Today I am exactly the same age as my dad was when he died.
60 years, 9 months, 3 weeks, 4 days. Exactly.
Continue reading April 4, 2024Tag Archives: story
Keep the Wolves Away
There’s no telling how many times I’ve crossed Intercoastal Bridge on the way to Surfside Beach, Texas.
I grew up nearby.
I’ve crabbed the bayous, wade fished the surf, cast lines from the jetties, swam the waters, and all the while immensely adding to my chances of skin cancer.
This time the trip across the bridge didn’t go to the beach but to a marina. Deep sea fishing. 50 miles out on a chartered boat with my four sons and son-in-law.
It was Friday the 13th, maybe not the best day to go more than 50 miles out on the wild blue yonder with all my name linage, but that’s what we did.
We met the two fishing guides 30 minutes before daylight, swallowed more Dramamine, and set sail.
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Lenora
Several years ago on a cruise ship, Janet and I met a hard-working young lady named Lenora.
She was cleaning tables and carrying away dirty dishes when we sat down for breakfast.
Lenora was from Ukraine. Janet’s been to Ukraine before, so someone who knew exactly where her country was, much less having been there before, seemed a genuine treat for Lenora.
Quick observation — most people vacationing on cruises don’t really see the people working on the ship. It’s like the workers are simply working movable fixtures, walking robots, not real people at all, as if invisible.
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Oh, Joy!
Janet talked about getting a dog for a good while. She wanted a little one, a lap dog, about 5 pounds full grown.
Fine with me.
If I had another dog, I want an outside dog, a Golden Retriever, maybe a Rottweiler.
Sometimes wants aren’t practical. We have plenty of room for a big dog to roam, but our neighbors have 17 or 18 horses. The fence keeps horses in, but I have no way to keep a big dog out. I’m content with that.
So, when Janet started finding pomapoo puppies on line (half Pomeranian, half miniature poodle), I was que sera sera.
She settled on looking at one in a nearby town. They texted pictures of two puppies left, along with a video of a little monkey they have as a pet playing with the puppies.
The Pomeranian dad was supposedly 3 pounds with the mama allegedly an 8-pound miniature poodle.
The smaller, calmer one was the one Janet picked. It was December 13, before Christmas, so she named it Joy for the season, and for the fruit of the spirit.
I’ve since wondered if Satan, or maybe Little Lucifer, for thorn in the flesh, would’ve been a better name.
Anyway, life at our house changed, a lot.
Joy only weighed 2 pounds when we got her, but was “expected” to be about 5 or 6 pounds, at the most. She’s 10.2 pounds now and growing.
Janet keeps asking the vet how big Joy will get. The vet just shrugs and kindly smiles, “We’ll see”.
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Selling Fire
I sorted the large stack of mail on the counter: Jeff. Janet. Janet. Junk mail. Jeff. Junk.
My eyebrow raised involuntarily on the last piece. Janet, or junk mail?
Janet.
I was wrong. Junk.
She opened it, shook her head, and laughed while tearing it in two.
It was an invitation for a free Italian meal at a local restaurant! Of course at first, I thought cheap date.
The catch though, and there’s always a catch, was you had to listen to a pre-pay your own cremation sales spiel!
No joke!
Cremation is both a legit, and best option, for many. Recent studies show 50% of Americans and 70% of Canadians opt for cremation. In fact, it’s usually one-quarter to a third of the costs compared to a traditional funeral. I’ve had family members cremated. You probably have too.
But selling cremation over a free meal, well that burns me up!
They even included the menu of “free” Italian entrees!
To keep in step with the delightful cremation dinner conversation, 6 of the 8 meals were “sauteed”, and a 7th was fried. Kind of figures, huh!?
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Blue Plastic Egg
Saturday I was on a mission to pick up Janet at the end of the day at a Houston airport.
I stopped to get her dinner and sat in front of the second Chick-fil-A drive through line waiting on my order.
It’s always the same, no matter where you go. They bring it out and ask your name to confirm the order while handing it to you. I say, “Thank you.” They say, “My pleasure.”
Normally, I’m itching to get it and roll on. This time though, I wanted to just sit and watch.
A guy walked out of Chick-fi-A with a coke in his hand. His pants were a size too big, his belt missed a loop or two, and his shirt peculiarly looked like it was from the 1960s.
He didn’t have on ear buds, and he wasn’t on a phone, so he was definitely talking to himself.
He stopped at the crosswalk talking away, as if an imaginary person was sitting on his shoulder. He didn’t bother looking either way. He just stepped out in the drive area, staring at the ground.
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Ump
It was a coach pitch All-Star tournament for 7 and 8 year old players. One of the grandsons was playing, so it was double fun!
But between mamas letting their little boys loose, daddies holding their tongues, and coaches reliving their Little League glory days, drama and emotion can quickly ooze into the games.
It’s usually from the coaches and parents more than the kids. Boys like the competition, but at that age, the biggest concern for most of them is what flavor of snow cone to get after the game.
And the poor umpires? They often get blasted from both sides! This day was different though. This game had a short, stocky, 40-year veteran umpire.
In the first inning, I heard him tell someone while rubbing his head that every gray hair he had was from umpiring. He winked adding, “I was 6 feet 7 inches tall when I started umpiring, but I’ve been chewed on so much over the years, I’m only 5’ 7” now! “
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Must Be Quantum Physics
Saturday.
Work calls.
Never good.
Hurt employee.
Stuck finger where finger doesn’t go.
Drive to work.
No blood. No cut. No bruise.
Young man.
He holds hurt fingertip tightly, only letting go to adjust the rubber band keeping his hair in a man bun.
Says, “Hurts really, really bad. Like on a one to ten scale, 10 bad.”
Load him up and start toward an urgent care clinic.
For five minutes he gives an instant replay, blow by blow, of how the injury happened.
When he finished I simply asked, “So, why did you put your finger there?”
“I don’t know.”
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Hallmark Holidays
It’s not right! Hallmark just makes up holidays to sell cards!
It’s like October 6. One one of my daughters posted on Facebook that it was National Transfer Money to Your Daughter Day. Parents everywhere were requested to transfer money to their daughter’s account.
Psft! That ain’t happening! Not unless I go to the bank and got them each a nice, shiny new penny.
Besides, transferring money to your children has been around for years!! It just goes by different names!
It’s called child rearing, shoe buying, food, clothing, shelter, prom, cars, Happy Birthday, shoe buying, Merry Christmas, Easter, college, just because I love you day, and of course, shoe buying.
The last “official” day of National Transfer Money to Your Daughter Day is called probating the will.
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Chief Katura
The little boogers were back in the woods behind our house. 7, 8 and 9 year old grandsons would never admit it, but their expressions said they almost got lost.
To implant a little raise the eyebrow caution in them, I whipped up a story of half-truth, half-lie, fabricated, made up, tall tale, umm, creative license story.
“Did y’all see any signs of Chief Katura in the woods?”
Like fishing for hungry perch with a worm, they snapped at the bait!
“Who’s that?”
“Chief Katura?”
I paused to look them in the eye for emphasis.
“Now, I’m not saying I believe it, but folks around here say Chief Katura was the bravest Caddo Indian to ever live! Even braver than Chief Nacogdoches, who the oldest town in Texas (where we live), is named after. A lot of folks around here say the spirit of Chief Katura still roams these woods looking for his bow and arrow.”
They didn’t just take the bait. They swallowed the hook!
I robbed some local fore from ghost stories from the town I grew up in and went on.
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RabBits 