Yesterday’s Christmas Eve blizzard dropped more snow (14.1”) on Oklahoma City than any storm since 1890 when record keeping began. Hundreds of car accidents occurred, including a fifty-five car pile-up on one of the interstate highways. High snow drifts stranded many motorists for hours.
This morning, gloomy skies have passed. Even though temperatures are still in the twenties, the sun is shining brightly and melting, hopefully, will begin in earnest. The blizzard is a reminder of the disastrous economic year the State has experienced. Maybe the sunny skies are an omen that the economic storm has passed and the sun is beginning to shine on us again.
Times were financially tough in the oil patch during the early nineties and prompted a slogan often repeated wherever oilies congregated. It was “survive till ’95.” My partner Ray has coined a new slogan, “win in ’10.” The wonderful sunshine this morning gives me hope that we will.
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!
Eric'sWeb
Showing posts with label oklahoma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label oklahoma. Show all posts
Friday, December 25, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Persistant Earthquakes Worry Residents of Small Oklahoma Community
A rash of unexplained earthquakes plague a central Oklahoma town.
http://newsok.com/quakes-still-shaking-jones/article/3426115
Eric'sWeb
http://newsok.com/quakes-still-shaking-jones/article/3426115
Eric'sWeb
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Fresh Pumpkin Pie - a weekend recipe
Halloween, my favorite holiday, is almost upon us and one of the reasons I love this time of year are the tasty pumpkin pies my Mother and Grandmothers used to make. Here is an old yet simple recipe that I hope you enjoy as much as I do.
1 ½ cups fresh pumpkin
¼ tsp nutmeg
¼ tsp cinnamon
1 cup milk
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 cup sugar
1 tbsp butter
¼ tsp salt
Combine ingredients. Mix thoroughly. Pour into pastry-lined pie pan. Bake in hot oven (425 degrees) for about 25 minutes, or until an inserted knife comes out clean. Serve with whipped cream on top.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
1 ½ cups fresh pumpkin
¼ tsp nutmeg
¼ tsp cinnamon
1 cup milk
2 eggs, slightly beaten
1 cup sugar
1 tbsp butter
¼ tsp salt
Combine ingredients. Mix thoroughly. Pour into pastry-lined pie pan. Bake in hot oven (425 degrees) for about 25 minutes, or until an inserted knife comes out clean. Serve with whipped cream on top.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Kafka for Breakfast
I had a dental appointment to fill a tooth. My dentist is great, the best I have ever had, and I trust him. Still, I do not like needles, probes and drills inside my mouth. Dr. K has a new assistant named Tina and she asked me if I would like to use nitrous oxide.
“It will help you relax,” she said.
Something ominous that I thought I perceived in her voice caused me to nod and answer yes.
“Just like a couple of cocktails before work,” Dr. K said with a smile.
I was a little worried as Tina adjusted the rubber device over my nose. I had tried nitrous years before and I’d had a strange reaction. The dentist (not Dr. K) had a very well endowed dental assistant. Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, I had an almost overwhelming urge to grab her large breasts and fondle them. Even though I managed to contain my animal lusts, I have remained leery of using nitrous again, until today.
I had no such reaction today with the gas although I did have the strange feeling that Tina was actually Sarah Palin. She does look like Governor Palin and Dr. K. possibly induced this reaction by quizzing me about politics as he prepped me for the drilling. I couldn’t really reply because he had a big hand and several instruments in my mouth. I could only mumble and this was probably a good thing, as you never want to disagree too vehemently with someone that has a needle near your jugular.
Oh yes, Dr. K is computerized now. Rather than taking impressions, Tina waved a probe over my teeth as the female computer voice said things like, “Number twelve, fourteen degrees distal.”
Or some such! Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, none of my senses was working perfectly – well, other than maybe one or two carnal thoughts about Sarah, uh, Tina. I cannot begin to tell you how strange that I felt when she put lip balm on my dry lips, as if she were applying bright red gloss to the pouting face of an aging diva about to go on stage.
Dr. K must have a million dollars worth of American Indian art on his walls and the atmosphere is very pleasant. He also has television screens playing scenes from Cirque de Soleil, an affront to your sanity even if you are not breathing nitrous oxide.
Dr. K finished my temporary crown almost two hours later, prompting me to realize why Tina had highly recommended the nitrous oxide in the first place. The tip of my nose was numb until an hour ago and my upper lip feels as if someone has played a serious game of tug-of-war with it.
I either learned something new today, or else remembered something that I had forgotten. Whichever, it is true that surrealism abounds in the dentist’s office. Said differently, if you want Kafka for breakfast have a cavity filled some morning – and request nitrous.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
“It will help you relax,” she said.
Something ominous that I thought I perceived in her voice caused me to nod and answer yes.
“Just like a couple of cocktails before work,” Dr. K said with a smile.
I was a little worried as Tina adjusted the rubber device over my nose. I had tried nitrous years before and I’d had a strange reaction. The dentist (not Dr. K) had a very well endowed dental assistant. Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, I had an almost overwhelming urge to grab her large breasts and fondle them. Even though I managed to contain my animal lusts, I have remained leery of using nitrous again, until today.
I had no such reaction today with the gas although I did have the strange feeling that Tina was actually Sarah Palin. She does look like Governor Palin and Dr. K. possibly induced this reaction by quizzing me about politics as he prepped me for the drilling. I couldn’t really reply because he had a big hand and several instruments in my mouth. I could only mumble and this was probably a good thing, as you never want to disagree too vehemently with someone that has a needle near your jugular.
Oh yes, Dr. K is computerized now. Rather than taking impressions, Tina waved a probe over my teeth as the female computer voice said things like, “Number twelve, fourteen degrees distal.”
Or some such! Under the influence of the nitrous oxide, none of my senses was working perfectly – well, other than maybe one or two carnal thoughts about Sarah, uh, Tina. I cannot begin to tell you how strange that I felt when she put lip balm on my dry lips, as if she were applying bright red gloss to the pouting face of an aging diva about to go on stage.
Dr. K must have a million dollars worth of American Indian art on his walls and the atmosphere is very pleasant. He also has television screens playing scenes from Cirque de Soleil, an affront to your sanity even if you are not breathing nitrous oxide.
Dr. K finished my temporary crown almost two hours later, prompting me to realize why Tina had highly recommended the nitrous oxide in the first place. The tip of my nose was numb until an hour ago and my upper lip feels as if someone has played a serious game of tug-of-war with it.
I either learned something new today, or else remembered something that I had forgotten. Whichever, it is true that surrealism abounds in the dentist’s office. Said differently, if you want Kafka for breakfast have a cavity filled some morning – and request nitrous.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Every Day Except Sunday
Marilyn and I recently spent the afternoon with a personal injury attorney. Four years after Marilyn being rear-ended, we finally settled the case today. Despite an injury, resulting in having three donor bones surgically implanted in her neck, and then a brain aneurysm that almost killed her she wound up with little more than her medical expenses paid.
The problem is Oklahoma. The reddest state in the Union is ultraconservative and rarely finds for the plaintiff, no matter what the injury. Despite the lack of satisfaction, we finally received closure, and we were happy to have the episode in our lives finally at an end. Our very colorful attorney (a very good one, I might add) regaled us with one last legal story. It is good enough that I need to share.
Seems our attorney’s parents-in-law were rear-ended and he represented them in the resultant lawsuit. One of the claims was loss of consortium, defined in law as the losing of conjugal services. Well, you know what I mean.
According to our attorney, in a deposition, the opposing attorney always tries to embarrass the man. This tactic, he said, can backfire in a trial. J’s mother-in-law was less than a handsome woman, and he confided that he could barely imagine her even having sex, much less enjoying it. J, our attorney held his breath as the opposing attorney grilled his father-in-law.
“Sir, I need to know how the wreck affected your sex life. Since the accident, how many times a week does you and your wife have sex?”
“Once,” J’s father-in-law, a man approaching seventy answered.
J’s mouth dropped when his wife’s dad answered the question about how many times they had sex before the accident.
J’s parent-in-laws were good Oklahoma Baptists, and his father-in-law answered, “Six - everyday except Sunday.”
J and his parent’s-in-law won their case, including the claim for loss of consortium. Still, considering his own marriage, he couldn’t help but think that he’d been robbed, as he and his wife (the plaintiff’s daughter) had never had sex six times in any week, much less every week.
Eric'sWeb
The problem is Oklahoma. The reddest state in the Union is ultraconservative and rarely finds for the plaintiff, no matter what the injury. Despite the lack of satisfaction, we finally received closure, and we were happy to have the episode in our lives finally at an end. Our very colorful attorney (a very good one, I might add) regaled us with one last legal story. It is good enough that I need to share.
Seems our attorney’s parents-in-law were rear-ended and he represented them in the resultant lawsuit. One of the claims was loss of consortium, defined in law as the losing of conjugal services. Well, you know what I mean.
According to our attorney, in a deposition, the opposing attorney always tries to embarrass the man. This tactic, he said, can backfire in a trial. J’s mother-in-law was less than a handsome woman, and he confided that he could barely imagine her even having sex, much less enjoying it. J, our attorney held his breath as the opposing attorney grilled his father-in-law.
“Sir, I need to know how the wreck affected your sex life. Since the accident, how many times a week does you and your wife have sex?”
“Once,” J’s father-in-law, a man approaching seventy answered.
J’s mouth dropped when his wife’s dad answered the question about how many times they had sex before the accident.
J’s parent-in-laws were good Oklahoma Baptists, and his father-in-law answered, “Six - everyday except Sunday.”
J and his parent’s-in-law won their case, including the claim for loss of consortium. Still, considering his own marriage, he couldn’t help but think that he’d been robbed, as he and his wife (the plaintiff’s daughter) had never had sex six times in any week, much less every week.
Eric'sWeb
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Born To Be Wilder
I had just started a new job in 1976 and was undergoing a divorce from my first wife. With the divorce finally finalized, I found myself truly free for the first time in seven years.
I was already drinking and partying too much, so the only thing left for me was to buy a motorcycle. When Dave, a fellow geologist and my closest friend, told me he was going to put an ad for his motorcycle in the newspaper, I naturally asked him how much he wanted for it.
"Five hundred bucks," he told me.
"I'll take it, but you'll have to teach me how to drive it." I had never been on a motorcycle.
A lesser friend would have told me to go jump in the lake. Dave, in fact, did grumble a bit but in the end he promised to teach me how to ride a motorcycle, even if I didn't buy his motorcycle. That Saturday, he drove it to my house and gave me my first lesson. The bike was a 500cc Triumph dirt bike. I know! There is no such thing anymore and the bike would probably be worth ten grand these days if you could even find one. Anyway, Dave showed me the ropes and persevered until I finally got the hang of it.
I began riding the bike to work but soon found its knobby tires were more suited for off-road than freeway. I also soon learned that my ex-girlfriend was a better rider than me. I found this out as the reluctant passenger on back as she demonstrated how to race around a corner while nearly kissing the pavement. I traded the little dirt bike for a 750cc Triumph Bonneville street bike, quickly discovering the gears and brakes are on opposite sides than those on the dirt bike. Again, my bud Dave helped me transition through the difficulty.
My ex and I were unable to sell our house immediately so we took turns living in it until we sold it. One night, we had an impromptu party that included many of my new friends and many of hers. Do not ask me to explain! We were incompatible and did not hate each other. I soon began getting requests to take people for rides on the Bonneville.
The long trip around the block would begin as uneventful but ended the same way a half dozen times. The grass on the front lawn was wet and every time I jumped the curb and hit the grass, I would lose control and we would slide across the wet yards on our rear ends. Did I mention that we were all drinking?
No one was hurt and the Bonneville suffered only a few superficial scratches. I have a picture of the Bonneville around somewhere but only a memory exists - not even a tiny scar - of my first motorcycle. It is a shame because that cycle and friends like Dave helped me through a very rocky patch in my life.
"Five hundred bucks," he told me.
"I'll take it, but you'll have to teach me how to drive it." I had never been on a motorcycle.
A lesser friend would have told me to go jump in the lake. Dave, in fact, did grumble a bit but in the end he promised to teach me how to ride a motorcycle, even if I didn't buy his motorcycle. That Saturday, he drove it to my house and gave me my first lesson. The bike was a 500cc Triumph dirt bike. I know! There is no such thing anymore and the bike would probably be worth ten grand these days if you could even find one. Anyway, Dave showed me the ropes and persevered until I finally got the hang of it.
I began riding the bike to work but soon found its knobby tires were more suited for off-road than freeway. I also soon learned that my ex-girlfriend was a better rider than me. I found this out as the reluctant passenger on back as she demonstrated how to race around a corner while nearly kissing the pavement. I traded the little dirt bike for a 750cc Triumph Bonneville street bike, quickly discovering the gears and brakes are on opposite sides than those on the dirt bike. Again, my bud Dave helped me transition through the difficulty.
My ex and I were unable to sell our house immediately so we took turns living in it until we sold it. One night, we had an impromptu party that included many of my new friends and many of hers. Do not ask me to explain! We were incompatible and did not hate each other. I soon began getting requests to take people for rides on the Bonneville.
The long trip around the block would begin as uneventful but ended the same way a half dozen times. The grass on the front lawn was wet and every time I jumped the curb and hit the grass, I would lose control and we would slide across the wet yards on our rear ends. Did I mention that we were all drinking?
No one was hurt and the Bonneville suffered only a few superficial scratches. I have a picture of the Bonneville around somewhere but only a memory exists - not even a tiny scar - of my first motorcycle. It is a shame because that cycle and friends like Dave helped me through a very rocky patch in my life.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Why I Never Excelled in Sports
There is no reason that I should like men’s college basketball as much as I do, I just do. A while back, I watched Oklahoma State and Texas battle through three overtimes until Mario Boggan of OSU finely outdid Texas’s freshman phenom Kevin Durant, icing the game when he sank a long, desperation shot with less than four seconds remaining on the clock. It was an exciting basketball game, and I have seen quite a few.
What makes my love for basketball so unlikely? As a kid, I was always the last person selected when Captains chose sides for baseball, football, etc. Well, unless my friend Rod was around.
I have an excuse, though. Near-sighted does not come close to explaining my vision. When I first got glasses in the fifth grade, I remember seeing the blackboard clearly for the first time in my life. Corrective lenses cured my vision problems but did nothing to enhance my depth perception, or should I say my lack of it.
Its hell standing in the outfield, tracking a baseball as it plummets from the sky toward you, hoping beyond hope that you will somehow snag it deftly with your trusty glove before it hits ten feet away. It’s even worse hell seeing the looks of derision on your teammate’s faces when you drop the ball and the winning scorer reaches home base, ending every chance of their pulling that elusive upset of the best team on the block. Hey, if you look up klutz in the dictionary, you will see my picture beside the definition.
I tried every sport: football, softball, basketball (when I tried out for the team in the fifth grade, the coach simply shook his head and frowned), track and field. Being a skinny kid, I was a good runner, but nothing special.
Why do I like basketball so much? My first three years at Northeast Louisiana the football team lost every game. My senior year, they tied a game. Basketball was different. When I was a freshman, the team went sixteen and three.
Every home game, sixteen-hundred or so fans and students would crowd into our painfully tiny gymnasium, and go crazy when five-foot-nine basketball legend Tommy Enloe started dunking balls. We never lost a home game and for about two hours, we basked in the team’s success and felt (pardon the cliché) like kings of the world.
Watching first-year head Coach Sean Sutton almost faint after a particularly stressful play (I’m not kidding) I remembered that feeling. As Boggin’s winning basket swished through the net, it intensified even further. Hey, I am old, I am fat and blind as a bat, but at that moment, I was once again King of the World.
P.S. – Kudos to my old bud Rod. He was no athlete either, but he was one of the best and most intelligent persons I have ever met to this day, and he served his country well, and with pride, as an armored company captain during Vietnam. He is now a wine expert, living in Napa, California.
Gondwana
What makes my love for basketball so unlikely? As a kid, I was always the last person selected when Captains chose sides for baseball, football, etc. Well, unless my friend Rod was around.
I have an excuse, though. Near-sighted does not come close to explaining my vision. When I first got glasses in the fifth grade, I remember seeing the blackboard clearly for the first time in my life. Corrective lenses cured my vision problems but did nothing to enhance my depth perception, or should I say my lack of it.
Its hell standing in the outfield, tracking a baseball as it plummets from the sky toward you, hoping beyond hope that you will somehow snag it deftly with your trusty glove before it hits ten feet away. It’s even worse hell seeing the looks of derision on your teammate’s faces when you drop the ball and the winning scorer reaches home base, ending every chance of their pulling that elusive upset of the best team on the block. Hey, if you look up klutz in the dictionary, you will see my picture beside the definition.
I tried every sport: football, softball, basketball (when I tried out for the team in the fifth grade, the coach simply shook his head and frowned), track and field. Being a skinny kid, I was a good runner, but nothing special.
Why do I like basketball so much? My first three years at Northeast Louisiana the football team lost every game. My senior year, they tied a game. Basketball was different. When I was a freshman, the team went sixteen and three.
Every home game, sixteen-hundred or so fans and students would crowd into our painfully tiny gymnasium, and go crazy when five-foot-nine basketball legend Tommy Enloe started dunking balls. We never lost a home game and for about two hours, we basked in the team’s success and felt (pardon the cliché) like kings of the world.
Watching first-year head Coach Sean Sutton almost faint after a particularly stressful play (I’m not kidding) I remembered that feeling. As Boggin’s winning basket swished through the net, it intensified even further. Hey, I am old, I am fat and blind as a bat, but at that moment, I was once again King of the World.
P.S. – Kudos to my old bud Rod. He was no athlete either, but he was one of the best and most intelligent persons I have ever met to this day, and he served his country well, and with pride, as an armored company captain during Vietnam. He is now a wine expert, living in Napa, California.
Gondwana
Friday, August 28, 2009
Marilyn's Story
Marilyn had fallen asleep in the back bedroom with the TV still on, the room illuminated by the picture tube when a noise aroused her later on that night. Looking in the mirror, she saw something black and flying through the room. Turning toward the window, she watched as it flew past the TV, and then out the closed window. She said that the incident didn’t scare her as much as it simply disturbed her, and she had trouble returning to sleep that night.
“That was weird,” Marilyn, unafraid of an evil spirit, thought to herself. We both believe there are spirits in this house (from where, neither of us are sure) but we both have no feeling that they are evil spirits. I have always felt safe in this house, somehow protected.
Perhaps the dark flying creature was but a friendly specter, checking on our well-being while we slept.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
“That was weird,” Marilyn, unafraid of an evil spirit, thought to herself. We both believe there are spirits in this house (from where, neither of us are sure) but we both have no feeling that they are evil spirits. I have always felt safe in this house, somehow protected.
Perhaps the dark flying creature was but a friendly specter, checking on our well-being while we slept.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Friday, August 21, 2009
Slick's Story
As a new widower, I increasingly found myself playing hours of solitaire on the computer, unable to cope with even the simplest of tasks. Lucky, my Labrador Retriever was my constant companion, seeming to sense my pain. On the days when I could gather the strength to drive to my office, Lucky would come with me. He did more to ease my transition back to a fully functioning human being than anything else.
As time diminished my pain, I immersed myself in the business of writing and finding oil and gas. I often needed to leave Lucky at home to conduct the business that I had neglected for nearly two years and quickly learned the big boy did not like being alone.
It got to the point that I would have to sneak out of the house in the mornings. I do not take guilt well and was already shouldering an accumulated load. At least, that is how I felt. I tried to compensate for my daily absences by overfeeding him. I had already gained twenty-five pounds myself.
One day, on a trip to the local pet store, I found what I thought was the solution to my problem. As it turned out it was the start of many new issues. A local pet group was adopting out dogs and cats. There were many people there and it seemed like every one of them was standing in front of a single cage. When I investigated, I saw why.
Slick was a full blood Gordon Setter. For those of you that have not heard of the breed, a Gordon Setter looks like a small, black Irish Setter. Gordon Setters are Scottish in origin. What a gorgeous dog! I adopted him on the spot before anyone else could get their clutches on him. Here is the perfect companion for Lucky. It will end his separation anxiety. At least that is what I thought.
Slick and Lucky did hit it off, just like brothers. What I soon learned was that Slick liked to run. I also learned he could jump a chain link fence and climb over a stockade fence. I came to expect a message on my answering machine when I got home saying, "I have your dog Slick. Can you come and get him?"
Get him I did for nearly a year. Three boys rode bikes in the neighborhood and when Slick saw them, he would jump the fence and chase after their bikes. The doorbell would eventually ring, the boys bringing Slick home for the night. One evening I answered a knock on the door. It was the boy's mother.
"We just love your dog and he spends more time with us than he does at your house."
"Are you asking me to give Slick to you?"
She was and I did. I loved him but their whole family also loved him and he had two boys and their sister that adored him. It was just Lucky and me again. I began taking him wherever I went, even on a 360-mile trip to Louisiana. Then one day the pump went out on my pool. A friendly puppy came up to me as I was talking with the people at the pool repair and maintenance place.
"What a great little dog," I said.
"Then you better take her. The boss told us to throw her out on Western Avenue at five before we go home. She's just a stray.”
I was horrified. I took the puppy home with me, intending to post a note at the vet and give her away. That never happened. Within a day or so, I found myself permanently attached. So was Lucky. Velvet is the dog on the back cover of all my books. Slick still lives nearby. He often dropped by to see Lucky and me but his visits became less frequent as the years passed.
Not long ago, one of the boys dropped by the house and brought Slick with him. James is now twenty-four and Slick much older also. Lucky is twelve and we estimated Slick’s age at fourteen.
“Mom doesn’t want to take a chance on having the tumor on his chin removed. She loves him more than anyone does. He’s getting old and doesn’t run as much as he used to,” James said.
I understood how James’ mom felt.
“It doesn’t matter how fast you are when you reach our age,” I said, patting Slick’s head. “You still get to where you’re going, sooner or later.”
Louisiana Mystery Writer
As time diminished my pain, I immersed myself in the business of writing and finding oil and gas. I often needed to leave Lucky at home to conduct the business that I had neglected for nearly two years and quickly learned the big boy did not like being alone.
It got to the point that I would have to sneak out of the house in the mornings. I do not take guilt well and was already shouldering an accumulated load. At least, that is how I felt. I tried to compensate for my daily absences by overfeeding him. I had already gained twenty-five pounds myself.
One day, on a trip to the local pet store, I found what I thought was the solution to my problem. As it turned out it was the start of many new issues. A local pet group was adopting out dogs and cats. There were many people there and it seemed like every one of them was standing in front of a single cage. When I investigated, I saw why.
Slick was a full blood Gordon Setter. For those of you that have not heard of the breed, a Gordon Setter looks like a small, black Irish Setter. Gordon Setters are Scottish in origin. What a gorgeous dog! I adopted him on the spot before anyone else could get their clutches on him. Here is the perfect companion for Lucky. It will end his separation anxiety. At least that is what I thought.
Slick and Lucky did hit it off, just like brothers. What I soon learned was that Slick liked to run. I also learned he could jump a chain link fence and climb over a stockade fence. I came to expect a message on my answering machine when I got home saying, "I have your dog Slick. Can you come and get him?"
Get him I did for nearly a year. Three boys rode bikes in the neighborhood and when Slick saw them, he would jump the fence and chase after their bikes. The doorbell would eventually ring, the boys bringing Slick home for the night. One evening I answered a knock on the door. It was the boy's mother.
"We just love your dog and he spends more time with us than he does at your house."
"Are you asking me to give Slick to you?"
She was and I did. I loved him but their whole family also loved him and he had two boys and their sister that adored him. It was just Lucky and me again. I began taking him wherever I went, even on a 360-mile trip to Louisiana. Then one day the pump went out on my pool. A friendly puppy came up to me as I was talking with the people at the pool repair and maintenance place.
"What a great little dog," I said.
"Then you better take her. The boss told us to throw her out on Western Avenue at five before we go home. She's just a stray.”
I was horrified. I took the puppy home with me, intending to post a note at the vet and give her away. That never happened. Within a day or so, I found myself permanently attached. So was Lucky. Velvet is the dog on the back cover of all my books. Slick still lives nearby. He often dropped by to see Lucky and me but his visits became less frequent as the years passed.
Not long ago, one of the boys dropped by the house and brought Slick with him. James is now twenty-four and Slick much older also. Lucky is twelve and we estimated Slick’s age at fourteen.
“Mom doesn’t want to take a chance on having the tumor on his chin removed. She loves him more than anyone does. He’s getting old and doesn’t run as much as he used to,” James said.
I understood how James’ mom felt.
“It doesn’t matter how fast you are when you reach our age,” I said, patting Slick’s head. “You still get to where you’re going, sooner or later.”
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Duke's Story
I love animals and grew up with many pets – dogs, guppies, parakeets, tarantulas. Well, you get the picture. Still, I was thirty-two before I ever owned my first cat. Maybe I should say that I was thirty-two when a cat first owned me.
His name was King Tut, and he was a big orange, longhaired, full-blooded something-or-other. Tut was as regal as his name. Other adjectives also well described him – haughty, picky, and possessive, etc. Tut and I were together almost sixteen years and somewhere along the way, he decided that he liked me.
Since Tut, I have had more cats than I can count. You cat people out there know where I’m coming from. You can’t own (there I go again) just one cat. They sense when you like them and start appearing at your doorstep from out of nowhere. Well, all this explanation brings me to my latest cat Duke.
I must digress. Before I inherited Duke, I had a kitty named Bob, a yellow tabby with no tail. Bob was a wonderful cat, but always pitifully skinny. He was that way when Shannon, my stepdaughter, left him with me. I think he may have had cat AIDS.
I was afraid to take him to the vet because I had once had a favorite kitty named Silky with the incurable malady. The vet wanted to put her down because she was so contagious. It broke my heart and I didn’t cotton to repeating the experience with Bob. Yes, I know, you can’t hide your head in the sand. Well, yes you can, at least for a while.
I found Bob stuck in the fence, too weak to pull himself our. He was dead and I cried when I found him. I was writing my New Orleans murder mystery Big Easy at the time of Bob’s demise and I somehow incorporated his story into the plot. This brings me back to Duke.
Duke, like Bob, was skinny when he appeared on my doorstep. He was also a frightened little mass of kitty hood. There was nothing that I could do except feed and pet him. He has now killed and eaten three squirrels and goodness knows how many birds (thanks to Marilyn, my house is a bird sanctuary.)
I’ve never gotten the little fellow fixed because I’m afraid to pick him up. I tried one night after chugging a few brewskis and almost lost an eye during the attempt. Duke has finally quieted down, maybe because he’s gotten a little older, or maybe because he ran into a bigger tomcat. That happens in life sometimes.
Fiction South
His name was King Tut, and he was a big orange, longhaired, full-blooded something-or-other. Tut was as regal as his name. Other adjectives also well described him – haughty, picky, and possessive, etc. Tut and I were together almost sixteen years and somewhere along the way, he decided that he liked me.
Since Tut, I have had more cats than I can count. You cat people out there know where I’m coming from. You can’t own (there I go again) just one cat. They sense when you like them and start appearing at your doorstep from out of nowhere. Well, all this explanation brings me to my latest cat Duke.
I must digress. Before I inherited Duke, I had a kitty named Bob, a yellow tabby with no tail. Bob was a wonderful cat, but always pitifully skinny. He was that way when Shannon, my stepdaughter, left him with me. I think he may have had cat AIDS.
I was afraid to take him to the vet because I had once had a favorite kitty named Silky with the incurable malady. The vet wanted to put her down because she was so contagious. It broke my heart and I didn’t cotton to repeating the experience with Bob. Yes, I know, you can’t hide your head in the sand. Well, yes you can, at least for a while.
I found Bob stuck in the fence, too weak to pull himself our. He was dead and I cried when I found him. I was writing my New Orleans murder mystery Big Easy at the time of Bob’s demise and I somehow incorporated his story into the plot. This brings me back to Duke.
Duke, like Bob, was skinny when he appeared on my doorstep. He was also a frightened little mass of kitty hood. There was nothing that I could do except feed and pet him. He has now killed and eaten three squirrels and goodness knows how many birds (thanks to Marilyn, my house is a bird sanctuary.)
I’ve never gotten the little fellow fixed because I’m afraid to pick him up. I tried one night after chugging a few brewskis and almost lost an eye during the attempt. Duke has finally quieted down, maybe because he’s gotten a little older, or maybe because he ran into a bigger tomcat. That happens in life sometimes.
Fiction South
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Stealing Watermelons
Driving back to the office from lunch today the car thermometer said the outside temperature was 111 degrees. While I doubt the temperature was that high, it was hot, at least a hundred. The weather made me think about another hot summer, many years ago.
My ex-partner John and I drilled and operated our first well in 1978. The Kelln, located a few miles north of the tiny Major County, Oklahoma town of Cleo Springs is still producing after thirty years. Thirty years ago we weren’t so sure how it would turn out.
John and I are both geologists (he is also now a lawyer) and knew little at the time about drilling and completing wells. We hired a man that did, a geological engineer named Bill A. Bill had engineered hundreds of wells in the area, mostly for Texas operator T.F. Hodge, and there was little he didn’t know.
Much like today, it was hot and dry when we drilled the Kelln well. The area north of Cleo Springs is largely agricultural and Bill knew the location of a nearby watermelon patch.
“We’ll load up the trunk,” he said. “There’s so many out there that the farmers won’t miss a few.”
I was riding shotgun as Bill drove his Chevy field car off the section line road, into the large watermelon patch that stretched as far as we could see. Following a farmer’s trail, he drove into the middle of the patch and parked beneath the sparse shade of a stunted blackjack tree. After watching him pop the trunk lid, I followed him down a row lined with huge watermelons.
Bill was tall and had to really bend to thump each melon to determine its ripeness. We soon chose six prime specimens and loaded them into the Chevy’s deep trunk. So enthralled were we with our search, we never heard two men in a pickup truck pull in behind us.
“What are you boys doing?” a voice behind us said.
Bill and I turned to see two large farmers, both dressed in sweaty overalls. Neither man appeared particularly pleased. I was at a loss for words but not Bill. Reaching for his wallet, he pulled out a twenty and handed it to the older man.
Bill was as tall as the men confronting us but lanky, unlike the two barrel-chested men with huge arms and farmer’s tans. With a big Texas grin on his face Bill never missed a beat.
“We were just coming to look for you two boys,” he said, purposely adopting the local drawl in his speech. “Is twenty enough for these melons we bought?”
The big man nodded and took the twenty without answering or returning Bill’s mile-wide smile. Glancing at me and cocking his head toward the door, he signaled me to get in the car. He slammed the trunk shut and followed me, not bothering to say bye to the two farmers.
They watched us drive away, mopping sweat from their heads with their worn out ball caps and ignoring our dust. Bill didn’t say a word until we were about a mile down the road. That’s when his infectious grin appeared again on his expressive face.
“I’ve been stealing melons from that patch for years. Guess it was about time I got caught.”
By this time he was laughing and I joined him, wondering as I did if stolen watermelons tasted better than ones you purchased. As we continued down the road in a trail of dust I decided that was information I didn’t need to know.
Gondwana Press
My ex-partner John and I drilled and operated our first well in 1978. The Kelln, located a few miles north of the tiny Major County, Oklahoma town of Cleo Springs is still producing after thirty years. Thirty years ago we weren’t so sure how it would turn out.
John and I are both geologists (he is also now a lawyer) and knew little at the time about drilling and completing wells. We hired a man that did, a geological engineer named Bill A. Bill had engineered hundreds of wells in the area, mostly for Texas operator T.F. Hodge, and there was little he didn’t know.
Much like today, it was hot and dry when we drilled the Kelln well. The area north of Cleo Springs is largely agricultural and Bill knew the location of a nearby watermelon patch.
“We’ll load up the trunk,” he said. “There’s so many out there that the farmers won’t miss a few.”
I was riding shotgun as Bill drove his Chevy field car off the section line road, into the large watermelon patch that stretched as far as we could see. Following a farmer’s trail, he drove into the middle of the patch and parked beneath the sparse shade of a stunted blackjack tree. After watching him pop the trunk lid, I followed him down a row lined with huge watermelons.
Bill was tall and had to really bend to thump each melon to determine its ripeness. We soon chose six prime specimens and loaded them into the Chevy’s deep trunk. So enthralled were we with our search, we never heard two men in a pickup truck pull in behind us.
“What are you boys doing?” a voice behind us said.
Bill and I turned to see two large farmers, both dressed in sweaty overalls. Neither man appeared particularly pleased. I was at a loss for words but not Bill. Reaching for his wallet, he pulled out a twenty and handed it to the older man.
Bill was as tall as the men confronting us but lanky, unlike the two barrel-chested men with huge arms and farmer’s tans. With a big Texas grin on his face Bill never missed a beat.
“We were just coming to look for you two boys,” he said, purposely adopting the local drawl in his speech. “Is twenty enough for these melons we bought?”
The big man nodded and took the twenty without answering or returning Bill’s mile-wide smile. Glancing at me and cocking his head toward the door, he signaled me to get in the car. He slammed the trunk shut and followed me, not bothering to say bye to the two farmers.
They watched us drive away, mopping sweat from their heads with their worn out ball caps and ignoring our dust. Bill didn’t say a word until we were about a mile down the road. That’s when his infectious grin appeared again on his expressive face.
“I’ve been stealing melons from that patch for years. Guess it was about time I got caught.”
By this time he was laughing and I joined him, wondering as I did if stolen watermelons tasted better than ones you purchased. As we continued down the road in a trail of dust I decided that was information I didn’t need to know.
Gondwana Press
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
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
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.
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
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
Monday, June 29, 2009
Mavis' Fried Okra
Cajun and Creole cuisine is known and loved throughout the world but native Louisianans have a dirty little secret – they love fried foods. From fried oysters to fried turkey, there is little they haven’t tried to fry. One of my favorite dishes that my Mother prepared almost every Sunday was fried okra.
Roll the okra in flour then dip in a mixture of egg and buttermilk. Batter the okra with corn meal and then fry in hot oil until brown all over. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot.
My Mother had a large cast iron skillet she used to fry things in. While my Grandmothers fried with lard (pig fat) my mother began using vegetable oil once it was widely available. Personally, I prefer the vegetable oil. Try it and enjoy.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Roll the okra in flour then dip in a mixture of egg and buttermilk. Batter the okra with corn meal and then fry in hot oil until brown all over. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve hot.
My Mother had a large cast iron skillet she used to fry things in. While my Grandmothers fried with lard (pig fat) my mother began using vegetable oil once it was widely available. Personally, I prefer the vegetable oil. Try it and enjoy.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Literary Pets
Princess, my solid black pug is my newest pet and I have a hard time writing sometimes because she constantly demands her rightful place in my lap. Since she is the first pup or kitten that I have had in a while, I had almost forgotten the same insistence all my other pets once exhibited.
Kitties Chani and Hamlet were with me, one of them almost always on my lap, during the months it took for me to write Ghost of a Chance. Likewise Lucky, too big to be a lap dog even though he wanted to be, slept at my feet as I worked on A Gathering of Diamonds and Big Easy, Tabitha or Rouge trading off for time in my lap.
King Tut, Mad Max and my other cats also did their tour of lap duty and I wonder now if I would have ever finished the books without them. As I think back I realize I was never far from a trusted friend as I wrote.
How many other writers have literary pets? I wonder. I’ll have to worry about the answer to that question later because right now my thighs are growing numb and Princess needs a treat.
Kitties Chani and Hamlet were with me, one of them almost always on my lap, during the months it took for me to write Ghost of a Chance. Likewise Lucky, too big to be a lap dog even though he wanted to be, slept at my feet as I worked on A Gathering of Diamonds and Big Easy, Tabitha or Rouge trading off for time in my lap.
King Tut, Mad Max and my other cats also did their tour of lap duty and I wonder now if I would have ever finished the books without them. As I think back I realize I was never far from a trusted friend as I wrote.
How many other writers have literary pets? I wonder. I’ll have to worry about the answer to that question later because right now my thighs are growing numb and Princess needs a treat.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Ann's Chicken Fry, Rt. 66, OKC
Here are a few pics Marilyn took Friday at Ann's Chicken Fry located on historic Route 66 in Oklahoma City. You can almost hear the Route 66 theme song!
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Writing Contest
Gondwana Press LLC of Edmond, Oklahoma announces its first annual Route 66 Writing Contest. Complete details at Gondwana's website.
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