Harvey, my former father-in-law raised cattle and had a small pasture behind his house in Chalmette where he ran a few head. Harvey had an old friend, a doctor that had a large cattle ranch in the eastern Louisiana town of Vidalia. Dr. M became very wealthy when a company found oil and lots of it on his ranch.
Shortly after the discovery of oil, Dr. M retired from medicine and spent his days trading stock and traveling. A devout Catholic, the Pope granted him and his family a private meeting during a visit to the Vatican. Dr. M was also a member of the Krewe of Rex and had once paid a million dollars for the privilege of being King of that Krewe during one Mardi Gras season.
Wanting to experiment with different breeds of cattle, Dr. M hired his old friend Harvey to oversee the operation. Relishing the challenge, Harvey and wife Lily began splitting their time between Vidalia and Chalmette. On a trip to Chalmette, Gail and I stopped along the way for a visit to the ranch.
Dr. M and his family rarely visited the ranch any more so Lily and Harvey had the main house all to themselves. The living room, I remember, had a large mirror on one wall made of one-way glass. Dr. M was apparently a voyeur and liked watching his guests through the one-way glass from an adjacent room that most knew nothing about.
The ranch was two full sections of land and abutted the levee on the west side of the Mississippi River. Harvey and Dr. M were trying to establish a new breed of cattle for the area - Black Angus. The weather turned out too hot and humid for this breed and the experiment ultimately ended in failure.
The ranch had a bunkhouse large enough to accommodate a dozen hired hands, if needed. During our visit there was no seasonal help and Gail and I had the bunkhouse to ourselves. We spent the day touring the ranch, examining the barns, stalls and cutting pens. Lily seemed unhappy when we left the following morning and I am sure she missed her large family in Chalmette.
Perhaps Harvey was also missing Chalmette and his own cows because shortly after our visit, he quit his job as foreman and he and Lily moved back to their own home. Gail and I were glad to see Lily happy again, but I am also glad that we had the chance to see Dr. M's large working cattle ranch before Harvey finally quit.
Gondwana
Showing posts with label southern stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label southern stories. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Poor People's Food
My sixteen-year-old stepdaughter Kate searched the refrigerator in vain for something to eat, or at least for something she wanted to eat.
“I’m hungry,” she proclaimed.
Marilyn recited the litany of food in the refrigerator, freezer and pantry. “I’m not taking you to Johnny’s for a burger,” she said. “It’s too late and I already have my nightgown on.”
Unhappy with any of her mother’s suggestions, Kate began pawing through the pantry. Marilyn joined her search, hoping to find something to satisfy her baby’s insatiable teenage hunger.
“Check this out, Kate,” she said, showing her a specially decorated commemorative can of Spam.
“No way,” Kate said. “Spam is horrible and only poor people eat it.”
“Have you ever tried it?” Marilyn asked.
“No way!”
“Then how do you know how it tastes?”
“Who cares? No one even knows what it’s made of.”
“It’s just ham in a can, Kate,” Marilyn said.
Kate was having none of her mother’s argument and finally microwaved a Hamburger Helper. Still, the discussion caused me to consider the food I ate while growing up in Louisiana and how much enjoyment people miss because they have preconceived notions.
My parents were simple working folks, my mother a homemaker, my dad a pipe fitter. My dad never made much money but I never thought of us as being poor, and I do not recall ever missing a meal. I remember my mother’s Spam and eggs for breakfast, Spam sandwiches for lunch, and Spam and green beans for dinner. Spam was not the only thing we ate by any means, but when we had it, I liked it.
Heck, I also enjoyed eating potted meat and Vienna sausages. My Aunt Dot sent me a care package when I was deep in the jungles of Vietnam and I remember enjoying the can of Vienna sausages included in the prize better than I would have a lobster or filet mignon.
Money supplies the necessities of life but do more expensive purchases equate to a happier existence. I think not. A Rolls-Royce will not take you a single mile further than a Chevrolet, or get you there any quicker.
As the saying goes, money cannot buy happiness. Now I wonder, how much happiness do rich folks miss because of their snobbery? This I know - sometimes what you miss most are the simple things you never even think about, until you lose them.
Gondwana
“I’m hungry,” she proclaimed.
Marilyn recited the litany of food in the refrigerator, freezer and pantry. “I’m not taking you to Johnny’s for a burger,” she said. “It’s too late and I already have my nightgown on.”
Unhappy with any of her mother’s suggestions, Kate began pawing through the pantry. Marilyn joined her search, hoping to find something to satisfy her baby’s insatiable teenage hunger.
“Check this out, Kate,” she said, showing her a specially decorated commemorative can of Spam.
“No way,” Kate said. “Spam is horrible and only poor people eat it.”
“Have you ever tried it?” Marilyn asked.
“No way!”
“Then how do you know how it tastes?”
“Who cares? No one even knows what it’s made of.”
“It’s just ham in a can, Kate,” Marilyn said.
Kate was having none of her mother’s argument and finally microwaved a Hamburger Helper. Still, the discussion caused me to consider the food I ate while growing up in Louisiana and how much enjoyment people miss because they have preconceived notions.
My parents were simple working folks, my mother a homemaker, my dad a pipe fitter. My dad never made much money but I never thought of us as being poor, and I do not recall ever missing a meal. I remember my mother’s Spam and eggs for breakfast, Spam sandwiches for lunch, and Spam and green beans for dinner. Spam was not the only thing we ate by any means, but when we had it, I liked it.
Heck, I also enjoyed eating potted meat and Vienna sausages. My Aunt Dot sent me a care package when I was deep in the jungles of Vietnam and I remember enjoying the can of Vienna sausages included in the prize better than I would have a lobster or filet mignon.
Money supplies the necessities of life but do more expensive purchases equate to a happier existence. I think not. A Rolls-Royce will not take you a single mile further than a Chevrolet, or get you there any quicker.
As the saying goes, money cannot buy happiness. Now I wonder, how much happiness do rich folks miss because of their snobbery? This I know - sometimes what you miss most are the simple things you never even think about, until you lose them.
Gondwana
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
A Trick of the Mind
Like you, I do not believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality. I talked about telling the future using reflection from polished objects such as crystal balls. I suggested that veils, fractures and inclusions of other minerals might affect the transmittal of light through this media such that a person trained to do so could “see” into a different dimension. The last time I visited my father in the reminiscence center where he lives, I witnessed something that lends credence to such claims.
I arrived late, Dad eating dinner, so I waited for him outside on the enclosed patio. The patio is on the east side of the building. I sat in a lawn chair, facing west so that I might see my Dad walking past when he finished eating. It was early evening, the sun shining at an oblique angle through the windows behind me.
Several more windows separated the facility from the enclosed patio, light striking them such that I could see hazy movement from where I sat. I was doing other things, reading a letter and thinking about the events that had occurred that day when I saw, or thought I saw the almost translucent figure of a man strolling down the hall.
I stood and put my face against the glass to negate the glare coming from the window behind me. Even though my actions took less than ten seconds, it was not fast enough to get a look at the man. There was simply no man there. It was a trick of the mind, I thought, caused by the low angle of the sun shining through the window behind me, and then reflecting off the windows in front of me.
My Dad is usually a fast eater but that evening he had not finished even after thirty minutes. During that time, I saw a procession of reflections walking down the hall. Even though I tried my best, their images disappeared every time I put my face to the window.
My Dad has resided at this facility since January 2007 and I have visited him at least once every week since then. Many of the people in the facility when I began visiting are no longer there – the Walking Woman, the Roamer, and many other nameless individuals. It is likely that dozens, maybe hundreds of former inhabitants have died there. Maybe an essence of their souls remains and I was able to see them because of a perfect combination of reflection and refraction.
Like you, I do no believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality, or unreality, and nothing more than a simple trick of the mind. Well, maybe!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
I arrived late, Dad eating dinner, so I waited for him outside on the enclosed patio. The patio is on the east side of the building. I sat in a lawn chair, facing west so that I might see my Dad walking past when he finished eating. It was early evening, the sun shining at an oblique angle through the windows behind me.
Several more windows separated the facility from the enclosed patio, light striking them such that I could see hazy movement from where I sat. I was doing other things, reading a letter and thinking about the events that had occurred that day when I saw, or thought I saw the almost translucent figure of a man strolling down the hall.
I stood and put my face against the glass to negate the glare coming from the window behind me. Even though my actions took less than ten seconds, it was not fast enough to get a look at the man. There was simply no man there. It was a trick of the mind, I thought, caused by the low angle of the sun shining through the window behind me, and then reflecting off the windows in front of me.
My Dad is usually a fast eater but that evening he had not finished even after thirty minutes. During that time, I saw a procession of reflections walking down the hall. Even though I tried my best, their images disappeared every time I put my face to the window.
My Dad has resided at this facility since January 2007 and I have visited him at least once every week since then. Many of the people in the facility when I began visiting are no longer there – the Walking Woman, the Roamer, and many other nameless individuals. It is likely that dozens, maybe hundreds of former inhabitants have died there. Maybe an essence of their souls remains and I was able to see them because of a perfect combination of reflection and refraction.
Like you, I do no believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality, or unreality, and nothing more than a simple trick of the mind. Well, maybe!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Deep in the Forest
I have often talked about the mysterious Ouachita Mountains where I did my geology thesis. I am sure most everyone remembers the movie Deliverance that stared Jon Voight and Burt Reynolds and the frightening hillbillies encountered. On one of our field trips to the Ouachitas, my ex-wife Gail and I met our own pair of scary hillbillies. It was late fall, the days dull and weather dreary.
Gail and I had visited a mine so deep in the forest that we had to follow an azimuth with a Brunton compass (those were the days before GPS). The mine was not large, at least not as those in the western United States. Still, it formed an imposing edifice, a bald knob amid a sea of forest green.
The Davis Mine had not operated since the Civil War. Confederate soldiers mined lead there, employing Federal prisoners. The few old publications we could find about the mine hinted at torture and atrocities. I don't know if there were ghosts, but the place imparted a definite chill down my spine. It was late when Gail and I finally left the difficult to reach lead mine.
We had parked our old 62' Ford pickup on the side of a narrow dirt road. Before we reached it, we heard the rumble of an even older pickup truck moving in our direction. When we rounded a corner, we encountered it directly in our path. The bed of the truck was loaded with groceries and other supplies, and two unkempt men occupied the cab.
Gail and I both noticed the gun rack in the window behind the two men, rifles or shotguns behind them.
"You two lost?" the one-eyed driver asked, spitting a wad of chew out the window before either of us had a chance to answer. "We got a mine up by our place no one even knows about," he told us when we explained what we were doing in the middle of nowhere. "We'll take you there and show it to you," he offered.
We declined, then thanked them and began walking away at a rapid clip. "Don't look back," I told Gail.
Finally, we heard the pickup's engine fire and then rumble away in the opposite direction. I am a large man and I'm sure the two hillbillies noticed the pick hammer in my hand. Were they being friendly? No! I was freshly home from Vietnam and I still had a well-honed sense of danger. These two men were dangerous and I have no doubt that they had little regard for human life.
My memory of these two appear, almost verbatim, in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds. Now, years later, I still feel the dread when I recall this story.
Fiction South
Gail and I had visited a mine so deep in the forest that we had to follow an azimuth with a Brunton compass (those were the days before GPS). The mine was not large, at least not as those in the western United States. Still, it formed an imposing edifice, a bald knob amid a sea of forest green.
The Davis Mine had not operated since the Civil War. Confederate soldiers mined lead there, employing Federal prisoners. The few old publications we could find about the mine hinted at torture and atrocities. I don't know if there were ghosts, but the place imparted a definite chill down my spine. It was late when Gail and I finally left the difficult to reach lead mine.
We had parked our old 62' Ford pickup on the side of a narrow dirt road. Before we reached it, we heard the rumble of an even older pickup truck moving in our direction. When we rounded a corner, we encountered it directly in our path. The bed of the truck was loaded with groceries and other supplies, and two unkempt men occupied the cab.
Gail and I both noticed the gun rack in the window behind the two men, rifles or shotguns behind them.
"You two lost?" the one-eyed driver asked, spitting a wad of chew out the window before either of us had a chance to answer. "We got a mine up by our place no one even knows about," he told us when we explained what we were doing in the middle of nowhere. "We'll take you there and show it to you," he offered.
We declined, then thanked them and began walking away at a rapid clip. "Don't look back," I told Gail.
Finally, we heard the pickup's engine fire and then rumble away in the opposite direction. I am a large man and I'm sure the two hillbillies noticed the pick hammer in my hand. Were they being friendly? No! I was freshly home from Vietnam and I still had a well-honed sense of danger. These two men were dangerous and I have no doubt that they had little regard for human life.
My memory of these two appear, almost verbatim, in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds. Now, years later, I still feel the dread when I recall this story.
Fiction South
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Eric Takes a Ride
My first wife Gail loved horses and had two, Lady, a very gentle mare and Rodan, a large stallion. Not very friendly, Rodan did not tolerate carrying fools around on his back, a fact I quickly learned during my first visit to Gail’s home in Chalmette.
During those years, sprawling Chalmette felt like a family town. Gail’s father Harvey had a small working ranch right in the middle of town and ran a few horses and some cows. He also bought fur from the many trappers that worked the swamps and marshes south of New Orleans.
Ripley’s Believe it or Not featured one of Harvey’s cows in their feature that many newspapers once carried. The cow had a tail growing out of its head. Harvey was very proud of the cow and never failed to show visitors his yellowed newspaper clipping.
I had not ridden a horse since my brother Jack and I fell off the back of my grandmother’s plow horse named Buck. Buck was so large no saddle would fit him. Although not as big, nor as friendly as Buck, Rodan was no small horse. His size did not really matter because I had maintained an aversion to riding horses ever since falling off Buck.
Gail and I met at college in Monroe. On my first trip to meet her parents, I strived to do everything I could to please her and to make a good impression on her family. Because of my desire to present myself in the best possible light, I rashly agreed to go for a ride on Rodan. It was a decision that almost ended our fledgling romance prematurely.
Horses are perceptive animals and Rodan knew the moment that I threw my leg over his back that I was a complete and utter novice. Still, I was okay until Gail handed me the reins. When she did, Rodan took off like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate at Pimlico.
The big red horse headed straight for the St. Bernard Highway, congested with traffic even in those day. I could do little except pull on the reins and yell “Whoa, Rodan,” at the top of my lungs. My life passed before my eyes as we approached the crowded highway at what felt to me like breakneck speed.
I contemplated jumping but never got the chance. Rodan skidded to an abrupt halt just before plowing into the two lanes heavy traffic. Gail reached us shortly, grabbing Rodan’s reins and allowing me to exit the saddle as quickly as I could. Neither of us spoke on the short walk back to Harvey’s ranch.
Years have passed since that visit and I wish that I could proclaim that it was my last frightening ride on a horse. Well it was not. Gail’s brother Larry goaded me into another horse ride some years later, much to the same result, even though Larry’s horse was supposedly a friendly and docile mare.
Between Marilyn and her three kids, they own at least six horses. None of them is as big or mean as Rodan was, but it makes no difference to me. Horses and I do not get along and it will be a cold day in Chalmette before I mount another.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
During those years, sprawling Chalmette felt like a family town. Gail’s father Harvey had a small working ranch right in the middle of town and ran a few horses and some cows. He also bought fur from the many trappers that worked the swamps and marshes south of New Orleans.
Ripley’s Believe it or Not featured one of Harvey’s cows in their feature that many newspapers once carried. The cow had a tail growing out of its head. Harvey was very proud of the cow and never failed to show visitors his yellowed newspaper clipping.
I had not ridden a horse since my brother Jack and I fell off the back of my grandmother’s plow horse named Buck. Buck was so large no saddle would fit him. Although not as big, nor as friendly as Buck, Rodan was no small horse. His size did not really matter because I had maintained an aversion to riding horses ever since falling off Buck.
Gail and I met at college in Monroe. On my first trip to meet her parents, I strived to do everything I could to please her and to make a good impression on her family. Because of my desire to present myself in the best possible light, I rashly agreed to go for a ride on Rodan. It was a decision that almost ended our fledgling romance prematurely.
Horses are perceptive animals and Rodan knew the moment that I threw my leg over his back that I was a complete and utter novice. Still, I was okay until Gail handed me the reins. When she did, Rodan took off like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate at Pimlico.
The big red horse headed straight for the St. Bernard Highway, congested with traffic even in those day. I could do little except pull on the reins and yell “Whoa, Rodan,” at the top of my lungs. My life passed before my eyes as we approached the crowded highway at what felt to me like breakneck speed.
I contemplated jumping but never got the chance. Rodan skidded to an abrupt halt just before plowing into the two lanes heavy traffic. Gail reached us shortly, grabbing Rodan’s reins and allowing me to exit the saddle as quickly as I could. Neither of us spoke on the short walk back to Harvey’s ranch.
Years have passed since that visit and I wish that I could proclaim that it was my last frightening ride on a horse. Well it was not. Gail’s brother Larry goaded me into another horse ride some years later, much to the same result, even though Larry’s horse was supposedly a friendly and docile mare.
Between Marilyn and her three kids, they own at least six horses. None of them is as big or mean as Rodan was, but it makes no difference to me. Horses and I do not get along and it will be a cold day in Chalmette before I mount another.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Skip's Salsa - a southwest recipe
When Anne and I first married, we lived in a large house with many windows that overlooked a small body of water called Ski Island Lake. My Cousin Skip worked for Capitol Records, recently transferred to OKC from Austin, Texas. Since he was new to the City, he spent lots of time with us and we enjoyed him immensely.
Skip would usually ride a bike from his apartment to our house. He was slender and had a goatee and thinning hair he usually covered with a jaunty Panama hat. Skip knows more about the recording industry than almost anyone on earth, and he and his wife Connie recently retired to Austin after years in New York City and Los Angeles.
Whenever Skip visited Anne and me during his short stay in Oklahoma City, he always brought us LP’s or tapes, mostly of new and rising artists that we had never heard of before, but soon would. He could make salsa and guacamole dip like no other person I have known, before or since and here is his simple recipe.
5 green onions
1 clove garlic
¼ cup fresh cilantro
1 half lemon or lime, squeezed
3 or 4 jalapeno peppers, seeded (How hot do you want it?)
3 ripe tomatoes
salt and pepper
1 Tbsp olive oil
After making sure all the ingredients are crisp and ripe, uniformly dice on a chopping block with a sharp knife and then blend very gently in a food processor. After transferring the ingredients to a large serving bowl add the lemon juice (or lime if that’s what floats your boat) and salt and pepper to taste.
Chill for an hour or so in the refrigerator while you slug a few Coronas or Tecates, or just grab a bag of your favorite tortilla chips and indulge yourself immediately. Either way you will be in Heaven.
Gondwana
Skip would usually ride a bike from his apartment to our house. He was slender and had a goatee and thinning hair he usually covered with a jaunty Panama hat. Skip knows more about the recording industry than almost anyone on earth, and he and his wife Connie recently retired to Austin after years in New York City and Los Angeles.
Whenever Skip visited Anne and me during his short stay in Oklahoma City, he always brought us LP’s or tapes, mostly of new and rising artists that we had never heard of before, but soon would. He could make salsa and guacamole dip like no other person I have known, before or since and here is his simple recipe.
5 green onions
1 clove garlic
¼ cup fresh cilantro
1 half lemon or lime, squeezed
3 or 4 jalapeno peppers, seeded (How hot do you want it?)
3 ripe tomatoes
salt and pepper
1 Tbsp olive oil
After making sure all the ingredients are crisp and ripe, uniformly dice on a chopping block with a sharp knife and then blend very gently in a food processor. After transferring the ingredients to a large serving bowl add the lemon juice (or lime if that’s what floats your boat) and salt and pepper to taste.
Chill for an hour or so in the refrigerator while you slug a few Coronas or Tecates, or just grab a bag of your favorite tortilla chips and indulge yourself immediately. Either way you will be in Heaven.
Gondwana
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
Monday, October 12, 2009
Colors of Oklahoma
At one of my book signings, an old friend explained tearfully how much he had enjoyed reading Prairie Sunset. But there was a catch.
“The only problem with the book is there is no prairie anywhere in it.”
Because of his emotional state, I did not argue but what he said is not factually true.
The great sprawling metropolis of Oklahoma City occupies an ancient prairie. Just because buildings, roads and the residue of commerce now cloak it does not lessen that fact.
None of this really matters because the title refers to a state of mind rather than a specific location.
John Warren, the unlikely eighty-year-old protagonist of the story has literally run away from home in search of the “magic fountain.” What he finds is an even more unlikely love affair with an attractive sixty-something woman of American Indian heritage.
In a passage near the book’s end, John explains to Attie Johnson, the newly found love of his life, the meaning of the title. They are on a hillside, near Eureka Springs, Arkansas, watching the western horizon as the sun sets.
“Once, on a spring night in western Oklahoma I saw a sunset almost as beautiful as this one. Particles of dust from some volcanic eruption in the Pacific filled the sky. Invisible during the day, the dispersed particles became fiery streaks of crimson incandescence at dusk.”
“A beautiful sunset is something to remember.”
“Attie, do you remember the horse races?”
“Course I do.”
“Remember when I told you which horse I was betting on? You said he was the biggest nag on the track and had never won a race.”
“And you were too stubborn to listen.”
“I bet on the name, Prairie Sunset, because until I met you that sunset I saw in western Oklahoma was the loveliest vision I’d ever seen.”
* * *
Tonight, outside my kitchen window the wind chimes are singing, blown into full throaty sound by forty-mile-an-hour winds. When I stepped into the front yard and glanced skyward, I caught a glimpse of the vision John must have witnessed in western Oklahoma. Full glowing crimson, bordered by diffused azure painted the western skyline. Prairie dust, blown high by prevailing winds had created the resplendent scene.
Prairie dust, pixie dust, whatever! At that moment, I knew just how John Warren must have felt.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Hot Dogs and Cold Beer
I graduated from college years ago and have been successful and become wealthy in the oil industry. I often meet other wealthy oil people and rarely a week goes by that someone does not look me square in the eye and palm my hand in some secret fraternal handshake.
My parents demanded that my brother and I attend college. Neither of us really wanted to go, but they would have it no other way. It cost very little to attend a Louisiana state college at that time - seventy-four dollars per month, as I recall, for room and board, tuition, and books another three-hundred dollars, or so. It did not matter because my Dad was a construction worker. He had barely enough to send us to college; little remained for much else.
Brother Jack and I had no money to join social fraternities. Neither, consequently, did most of our friends. The frat rats, as we called them, wore the most expensive clothes, drove the finest cars, and had the best pedigrees and prettiest girlfriends. We couldn’t even afford ugly girlfriends. The rest of us were just the street curs, and it did not matter much who possessed the largest brain.
We are all social animals so Jack and I joined a ROTC precision drill team called the Fusileers. Other nerds, misfits and social throwbacks populated the Fusileers’ ranks, but every one of us, down the line, was a smarter-than-average individual.
The campus of NLSC was several miles from downtown Monroe and none of us had a car. The downtown movie theatre was a converted opera house and I remember watching many a movie there. Often, after studying well into the night, we would catch a bus and go downtown to a little hole-in-the-wall café called Coney Island Hotdogs. The owner was Greek and sold us a hotdog and cold beer for about thirty cents. We each usually had enough money for a couple of both.
People grow up and they change. My business partner is a former frat rat and he is a good and caring person. Still, every time someone grasps my hand in a secret fraternity handshake, I wonder if that person is sincere, maybe a bigot, or worse.
Me, I have never been anything but a common street cur, and I still love hot dogs and cold beer.
Fiction South
My parents demanded that my brother and I attend college. Neither of us really wanted to go, but they would have it no other way. It cost very little to attend a Louisiana state college at that time - seventy-four dollars per month, as I recall, for room and board, tuition, and books another three-hundred dollars, or so. It did not matter because my Dad was a construction worker. He had barely enough to send us to college; little remained for much else.
Brother Jack and I had no money to join social fraternities. Neither, consequently, did most of our friends. The frat rats, as we called them, wore the most expensive clothes, drove the finest cars, and had the best pedigrees and prettiest girlfriends. We couldn’t even afford ugly girlfriends. The rest of us were just the street curs, and it did not matter much who possessed the largest brain.
We are all social animals so Jack and I joined a ROTC precision drill team called the Fusileers. Other nerds, misfits and social throwbacks populated the Fusileers’ ranks, but every one of us, down the line, was a smarter-than-average individual.
The campus of NLSC was several miles from downtown Monroe and none of us had a car. The downtown movie theatre was a converted opera house and I remember watching many a movie there. Often, after studying well into the night, we would catch a bus and go downtown to a little hole-in-the-wall café called Coney Island Hotdogs. The owner was Greek and sold us a hotdog and cold beer for about thirty cents. We each usually had enough money for a couple of both.
People grow up and they change. My business partner is a former frat rat and he is a good and caring person. Still, every time someone grasps my hand in a secret fraternity handshake, I wonder if that person is sincere, maybe a bigot, or worse.
Me, I have never been anything but a common street cur, and I still love hot dogs and cold beer.
Fiction South
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Collective Consciousness and Cosmic Coincidences
A few nights ago, I strolled into the backyard with my two pugs, Princess and Scooter, and noticed a reddish star in the northeastern sky. At least I thought it was a star at first. The more I stared at it, the less I was sure.
The object seemed too big to be a star and appeared to be wiggling around in the sky as I focused my attention on it. Maybe it is a distant plane, I thought. It wasn’t, but I had it framed by the branches of a tree and my vision told me that it was moving.
It was dark, my eyes probably playing tricks on me. Still, it caused me to think about how our minds perceive what our eyes see. Tonight in the kitchen, I saw a shadow move across the opposite wall and immediately thought that it was my shadow. It was not in the correct spot to be my shadow and when I moved around, trying to duplicate it, I could not.
Going through a box of my Mother’s possessions a few days ago, I found a pillowcase embroidered with the emblem of the 8th Army Division, my Father’s division. My brother Jack visited today. When he saw the pillowcase, he commented that the 8th was the same division that he had served in when he was in the Army, a fact that I had not known.
“Dad’s last days in Germany were probably spent in the same town that I spent my first days in.”
“Funny,” I said. “My lottery number for Vietnam was thirty-eight, the same lottery number Dad had when he was drafted into the Army during World War II.”
The strange things I had recently experienced, and the coincidences reminded me of a review I just read of a book by Diane Hennacy Powell called The ESP Enigma. Far from a tarot card reader, Powell is a Johns Hopkins trained neuropsychiatrist. Rather than pooh-poohing psychic phenomena, Powell documents many stories that defy scientific explanation. The book sounds fascinating and I have ordered a copy.
French social theorist Emile Durkheim used the term “collective consciousness” to explain why societies maintain analogous, if not the exact same beliefs. Carl Jung had a similar, although slightly different concept – the “collective subconscious” that considers all humanity, our minds and memories hardwire into a common collective into which we all tap.
Perhaps they were both right. Maybe the strange things we cannot explain and the cosmic coincidences we all experience are simply a peek into a netherworld that few of us will ever understand.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
The object seemed too big to be a star and appeared to be wiggling around in the sky as I focused my attention on it. Maybe it is a distant plane, I thought. It wasn’t, but I had it framed by the branches of a tree and my vision told me that it was moving.
It was dark, my eyes probably playing tricks on me. Still, it caused me to think about how our minds perceive what our eyes see. Tonight in the kitchen, I saw a shadow move across the opposite wall and immediately thought that it was my shadow. It was not in the correct spot to be my shadow and when I moved around, trying to duplicate it, I could not.
Going through a box of my Mother’s possessions a few days ago, I found a pillowcase embroidered with the emblem of the 8th Army Division, my Father’s division. My brother Jack visited today. When he saw the pillowcase, he commented that the 8th was the same division that he had served in when he was in the Army, a fact that I had not known.
“Dad’s last days in Germany were probably spent in the same town that I spent my first days in.”
“Funny,” I said. “My lottery number for Vietnam was thirty-eight, the same lottery number Dad had when he was drafted into the Army during World War II.”
The strange things I had recently experienced, and the coincidences reminded me of a review I just read of a book by Diane Hennacy Powell called The ESP Enigma. Far from a tarot card reader, Powell is a Johns Hopkins trained neuropsychiatrist. Rather than pooh-poohing psychic phenomena, Powell documents many stories that defy scientific explanation. The book sounds fascinating and I have ordered a copy.
French social theorist Emile Durkheim used the term “collective consciousness” to explain why societies maintain analogous, if not the exact same beliefs. Carl Jung had a similar, although slightly different concept – the “collective subconscious” that considers all humanity, our minds and memories hardwire into a common collective into which we all tap.
Perhaps they were both right. Maybe the strange things we cannot explain and the cosmic coincidences we all experience are simply a peek into a netherworld that few of us will ever understand.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
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
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
February Spirits
It is a windy beginning to the month here in Oklahoma. Except for the wind, the weather is fifty degrees and gorgeous. Marilyn and I went to Pearl's Graveside for their Cajun brunch. There was once a Pearl's Lakeside on the banks of Oklahoma City's Lake Hefner. This restaurant abuts a large graveyard, thus the spooky reference.
Marilyn and I usually sit at the bar and all the bartenders and wait staff know us. Some nights when the crowd is “dead,” spirits wander in from the nearby graveyard for a zombie, or bloody Mary, the pretty blonde bartender told us. She was not kidding!
The young bartender’s story got me thinking about the dating habits of spirits. Do they chase after other spirits and where do they go for happy hour? Hey, is there a happy hour in the beyond? I am working on a ghostly short story to help answer my questions on the subject. When I finish it, I will let you know.
Gondwana
Marilyn and I usually sit at the bar and all the bartenders and wait staff know us. Some nights when the crowd is “dead,” spirits wander in from the nearby graveyard for a zombie, or bloody Mary, the pretty blonde bartender told us. She was not kidding!
The young bartender’s story got me thinking about the dating habits of spirits. Do they chase after other spirits and where do they go for happy hour? Hey, is there a happy hour in the beyond? I am working on a ghostly short story to help answer my questions on the subject. When I finish it, I will let you know.
Gondwana
Monday, September 21, 2009
Lily's Cajun Coffee
My first wife’s family lived in Chalmette, a city south of New Orleans devastated by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Gail and I would often leave work at night from our respective menial jobs and drive to Chalmette for the weekend. We would enter the old wood-framed structure quietly and go to sleep in the empty bedroom in back. At five, our nightly rest always ended with the booming bass voice of a distant cousin named Admiral.
"Hey Harvey, you and Lily gonna sleep all morning?"
Gail’s parents, Lily and Harvey were already awake, although barely, and Lily would let Admiral into the kitchen (he always came in the back door) and start a pot of strong coffee. Lily did not use a modern coffee pot. She made hers in a simple drip pot that she heated on the open natural gas flame of her little stove. Like many Cajuns, she used a blend of coffee and chicory that produced a strong, aromatic brew. I still remember the aroma of Lily’s Cajun coffee.
Admiral’s voice was so deep and booming, it actually shook the walls. At least it felt that way after only four hours of sleep. Soon, Gail and I would succumb to the cacophony, and stories about Fats Domino we had all heard before. She would roll out of bed, put on her robe and tread down the hall to the kitchen. Finally, I would rub my eyes, take a big whiff of the coffee aroma wafting from the kitchen, and follow her.
Two wives later, I still love coffee, but in all my travels I have never had a cup as good as Lily brewed, or smelled that wonderful aroma that can revive you fully from a hard day’s work, a long drive, and only four hours of sleep.
Fiction South
"Hey Harvey, you and Lily gonna sleep all morning?"
Gail’s parents, Lily and Harvey were already awake, although barely, and Lily would let Admiral into the kitchen (he always came in the back door) and start a pot of strong coffee. Lily did not use a modern coffee pot. She made hers in a simple drip pot that she heated on the open natural gas flame of her little stove. Like many Cajuns, she used a blend of coffee and chicory that produced a strong, aromatic brew. I still remember the aroma of Lily’s Cajun coffee.
Admiral’s voice was so deep and booming, it actually shook the walls. At least it felt that way after only four hours of sleep. Soon, Gail and I would succumb to the cacophony, and stories about Fats Domino we had all heard before. She would roll out of bed, put on her robe and tread down the hall to the kitchen. Finally, I would rub my eyes, take a big whiff of the coffee aroma wafting from the kitchen, and follow her.
Two wives later, I still love coffee, but in all my travels I have never had a cup as good as Lily brewed, or smelled that wonderful aroma that can revive you fully from a hard day’s work, a long drive, and only four hours of sleep.
Fiction South
Friday, September 18, 2009
Chalmette Retrospective
I visited New Orleans for the first time when I was eleven. My Aunt Carmol was an elementary school teacher. She made sure my brother and I saw every historical site, museum and park in the City. Having grown up in rural northwest Louisiana, New Orleans was the first cosmopolitan area I ever visited. It wasn’t the last, but it remains in my mind as the most unique city in the United States and perhaps the world.
My first visit wasn’t my last. As a college freshman, I marched in the Venus parade during Mardi Gras, experiencing Bourbon Street and the French Quarter for the first time as an adult - or at least close. Most of that particular visit was spent in a drunken haze, much in the manner of college students today visiting the City and savoring Mardi Gras for the first time.
I worked in the City once during summer break from college. My job title was assistant micro-photographic technician seismologist. From my salary of two dollars per hour, you can tell the description was a bit overblown, but it did look good on my resume. I bought my first camera, a 35 mm Yashica range finder, that year. New Orleans provided a plethora of scenic opportunities.
Shortly after that sweltering summer I married a girl from Chalmette, a city separated from New Orleans only by name. My marriage to Gail didn’t last but during our seven years together, I learned to love her French Acadian parents, Lily and Harvey, and her entire family. It’s a shame sometimes that you can’t divorce a wife and keep her family.
Gail had two brothers, four sisters and many aunts, uncles and cousins. Most were wonderful cooks but none better than Gail’s mother Lily was. No two pots of gumbo are ever exactly alike. I know because I’ve consumed my fair share. Taste, like I guess just about everything else, is subjective. That said, Lily’s gumbo was the best I ever tasted and, in my opinion, the best in the world.
Harvey, Gail’s father, was a cattleman and fur buyer. During trapping season, Harvey filled the shed behind his house with raw fur. He gave me a lesson once on how to grade a nutria pelt. Like calculus and religion, the lesson didn’t stick. One short story: Harvey and Lily once found six hundred dollars in cash in their deep freeze. Since trappers do not take Visa or MasterCard, Harvey always had large amounts of cash around the house.
They did not own a safe, so -.
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.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
A Night at VZD's
VZD’s is a little cafe that I used to frequent when I had an office in Oklahoma City. I often stopped in after work for a little conversation and a drink or two. To say the bar is eclectic is stating a fact rather than a supposition. Once the location of Veasey’s Drugs, thus VZD, bottles and assorted paraphernalia remain on the north wall - old bottles, without the drugs anymore, thanks to an order by the DEA.
The rectangular bar, about the size of a small swimming pool, hosts around fifty customers comfortably, but many more than that often jam the premises. The walls match the atmosphere, always dark and smoky. A group of patrons seems to live there because they are always present every time I visit.
Dr. Pete, a PhD political pundit, James, a carpenter from Louisiana and, of course, Brian - the names changed to protect the innocent. Many other denizens populate the bar, mostly lawyers and politicians since VZD’s is close to the Capitol. When the business of Oklahoma law is in session, politicos pack the place every night.
Brian is a former cop turned landman, turned death examiner, turned embalmer and cremator. We had all partaken of several drinks as light outside the big picture window finally gave way to darkness. Brian got a phone call from a new client. He needed to pick up a body.
“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll give you something to write about.”
It was getting late and pretty Miss Lilly had just shown us the latest addition to the colorful tattoo on her backside. Who was looking at the tattoo? In a state of black and tan-induced euphoria, I acquiesced to go with Brian.
We picked up Ruby, the very recently deceased person, at the hospital. “Let me do all the talking,” Brian said. “They’ll know you’re drunk and these people are already upset enough.”
I did not bother pointing out that he had as much to drink, or more, than I did.
The relatives dutifully left and we lifted the body of the old woman onto a gurney. Her eyes were open, along with her mouth, her body stiff but surprisingly still slightly warm. We drove her downtown to the crematorium.
I helped Brian put Ruby into cold storage, and then watched in surreal amazement as he rolled out the body of an old man, fired up the furnace and preceded to cremate the body. Later, he removed the metal from the ashes.
“Most everyone these days has metal screws and clamps from some surgery or other,” he explained.
We headed back to VZD’s. Along the way, in downtown Oklahoma City, Brian stopped at a construction site in the road. There was a hole in the street, covered with a yellow tarp.
“Are you down there?” Brian called out the window.
Someone answered, obviously distraught, obviously crying. “The police are trying to get rid of me.”
“Do you need something to eat?” Brian asked.
“I haven’t eaten in two days,” was the answer.
Brian and I drove around the block to a McDonald’s, near the exit to the interstate, and bought a Big Mac, fries and a soda. The person under the tarp took our offering with the show of only a slender arm, and was appreciative.
The night was not over. After returning to VZD’s, Brian received a call. Bob worked for a livery company, a company that supplies hearses, mostly Cadillac’s, to various funeral homes around town. He needed someone to drive him home after delivering a hearse. When Bob arrived at VZD’s, he had a hamburger and then we followed him and the hearse he drove, to a funeral home in Midwest City, a suburb of OKC.
When Brian, Bob and I finally returned to VZD, I was sober enough to make it home to Edmond, the night’s memory girded around my brain for months to come.
The rectangular bar, about the size of a small swimming pool, hosts around fifty customers comfortably, but many more than that often jam the premises. The walls match the atmosphere, always dark and smoky. A group of patrons seems to live there because they are always present every time I visit.
Dr. Pete, a PhD political pundit, James, a carpenter from Louisiana and, of course, Brian - the names changed to protect the innocent. Many other denizens populate the bar, mostly lawyers and politicians since VZD’s is close to the Capitol. When the business of Oklahoma law is in session, politicos pack the place every night.
Brian is a former cop turned landman, turned death examiner, turned embalmer and cremator. We had all partaken of several drinks as light outside the big picture window finally gave way to darkness. Brian got a phone call from a new client. He needed to pick up a body.
“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll give you something to write about.”
It was getting late and pretty Miss Lilly had just shown us the latest addition to the colorful tattoo on her backside. Who was looking at the tattoo? In a state of black and tan-induced euphoria, I acquiesced to go with Brian.
We picked up Ruby, the very recently deceased person, at the hospital. “Let me do all the talking,” Brian said. “They’ll know you’re drunk and these people are already upset enough.”
I did not bother pointing out that he had as much to drink, or more, than I did.
The relatives dutifully left and we lifted the body of the old woman onto a gurney. Her eyes were open, along with her mouth, her body stiff but surprisingly still slightly warm. We drove her downtown to the crematorium.
I helped Brian put Ruby into cold storage, and then watched in surreal amazement as he rolled out the body of an old man, fired up the furnace and preceded to cremate the body. Later, he removed the metal from the ashes.
“Most everyone these days has metal screws and clamps from some surgery or other,” he explained.
We headed back to VZD’s. Along the way, in downtown Oklahoma City, Brian stopped at a construction site in the road. There was a hole in the street, covered with a yellow tarp.
“Are you down there?” Brian called out the window.
Someone answered, obviously distraught, obviously crying. “The police are trying to get rid of me.”
“Do you need something to eat?” Brian asked.
“I haven’t eaten in two days,” was the answer.
Brian and I drove around the block to a McDonald’s, near the exit to the interstate, and bought a Big Mac, fries and a soda. The person under the tarp took our offering with the show of only a slender arm, and was appreciative.
The night was not over. After returning to VZD’s, Brian received a call. Bob worked for a livery company, a company that supplies hearses, mostly Cadillac’s, to various funeral homes around town. He needed someone to drive him home after delivering a hearse. When Bob arrived at VZD’s, he had a hamburger and then we followed him and the hearse he drove, to a funeral home in Midwest City, a suburb of OKC.
When Brian, Bob and I finally returned to VZD, I was sober enough to make it home to Edmond, the night’s memory girded around my brain for months to come.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Houses of Your Mind
I lay in bed this morning, unable to return to sleep after awakening with a full bladder and going to the bathroom. Like everyone else during times like this, once back in bed my mind began scanning data lodged for decades in my brain, dredging up memories and replaying what seemed like megabytes of useless information.
Mostly, during times like these, I want to locate a key in my brain and turn it off, at least for a few hours. This morning, it was not to be and proved somehow different. While raking through the trash piles of my brain, I discovered something that blew me away. I want say remembered, because this snippet of information is something that I have always inherently known, but have never put together in a logical thought process. What did I discover? Well, this may not sound so unusual to you fair readers out there, but the more I think of it, the stranger it seems to me.
For whatever reason, I was thinking about my grandparents. My dad’s mother, Dale and her husband Oscar lived on a farm outside of Atlanta in east Texas. My mom’s mother, Lela and her husband Jim lived about a mile from us in Vivian, Louisiana. As random thoughts raced through my brain like water through an empty pipe, I gradually became aware of an apparent truth that had somehow escaped me my entire life.
The houses of both my grandparents were identical. They were exactly the same size and all the specific rooms – bathroom, kitchen, bedrooms, dining room, and living room – occupied exactly the same place. They even had the same directional orientation.
Strange, I grant you, but not beyond the realm of simple coincidence considering they were all built about the same time, and not more than fifty miles from one another. Then it dawned on me. The house were I grew up was the same as my grandparents, right down to each individual room. The only difference was the directional orientation. My house was situated perpendicular to that of my grandparent’s.
Wide-awake at four in the morning, I began trying to remember my neighbor’s houses and those of my friends. My friend Clay’s house, I realized, was exactly like mine except it was oriented differently. I could not quite remember the interior of Rod, Wiley, Elwin and Tim’s houses although I think they were different.
What in the hell does all this mean? I admit the thought worried me at four in the morning. After ruminating on the matter all day long, I can conclude only one of three things. 1) Some builder knocked out copies of the same house, and managed to market his product over many miles. 2) We are random although somehow ordered creations in the mind of some stellar being, or 3) there is some sort of chaotic yet orderly recipe for the world, as we know it.
My logic tells me that the first explanation is correct, but I wonder – do we have the vaguest clue as to who we really are, or even loosely realize what motivations or earth-shattering processes control our destinies?
Eric'sWeb
Mostly, during times like these, I want to locate a key in my brain and turn it off, at least for a few hours. This morning, it was not to be and proved somehow different. While raking through the trash piles of my brain, I discovered something that blew me away. I want say remembered, because this snippet of information is something that I have always inherently known, but have never put together in a logical thought process. What did I discover? Well, this may not sound so unusual to you fair readers out there, but the more I think of it, the stranger it seems to me.
For whatever reason, I was thinking about my grandparents. My dad’s mother, Dale and her husband Oscar lived on a farm outside of Atlanta in east Texas. My mom’s mother, Lela and her husband Jim lived about a mile from us in Vivian, Louisiana. As random thoughts raced through my brain like water through an empty pipe, I gradually became aware of an apparent truth that had somehow escaped me my entire life.
The houses of both my grandparents were identical. They were exactly the same size and all the specific rooms – bathroom, kitchen, bedrooms, dining room, and living room – occupied exactly the same place. They even had the same directional orientation.
Strange, I grant you, but not beyond the realm of simple coincidence considering they were all built about the same time, and not more than fifty miles from one another. Then it dawned on me. The house were I grew up was the same as my grandparents, right down to each individual room. The only difference was the directional orientation. My house was situated perpendicular to that of my grandparent’s.
Wide-awake at four in the morning, I began trying to remember my neighbor’s houses and those of my friends. My friend Clay’s house, I realized, was exactly like mine except it was oriented differently. I could not quite remember the interior of Rod, Wiley, Elwin and Tim’s houses although I think they were different.
What in the hell does all this mean? I admit the thought worried me at four in the morning. After ruminating on the matter all day long, I can conclude only one of three things. 1) Some builder knocked out copies of the same house, and managed to market his product over many miles. 2) We are random although somehow ordered creations in the mind of some stellar being, or 3) there is some sort of chaotic yet orderly recipe for the world, as we know it.
My logic tells me that the first explanation is correct, but I wonder – do we have the vaguest clue as to who we really are, or even loosely realize what motivations or earth-shattering processes control our destinies?
Eric'sWeb
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Afternoon at the Lake
The recent weather in central Oklahoma has been gorgeous and unseasonably cool. Dad and I enjoyed the wonderful weather this past Sunday on the inside patio of the Lakeside Restaurant that abuts scenic Lake Hefner. I was happy we went there, for more than one reason.
My Dad is ninety. Two Mondays ago, my brother Jack and I had to take him to the emergency room because he had fallen during the night. He had a big knot on his forehead and a cut on his nose that required three stitches.
Visiting him later, I noticed he was wearing a pair of shoes with the laces removed. He couldn’t get on his size eight shoes on to his swollen feet so I bought him a new pair, size eleven and a half.
“I’ll have the nurse look at his feet,” the friendly attendant told me.
Brother Jack called the next day. He’d had a lengthy phone conversation with Dad’s geriatric doctor and the prognosis sounded dire.
“He thinks he has congestive heart failure. We may have to hospitalize him. They can keep him alive with drugs but his quality of life will be almost nothing. We’ll have to decide if we want to keep giving him the drugs. We have an appointment at eleven thirty tomorrow.”
Following my conversation with Jack, I felt a horse had kicked me in the head. The doctor’s visit turned out well. Dad’s heart is strong, as are all his vital signs. Doctor K prescribed compression hose for his swelling and told us to check back in six months.
At the Lakeside Sunday, I was happy that my Dad is a healthy ninety-year old. I was also happy because the mild weather had brought out more pretty females than I could shake a stick at. I don’t know if Dad noticed, but I did.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
My Dad is ninety. Two Mondays ago, my brother Jack and I had to take him to the emergency room because he had fallen during the night. He had a big knot on his forehead and a cut on his nose that required three stitches.
Visiting him later, I noticed he was wearing a pair of shoes with the laces removed. He couldn’t get on his size eight shoes on to his swollen feet so I bought him a new pair, size eleven and a half.
“I’ll have the nurse look at his feet,” the friendly attendant told me.
Brother Jack called the next day. He’d had a lengthy phone conversation with Dad’s geriatric doctor and the prognosis sounded dire.
“He thinks he has congestive heart failure. We may have to hospitalize him. They can keep him alive with drugs but his quality of life will be almost nothing. We’ll have to decide if we want to keep giving him the drugs. We have an appointment at eleven thirty tomorrow.”
Following my conversation with Jack, I felt a horse had kicked me in the head. The doctor’s visit turned out well. Dad’s heart is strong, as are all his vital signs. Doctor K prescribed compression hose for his swelling and told us to check back in six months.
At the Lakeside Sunday, I was happy that my Dad is a healthy ninety-year old. I was also happy because the mild weather had brought out more pretty females than I could shake a stick at. I don’t know if Dad noticed, but I did.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Souvenir Tee Shirts
Decades of clutter populates my house and office. An organizational message appeared in my mail yesterday. If you have not used something in two years, it said, chances are you never will. Toss it was the impending message. Clutter slows you down, impedes your life and makes you unhappy.
Maybe so, I thought as I folded my laundry. Maybe I should throw away some of my old tee shirts, especially those with tears and stains. I began sorting the tee shirts on my bed with that thought in mind.
The first tee I held up for inspection was from the Redbud 10K race of 2000. I had to think a moment before its relevance came to mind. When it did, it poured over me with a poignant flood of memories, still painful after almost eight years.
Barely managing to cope with the death of my wife in 1998, I had gained an enormous amount of weight, and I continued to seethe with an inner anger that would not quit saying, “why me?” Jogging had helped me maintain my sanity during Anne’s illness and I needed to know that I still had the physical, and the mental strength to go the distance.
I parked my car a mile from the starting line and walked the rest of the way to loosen my muscles I knew would be screaming uncle long before the finish of the six-point-two mile course. Halfway there, a young man jogged up and began walking with me.
“Are you doing the Freedom Walk,” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “The 10K.”
“You sure you can make it, big fellow?”
“Don’t know, but that’s what I’m here to find out,” I told him.
“You can do it,” he said. “But you need to go out slow. Don’t get caught up in the crowd. Just run your own race. If you get tired, then walk for awhile.”
With that, the man I am positive was an angel tapped me on the shoulder and jogged away without another word. Before I reached the starting line, it began to rain. It continued to rain until I completed the 6.2 miles that I did without stopping, not even once. The torrent ended as I crossed the line.
“I can’t throw this baby away,” I said, folding the tee shirt and putting it aside.
The next tee was from the Downtown Oklahoma City Art’s Festival of 1995. There was no Oklahoma City Art’s Festival in 1995. City Fathers canceled the event because of the Oklahoma City bombing attack on the Murrah Building in April of 1995. I bought the tee a year later, as the festival had an unsold stock of them. The tee had a torn sleeve where my Labrador Lucky had taken a bite from it when he was a puppy. Lucky, my best friend in the world, had helped me survive my grief. Folding the tee, I put it aside.
“Can’t throw this one away either,” I said.
Ten raggedy tees later, I had failed to throw even one of them away.
Sitting here now, punching these random thoughts out for all you anonymous people in the blogosphere, I cannot help but think of the clutter in my life. Yes, I need to throw some things away. I know existence would be simpler and better if I could control the chaos in my house, my office and yes, in my brain.
Maybe, but perhaps the clutter in our lives is really the essence of our being, the essential glue that binds our very souls. I do not know. What I do know is that without memories we would be little more than pulsating blobs of protoplasm.
Stuffing the tees in my chest of drawers, I forced shut the drawer and decided to worry about the chaos later.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Maybe so, I thought as I folded my laundry. Maybe I should throw away some of my old tee shirts, especially those with tears and stains. I began sorting the tee shirts on my bed with that thought in mind.
The first tee I held up for inspection was from the Redbud 10K race of 2000. I had to think a moment before its relevance came to mind. When it did, it poured over me with a poignant flood of memories, still painful after almost eight years.
Barely managing to cope with the death of my wife in 1998, I had gained an enormous amount of weight, and I continued to seethe with an inner anger that would not quit saying, “why me?” Jogging had helped me maintain my sanity during Anne’s illness and I needed to know that I still had the physical, and the mental strength to go the distance.
I parked my car a mile from the starting line and walked the rest of the way to loosen my muscles I knew would be screaming uncle long before the finish of the six-point-two mile course. Halfway there, a young man jogged up and began walking with me.
“Are you doing the Freedom Walk,” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “The 10K.”
“You sure you can make it, big fellow?”
“Don’t know, but that’s what I’m here to find out,” I told him.
“You can do it,” he said. “But you need to go out slow. Don’t get caught up in the crowd. Just run your own race. If you get tired, then walk for awhile.”
With that, the man I am positive was an angel tapped me on the shoulder and jogged away without another word. Before I reached the starting line, it began to rain. It continued to rain until I completed the 6.2 miles that I did without stopping, not even once. The torrent ended as I crossed the line.
“I can’t throw this baby away,” I said, folding the tee shirt and putting it aside.
The next tee was from the Downtown Oklahoma City Art’s Festival of 1995. There was no Oklahoma City Art’s Festival in 1995. City Fathers canceled the event because of the Oklahoma City bombing attack on the Murrah Building in April of 1995. I bought the tee a year later, as the festival had an unsold stock of them. The tee had a torn sleeve where my Labrador Lucky had taken a bite from it when he was a puppy. Lucky, my best friend in the world, had helped me survive my grief. Folding the tee, I put it aside.
“Can’t throw this one away either,” I said.
Ten raggedy tees later, I had failed to throw even one of them away.
Sitting here now, punching these random thoughts out for all you anonymous people in the blogosphere, I cannot help but think of the clutter in my life. Yes, I need to throw some things away. I know existence would be simpler and better if I could control the chaos in my house, my office and yes, in my brain.
Maybe, but perhaps the clutter in our lives is really the essence of our being, the essential glue that binds our very souls. I do not know. What I do know is that without memories we would be little more than pulsating blobs of protoplasm.
Stuffing the tees in my chest of drawers, I forced shut the drawer and decided to worry about the chaos later.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, September 05, 2009
King of Vivian
My mother had three sisters, Wardie, Marguerite and Dot, and a brother, Grady, and they would all usually congregate at my grandparent’s house for Thanksgiving. I loved it, playing outside with all my cousins and inhaling the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen.
No one loved it more than my grandfather did - the head of the family we all knew as Grandpa Pitt. On Thanksgiving Day, he held court, his arms folded and a smile on his face as all his children and grandchildren paid homage to him. On Thanksgiving Day, he was truly “King of Vivian.”
It was never very cold in northwest Louisiana. Still, by Thanksgiving Day tree leaves had all turned red and gold and there was usually a nip in the air that went well with the nip of excitement the holiday brought with it.
What I remember most are the post-dinner conversations that always took place outside on the back porch if the weather was warm, or in my grandparent’s bedroom if it was too cold outside. What I remember is the decibel level caused by four sisters and a brother, talking at once and not one of them seeming to notice, or care.
My Grandma Pitt would be lying on the bed, contentment showing on her otherwise stoic face. My Grandpa Pitt would sit on the edge of his old cane rocker, occasionally interjecting a comment into the raucous conversation. Whenever he raised his hand, the room would go ghostly quiet, waiting for his latest regal pronouncement.
My Aunt Artie, Uncle Grady’s wife, would usually join in the melee but not my Dad Jack and Uncles Frank, Henry and Bert. They would be standing together in the tiny kitchen, their arms folded and knowing expressions on their faces. They had all been there before.
Those days are long gone, as are my grandparents, all my uncles, my mother and one of my aunts. Dot, Marguerite and my Dad are still alive, all with their own grandchildren and great-grandchildren now. When I see a turkey emerging from the oven and smell the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen, I think of Grandpa Pitt, the first and the last “King of Vivian.”
Gondwana
No one loved it more than my grandfather did - the head of the family we all knew as Grandpa Pitt. On Thanksgiving Day, he held court, his arms folded and a smile on his face as all his children and grandchildren paid homage to him. On Thanksgiving Day, he was truly “King of Vivian.”
It was never very cold in northwest Louisiana. Still, by Thanksgiving Day tree leaves had all turned red and gold and there was usually a nip in the air that went well with the nip of excitement the holiday brought with it.
What I remember most are the post-dinner conversations that always took place outside on the back porch if the weather was warm, or in my grandparent’s bedroom if it was too cold outside. What I remember is the decibel level caused by four sisters and a brother, talking at once and not one of them seeming to notice, or care.
My Grandma Pitt would be lying on the bed, contentment showing on her otherwise stoic face. My Grandpa Pitt would sit on the edge of his old cane rocker, occasionally interjecting a comment into the raucous conversation. Whenever he raised his hand, the room would go ghostly quiet, waiting for his latest regal pronouncement.
My Aunt Artie, Uncle Grady’s wife, would usually join in the melee but not my Dad Jack and Uncles Frank, Henry and Bert. They would be standing together in the tiny kitchen, their arms folded and knowing expressions on their faces. They had all been there before.
Those days are long gone, as are my grandparents, all my uncles, my mother and one of my aunts. Dot, Marguerite and my Dad are still alive, all with their own grandchildren and great-grandchildren now. When I see a turkey emerging from the oven and smell the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen, I think of Grandpa Pitt, the first and the last “King of Vivian.”
Gondwana
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