Acorns from the Oak

I received this photograph yesterday from a family member who is really diligent in researching and finding new information about our history.  Rev. Thomas Price is my great, great, grandfather.  He is pictured here with his wife Maria Dale.  Thomas Price died in 1897, so the photo is prior to that date.  
My father is the young man on the back row second from the left.  His father (my grandfather) is on the end of the same row (far right).  The elderly man seated in the center of the grouping holding the young child is my great grandpa James (the son of Thomas and Maria) (Probably taken in the early to middle thirties)
And in this photo, Pappy.  Someday a great great grandson or daughter will post this old digital photo and comment on the funny clothing and dated furniture.  "Wonder why their pants were two different colors?  Just thought we could use some comedic relief today.  My daughter said she could see a resemblance.  Bebe said not to go any further with the comparisons.

Have a wonderful Tuesday.

The Present

THE PRESENT


“Come on girls. Get you stuff loaded. I want to be on the road by 5:00 and it’s already 6:30.”
“Dad, why do we have to leave so early?”
“Because it’s a long drive and I want to make it before tonight.”
“Can we take our pillows?”
“You’ve got everything else in the house, why not? I just hope the tires don’t pop.”

It is our annual Christmas trip from Texas to Mississippi. Nobody from Mississippi travels, so if you leave the state, you are the one who must travel back for a visit. Many years ago my father started moving us around. We lived long distances from the Magnolia State, but we made at least one pilgrimage a year back to the old home place.

When I was a child, prior to our becoming the family gypsies, we rarely traveled more than forty miles in one day. To travel that distance in Mississippi one had to pack a bag for an overnight stay. As an adult, I chose to continue the gypsy tradition my dad started. I bought a custom van with four captain’s chairs, rear radio, TV, VCR, and a rear bench seat that made into a bed. I knew we would be traveling.

My relatives often ask, “Why’d y’all leave?”

They never consider that life in another place could be any better than it is in Mississippi. I sometimes envy their simple, uncluttered lives. I never really answer their question.

With the van loaded with traveling gear, and gifts for the family, we set out on our eastward journey. During the week prior to our leaving, I develop a dry hacking cough. It is a nuisance, but not something likely to postpone our trip.

Our first obstacle is to make it safely out of Houston. No racing driver ever needed more skill. Driving a full sized Chevy Van at 70 plus miles per hour in six lanes of traffic bounded by concrete barriers is a test for even the most seasoned driver. My stress level is at a peak. Several times I yell, “Prepare my bazooka!” as other drivers enter my personal driving space. My girls, who once laughed at my antics, just roll their eyes and give me that “oh please dad” look.

After we clear the sprawl of the megaplex and cross into the Bayou State, I settle down and put my mind on cruise control for the long quiet stretches of highway through the swampland of south Louisiana. I recall the trips we made as children with my father at the wheel of our big Buick. He was less animated than I, but not one to be trifled with. My sister and I often fought it out in the back seat as we traveled, but not so loud as to disturb dad. While in my driving dream state, I also remember the day long walks through the woods with my grandfather as he searched for the perfect Christmas tree. If he couldn’t find a tree with the proper shape, he created it. He cut limbs off of other trees and strategically placed them in holes he drilled in the trunk of the one he had selected. The tree was then trimmed with bubbling tube lights, big multi-colored strings of bulbs, candy canes, tinsel, metallic ornaments, and silver icicles. The house was full of delicious smells. There were apples, oranges, Brazil nuts, Hazel nuts, and colorful hard candies. The old side board was loaded with fruit cake, German chocolate cake, coconut cake, and pecan pie. The best place to visit with my grandmother was in the kitchen. Christmas was a magical time.

Our final destination on this trip is my sister’s house. Since my grandparents died, we meet there. She is the only one of my siblings who still lives in Mississippi. The rest of us are continuing the gypsy tradition. We broke our trip up in segments with short coffee stops at the homes of a few old college buddies who settled in south Louisiana. Frequent stops are a given when traveling with girls.

As the sun descends behind the van, we pass the Mississippi welcome center, and drive into the unchanging time warp of the “state lost in time”. The tall pine trees shade everything with their green shadows even in the winter months. We soon arrive at the winding driveway to my sister’s house. She has outdone herself again. Tradition is important to those who choose to remain in the slower paced world of the Deep South. Her house is filled with colorful markers of the season, the big Christmas tree, a Christmas card display, nativity scenes, wreaths, and a side board filled with culinary delights. It is the eve of the big day, and everyone joins in for food and fellowship.

I, however, am out of gas. I excuse myself and go to bed early. The cough is unrelenting. I can hear the others talking and laughing deep into the night as I try to get to sleep. I awake to the smells of coffee, and breakfast cooking. Christmas morning – the kids were up early. My brow is hot. My head pounds and spins when I try to lift it from the pillow. I feel like sand has been poured into my eye sockets during the night. My appetite is gone – possibly the clearest indicator that my condition is worsening. I hear the gift wrap tearing, followed by squeals of delight, as the kids open their presents. I lie perfectly still, not wanting to move. Finally, after everyone else has finished, I stumble down the hall and into the den to open my presents. I want to die. I acknowledge with gratitude the gift givers, but quietly lean over and tell my wife to load the van. If I’m going meet my maker, I want to do so in my own bed. The girls are understandably disappointed when their mother tells them we are leaving. They hate these long trips, and we just arrived.

I labor to put on enough clothing to keep from being an embarrassment to them when we make our travel stops. I push the button at the back of the van lowering the rear seat into a bed. I throw in two pillows and a blanket, and give my wife the “Forward Ho!” with my last ounce of energy. She drives through the quiet little downtown and onto the interstate highway nosing the big van into the westbound lane. It is Christmas morning and traffic is light. I shiver underneath my blanket as chills highlight every hair follicle on my body. The aft seat is right above the rear axle and after we cross into Louisiana my pounding head is buffeted with the steady “Plop – Plop” of the tires as they roll over the oversized expansion joints in the highway. Even when you’re feeling good, a road trip on a Louisiana interstate is rougher than a Conestoga wagon rumbling down the Santa Fe Trail. This trip seems to last for ever.

I spend several days recovering after I get home. As soon as I am able to sit up and take nourishment, the telephone starts to ring. Call after call comes in commenting on my present to family and friends. They refer to it as the gift that never stops giving. The dry hacking cough punctuating their conversation gives away their meaning. I infected almost the entire population of south Louisiana and Mississippi with the flu.

Now invitations to family gatherings are made by telephone shortly before the event takes place, and always include a question as to whether or not I have a cough or any other symptoms of illness.

Dennis Price

I've been trying for some time to develop a lifestyle that doesn't require my presence. - Garry Trudeau

T-Day Hangover

How did you feel after yesterday's feast of Thanksgiving? I know I tried to only get a little of each dish, but we had so many dishes. Smoked turkey, smoked ham, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, broccoli/rice casserole, corn casserole, cranberry sauce, cranberry apple delight, yeast rolls, cornbread dressing, gravy, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, iced tea, and coffee. I lay almost comatose on the sofa trying to concentrate on the football game. I knew I would never want to eat again. I didn't eat supper, but it was late before I was finally able to fall asleep. This morning I got up and took my coffee for a walk. I had cereal for breakfast, and I'm sure I'll have light fare for the next few days as I attempt to get my waist line under control. We had a great time visiting with family and new friends. I hope your holiday included a wonderful feast. I'm glad we only attempt to eat like that on two or so occasions yearly. Now it is on to a month of nibbling until Christmas. I intend to be very selective with my diet until the big day.

Speak the truth, but leave immediately after. - Slovenian Proverb

He's Baaaaack!

Wow! It seems like I've been gone for a week. Oh, I have been gone for a week. I made a trip to Mississippi to attend the funeral of my Aunt Alexine. She was 86 years old and had suffered for the past several years from Alzheimer's disease. We celebrated her life with stories of her humor, character, and dedication to family and vocation. She was a nurse of the highest order in addition to being a dedicated wife and mother. She will be missed. Thanks to all of you for continuing to fill my inbox with e-mails and my comment section with new comments. I have been at this all morning, reading and sorting and preparing to respond.

I hope by now you have decided who not to vote for. I believe we have no choice. If you have been following all the political goings on, and I don't see how you couldn't have, I'm sure you are of the opinion that John McCain is the only sane alternative we have. If you voted early for Barack and have now been enlightened, please go and find some friends who have not voted and convince them to go and cancel your vote. This man is a major fraud. Anyone who fails to respond to the simplest requests for verification of basic information, as he has, does not need to be our President. The stink factors in his campaign are so strong you can smell them over a pot of chitterlings cooking. I won't be able to help you after the election is over. You have to do this for yourself right now. A large segment of the non-thinking population will be voting as told (This includes those dead and non-existant voters registered by ACORN). But there is also a significant number of voters who are simply deluded by polling data and biased media sources. Don't come back and tell me you didn't know. I'm going to post some things that should give you pause over the next few days. Have you ever gone to the market and chosen a really pretty cut of meat, brought it home and opened the package only to discover it was rancid? Well, the Obama package looks good on the shelf, but it is going to smell when we are allowed to unwrap it. I hope this is done prior to the election.

It's scary when you start making the same noises
as your coffee maker.

Last Day as a Carpenter

As we get a little older, sometimes, as men, we don't think things through. Bebe and I are both determined to tone up and lose a little weight. I am way ahead of her in the "need to" department, but when she asks questions and makes comments during this period, I need to consider carefully my answers.

The older you get, the tougher it is to lose weight, because by then your body and your fat have gotten to be really good friends.

When I was just a youngster, I often visited with my mother's parents. I don't know how old they were, but all their children were grown and gone. They lived in rural Mississippi in a Sears Kit house. By the time I remember anything of significance, they had moved the plumbing inside off the back porch. The back porch was enclosed and screened all around. It had a bed, washing machine, game cleaning table and a variety of other little shelves and pegs for hanging outer garments before entering the house. Just to the right as you entered the porch from the outside was an add on room that contained a sink, a commode, and a bathtub. I do recall years earlier having to wash at a standpipe outside, and using an outhouse, but progress was made and things were changing.

One of the new additions was an electric refrigerator. It was delivered in a large wooden crate. My granddad, having lived through the great depression was never one to throw anything away. I mentioned the outdoor faucet where we used to wash up, it had a 4' X 4' cement slab on the ground just in front of the standpipe to stand on when the water was in use. My granddad decided to make a shower stall using the wooden crate. He built it around the cement slab and configured a modesty offset at the entrance. He ran a water hose from the standpipe over the back side of the stall with a shower head attached. The back steps to the porch were fairly tall with a landing at the top. My grandad was a short Irishman and my grandmother was taller than he and weighed more. He stood outside and called to my grandmother to come out and see his handiwork. She came out and stood on the landing and looked to her left at the new edifice.
She said, "What is it Lonnie?"
He answered, "It's a shower stall Ida Mae."
She replied, "I don't think I'll be able to fit in that thing."
He snorted, "Well Ida Mae, the refrigerator came in it."

I was too young to know what, if anything, occurred later during their private moments together, but when I saw the cartoon posted above, I was reminded of that scene.

Lord, Keep your arm around my shoulder and your hand over my mouth...AMEN..!!

Thanks

Just had to hop on the old John Deere to come by and say thanks to all of you who prayed for me and expressed concern for my health. I am making good progress and hope to be plowing before too long. I think as my legs get longer, I shouldn't have as much problem keeping my balance. I'll have my own blog as soon as I learn how to type. I hope you all have a great Sunday. Pray for my Pappy, he says he to old for something or other. I didn't really understand because he mumbles sometimes.

Some mornings it just doesn't seem worth it to gnaw through the leather straps. - Emo Phillips

Missing in Action

Pappy is still a little sleepy this morning. I have been away from the computer for two days on a grandfatherly mission. On Wednesday evening past, I was taking my evening nap before retiring when the phone rang. Bebe had to answer as I was having trouble getting the couch to let me go. I couldn't make out the caller from her responses, but she told me we need to go to the hospital and meet the kids. I pressed her for details and she said that my grandson had fallen and cut himself. I managed to muster enough steam to get dressed and make it to the local hospital. When we arrived, we got more details from my son-in-law who by this time had gotten himself thrown out of the emergency room. They were visiting friends for dinner when my grandson (2 years plus) backed across the floor stumbled, knocked over a water glass, and fell on the broken pieces cutting his wrist. They rushed him to our local hospital emergency room while trying to stem the blood flow from an arterial bleeder. As they sat in the ante room with the admitting person, she slowly went through her routine questions: Do you have your insurance card? What is your name? Last name first, first name last - all the while little arterial spurts were covering everyone in blood. My son-in-law lost it and security was called to escort him out. The line in front of the admitting area glass all joined in and tried to admonish the single purposed clerk to hurry and get some help. This was over by the time Pappy arrived. Fortunate for those who work in our so called emergency room. I could have shown them how a real emergency is to be handled. By the time I arrived, the bleeding had been stopped and doctors were assessing the situation. Because of my grandson's age, the local doctors decided to have him transferred to a pediatric hospital two hours north. An ambulance was notified and within a short two hours we were almost ready to start our journey. By now it was approaching midnight and my son-in-law had used up his rational reserves, so I volunteered to drive him as we followed the ambulance with my grandson and daughter aboard to the specialty hospital. We arrived on Thursday at 2:00 AM and got checked in. The pediatric surgeon was to see him very early and determine what if anything needed to be done. By 3:30 AM I had secured a room and managed to melt into bed. I awoke early and returned to the hospital. The doctor reported that my grandson had cut a tendon and severed one artery. Most people have two arteries going to the hand, but God had given my grandson three. The doctor just capped the extra artery, repaired the tendon, determined there was no nerve damage, and sewed him up. He came through like a champ. Of course getting out of the hospital is almost as complicated as getting in, so we didn't get to leave until after 4:00 PM. I drove the kids back. We arrived home at 6:30 PM. Bebe had a nice dinner waiting. I ate and made ready to hit the sack. I was sleeping like a baby until 4:00 AM when a cramp in my left calf tried to roll my foot up to my knee backwards. I managed finally to get the affected foot to the floor and stretch it out. The rest is history. Coffee was made, blog comments read, and here I am again doing what I do.

I didn't really say everything I said. - Yogi Berra

It's a Comin' Up of a Blowout!

"Batten down the hatches. Reef the sails. Turn her into the wind. It's a comin' up of a blowout."

"Aye, aye Captain."

We are watching the reports here to see what tropical storm, "Dolly" is going to do today. It looks like it might make land fall near us at about noon tomorrow.

Storms are very much a part of life. Most of the areas where I've lived during my lifetime, were at times, prone to feel the effects of severe weather. No one likes to go through the preparations ahead of, or the clean-up afterwards, but this too is a necessary function. I remember as a small child visiting my great grandmother, Loutisha, in her big white wood framed house with the dog run down the middle. She spent many hours on her front porch in a rocking chair looking at the happenings of life around her. Her house was adorned with spiked metal rods running through glass balls. These attached at the ridgeline of her roof and had a twisted metal cable running off one side to the ground. She obviously witnessed the effects of lightning strikes through the years and wanted to insure her house was safe. As dark thunder clouds would approach she would squint and look through her wire framed glasses and usually say, "We'd better move inside. It's a comin' up of a blowout." I went to the grocery yesterday on my regular run and found that it was bursting at the seams with folks getting ready for the approaching storm. Many people were loading their buggies with bottled water. My neighbor was loading his buggy with wine. I may be forced to go to his house if I run out of water. Skies are blue this morning and the wind is calm. This afternoon, I'll move the items outside that could become missles if the wind is strong enough. I normally don't watch the news or weather, but I probably will today and tomorrow. I love to see those weather people standing outside in the storm dodging newspaper racks and other missles. Newsies, you've got to love them. They'll do anything to get a little air time. It's usually the cub reporters who are asked to do what no other sane human being would do in order to get the ratings up. Hope you have a wonderful week. I'll be here as long as we can maintain a connection. Pappy

I've wrestled with reality for 35 years, Doctor, and I'm happy to state I finally won out over it. - Mary Chase

Old Country Church

Ah, it's Sunday again. I was reminded by Willow, of the churches I attended when I was a kid. Most were Baptist of some variety, one a Plymouth Brethren, and one an Independent non-denominational church. The ones I attended with my grandparents were Missionary Baptist Churches. Old Liberty Church was at Seminary, Mississippi. We had family reunions there some years, and there was always an abundance of good gospel singing. My mother's grandfather was a Baptist Preacher. I have always liked Southern Gospel done in quartet style. The following poem was written to highlight some of the images I recall.

Gospel Singing Memories

Stamps Baxter song books,
covers threadbare,
hang in racks,
on the backs
of old wooden pews.

Liberty Church.
Fifth Sunday singing.
A big crowd is gathered
to meet and to eat.

Aunt Modena pounds lively
an old upright grand.
A family quartet
sings close harmony.

Everyone singing
sends melodies wafting
through windows and doorways
to sprawling oak trees.

Songs of the gospel.
A pleasing aroma.
“Precious Memories”.

Have a great Sunday. Remember God made this day for you. Rest.

Jay Baby's Harley

I think I have mentioned this before, but some of my childhood, including my early teens, took place in south Mississippi. My family moved around more than most from this area, so I had some knowledge of life outside the county lines. I lived in town (although town was not what it is today) and many of my relatives still lived on what was left of small family farms. The era was mid to late fifties, and early sixties. I loved my trips to the country. I explored the woods, hunted, fished, swam, did farm chores, and experienced life in more ways than any "city boy" ever would. People from the rural South were for the most part poor, and even people with money rarely travelled as they do today. I was coming of age, and many of the lessons I learned about life involved asking questions about what two farm animals were doing. My parents recognized my curiosity, but they responded in more veiled terms than those used today. I was cautioned not to pay too much attention to any female relatives closer than third cousin. I required more explanation on this point since I had some pretty good looking ones in the first and second cousin range. But, I eventually got the idea and any future introductions to relatives I didn't know came with a statement of their relationship to my root stock. I was also cautioned that any serious consideration of a mate should not include Catholics, Yankees, or Republicans. So, when I say Jay Baby was my third cousin you will understand why I was conscious of that. Now, most of us were poor by today's standard of measurement, but Jay Baby, the youngest male in the family of Joe May and Vergie, was poor. I remember going to his house down a sandy lane that ran off the only paved road in the area and seeing his mother sitting on the front porch in her sun bonnet, probably resting from an early morning trip to the vegetable garden. The house was a small wood frame structure and it was very sparsely furnished. Jay Baby slept on a mattress on the floor with no sheets. There were no other furnishings in his room. The house had electricity, but no running water or indoor plumbing. So, it was a big surprise to everyone when Jay Baby came up with an old war surplus Harley Davidson motorcycle. He was older than I was by several years, but he was small in stature, probably in the neighborhood of 135 pounds. The Harley did not have an electric starter and required a pretty stiff jump on the kick starter to turn the engine over. Jay Baby had some visible bruising from being thrown by the kick starter into or over the handlebars. However he was mighty proud and totally fearless on the big bike. We, heard the roar of the Harley before we caught brief glimpses of Jay Baby flying down the paved road clinging to the handlebars with his stringy hair pushed straight back in the wind. He looked like a dragon fly riding a Buffalo. Everyone worried for his safety. The roads off the main road were gravel. In between times when the county road grader smoothed the ruts, the auto traffic would form tracks with a hump of gravel in the center and raised gravel humps on either side. The gravel in these humps was loose. A car could loose traction and slide when it hit these humps at the wrong angle. I have seen Jay Baby flying down the gravel roads with the back end of the big Harley swishing back and forth like a horse's tail. The bridges over the small creeks along these roads were wooden with no side rails. Two wooden tracks were laid across the cross members to accommodate the wheels of a car. It came as no surprise to anyone when we received the report that Jay Baby missed the bridge while trying to regain control of his big Harley and went airborne into the water. We were relieved to learn that his only serious injury was to his pride. A week or so after the accident we heard the big Harley's throaty rumble once more and watched the curve for Jay Baby to appear. However, when we saw the bike it had kids sitting on every available surface. Jay Baby sold the bike for fifty dollars to a family down the road with a bunch of teen and pre-teen boys. I never saw him on a motorcycle again.

The best car safety device is a rear-view mirror with a cop in it. - Dudley Moore

Queen Ava

All I'm asking is equal time. That brother of mine is such a camera hog. I spend a lot of time with Pappy too. We have a great time until Bubba shows up and then I have to be constantly on guard. He is loud, and he runs at me with toys in his hand. I'm never sure if he will be able to stop before he crashes headlong into my swing. He always seems to want the very toy I'm playing with. In the pool he splashes everybody. I can't just jump in like he can, I have to think about my skin. He doesn't know it, but his life is going to change forever as soon as I learn to walk and talk. He'll wish he had been nicer. Oh, I know he loves me, but he is soooo rough. I have to go now. Can't stay in the sun too long. I need to go inside and pick the proper after swim outfit.

On the whole human beings want to be good, but not too good, and not quite all the time. - George Orwell

It's Father's Day

I don't know what kind of relationship you had with your earthly father, but I had a good one with mine. It only lasted fifteen years, but he modeled the proper role of a father during that short time. Our heavenly father gave us Jesus as a role model, and he like my father died young, but rose again to give us an eternal spiritual connection to our Heavenly Father. I hope you honor your father today. Several years ago I wrote this poem to honor mine.

Exodus 20:12 Honor your father and mother, that you may have a long, good life in the land the Lord your God will give you.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Over 40 years ago, he died.
I still miss him everyday.
Quiet country boy – Brought up hard.
Learned early how to make his way.

Strong from work and tan from sun.
Dark hair and winning smile.
I never saw him waiver, change,
in good times or in trial.

He loved hard work, family.
Served his country. Spoke the truth.
Taught with bible and example.
Twigs need bending in their youth.

Outdoors was his favorite place.
Hunting, fishing, sun, fresh air.
He taught me manly lessons
when there were no women there.

Grave illness struck, he fought hard,
working right up to the end.
He crossed the bar so peacefully
to meet his Lord, and friend.

The world won’t know how great he was.
He had no wealth or fame.
Because he would not compromise
the value of his name.

I’m older now than he was
when he left this mortal frame.
But hope, that like my dad I leave
the treasure of a name.


The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good. - Samuel Johnson

The Old Log Barn

This barn resembles the one at my grandparents' farm when I was a kid. I love old barns. I don't think anything can cause me to want to stop, look, and take a picture more than an old barn. When I see one, I have a visceral feeling about the people who built and used it. My grandad was still farming on a small scale when I was a kid, and up through my early teen years. They lived in one of the Sears kit houses that I described in a previous post, but down the gravel lane to the left side of their home were numerous out buildings. All were either graying clap board, or log with clap board. The fruit house was directly behind the main house and it is where all the jams, jellies, and canned vegetables were stored. The "tater" house, a low log hut sitting over a pit dug into the ground and used to store potatoes, was to the left of the lane behind the fruit house. Then there was a fence that separated the yard from the chicken yard, and inside that fence was the chicken house and tack room. To the right of that was the buggy barn. They didn't use the buggies anymore, but they were still in the barn and were great for imagined western reenactments. At the end of the lane behind a second fence was the main log barn. The barn's logs had no chinking in them, so we could climb the sides of the barn up to the hay loft by using the logs like a ladder. In the early days, the barn housed milk cows, and mules. It was a muddy smelly place for the most part, but you couldn't beat it for adventure. I loved the corn crib where all the harvested feed corn was stored. It had a corn sheller with a crank handle on one side and a cob spout on the other. It was attached to an old wooden ammo box. After you shucked the ear, you would place it point first into the feeding funnel at the top and turn the crank. The ear would turn as the mechanism inside removed the kernels and dropped them into the box. The naked cob would fall outside. I would always go and put a couple of ears through so I could have something to feed the chickens.

We used to climb into the loft where we could look down on the live stock from above and remain out of harms way. We could also see the surrounding country side through the loft door. After my grandparents quit farming, except for a big garden and some chickens, the old out buildings stood silent, icons to the age of the family farm. A source of sustenance during the great depression. When I would visit after I was nearly grown, and ask my grandmother how things were going, she would always respond by saying, "the old barn is squatting a little more this year." I never knew how much information was being conveyed in her short little statement on life. Grandpa did keep one horse or mule around to use in his garden. I would always try and ride whatever happened to be available at the time. My experiences with plow horses formed the basis for my poem entitled "Old Trigger".

OLD TRIGGER

Trigger was a plow horse
Who, seldom saw a saddle.
I was just a big kid
Who rarely rode a straddle.

I lived in the city,
Away from field and barn.
When school was out I’d visit
Old Trigger on the farm.

I thought I’d try and ride him,
And made a split-bit bridle.
I knew it might not stop him,
But hoped it’d make him idle.

Uncle Barney’s saddle
Was split right down the middle.
It was old, the leather dry,
The cinch strap cracked and brittle.

I saddled Trigger, led him round
Beside an old steel drum.
I stood on top and jumped aboard
He snorted, bucked, and spun.

The summer sun was brutal
Old Trigger soon lost steam.
He plodded down the gravel road,
At plowing pace it seemed.

I tried to make him pick up speed
With kick, and click, and whistle.
Then I turned him toward the barn
And he became a missile.

I rocked back and grabbed the horn,
Pulled hard on cotton reins.
But Trigger galloped faster
As he barreled down the lane.

The barn loomed large before us.
He stopped just past the door.
I became a yard dart,
Flying headfirst to the floor.

When I regained my senses
I made this observation:
That you shouldn't ride a plow horse
For fun or transportation.

Just a chip off the old Grand-Block

While I was out tinkering with my motorcycle the other day I got to wondering why my kids don't like to leave the grandchildren with me for extended periods of time. I guess its my less than sophistocated taste in clothes, cars, and motorcycles that gives them pause. I once bought a 1964 Chevy 3/4 ton pick-up truck from my barber for two hundred and fifty dollars. It was green with a black hood and had a large chrome swan for an ornament on the front. The bed was rotted and missing in places, and the copper brake line that once fed the brakes on a fifth wheel trailer stuck up through a hole near the old trailer hitch. When my wife saw it, she told me I couldn't park it in front of her house. My grandson came over the other night and we had some quality time together. I took this picture during bath time.

I was showing him how to get the girls attention. He is such a quick learner. When the girls got home we showed them our new routine. It sure got their attention. I haven't been on the baby sitting list lately. I hope he doesn't get behind.

Cloning Bloggers

Some things have to be believed to be seen. - Ralph Hodgson

Good Morning Blog Land. We had rain this morning. Nothing like sweetwater to bring this old dry soil to life. I know some of you were praying and it looks like you got through. Yesterday, my brother who has been known until now as L. B., (Loco Bro.) in annonymous comments posted mostly on my blog, got more good news from the doctors at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. He is in remission and all his physical markers are returning to normal. Two answered prayers in one day is a good day in my book. Well, you know me, with five months of doing this under my belt I am encouraging new folks to take the plunge. Now, Loco Bro. has created his own blog site. He has become acquainted with many of you from reading the comments you leave on my site. He is also a regular, but previously silent, visitor to your sites. The photos I am posting do not do him justice. They are the only recent ones I have on my computer.

He sent me this photo back during the heavy chemo days when all his hair fell out. He looked in the mirror one day and said he had to laugh because he looked like the comic character, Uncle Fester, from the Addams Family series. He found a cape and light bulb and had his wife take this picture. The picture at the top of the page is his "new hair" picture. It came back and is doing well. I thank you for your support in prayers and comments (which he reads) as he continues to battle to regain his health. He will be blogging at Carey's Corner, so when you have time go by for a visit.

Back in the Valley

My little red Jeep and I survived another trip to the megalopolis, Houston, Texas. I'm blogging for the first time in a few days, so it may take a few sentences to get into this thing. We still haven't had significant rain here, and things are getting just a little dry. I drove through rain, both going and coming, but when I got home all the moisture was simply hanging in the air. Loco Bro. was having his check-up at the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center so I went up to provide him with the necessary comic relief. He seems to be doing very well. We'll know more next week after all the test results are in. I'll update you on his progress. The trip is about six hours, one way, and I was able to listen to two of Greg Iles' books on CD during the trip. I completed, The "Quiet Game", and "Turning Angel". I enjoy Iles, a native of Natchez, Mississippi, and I've read most of his books. The comments sections are back on for all posts. Some of you reached back to older posts and managed to fill my inbox with comments while I was gone. Thanks, I read them all. I also kept up with your posts on my Google Reader. I will be posting live through Sunday, then you'll have about eight days of posts from the Automatic Post Feeder. I'll be in Akumal.

Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory. - Albert Schweitzer

Dad's Time

In my efforts to be fair, I decided to post something about my dad. He is in this old family photo. It is the only digital image I have of him. He is a fifteen year old, and he is standing on the back row. See if you can pick him out. Some of you have a real talent for picking out family resemblances. He was diagnosed with Leukemia when he was forty four and died two years later at the age of forty six. He was an excellent father and fine role model. I wrote this poem about him just a few years ago. I could never read it in public and get to the end, so it is relegated to print for your reading enjoyment.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Almost 40 years ago, he died.
I still miss him everyday.
Quiet country boy – Brought up hard.
Learned early how to make his way.

Strong from work and tan from sun.
Dark hair and winning smile.
I never saw him waiver, change,
in good times or in trial.

He loved hard work, family.
Served his country. Spoke the truth.
Taught with bible and example.
Twigs need bending in their youth.

Outdoors was his favorite place.
Hunting, fishing, sun, fresh air.
He taught me manly lessons
when there were no women there.

Grave illness struck, he fought hard,
working right up to the end.
He crossed the bar so peacefully
to meet his Lord, and friend.

The world won’t know how great he was.
He had no wealth or fame.
Because he would not compromise
the value of his name.

I’m older now than he was
when he left this mortal frame.
But hope, that like my dad I leave
the treasure of a name.

Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day and I hope if your mom is still around, you have honored her. My mom is seated in front of my family in this photo taken almost three years ago on her 85th birthday. She will be 88 this June and is still doing well. The others in the picture are my wife, daughters, and son-in-law. Mom has always been a big part of our lives. My dad died when he was forty six years old, and my mom, then a full time house wife, had to take the reins of a suddenly run away wagon. She retrained, got a job, sold and bought two houses and got things under control. Later, after she was fifty, she returned to school and finished her Bachelor and Masters degrees and taught school. I wrote a poem about her some years ago because she really is a Steel Magnolia.

THE MYSTERY OF THE FLOWER

She was the Belle of Jeff Davis County.
Stunning to the beholder.
Long haired brunette
with more curves than a mountain highway.

She was raised in the traditions of the South.
Never leave the house without your make-up.
Always dress to the nines.
Her wide brimmed hats shadowed her face
to add to the mystery.

She learned to be strong and silent in adversity.
A player in a man’s world.
Influential, but not obtrusive.
Beautiful, but powerful.

She remains the same today.
Never making an appearance until her face is fixed.
Her hair shows no gray.
Graceful and fragrant like the Magnolia’s blossom.

But make no mistake,
her resolve is steel.

Purple Sea

My posts over the last few days have tended toward subjects generally less appreciated by the ladies. I agreed to show a little of my feminine side on occasion for balance. I lived out of a suitcase, in a manner of speaking, for much of my career. Sleeping away from home never was very comfortable, in spite of the valiant efforts of many of our nations finest inn keepers. I have been married now for almost forty years to the same beautiful woman. She has tolerated my manly pursuits far above and beyond the call of duty. When my job and its ugliness had me spinning in space, she was my grounding post. I wrote the following poem in a motel room one night. The monochomatic world of dreams is a state of mind necessary for good mental health, and physical well being. I invisioned a good dream filled sleep like a refreshing swim in a purple sea. As we near mother's day, I say thank you to my wife for all the years she put in being both mother and dad while I was away.


FINDING PURPLE SEA

On the road I do not sleep,
but rather nap in fitful blocks of time.

I stare through darkness at some plastic box
with glowing luminescence red, or green.
11:47, 1:29, 2:33, 3:08.
Times I would not see if you were here,
or I was home.

I miss my nightly kiss.
Your whispered, “I love you.”
My signal day is done and all is well.

I’m free to sail upon night’s purple sea.
Outward turn my inward mind,
shed reality.
Wake refreshed at break of day.

But on the road,
night goes on and on.
Till groggily I rise,
stumble into day,
yawn, and rub my puffy eyes.
Find the nearest vendor of a caffeinated brew.
Stimulate my fog filled mind,
to imitate the energy
that seems to come so naturally
when I wake next to you.

Boxing 101

The man in the picture is my great uncle, Randolph Dallas Price. Once know as "Blackjack Price". He was a professional boxer around 1917. He boxed in the West and Northwest and was at one time the middle weight Northwest Champion. He was a couple of years older than my grandfather. My grandfather had the first two knuckles on his left hand pushed back from their original location. I asked him once how that happened and he said that's how far up a bully's nose he pushed his hand in a fist fight. My father also boxed in the Navy during WWII. I did some boxing, and have enjoyed watching the sport over the years. My wife does not share my fascination with the sweet science. I don't enjoy the current boxing venue, but I occasionally watch to vicariously satisfy some innate need. It is probably something in the Welsh and Irish genes.

I wrote a short short story very loosely based on the life of Dallas. In real life Dallas and his brother Stanhoper went to Utah to work in the mines. Dallas met and married Bardella Smith in Utah and later the brothers went to Los Angeles and found work making movie sets. Around 1917 while in Utah, he fought as a middleweight and gained a minor championship. Other boxers in the area in the same general weight class were Sailor Pat Petrosky, Jack Dillon, and the famous "Manassa Mauler", Jack Dempsy. In his early days, Dempsy was a middleweight. Dallas was scheduled to fight Dempsy, but the fight never came off. I haven't verified all of this with Snopes. The following story is fiction. The names have been changed to keep relatives from sending me corrections related to the facts of the story.

THE COMEBACK

Dallas “Blackjack” Bond, former world light heavyweight champ, had returned to New York City. Here he had once thrilled boxing fans in Madison Square Garden, and here he met and married Angela Minoni, a petite dark haired beauty he called Angie. Born in poverty to elderly parents, he learned to make his way in life early. In the sweltering heat of the Mississippi lumber camps, he swung an axe and pulled on a cross-cut saw until he was lean and strong. When his parents died, he went to New Orleans and took a job as a longshoreman working on the docks. There were always rough men around looking for a fight. They soon learned that the tall slender kid from Mississippi had a crushing left hook.

“It felt like someone hit me with a blackjack.” An opponent once commented after regaining his senses.

Angie was supportive, but as the years took a physical toll, she convinced him to leave the ring. They moved to Las Vegas, where he opened a gym and became a trainer. They had no children, but lived well and enjoyed each other. Last September she lost a hard fought bout with cancer. Her death hit Dallas like a liver shot in the twelfth round of a fifteen rounder. He was sixty eight years old, conscious, but on the canvas and unable to get up. He sold the gym and moved back to New York in December, hoping he could find something of Angie. It was the old neighborhood, but everything had changed. The coldness of the winter night seeped in through the wrinkles in the old building. Dallas stirred under the covers in his small bed. His six foot two inch frame took up the greater portion of its length. He slept in his gray sweats for added warmth. Throwing back the blankets, he arose and shuffled the short distance to his bathroom. The door frame barely accommodated the width of his shoulders. Standing at the sink, he splashed icy tap water onto his face. He ran his wet fingers through his wavy graying hair, and then dried his face with a tattered green towel. He stared into the mirror and wondered what Angie had ever seen in that mug. The reflection of his slate blue eyes looked back at him. The thick scar tissue drooped at the corner of each eyebrow and made him look sad. His nose was flat and slightly crooked. With age, his cauliflower ears had lengthened and now looked like unfinished candle wax sculptures. The line of his jaw didn’t exactly line up either. He turned away and moved to the living room. A framed photograph of a youthful Angie stood beneath the lamp on the end table. Dallas glanced her way and forced a smile as he lowered himself to the hard floor for some push-ups and sit-ups, but his heart wasn’t in it. He held his huge calloused hands at arms length while working his fingers to loosen the stiffness in his knuckles. Even though his once-chiseled body had smoothed with age, it was still impressive. He stood and moved to the window. The sun shone brightly. It was time for a walk down memory lane.He slipped out of his warm-ups and put on some heavy woolen trousers and a nice plaid dress shirt. He drank the last of his coffee, put on his coat and hat, and left the building. For a moment he stood on the sidewalk, basking in the contrast of warm sunshine and crisp air. Before him an ever-changing pallet of skin colors moved over the gray concrete, accompanied by a symphony of dialects. The city had its own atmosphere. He could smell smog, refuse, and people, mixed with the more pleasing and pungent odors of garlic and onion cooking.

“Let go of my purse!” A woman was screaming.

Dallas turned and saw a gang of young punks surrounding an elderly woman who was hanging on to the strap of her purse with amazing tenacity. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he ran toward her.

“Let go of her now!” he yelled as he waded into the group, shielding the lady who had now fallen to the sidewalk. “It’s not worth it guys, back off.”

A large young man sneered as he sauntered toward Dallas. The others watched and grinned. “Looks like you need a lesson in respect old man.” The bully threw a looping right as he spoke. Dallas ducked to the left and the punch found nothing but air over his right shoulder. Instinct brought his left fist in a short arc to the young man’s jaw. His assailant fell hard to the sidewalk. The others scattered.

“Are you alright ma’am?” Dallas asked, as he helped the frightened woman from the ground.

“Yes, I think so. Thank you so much. I didn’t know what I was going to do.” “Do you want me to call the police?” She looked down at the young man now lying at her feet. “No, I don’t think he’ll be bothering anyone for quite some time.” She brushed herself off, thanked Dallas again, and started home.

Dallas thought of Angie. She had fought so hard, but he couldn’t help her. He knew she would have been pleased with him today. You know Angie, I’m thinking about making a comeback. The legs are gone, the reflexes aren’t so good, but I still have my left hook. The adrenaline was wearing off and the cold air chilled him. I think I may do it in Biloxi though. He glanced heavenward and his blue eyes were smiling again.

This is Dallas in later years with his wife Bardella. They had children and lived a long and happy life together.

I have numerous versions of this poem, because I found it difficult to put verse and boxing together. This is my latest attempt. (9th edition)

The Fighter

Sweat covers his body,
forms dark stains on
satin trunks,
a sheen on
red leather gloves.
Years of training
in stale smelling gyms
to fight.
He shuffles forward,
posing,
moving,
punching.
Sweat drips pink
over scarred eyelids
to taut canvas.
The beauty of his work
lost in its brutality.