yearly running of the Jim Thorpe Half Marathon around Lake Overholser.
I ran track in junior high and kept up the practice through most of my life. Even so, I never ran a 10 K until the oil crash of the eighties when my little oil company went belly up. It was a strange time in my life. I had a bloated body and a deflated ego. I needed something to regain my self esteem and somehow decided that running was the ticket. Since I was too fat to run I began walking laps through the house. Soon I was jogging through the neighborhood at what I thought was a healthy clip. Feeling better than I had in years I entered my first 10 K.
To the uninitiated 10 K is short for ten kilometers, a distance of six-point-two miles. My first was the Red Bud, a yearly Oklahoma City running event that recently celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary. I finished the distance in less than sixty minutes and I was hooked.
It was during my first 10 K that I learned I wasn’t the only busted oilie that had turned to jogging as therapy. Hell! Half the oil community was competing, and finding so many kindred spirits only bolstered my desire to continue running.
Many events followed but somewhere along the line I quit training and did nothing as my weight ballooned back up to one-eighty-five. I had made excuses for the past three Jim Thorpe’s and decided that I couldn’t live with myself another year without at least attempting the distance of a bit more than thirteen miles.
I arrived for the event late and unregistered. Only the convincing of some of my oilie brethren got me registered and I was still filling out papers when the starter pistol fired. It didn’t matter because I hadn’t come to win, only to compete and prove to myself that I still had the goods, even if they had shrunken slightly.
Months had passed since I had entered an event and word began trickling down through my group of friends. Amazingly, many waited on me, or dropped back in the pack to pat me on the back and offer encouragement. Before long I felt like a fat Forrest Gump, surrounded by friends determined that they were going to will me to finish the race.
Somewhere near the halfway mark I convinced my friends both male and female to run their race and that I would run mine. One by one they broke away, disappearing into the distance, leaving me alone in a pack of twenty or so very slow runners. It was then that I realized that I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.
Lake Overholser is a City Park and I soon spotted a bathroom. Breaking from the pack I headed straight for it. When I finished my business there were no runners around and I was, I realized, really bringing up the rear.
I somehow continued trudging forward, although I was already spent. A Seven-Eleven convenience store marked the three-quarter mark. Having a few dollar bills stashed in my shorts I stopped for a cold drink but once inside I settled on an ice cold Coors instead.
“Why not?” I told the clerk. “I’m so far behind that I can do no better than last anyway.”
“No way,” the pretty cashier told me. “At least ten runners just left here. They were all drinking beer.”
My dim hopes suddenly bolstered I slammed the Coors, gave the pretty girl a confident wink and hurried out the door. The potty and beer breaks were what I needed. I soon saw a group of runners ahead of me and could tell that if I continued my pace I would catch them before the finish line. With that goal in mind I began moving at a rate I soon realized I couldn’t maintain.
Most of the runners ahead of me continued their pace and when I reached the last turn before the finish line there was only one runner still ahead of me. I was out of shape but I wasn’t particularly old at the time. The runner in front of me looked at least ten years older than me and about the same weight. It didn’t matter because I could see the finish line in the distance and she was somehow managing to pull away. Closing my eyes tightly, I made a wish, took a deep breath and started to sprint.
Don’t ask me how but by some superhuman effort I managed to overtake the old lady and beat her by a foot or two across the finish line. My efforts didn’t impress her as she just frowned and shook her head as she walked past me. Everyone, it seemed, had already gone home and not even the scorers were left to welcome us to the finish line.
I was so sore that I could barely get out of bed the next morning and I had difficulty walking up the stairs. Still, I had a grin on my face that didn’t disappear for the rest of the weekend. Maybe I had beat out an old woman just to keep from finishing dead last but at least I had finished, and it came flowing back to me why I had begun running in the first place.
I learned a good lesson in life that day. No matter how bad you feel just keep putting one foot in front of the other. And, maybe more importantly, before giving up, stop, slug an ice cold Coors, then regroup and get after it again.
Fiction South
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