Wednesday, September 5, 2018


A month before I hope to be observing the the end of my eighty-second year and the beginning of my eighty-third on the Earth, and our sweet, neurodivergent granddaugher will be observing her thirty-second.

But once,upon a long time ago, when she was quite small, but always precocious, we were in the vicinity of Cedar Park on a business-related errand. 

Before heading home, we took a side-trip to drop in on Uncle Douglas and Aunt Maxine, who after retiring from their furniture business, made their home on some acreage in the area.  They acted as if they were delighted with our surprise visit. 

Although our daughter Julie christened her Christa Angelica, that young lady will always be "Crispie" to me, and it was Crispie that Uncle Doug took out to the fence to see one of his new calves.  Aunt Maxine told the story of another young visitor, a boy, who solemnly said to Uncle Doug, "I wisht I could be retarded like you and live in a place like this!"

Suddenly Uncle Doug decided that we should have some sandwiches, and we decided, "Why not?", and agreed to wait around while their daughter Sandy, who happened to be there at the time, was directed to make a provisions run for some luncheon meat.

It was a time in the days that sandwich meat was prepared by the butcher and packaged in what we knew as "butcher paper".  Uncle Doug said, "Be sure to tell 'em to 'shave it', and also get a loaf of rye bread,"

Today, as I cursed the revolting rigid plastic boxes of deli-sliced meat that The Roommate claims is "all she can get now", I remember Uncle Doug, and wonder if I should blame HIM for the unsavory habits of the supermarket in preparing my sandwich material. Did Uncle Doug over-promote the deli-slice tradition?  I will always prefer sliced meat that will not fall apart in my hands.

Monday, September 3, 2018


Suggested by a close friend we frequently call "Our other daughter", that I become less lethargic, I will ignore any admonitions that I need a "purpose" and return to randomly sharing my randomly anecdotal life, if only a reminder to myself of things I have done.

"Once upon a time," at the ridge of Orton Hill in Nacogdoches, you can find on a map, at the intersection of East Main Street and Center Road. a "Hasley St.", where Mr. Hasley kept what might now be called a "convenience store", but we local young'uns called a "grocer store".

Things most remembered by the young minds of nearby kinder were the lamp-post style gasoline pump, the penny candies which resembled a ring pillow contained an actual ring. and the stalk of bananas which hung from a hook by the front door.

I do not actually have first-hand knowledge of the following event, it happened long before my time on Earth.  It was related to me many years later by my mom.

Mr Hasley's store predates the hanging of the banana stalk, for there was a time in history when all produce was locally grown, and such exotic imports as bananas were not commonly known in deep East Texas.

A local farmer made one of his infrequent trips to town one day, and stood looking  at the newly hung banana stalk.  Mr. Hasley finally explained that the bananas were a new acquisition, and suggested that the farmer take one home and try it.  Using the knife that hung on a string beside the stalk, Mr. Hasley separated a banana from the stalk, and handed it to the farmer.  "This one will be on me, Jed, and if you like it, you can buy all you want next time you come in".

The next time Jed came to the store, Mr. Hasley was quick to inquire about the banana.

"Well, I gotta be honest with you, Mr. Hasley, I don't think I will be buying any.  Not because I did not like it, is probably fine for rich folks who are less frugal than I, but I found it heartbreaking to throw away the large cob for which I could find no practical use.  Thanks anyway, for the opportunity to give  'em a try."

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Old Guy's Rambling Remembrances #40, a memory from 1951

I have been accused by some smarter than I, of wasting too much energy on times long behind us, but I excuse it as "savoring my life".  A lot of my life, such as it is, has been molded by experiences of my past.  Laugh if you wish, but I love the life I have lived.

Once upon a time, in a completely different world, I was a teenager living in a small town near the Texas Coast.  My dad was serving Our Country in Hawaii, while we dependents prepared to return to San Francisco to join him.  The events of our voyage is another story.

When we arrived at Pearl Harbor, my dad had found us a place to live in Kaimuki, which allowed us to attend the public schools in Honolulu, rather than being required to attend school at the base.

Although I had the raging hormones of a normal teenager, I was an exceedingly shy kid, and was not sure what to make of this huge, thriving metropolis of about 180,000.

On my first day at school, the ancient building with many "temporary" additions, "Robert Louis Stevenson Intermediate School", which still had carved over the entrance, "Normal School", was a brand new world to me.

I did not know how to react to these "big city" kids, comprising varied cultures and colors, but it took only days to realize what an opportunity had fallen upon me.

Having already been exposed to hanging out, learning the habits, and working side by side with those who then called themselves, "colored boys", I was probably better prepared than many of the hoale malahini who would return to our apartment house sniffling and bruised.  I found the "natives" to be friendly and fun, even though different.

In algebra class, we sat at table-like desks with two students per each, and my deskmate was Wallace, a "Chinaman" (actually an American of Chinese extraction) with whom I became fast friends.

One day Wallace said that he and a couple of other chinamans were going to Black Point to swim on Saturday, and invited me to come along.  I asked how I would get there, and he replied "We'll pick you up.  Dress rugged, eh?, don't wear gabs."  I had already known that "gabs" was the word for the clothing one would wear to church or to visit his stockbroker, but I was still a little iffy on the varied accents, and was not sure what he had said, but agreed enthusiastically that I wanted to go!

My mom was not so cool with the idea, but she never intended to forbid me an opportunity to do something with friends.  She thought "Black Point" was a somewhat ominous name for a place for young people to go swimming, and I was certainly not going to complicate her misgivings by telling her I thought I had been invited to go skinny dipping.   "It's where Doris Dukes' house is!  You know, Dad's been there."

Saturday arrived, and the guys arrived to pick me up.  As I headed out the door with Wallace, Mom said, "Don't forget your bathing suit."

"Oh, yeah", as I fished the swimwear out of my drawer and tucked it into my towel.

When we got outside, and I saw that Wallace's beautiful older sister was driving the jeep, I was nearly petrified, being the unsophisticated youth that I was.  Was she going with us?

When she dropped us off, I realized that she was not going swimming with us, and when we got down to the little beach, I found that there had never been an intention to go skinny dipping.  Everyone (Wallace, Willie, Percy and Mervin) was appropriately attired.

After our afternoon at the seashore, we walked up the hill to our respective abodes.

Sunday, May 7, 2017

Wasn't That a Pity and a Shame?

This morning, May 17, 2017. I was notified that a very old friend (older even than I, although I dated her aunt on the night of my graduation), who has returned to the town where I had lived in high school, was attending First United Methodist Church in Bay City, TX, where we had attended in our younger years,

I can painfully recall when I was in my third year of Architecture School at UT Austin  (back in those ancient times when it was simply "The University of Texas" or, as expressed on some patriotic bumper stickers, "The University").  I was home for the long Holidays Break, and my dad took me to an approval committee meeting for the sanctuary building which now stands in the old location.

The architect, Edward Bodet of Houston, made a beautiful presentation.  He had incorporated the structure with the existing ancillary buildings to open onto a courtyard, with a covered walkway which he termed "cloisters" joining it with the other buildings. the bell tower forming a central focus for the complex.  It was a glorious sight for a young student who was heavily into trying to learn design.

The consensus of the committee was that the building should be turned around, with the front doors facing sixth street, and they wanted to scrap the "cloisters" as a wasteful expense.

One of the more influential members insisted they keep the covered walkway.  Surely they could find the money somewhere, but the same man was a ringleader in reversing the sanctuary.

By ignoring the courtyard, the "cloisters" have been made a covered walkway which are handy during rainy or brutally sunny weather, but serve no other purpose.  The courtyard is nothing more than a grassy open space which features, for the most part, the outdoor units for the air conditioners.

Later, a fellow student who had worked for Bodet during the summer that the design was being completed, said that the committee had wanted to have a perpetual candle flame at the alter. which would be visible to passers by.

Having passed by the completed building a number of times over the years since I heard about the light, I have never noticed it, if it indeed exists.

In school we were encouraged to remember a popular definition for camel,..."A horse designed by a committee".

I wonder what people now think of this camel?  I noticed that if I do a GoogleMap search for the church, it directs me to the intersection of 5th and Avenue H, a block away from that controversial entrance.

Friday, September 25, 2015

A Brief Opinion Of An Observed War

For considerable time I have promised myself to do this, being held back and intimidated by a strong concern that I could not express it with the solemnity it deserves.

I was almost half a year from being six years old when our country entered the last real war. Ten years later, when that war was behind us, I was living in Hawaii during the "police action" to which my veteran father had been recalled.  A classmate mentioned, "I remember Pearl Harbor"...and I know that he really did.

But I digress after a fashion. I really meant to say a few words about the last war in which we were the winners.

When the time after December 7, 1941 could still be measured in days and weeks, Uncle Charlie and family stopped by our duplex apartment in Bay City on the way home from spending Christmas in Mexico.  For a couple of days, young Charlie and I played on our front porch while a USO building was already being built directly across the street.  Wouldn't you guess it, we played WAR, with some brand new really neat toys that Charlie had gotten for Christmas.  He had a bomber that represented a machine larger than any real airplane at the time, and it carried a military tank beneath each wing, a technology that has not been done even yet.  We were encouraged to use our imaginations at play.

That building was deeded to the city after the war, and still, after nearly three quarters of a century, serves Bay City under the name Service Center, although many of my generation still call it "The USO".

We had a German war prisoner internment camp in our little town, and we could drive past any time and see the prisoners playing sports games in the yard.  I did not know any of the prisoners personally, but I heard from the old folks that many of them had expressed a desire to come back to the US after the war as immigrants.  They liked our country and the treatment they received in their "prison".  (For any who are obsessed with those well known negative aspects of this war, discussion is welcomed, but the primary function of this observation is to show a difference between the last real war and the later "wars" of opportunity.)

We had weekly air raid drills, and sometimes blackouts, in which a warden from the neighborhood would come around and inspect for any lights which anyone may have left on.  I remember once the warden instructing my dad to turn off the pilot on the gas stove.  They wanted to be able to see NO LIGHT WHATSOEVER! Imagine that in todays world of indicator lights and lighted numbers on virtually all electronic devices.  

Pilot training planes and observation blimps could be seen flying over our heads on a regular basis.  In a week in Galveston at Cousin Charlie's Aunt Mickie's house after the war, we spent a little time each day at the beach, where the deserted concrete structures built to defend the coast were still in place.

My roommate's father did not actively serve in the military, but moved his family to Galveston, where he was employed by the military in the repair of damaged aircraft.

We had rationing, and rationing stamps had to be presented in order to purchase virtually anything that might be useful to anyone.  I have a humorous memory of Mr. Naizer, the service station owner who spoke with a heavy accent, trying to get my mother some "EmmaGency" rationing stamps for our trip to San Francisco (at 35 mph to conserve gas and tires) to spend the summer and see my dad off to the Pacific.

Some very elderly people may have faint memories of slogans like "The slip of a lip may sink a ship" and patriotic songs like "The Yanks Are Coming" (Over There).

Many Hollywood personalities served overseas in the military, and we all know of some who did not serve overseas, but whose skills were used for propaganda films and radio programs to promote the public's contact with the war effort.

My mother knitted sweaters, and we school kids took coathangers to school for contributions to the Red Cross.

Everyone, not only kids, but adult citizens of modest means,  bought savings stamps to be pasted into books to eventually be redeemed for US Savings Bonds...our contribution toward "financing the war".

We youngsters would work into our busy schedules games of "war" as well as the usual "cowboys", with the traditional requirement of eventually being killed and continuing to play as "another guy".

Although not directly tied to the war effort, but contemporary with the war, the citizens were enlisted to contribute dimes to the common cause of research for the elimination of infantile paralysis, now most often called poliomyelitis, or "polio", "off the face of the earth".

I won't bother to mention the temporary engagement of automobile and aircraft manufacturers to switch their production to implements of warfare.  That is well documented without the added benefit of my observation. I am merely describing personal experiences. Capitalism seemed to have its shining hour in cooperation with, rather than enmity for, our tax and spend gu'ment.


After the real war was ended, and military had been returned to our country (transportation of personnel was mostly by ship in those primitive times), Mom drove us to Camp Wallace, over near Galveston to pick up my dad after his discharge was completed.  As a family again, we frequently would visit friends that Dad had served with in New Guinea and The Philippines, and they would come to visit us. They would always converse with a sense of pride and adventure. I am sure there may have been s little survivor's relief involved, but I really believe they felt that what they had done for our survival was worthwhile.

Later, even after we had returned to "war" and gone to Hawaii, returning in 1952, we got visits from guys my dad had known during his traveling days before 1940, and they would still be telling "war stories" about WWII.

There are many reasons why President Johnson's "Guns and Butter" war which finally became President Nixon's war was a failure, but I think that the foremost reason, and the difference between WWII and all subsequent wars is that since the successful war, The Gu'ment has not brought the people together for a common cause, but left them to bicker among their separate widely diverse selves.  In the real war, we were all involved in the war effort.

Monday, September 9, 2013


An old memory on the subject of 'possums and how our perceptions grow as we grow older.  We have not entertained a cat at our house for almost six years now, and have decided that life without a cat is not so bad.  Therefore, 'possums never come to the door looking for a meal.  I'm sure they're out there, but they are not OUR 'possums.


When I was eight, I used to walk every Wednesday after school to Mrs. Mellie Sims Lecky’s house for my piano lesson.  She lived right at the edge of that area of town where the colored folk lived (remember, this was 1944).  I remember being amazed once when a black man came to the front porch, and “Miss Lecky” went out and talked to him for some time.  She actually called him by name and everything.  I was really impressed.  When I was eight, I didn’t know that you could tell black people apart.

When I’d grown up and started reading Jane Goodall’s work, I was somewhat pleasantly surprised to find that each of the chimps she spent so much time with was easily recognizable after you had looked at their pictures for awhile.  They were not all cast in the same mold, as I had previously thought.  They had their own faces and personalities, and each had a name.

Now we have, for some time, been visited in the early evening by a number of ‘possums, who take turns coming to the back door to eat the cat food that the cats almost never completely finish.  Who woulda thought it, but as an old guy I find that ‘possums not only can be distinguished by size and color, but each has its own  unique, expressive face.  They don’t all look alike.  We always know which ‘possum (or sometimes two or more) is paying us a call.

Last Saturday, as we were heading toward Austin, we saw a large beige colored ‘possum lying dead in the road.  My wife immediately announced that it was not OUR big beige ‘possum.  Then she went on to say that we should name our visitors.  My response was that since we only name our cats because the vet needs a name for his records, why would we name ‘possums?  But the more I think about it, the more attractive seems the idea.  We have come to know these animals.  If we call them by name, it will be a lot easier to talk about them, and keep track of who’s come around the most, who seems to have moved on, or when a newcomer drops in.

I’ve decided to start taking a closer look at the minnows in our garden pool.


Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Call Of The Wild

I fear that our old friend Verne has taken heed to the call, and will no longer dominate the lower pond.  I certainly could be mistaken, but somehow I cannot help but feel that our relationship has slipped into history.

This afternoon, Verne's adopted mama, my lifelong roommate, was making a trip out to the mailbox.  I heard her call out, and made it to the door as quickly as possible, to hear her say, "There's a turtle across the street, and it's just about the right size to be Verne!"

At our age, it's hard to actually keep track of such trivial things as years, but I think it has been about two and a half years since tiny Verne was discovered by Lauren and Jameson in our middle pond.  I reached in and plucked the little fellow out using two fingers, in order to confirm its identity as a snapping turtle.  We have no idea how he came to be there, but he was somewhat less than two inches across, and not much longer than that, including his tail.

We did not expect the creature to linger long.  We once made an effort to actually introduce turtles into the pond system, but they would never hang around long.  After a few days or on rare occasions, a few weeks, they would be gone, either wandered away or gone for some other reason.

The snapping turtle, however, lingered on.  He made his home in a grotto I had built into the pond long before I anticipated that there would ever be Verne, and would spend most of his time there.  In the months when the trees were bare, we would never see him.

Then, as we began to feel as if springtime was close at hand, Verne would gradually begin to favor us with his presence yet again.

Today, I walked across the street and into the neighbors' driveway, and bent over to pick him up and return to his home.   I must say that Verne had grown considerably more robust since that first time I lifted him with two fingers.  I used two hands, and he was not willing to be lifted.  Having just recovered from a couple of weeks of careful attention to a puncture wound in my hand from a broken tree branch, I was not interested in confronting those flailing claws and risking further damage.

It was exactly at that time when the partner showed up and we made the mutual decision that if Verne wanted to go to the river, there was nothing we could do to stop him.  If we took him back across the street, he would probably leave again during the night or tomorrow.  The Wild has called, and Verne has gone.  Farewell old friend, you gave us much pleasure, and if you should ever wish to climb back up to the river's ridge, we'll welcome you.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

A Number of Things

The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.~Tusitala

I fancy myself a happy malcontent, since the number of things of which the world is so full continues to remain beyond my reach.  While I am so often contented with my "status quo", there is always something new awaiting me, and I will never know it all.  I may never be as happy as a king, but from what I have learned about kings and their history, I will never be assured that kings are exceptionally happy.  
Kiwi and an egg

Today I saw that a Facebook friend had posted an image showing the relative sizes of a kiwi and its egg.  Of course it started me thinking of guinea pigs.  When Sifu Donna was a young lady in college, she had a pair of guinea pigs.  Somehow the female began to show signs of becoming a mother.  When our instincts let us know that the blessed event was due, young Donna and I kept the mother-to-be company, anticipating developments.  We had substantial experience with hamsters, and we expected something similar.  

After we had sat around for a while, the guinea pig disappeared behind a painting that was leaning against the wall, and we left her alone, sitting and waiting.  After a while, curiosity overcame my daughter, and she took a peek, exclaiming, "There's GUINEA PIGS!"  And there were!  The two youngsters were scampering around each appearing to be nearly half the size of their diminutive mama.  Nothing at all like the little pink rubber erasers we were expecting from our past experience with hamsters.

Wikipedia tells me that guinea pigs were domesticated in South America as early as 5000 BC, thousands of years after the domestication of the camelids of South America.  Whether or not this is correct information, how could it not incite further curiosity???  The history of so called "Native Americans" has been very exciting to me since the mid-'40s, when I became attached to a book belonging to my piano teacher.  How long have there really been human beings in the western hemisphere, and what is the history of their migrations?  I doubt that we know even close to what will someday know about them.

I was enthralled by stories of Sandia Man in my early years, and, in 2006, subconsciously inspired to take a "short cut" around the rush-hour traffic of Albuquerque on a trip to Chaco Canyon, I went past Sandia Cave, and began to realize that my expectations had been somewhat exaggerated.  Later research informed me that Sandia Man had been debunked some time ago.

Chaco Canyon itself has become a decidedly different place from the way it was presented when I was in my twenties.  I think there is much more to learn there, and there are questions which surely will never be answered.

The world is so full of a number of things, and I only wish that I could know them all.