I Wish I Had Asked

Years ago, my father would occasionally grill what he called a "poor boy filet". Two hamburger patties were seasoned, a slice of cheese, and a slice of onion, were placed between the patties, with the larger patty wrapped with a slice of bacon. I've tried to duplicate the meat, but the seasoning has never been right. When I could, I didn't ask how he seasoned the hamburger. I wish I had.  

Remembering Part of My Past

I travel often down a highway I worked on in the early eighties. At that time, I was working on different parts of the project. Mostly I worked with the field survey crew by driving grade stakes and holding the grade rod. That, helping place driveway culverts being changed to help with drainage, and to change the profile of the ditch, which was being moved to accommodate the paving widening. 

When working with the culverts, I was considered a "pipe-layer", which is a craft description according to TxDot wage standards. That meant I would keep the cut grade for the excavator, fine grade the bottom of the trench, guide the pipe into the trench, and insure the pipe spigot belled into the downstream pipe. Since it was concrete pipe, I made sure the mastic, which we called Ram-Neck, was placed correctly and sealed the joint. 

It was hard work; mostly because our operator had bad eyesight, and couldn't complete the fine grading as required. That meant either filling too deep of a cut, or cutting too much of the hard, dry clay to achieve final grade. We eventually complained enough to have him changed out, but that was after too many days of brutal labor in the hot Summer sun. 

One afternoon, we working in front of a house that I admired. It was an old house, probably built in the forties, and well kept. The yard was enclosed by a chain link fence, the yard was mowed, and the biggest mimosa tree I've ever seen was in the back yard. Covered in pink blooms, the canopy was as wide as the house. 

While working, and old woman came outside carrying a TV tray, with a pitcher of lemonade, homemade cookies, and glasses. She told us we should have some refreshments, which we relished. We took our break, continued working, and were soon down the highway on a different driveway. She eventually retrieved her things, and we were soon far away from that location. 

It took me awhile to find the old house. It's now behind a fence grown over, the house is showing its age, and it's obvious the old woman has now passed. The charm it once had is gone, and whoever now owns it doesn't understand the amount of work required for it to reach its former condition. It's a little sad to see how it now is, but I can still remember how beautiful it was one Summer day decades ago.

Placing the Rip-Rap

Over my career, I helped place thousands of square yards of poured in place concrete rip-rap on header banks, and other slopes. You've seen them; concrete on the slopes around the sides of overpass slopes. They keep the soil in place, which prevents the earth from washing away. 

After the slope was graded, we'd place forms, which consisted of 2 x 4's turned flat, so some wet concrete could spill under the forms. The forms were set about 10 feet apart, and the same amount of space was between each set of forms. This allowed the sections to be finished by finishers on each side. Multiple sections would be poured during the day. If the concrete set enough, the forms were stripped, and the sections in between would be poured. We called it "checkerboarding". After all the concrete was poured, the rip-rap would extend from the abutment to the toe of the slope.

At the bottom of the slope, a toe-wall was hand dug to keep the rip-rap from sliding. At set locations up the slope, trenches were excavated by hand, loose gravel was placed, and PVC pipes were placed with screen on the backside to keep the rock from leaving. These "weeps" allowed ground water under the concrete to drain, and keep the slope from failing.

We always poured from the top to the bottom. The concrete was batched very dry, and little water was ever added. Gravity helped with placing the concrete, and the excess concrete screeded wouldn't pile in front of the screed, which would usually cause the screeded concrete to slide down the slope. Pouring from the bottom to the top could be done, but the work was much harder, and having a section of fresh screeded concrete slide down the slope was the usual result. 

Finishing didn't require the most beautiful of concrete. Finishers (which I was during a pour) used wood hand floats and knee boards made from plywood with multiple nails driven through to keep the finisher from sliding down the slope. A rudimentary handle was made with pieces of 2x4 ripped down the middle. With the pours only 10 feet wide, finishers on each side could finish half without having to creep across the entire width on knee boards. 

Finishing required most all motions to be uphill. The wood floats worked up enough grout to leave a mostly smooth surface. A finishing broom dragged across the wet concrete was the final finish. Trying to finish with a magnesium, or steel, hand float caused the concrete to slump, and slide downhill. 

After the concrete was finished, we sprayed curing compound on it, and either called it a day, or moved on to another section. 

The work was hard. With many of the sections, the slope was a one-to-one slope, and spending a day working on the slope would separate the men from the boys. Those that stayed learned something useful, but I never found anyone that relished the task. If you stayed long enough, and learned all there was to learn, you moved from working in front of the screed to finishing. It didn't take me long to know that's were I wanted to be, even though it was just as hard to finish. The more I learned, the more valuable my knowledge became, and eventually I was entrusted with making it happen by pushing a crew.

Could I still do it? No, but I could teach someone, if they were willing to work hard.

Salted Pecans and a Lesson Learned

Years ago, probably when I was around 12 years old, I started dipping into the salted pecans at my grandmother's to satisfy my appetite while waiting for Thanksgiving dinner. I would eat a few, go back for some more, ate too many, and they came back up. I made it to the bathroom unobserved, and hid the evidence with a toilet flush. I never told anyone, since such things were frowned upon...or at least I thought they were. I really don't know. I do know I had my first encounter with heartburn that day, and the dinner wasn't quite the enjoyable event I envisioned. 

Since that time, salted pecans are something I avoid. I've tried them, but liking the taste is gone, and will never return.

Unmistakable Sound

I was outside, heard an airplane fly over, and immediately recognized the sound of a C-130 flying over. It was at a higher altitude, and probably in route to one of the bases in Texas. It made me think of the past. 

During the Vietnam War, our local airport was used daily for training of C-130 pilots. I'm guessing the reason was the lack of traffic, the fact the wind direction was usually from a direction near south, and the if there was a problem, any crashes south of the airport would be in the miles of empty fields in that direction. Maybe there was another reason, but that's the one that makes the most sense. 

On any day, the pilots would do touch-and-go's constantly. From where I lived, I could see them after they gained altitude, and headed south. I really didn't pay much attention where they went after that, but with the Gulf of Mexico within twenty miles, they probably spent some of their time flying where uh-ohs didn't involve populated areas. 

West of our city, there were some large, mostly empty pastures, which were handy for paratrooper training. Occasionally, if you happened to be driving down the highway that adjoined the fields, you could see them jumping from the planes, and it reminded me of watching WW2 footage. 

So, what is now a rare occurrence brought back some things I haven't thought about in years. I never knew if the pilots, or troops, were full time troops, or National Guard. Regardless, it was an interesting time.

Early Morning Peace

We had some fog this morning. I was out on the porch before sunrise, drinking some coffee, and remembering the aftermath of Hurricane Rita came to my mind. When I finally almost made it home, after a long out of the way trip to avoid road blocks, the heavy fog gave the area a surreal feel. 

Power lines were down. I ran over a few, and went around trees partially blocking the road to my house. The things I saw on the main highway, and what I was driving through, gave me a sense of foreboding. I couldn't see my house until I pulled into the driveway. A quick glance showed some pine trees laying across the drive. Looking toward my house, all I could see were a few shingles missing, and a lot of leaf debris scattered in the yard. I got out of my truck, and walked around to the back. A  big oak had split, but the large branch fell away from my house. Further inspection yielded no other damage, and a look in the house showed no water had made its way through the damaged roof. It was already hot, and the day would bring brutal heat with high humidity. 

I was relieved, but the light tower/generator I was pulling needed to be placed, and the trees removed from the drive. It led to a long day, and the installation of a window unit in the bedroom where my wife, and I, slept. I had extension cords ran, but hooking up the well pump would have to wait until tomorrow, when I hoped I could find the correct plug for the generator. The sun faded quickly, The darkness was complete after the sun set. The entire area was without power, and it took long minutes in the dark outside to adjust to the darkness. Even then, little could be seen. 

My sleep was fitful. I had my gun handy, but the drone of the light tower, and air conditioner, kept me from hearing anything outside. My mind raced with thoughts of people coming to rob, or more, and the darkness in the house was complete. Holding my hand to my face revealed nothing. It was as though we were in a cave, and I felt a little claustrophobic. In that type of darkness, it closes around you, until you feel as though you're in a casket. 

This morning was far different. The temperature was in the fifties, the cold dampness permeated the morning, and everything felt right. The coffee was good, and crow of roosters broke the quiet. Eventually the fog lifted, and the warm sun broke the chill. It was the dawn of a beautiful morning, and I feel blessed to have peace.

Looking At My Arms

As I was drinking coffee, I looked at my arms, noticed the scars, and thought about the ones I remember. There are many, and some came from interesting events.

Under my left arm, right below my wrist, is where I nicked my arm with a chainsaw blade I was changing. It was during a hard time in my life. I had been laid off, found another job, was trying to get ahead of my mortgage foreclosing, and had to work every hour I could. It was Winter, I was working on a rail crossing in a refinery, and to add insult to injury, I had the flu. I was miserable, but after it was all over, I kept my house, and made it through the hard time. The cut became infected, and some red streaks appeared around the wound. Not wanting to panic, I decided to wait until the next morning to go to a doctor I had no money for. The red streaks were gone that morning, the redness was receding, and the wound healed. 

On my right arm is a scar from catching it on a barbed wire fence. It was an ugly gash, but healed without problems. I probably could have used some stitches, but didn't go to a doctor. 

On my left middle finger is a scar from when I slipped, while placing some tin on a roof, and peeled the skin on the the top of my finger to the first joint. I went to a small hospital near, the doctor soaked it in betadine for a few minutes, then put a pressure bandage on the finger. It eventually healed, and a slight bump on that finger brought pain for over a year. 

On my left arm are five scars from a day at the beach. I was with in-laws, some people were walking their dogs on a leash, and they became too close. One of the large dogs, which was a big, friendly hound mix, lunged at the leash, and caught my arm with its front claws. That left some deep gashes, which didn't bleed much, but definitely hurt. 

On my right arm is my favorite scar. It was the result of a pissed off monkey that didn't want to go back to its cage. Up to that point, she was a bundle of love and sweet. When I went to return her to her cage, she bit, caught me with a canine, and ripped an L shaped gash. It didn't bleed hardly at all, but I could see tendons in the deep wound. I danced around after pouring peroxide in the wound, covered it with a gauze bandage, and let it heal without closing the wound. Animal bites can bring deep infections, and I wasn't going for stitches for that reason. As far as the monkey, it took all my strength to hold her arms, and tail, keep her head from biting, and getting her in the cage. 

I can still find a small scar from a piece of wood that stuck in my arm. I thought I had only scratched on a 2 x 4. It wasn't healing fast, and about a week later, I squeezed out a rather large piece of broken wood that remained after I brushed against the lumber.

I have a multitudes of small scars from years of using a burning torch and being burned by spattering slag. that, and the scars of three surgeries on my wrists included with the areas my doctor burned off pre-cancers. Looking back, my hands, and arms, caught the worst of it all. My aging skin shows them better, and with my now wearing long-sleeve shirts to keep out of the sun, they will remain unseen. My wounds of life will forever be unknown testaments to my experiences.

Remembering Cold Days

I stepped out this morning to a temperature of 40 degrees and the wind howling. The front came through yesterday, but the severe weather forecast didn't happen at my house. It was a strong front, and the wind did take down my porch curtains, but that was due to my neglect of securing them before taking a nap. 

In the past, on days like this, we'd work. Some tasks would drive us away (such as roof work) but most everything else required huddling from the cold, getting used to the cold wind blowing up the back of your coat, chapped skin, and the supreme fatigue after spending the entire day in the elements. Nothing compares to working in cold weather. 

I don't miss days like this at work. My instinct was to tell everyone to go home until better weather, but I knew we could accomplish something, and I was obligated to continue the quest for a profit, and the need of the hands for income during the winter months, which led to many days without work. It was what it was, and I'm glad those days are over.

In The Palmetto Flat

 It's been years since I squirrel hunted. It was once a yearly thing, since Texas has a season on the critters, and hunting them alone was a peaceful trek into the woods of the Big Thicket. That, and a properly prepared squirrel and sausage gumbo is a tasty treat. 

I remember one early Fall day when I trekked into an area to see if I could find some squirrels. It was still, cloudy, and the fall leaves occasionally fell from the trees. My footsteps seemed loud, and I had to move slowly to prevent startling the prey I sought. As I moved through the woods, I came upon a palmetto flat. At about a half acre, and with the ground damp, I silently started crossing toward the hardwood trees on the other side. There would be acorns and maybe some squirrels. 

I was halfway in crossing, when I head the rustling in the edge of the woods. Unlike a small animal, the rustling was loud and made by more than one animal. I could see over the palmettos, so I looked toward the sounds, but could only see the tops of the palmettos moving from what was below. 

I had a shotgun, but it was filled with bird shot, and would be useless against what I now suspected. It was only moments before I smelled their foul smell and grunts as they rooted through the palmettos. I knew there were feral pigs in the woods, but at my disadvantage, I knew I should have strapped something more substantial to my hip. 

I stood completely still. I knew that if I could smell them, they probably wouldn't wind me, since they came from the upwind side. I waited as they moved along only a few yards from where I stood. I couldn't see them, but had my shotgun ready if they came upon me. I had no idea if they would just move along if they found me, or I would soon be involved in a life struggle against a drove of pissed off hogs.

I didn't need to find out. They passed near, but out of my sight and soon were back into the woods. I waited until I couldn't hear them any longer, made my way out of the palmettos the same way I came, and eventually was out of the woods where I started. 

I think the worst part was knowing I had nowhere to run. That, and the nearest tree was farther than I could outrun a drove of pigs. I chalked it up to experience and made a note on how not to hunt where I didn't have an escape.

The Object (Re-post)

A few days ago, while passing over a tall local bridge, the clear atmosphere offered a view towards the Gulf of Mexico, and thoughts of my time offshore returned. 

I saw many things while I worked offshore. Some left memories that will last as long as I can still remember. 

                                                                    ***

It was around 7:30 pm on a summer evening. I had made my first rounds of the evening and was headed back to the shop to work on safety equipment. The wind was light out of the southeast and the Gulf was a tranquil emerald green.

As I walked across the catwalk, movement in the south caught my eye. I stopped, spent some time examining what caught my attention, and within moments, felt the hair stand on the back of my neck. Whatever it was, it was big and moving under the surface towards the platform.

The circular object appeared to be around a hundred feet in diameter and was a silvery gold that shimmered in the late evening sun. Since it was right beneath the surface, the small waves prevented me from seeing any detail. One thing I did know: it was moving fast and would be at the platform shortly.

As I examined the object, I tried to determine what it could be. Was it a some type of secret military submarine, or was it extraterrestrial?  My curiosity turned to apprehension and then to fear. I thought of trying to alert the crew, but soon realized there wasn't enough time. I stayed where I was and waited. It was moments away.

When it arrived, I braced myself by tightly grasping the handrail on the catwalk.  It passed between the platforms, so I had a ringside view.... It was fish. A huge school of moon fish that swam in a chaotic ball of motion, which kept predators at a distance. They passed silently through the water right below the surface. In less than a minute, they moved to where the light couldn't catch their silvery scales and were gone.

That was the only time I saw moon fish. I don't know if that was a migration, or a rare occurrence. I do know that I was in the perfect place to see the school as they passed. If they had passed a few hundred feet on either side, my tale would have a different ending.

Hamster From Hell (Re-post)

I mentioned the following to a close friend, so I'm posting it again.

                                                                           ***

My brothers, friends, and I were explorers. We weren't afraid of venturing anywhere, which including miles of the surrounding area and the undergrounds drains that ran under the streets. If we wanted to see it, we'd spend some time in doing just that; even if we had to say we were up to something else. After all, we didn't want our parents to worry.

Two blocks over from our house was a railroad track. Usually, only switch engines would pull cars up and down the track, but there was a passenger train twice each day and a long freight train at least once each day. When there was no train, we would explore up and down the tracks, under the bridges and along the right of way; if we weren't waiting for a train to flatten a penny or nail we brought from the house.

One afternoon, while exploring under a railroad bridge, my brother spied a critter in a hole under the abutment. After close examination, he realized it was hamster, which was not only an unusual critter to find, it was at least a half mile from any house.

My brother took a stick and stuck in the hole. The hamster responded by doing everything it could to turn the end of the stick into sawdust. Instantly, my brother decided he wanted the hamster as a pet, so we went home, he rigged a live trap and we returned with a mission.

It took over an hour of patient waiting, but the hamster finally made the mistake of going into the trap. My brother had a new pet and it showed appreciation by trying to gnaw the end off my my brother's finger. He was quicker than the hamster, but not by much

We didn't have one of those cute hamster cages, with all the tunnels and running wheel. All we had was a high sided wood box, which my brother secured with a piece of hardware cloth and a brick. We spent the rest of the afternoon admiring my brother's new pet, which ignored the lettuce we managed to remove from the crisper when my mother went to the restroom. Before the evening was over, my brother stashed his pet, and box, in the garage closet, while he decided how he would announce his pet to my parents.

Early the next morning, my brother and I went outside to check on the hamster, which he hadn't even named. Opening the door, my brother peeked into the box and found a hole gnawed in the side. The hamster was gone, which disappointed my brother, but it prolonged the announcement he'd eventually have to make - if we found the hamster.

We spent most of the day looking for the hamster, but it was all in vain. It was gone and there was no sign of it anywhere. We chalked it up as "one of those things" and went about our business...for a few days.

My mother was speaking to my father a few days later and told of how something was in the garden destroying her plants. Since weeding and upkeep was part of our responsibilities, we went to investigate the garden. We found a fairly large hole, which indicated something burrowed into the ground and was eating the roots of the plants. While my parents were confused, we had a pretty good idea what that "something"was. It was time to solve our problem.

My brother tried placing his live trap by the hole, which was a wasted effort. The hamster had no intentions of making that mistake again. It was living the high life in its comfortable hole, eating three good meals each day and lacking a care in the world.

My brother decided the only thing left to do was to flood the hamster from the hole. Placing the garden hose nozzle into the hole, he turned the water on full and waited. While we were waiting, I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye towards the other end of the garden. Before I could focus on the movement, there was nothing to see, but there was a rustling in the high grass in the neighbor's yard. Within a few minutes, water started bubbling from a hole about ten feet away. The hamster had an exit, and I was thinking he'd made an escape.

We eventually filled the hole completely, which pretty well indicated we'd either drowned the hamster, or at least ruined it's home and it would leave. I'll never know. We never saw another sign of the hamster and we'd avoided having to explain the entire mess to our parents.

A few years ago, I told the story to my mother. She just shook her head and smiled. I felt better after keeping the secret all those years. She probably was thinking she didn't want to know about many of the things we did when we were young.

Three Point Landing (Re-post)

For some reason, my thoughts wandered to my brothers. I have one left, and two that moved on. 

Through all that life brought, my brothers, and I, stayed close. We'd help each other, when we could, and always found the moments we had together as treasures. A cold beer, a pleasant afternoon, and time slipped away before we realized it was gone. 

Time has slipped away forever for two brothers. I have only memories and they never seem to be enough. 

I wrote the following somewhere right after I started my blog. When I read it again, I'm reminded of a special evening, a brilliant orange sky, and the sound of car tires sizzling on hot wet pavement. 

                                                                     ***


Years ago, all the little corner stores had section of toys. There were slingshots, crummy plastic gizmos and the best: balsa wood airplanes. The balsa airplanes were somewhat of a treasure. They usually didn't last long and were easily broken. If not lost in a tree, a neighborhood dog could destroy one in an instant.

There were two types of balsa wood airplanes: the glider, which was fairly simple and the rubber band powered glider with wheels. Both were inexpensive by today's standards, but at that time, they were a sizable expenditure for our young minds to consider. The glider meant finding five coke bottles; the powered version required thirteen, which could mean days of looking and not buying a Frosty root beer and a Zero candy bar. When the long barefoot walk down hot asphalt streets was added, the airplanes required measured thought before purchasing.

Late one evening, after a strong summer thunderstorm, my brother and I ventured out front to survey the aftermath. It was a perfect evening. The damp streets were still running water at the curbs. The trees dripped in the completely still air. Traffic was light and my brother knew it was the best opportunity to fly his balsa wood airplane.

He brought his plane to the street, wound the rubber band and let it fly.  It made a short loop through the steam that rose from the street and crashed in a neighbor's yard. He did this a few more times and then had an idea: Wind the rubber band almost to the breaking point and see if the plane would take off. He tried his idea and it worked.

The light was fading and the brilliant orange of the dissipating clouds signaled that our evening was almost over. Soon we would have to go in. My brother wound his airplane extra tight to make one last significant flight. He carefully placed the plane on the ground, adjusted the tail fins just a tad, and let go of the propeller. After a few moments on the ground, the plane took off, made three lazy circles over the street, and made a perfect three point landing.

We both stood in silence for a moment. We had just witnessed an unforgettable moment in time. I don't remember what he said when he spoke, but it was pure joy. He couldn't believe what we just witnessed, and neither could I. He had to try again. He did, but his effort was in vain. I don't think he ever managed another three point landing, until he was getting his pilot license.

That was over forty years ago. A lot happened since that time and I'll never be able to share that moment with my brother again. He's gone, so I decided to share it with you.

Once Upon A Time

I went to a concert in Houston, Texas. It was loud, damn near pure energy and they opened with the following song.

I'll never forget the concert, or the wonderful lady that accompanied me to the show. This one's for her and the tug that still pulls at my heart strings.

Oriskany (Re-Post)

I posted this a few years ago. At that time, it was a memory of a curiosity. 

While reading a post on Old NFO's blog, the ship became more than just a floating city of steel. 

A friend's father landed a jet on this carrier back in the early sixties. This is probably one of the last photos of the Oriskany as it was towed to final preparation before being turned into an artificial reef. Much of the ship had been removed, but it was still a magnificent sight as it passed our project location a few years ago.

It now sits on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. Due to it's size, the island structure is around 80 feet deep, which is at the limits of sport diving. The flight deck is around 145 feet deep, which makes much of the carrier beyond the depths of sport divers.

* I have to add how big it was. what's most amazing is that one of the reasons for decommisioning was it wasn't big enough for modern requirements.

Dealing With The Librarian

Elementary school was the shiny part of my formal education. I have some memories of the experience and realize I was a really good student at the time. I don't know what changed later on, but it could have been a variety of reasons, including family problems and a severe concussion that occurred when I was young.

As I was mowing the yard today, I had a memory of the librarian. I guess she was sweet, although I really don't remember, but I do remember thinking she had a remarkable resemblance to "Mr. Waverly" on "The Man From Uncle".

My mother had a printing shop during that time. Included with her business was printing bound forms, which were placed in a special press. After placed, the top was painted with a plastic substance, which left a form easily torn from the pad. Since the forms might need trimming, the pads were made and trimmed afterward in a substantial paper cutter. This left thin pieces of pads, which were great for libraries, since one could be torn off and given with each book. My mother would send us with bags full of the bookmarks to give to the librarian. The librarian loved them.

I know we did book reports, although I can't remember a one, but somewhere during that time period, I became fascinated by World War Two.

They taught us how to use the card catalog, so I knew how to find the books of my interest. I'd check them out and usually read them in one sitting.

What led to the fascination? I have no idea, but I'm still fascinated by the war, those that fought and terrible toll on the world.

Anyway, one day, while checking out the book of my choice, the librarian gave me a stern look and told me I couldn't check it out. She went on to explain I was reading too many books of that type and I needed to broaden my subjects.

I was crushed, ashamed, wondering if I'd crossed some indiscernible line and troubled by my inability to know my error in judgement. I returned to the aisle, found what I considered drivel and went on; still troubled and ashamed.

From that point on, the librarian was an adversary. In deference to her being an adult, I never checked out another book about World War Two and found the encyclopedia at home.

I'd read for hours. It was like surfing the internet. I'd start with "A" and never know where it would end. I'd even practice self-discipline and read only one volume from one end to the other. I probably read every volume at least twice.

So, what did I learn? Nothing and everything, although I was happy with the ability to read without intervention.

Life is a strange occurrence. The little things add up to the big things and we're left to wonder about the path we took and marvel when obscure events surface at the strangest of times.  

One Sunday Afternoon in April

I stopped at a convenience store on the interstate to get something to drink. There were four men in the store; somewhere between 40 and 60; humorless and not speaking to each other.

They were dressed in buttoned, short sleeve shirts, casual slacks and I didn't pay attention to what they were buying. Since I was right before them in line, I paid for my soft drink, left the store and climbed into my pickup.

As I backed from my parking spot, I noticed a light green Taurus, with rental plates. In the back window was a black ball cap, with F.B.I. printed in white. As I pulled away, one of the men left the store and climbed into the driver's seat.

Within five minutes, I was passed by the same car. The four men were quietly sitting, there was nobody speaking and they all were just staring ahead.

The next day, Waco came alive, as every government agency involved stormed the compound. The rest is history: seventy six people died; including women and children.

Did those men know what was going to happen? I think so. It was their employer that started, and finished the siege. How far they were up the food chain I'll never know, but if they have the tiniest shred of a conscience, it keeps them awake and they know they were part of one of the worst, botched government operations ever performed by the bureaucratic boondoggle we call the United States government.

Some Things You Don't Delete

My blog list on my computer is old. There are broken links, blogs on hold and some that I read, but not very often. The links are transferred to upgraded computers and I don't delete them. It's some kind of superstitious thing, and since it doesn't hurt anyone, I'll keep them as long as I can.

One, from way back, I keep linked because I really used to enjoy visiting. He had a few nicknames, including "Acidman". I might have commented, but I don't remember if I did. Usually, I'd just read, laugh, or feel the emotions tugged by Rob, as he commented on his life.

His blog name was "Gut Rumbles", and it still exists.

I forgot about the blog, but found it linked in my favorites, which I was perusing. He's been gone since 2006, but still lives on in his blog. If you have time, it's good reading.

Search for the Smell

My wife had a 1994 Caprice. It was a beautiful car, with the same engine they put in the Corvettes. On the highway, it was one of the most comfortable cars I ever drove.

One evening, she told me something smelled dead in her car. I went and checked; she was right. Determined, I placed finding the smell as priority one for the next Saturday morning.

On Saturday, a quick search found nothing. Using my nose as a guide, I found the smell stronger under the dash. Knowing a little about the car, I decided a mouse found its way into the car through the air conditioning duct work.

I had a book, so I started in the easiest places. I first removed the air conditioner blower motor, looked around, and found nothing. Examining the book, I found there was a rheostat for the blower motor speed adjacent to the blower. It was in the plenum. Removing the assembly only required a 1/4" nut driver and the removal of two screws.

It was a hard to reach place. Without any way to get to the location, but to place my legs on the seat and lay on the floor mat, I went to work.

It was hot. The temperature was in the upper 80's and the humidity was about the same. What little I'd done had soaked me in sweat and the temperature was rising.

Wiping sweat from my eyes, I carefully removed the two screws, pulled down on the rheostat mount and I found the source of the odor.  A gooey, very rotten mouse - with maggots - fell on my chest, right under my nose. As I squirmed, scooted around and tried to get out of the car, I found my retching was just about to the point of losing breakfast.

I finally got out of the car, calmed down, spent some time examining my find and finally went to retrieve the necessary things to clean up the mess.

Later, I asked a mechanic about what happened and if he knew of a fix, since I could never find where the mouse found its way in. He laughed and told me he had no idea, but if I figured it out, to let him know. Apparently, the mouse problem was common and there was no known way to prevent it from happening.

Eventually I sold the car and bought my wife another. I was glad to see it go, since I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to go mouse hunting again.

Another Re-Post - "A late January Afternoon"

As I was sitting tonight, I remembered this short story. It was based on fact and experiences with my mother. I thought I needed to post it again. I hope you enjoy it.

Light rain pelted him as he ran from his car to the porch. The cold wind scattered leaves in the yard and sped the low clouds across the winter sky. He quietly opened the door and walked to the kitchen. The smells and warm air reminded him of the past. A faint hint of breakfast still lingered. For a moment, he thought of his childhood and preparing for school. He'd catch a ride with his father on such a day. He allowed the memories to pass. His father had been gone for decades.

Time stood still in the old house. Memories hung on the walls or sat in special places on shelves. The photographs stuck to the refrigerator were moments in time captured forever; the young children now adults and scattered by the winds of change. Their faded photographs were testimonies to special moments, or graduations.

His mother was at the kitchen table. She had placed her head down to take a short nap. He paused for a few moments then gently shook her arm. She awoke, stared for a moment then lit the room with her smile. "This is a surprise. I wasn't expecting you."

He raised his voice and asked: "How are you feeling?" It was a question that he asked out of habit. He knew the answer. Age had trapped her mind in a body that refused to allow her to rest. They had discussed this a few times. While she was ready, he knew her passing would be the start of his own. At that time, his own mortality would not be an occasional thought to push to the side for another day.

She answered: "I'm okay." paused for a moment and asked: "Would you like some coffee?"

"Sure. You stay there, I'll make a pot."

As he made the coffee, he thought how things had changed. At one time, his mother would always have a fresh pot. She never made coffee now. Coffee was for special occasions. He measured the grounds, placed the coffee in the machine and added the water. After making sure the switch was on, he sat across from his mother and asked if she had anything new to report.

"Nothing is new."

"Have you heard from anyone?" He always asked the same question. Visits were rare and she spent a lot of time alone watching television or reading the paper. She would dabble in her office, but she didn't have the ability to concentrate as in the past. Mental tasks were tedious, but she still persevered. She refused to be beaten by life.

"I heard from an old friend from high school. They had lost my phone number and found it again. They were checking to see if I was still alive." She laughed and added: "I told them it's not much of a life, but I'm still here."

He smiled, although the words broke his heart. He'd finally accepted that all that was left was the waiting. It made him sad to watch her fade. He knew she was ready to pass on, since the dignity of life was slowly disappearing. He felt a stab of anger. It all seemed so unfair. Everyone else in his life had passed suddenly; watching the slow event of her passage was excruciating. Her time left was like a dead limb on a tree; the amount of time before it fell was a mystery.

"Are you hungry?"

He hesitated, then answered: "A little. What do you have?"

"I have some leftover roast, rice and gravy. We can heat it and I'll make a salad"

"Let's have some coffee first. I'm enjoying the visit"

The coffee machine was gurgling and spitting the last of the boiled water. He rose and flipped the switch to off. It lasted longer if it wasn't kept on the hot plate. He knew she would have some more later, or tomorrow morning. If she didn't it would sit for a few days, until she poured it out. In the past, when she drank more coffee, he would smell the pot before he ever accepted any coffee. Sometime, it would be days old and stale. He wondered if that was why she stopped making her daily pot. She couldn't remember if it was fresh and hated the thought of wasting the coffee.

They sat, sipped their coffee and discussed politics. Neither was happy about current politics or the state of the economy. She was disappointed with the stock market, since her retirement income was supplemented by dividends. She was concerned she wouldn't have enough and drops in the market would cause her to worry.

She rose and opened the refrigerator. He responded by rising and offering "I'll help." Quickly looking at the shelves, he spotted the small roast covered with clear wrap. Pulling it from the refrigerator, he hunted for the rice and gravy. He opened and smelled the containers. It all smelled fresh, but he still asked: "When did you make this?"

"Last night. It's "cow butt", which brought a glint to her eye. "Cow butt" was the term his brother had used for rump roast. The story behind the term was one of her favorites and part of many conversations at family gatherings.

He removed lettuce from the hydrator and handed it to his mother. She had started slicing a small tomato that was on the counter. As she worked, he looked in the refrigerator for old containers. In the past, he would ask how old something was, which always brought the same answer: "It's still good." He didn't ask any longer. He would open the containers, smell the contents and throw things away when she wasn't looking. He knew she could barely smell and taste. She might take a chance, but he'd do everything he could to remove the opportunity.

After heating their servings in the microwave, they sat and visited, while they ate. He ate slowly, to match her pace. He relished the time and the taste reminded him of Sunday dinners, when the entire family would share a meal. There were few left now. Without grandchildren and their families, there were usually only two or three during a gathering. Large gatherings were few and would soon only be memories. She wasn't physically able to prepare a large meal, refused to allow anyone else to perform the task and was uncomfortable about others doing the same for her. She was tenaciously independent and determined to be so until her death.

They finished their meal and started clearing the table. He put the food back in the refrigerator, while she placed the dishes in the sink. He offered to help with the dishes, which she refused. She would wash them later; not while they were visiting.

He poured them both a cup of coffee and sat once again at the table. She asked about his family and his work. In the past, he would seek her advice on both and they would have have hours of discussion. She was a good sounding board for thoughts. Her experiences in life offered valuable information, but those days were gone. He answered: "Everyone is fine and work is good." He didn't want to burden her with any problems he might be having. She had enough to worry about, without adding his worries.

"I need to be going" he said as he rose from the table. "I need to wash my hands first."

He went to the bathroom and washed his hands. He left the bathroom and made his usual cursory tour of the house. He looked for anything that seemed out of place or showed signs of future problems. He ended up in the living room and paused to stare out the window. For a moment, the late afternoon sun broke through the heavy clouds. The wet limbs of the oak trees appeared as poured gold, which glistened as the wind moved the branches. The light soon faded and the dreary, deep greys of a late, rainy winter evening returned.

He returned to the kitchen and spoke: "If you need anything, you know how to find me. I always have my cell phone close; even at night."

"I know. Is there anything I can do for you?"

He knew those days were over. The only thing she could really do for him was to be careful and never forget he was there if she needed him. "Not right now. If there is, you know I'll ask"

She rose, he hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll love you, Mom" she responded: "I love you, too. You be careful and come when you can."

He carefully locked the door when he left. He knew he'd remember the last few moments forever if needed. They might be the last moments he ever spent with her, so every detail was important.

As he drove away, he glanced back towards the house. The porch light had come on and lit the wet walk in front of her house. He thought of how times had changed. Families were now scattered. While the Internet kept everyone close, it was a pale reminder of reality. Those short moments of communication didn't represent the myriad of moments known as life. He felt sadness for a moment, but quickly shifted his thoughts to work, home and the thousands of things that occupied his thoughts. His time would eventually come, but not now. There were too many things to do and not enough time for the tasks.

Turning on the radio brought a song from high school. He fondly remembered riding down the beach, the windows down and his entire life a long journey into the future. For a moment, time slipped away and he was young again.

Five Years Ago

Ike was ashore, but it was still really, really windy.

Curious, I used Google Earth to check the miles I was from the center. Around forty miles, as a crow flies.  Twelve hours before Ike hit, I was still thinking it would go ashore around Freeport.

Rita, and Ike were "hundred year" hurricanes. I hope so. I don't ever want to see one like either again.