‘Call To Mind’ Returns…
As Uncle Hugh used to say, “Never get into a piss-fight with a skunk.”
I am back.
Only occasionally, mind.
I had retired to devote full time to decades of losing the struggle to write a novel. I say losing because I finally wrote it. Some people might like it. I don’t.
In the age of Trump, I have been forced back among the columns.
Not that I should join the cacophony of outrage that we have elected an amoral, ignorant clown. (You just don’t get it, do you? They voted for him because he’s and amoral ignorant clown, for gods’ sakes! Polls showed people though he was more dishonest and less qualified. We have come to revere dishonest and incompetent. It reminds us of us.) But the offended news shows have responded in kind. Instead of letting the big tent catch fire with dignity and reason, news people simply cannot resist the invitation to join a bad act in the center ring. Madness in self defense.
Worst thing you can do to an newsie: accuse him or her of being unfair.
The news business will give you publicity you never dreamed of trying to prove they’re not prejudiced.
Attack the news business, however, and they throw away the rule book.
So, I do not return in the name of Trump.
Not that I don’t think he’s a New York real estate salesman, an amoral ignorant clown with the uncanny ability to sell a dream state, Ozzie and Harriet with real cultured pearls, to people who have gotten a pretty poopy stick-end in this country.
Those who would rescue the downtrodden in the United States are among the country’s most enduring purveyors of racism.
We see the long-suffering as some shade of brown.
And we have assigned colors to a universal struggle and argue for those we deem most pitiful.
Middle income white people struggle with less success for their efforts than any other ethnic group: less likely to fully educate their children, ever own their homes or cars, and die with any reasonable kind of care and comfort.
Poor people get public help with everything from illness to tuition.
Middle income white people simply can’t afford such gratuity. They are unworthy of sympathy because they live in a state of comparative comfort. Comfort mortgaged to the eyeballs.
They are condemned to work for banks all their lives not because they must resort different solutions. Their conception of public policy is that their lives don’t get any better unless they go over to the self-serving dark side: Reaganomics.
We have all ignored them.
Until the real estate hustler promised to.
Yet, we continue our ignorance.
If we would all stop watching the show, we might make those who so desperately believe him aware that he hasn’t.
And won’t.
He doesn’t know how.
NOTICE: It is now legal to hunt wild hogs from hot air balloons in Texas. Can’t imagine anything that could go wrong with that.
Younger than Kennedy . . .
Senator, I knew Blake Farenthold. Blake Farenthold was my congressman. Blake Farenthold’s staff helped me resolve a Social Security problem. Blake Farenthold takes care of crap like that for people in his district.
Senator, you are no Blake Farenthold.
For which I’m sure you are both grateful.
That said, Senator, yeah, he is pretty unattractive little guy, who you would expect should be one of those unnerving, sort of puffy guys from IT who keep hanging around your office long after he’s fixed your network problems, and then you find out it’s because he wants to proselytize about being born again or decry UFO non-believing heretics or assure all comers that Obamacare will propagate the global realization of the last 20 minutes of Cecil B. DeMille’s “Samson and Delilah”.
Actually, Hedy Lamar would almost be worth it.
Blake’s just a nice person with the politics of a Gobi Desert warlord.
And who hasn’t seen that silly picture, for gods’ sakes.
As a public service . . .
But in case you’re a fan of the Farenthold Fatal Arbitration Method. Here’s a link to the Code Duello , the rules for dueling. Irish version, of course.
Po’ Texas . . .
Arguments about improving health care or education in Texas are senseless.
The state can’t afford either.
Unless, of course, we do something about the franchise tax, and I don’t mean repealing it, as the Necktie Know-Nothings are wont. (In case you don’t get that tie reference, see, Texas legislators have to wear neckties in session, unless she is one of the rare feminine fascists of the breed, at which point you may substitute a can of Spray Net — Walmart aisle display giant economy size — for a Windsor knot, and back in the 1840s and ‘50s the American Party, known as the Know Nothing Party because they refused to answer any policy questions, promoted a platform decrying immigrants, Catholics and any government policy not ending with at least one lynching, so I made up this obscure word-funny about ties and . . . oh never mind.)
Back to the franchise tax.
Big corporations in Texas don’t pay taxes.
There is no state income tax, so partnerships and corporations, i.e., law firms, stock market brokerages and Walmart, pay no taxes other than the franchise tax, which no one with gross receipts less than $1.1 million per annum (adjusted for inflation) is required to pay. Even then, it cannot amount to more than .5 to one percent of the adjusted gross receipts margin, which is roughly defined as some difference between the net and the gross denoted in terms that only a CPA in an incomprehensible argument with the state comptroller can divine, usually determined to be a sum somewhere between diddly and squat.
That means the state has to live on the eight percent sales tax, giving public services the income akin to that of a rheumy fry cook with a wooden leg.
And Order Up Texas has a lot of hungry mouths to feed, such as paving companies, state fund investment brokers, Alcoholic Beverage Commission party hosts and all those Rick Perry job holders who rely on public assistance to supplement our full employment.
Let’s face it, if Texas levied taxes to keep pace with its needs, we’d still be a republic.
Which it didn’t, and we aren’t.
And we’d probably never have found out that Jim Crow paid better than slavery.
And we’d still have a health care policy for the African-American community.
Granted, slavery was only marginally better than the health care policy advocated by Congressional Republicans.
At least slaves got a regular semi-monthly visit from the vet.
“Oh, she said she had pneumonia, Colonel, but one can hardly rely on the word of a slave! That’ll be four bits and a ham.”
Now there’s a health care plan only a true Republican could love.
We live from crisis to crisis in Texas government simply because we don’t have enough money.
Actually, to amend that, we have plenty of money in Texas.
The state government doesn’t have much of it, but it’s there.
In the hands of we, some of the people.
But then if there were anything to you, you’d have exercised your Texas-given right to con, weasel or covertly steal your way into a position to hate the franchise tax and all that goes with it, altruism out with the bath water.
Which is the ultimate reality of income distribution.
Oklahoma exists because early Texans needed someplace to flee.
Couple of decades, you could flee back.
All said, we don’t have enough money to take care of all the sick people in Texas, or teach children much more than one sees from the inside of a bubble.
Besides, most of them don’t vote.
Because we have a state constitutional amendment prohibiting an income tax, the franchise tax is about all we have.
And that sucks.
It’s sparsely levied, complicated to collect and almost certainly unfair.
For example, if I had a Texas business with a bunch of capital letters after its name, and I grossed a grand more than $1.1 mil, I guarantee my granddaughter would be getting braces, immediately after becoming a named partner.
Regardless of whether she wanted braces.
And regardless of whether the franchise tax is the second worst way for a state to collect money — sales tax being the worst, of course — it is the most likely tax that the political climate won’t go Category Five on.
We can expect political climate change in Texas after the iceberg sinks Kansas.
Naturally, with traditional forethought, at this writing the legislature is likely to do away with it.
The only reasonable political move would arise from the fact that it’s easier to amend the Texas Constitution than kick a cat. But it does have to be approved in a general election cycle.
No reasonable person likes an income tax, but it’s the only sensible way to afford corruption, bloated bureaucracy and a civilized standard of public service.
So the population of Texas is as likely to vote for an income tax as Black Sabbath highlighting a Baylor halftime.
Late bloomer . . .
Stephanie Quinn has found the Lord!
The New Braunfels public school teacher, who professed to vote Republican most of her life, faced with the prospect that Texas teachers are paid like field hands with benefits reminiscent of the horny toad sealed in the Capitol corner stone, launched a petition this week to demand health insurance like other state employees and better compensation for Texas teachers, active and retired.
She has, at this writing, sparked around 70,000 signatures.
God loves a Republican come to his understanding.
Now, if we can only convince the Democratic Party of Texas to come on down the the alter and rededicate its life . . .
Those who remember the Democratic state government will recall that the Big Pink was, perhaps, a bit more civil, but no less mendacious.
In all seriousness, thank you, Stephanie Quinn for convincing Texas teachers to stand up for themselves.
Head call . . .
Finally, even rich old pirates know that people who would hit on other people in restrooms have a problem, and it has nothing to do with gender.
That behavior should be against the law.
Oh, wait!
It is.
But as I say, that has nothing to do with gender.
The vast emotional wasteland that lies between who you are and who you were born is a trek most of us never make.
Those who do don’t need any more grief than comes with the territory.
But none of that matters.
If you profess to be a Christian, don’t be mean to people.
If you don’t profess, at least not in public, don’t be mean to people.
Seems pretty straightforward.
Frankly, I have no idea whether I’ve ever been in a public convenience with a transgender person.
I guess some public officials spend more time observing other people in public conveniences.
However, not-the-real-Dan Patrick, before you start wasting everyone’s time, at least find out whether your fears are really everyone’s problem.
Fickle Fashion Yet Again
I made the mistake of looking at my daughter’s fashion magazines yet again. These things either make me laugh or make me mad. Sometimes they cause me to scratch my head. I always find amazing all the “new” rabbits Madison Avenue continues to pull out of its proverbial hat. Somehow designers, manufacturers, and retailers convince millions of women each season that this is in or that is out, that hair must be curly, straight, wavy, “piecey,” beachy, or whatever. (I’m supremely glad to have hair and am happy when it’s clean and neat). Continue reading
Mid Summer — Lots Of Peaches
I’m still picking peaches from our trees, and they’re also falling off faster than I can use them. Fifty cups of peaches have been frozen, so I’m expecting our ancient freezer to go out sometime this year (hopefully in winter). Murphy’s Law, you know; it’ll probably give up the ghost in August. Continue reading
More Faithful Men?
Glenn Close going crazy in “Fatal Attraction” was a cautionary tale for any man considering a casual affair in the late ’80s. Today, the repercussions of Tiger Woods’ affairs should be enough to discourage men from cheating on their wives. When statisticians do their work on the subject, I’ll bet we’ll see a dip in the number of unfaithful male spouses for the years immediately after Tiger’s foolish philandering. This upswing in marital fidelity won’t be because men are going to worry about the money they might have to give up if their wives find out they have strayed. It’s not because of the possible effect on their children. It’s not because they might lose the woman they love if they get caught doing some free-lance mattress testing. No, what will terrorize millions of men about having an affair and getting caught is how this might affect their golf game. Continue reading
Summer’s No Vacation
Have you ever noticed that things seem to break and generally mess up or need attention in batches, never only one at a time?
We just discovered that one of the bulls is limping. We don’t know why. We’re hoping he’ll recover in time to do a little work next winter. Timing is everything. Continue reading
Why Not Me?
The rumors are true. I was not invited to Chelsea Clinton’s wedding. I have no idea why. I never said or did anything cruel to either Bill or Hillary Clinton. I never met Marc’s family, so why would they be mad at me? It’s all a mystery. The invitation couldn’t have gotten lost in the mail. You don’t just drop an invitation to a former First Daughter’s wedding in your neighborhood mailbox. You walk down to the post office, you wait in that dreadful line, and you pay the few extra bucks to insure the thing. No, they left me off the list on purpose, and they didn’t do it in a classy way. Continue reading
Tales Of Combative Licensed Handgun Owners
THE ADDLED PARANOIACS AMONG US
Okay. Here I go again.
Although I had hoped to expound upon another topic, those delightful paranoiacs who put so much faith in their handguns continue to escalate my agita.
Last week, I came across an article in the Atlanta Journal Constitution about an altercation that transpired – allegedly – following a minor fender bender. Continue reading
Businessman’s Novel Twice As Long As ‘Gone With The Wind’
Afraid no editor would take the time to read a two-and-a-half-foot thick manuscript, a wealthy Waco businessman mailed the first 300 pages of his record-breaking novel to an East Coast publishing house sometime in mid-August 1951.
Madison Alexander Cooper, Jr. was born in 1894 with, as he good-naturedly conceded, “at least a silver-plated spoon in my mouth.” His father was a well-to-do grocer and prominent pillar of the Central Texas city, that would be “Matt” Cooper’s home for life.
After graduating from the University of Texas with a degree in English, he fought in France as a doughboy captain. Returning in one piece to Waco, he honored his parents’ wishes by taking his rightful place in the family business.
Afterhours, however, the young executive pursued a very private dream. He spent nights and weekends writing short stories and even sold a few to national magazines. But those early efforts failed to meet his high standards, and in the 1930’s he moth-balled his typewriter.
Although Cooper kept his nose to the grindstone during the Depression, he did not neglect his first love. He took three correspondence courses in creative writing from Columbia University, which inspired his switch from the short story to the novel.
Before putting a single word down on paper, Cooper thought his epic tale through from beginning to end. Allowing ten years to write, ten years to sell and another decade to edit, he did not expect to see the book in print before 1970.
Cooper’s pet project was a secret he shared with no one. His elaborate precautions were so effective than even his closest friends never suspected the plain-vanilla businessman was hard at work on the Great American Novel.
Cooper brought the imaginary town of Sironia, Texas to life in a study on the third floor of his turn-of-the-century mansion. A detailed map of the fictitious place and a genealogical chart with the 83 main characters hung on the wall behind his desk. Visitors were admitted to the sanctuary only by appointment, and prior to their entrance a large map of the Lone Star State was pulled down to hide the fantasy props.
Self-discipline enabled Cooper to change hats without derailing his train of thought. “I can be in the middle of writing what I consider a poignant love scene,” he once explained, “be interrupted by a tenant whose plumbing has to be repaired, and then after arranging the repair I can return effortlessly to my interrupted scene.”
Learning from the bitter experience of a fellow novelist, who lost his life’s work in a fire, Cooper typed each chapter in triplicate. He stored one copy in a closet, the second in a vacant store and the third in a bank vault.
After 11 years of tedious toil, Cooper entrusted the finished product to two student typists he swore to the strictest secrecy. The finger-weary pair pounded out a manuscript two and a half feet thick!
Cooper was stunned speechless. He knew his novel had run a little long but nearly 900,000 words? That was more than the Old and New Testaments combined and twice the length of Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind.
Cooper convinced himself that no book baron in his right mind would wade through the 2,864-page manuscript. So he sent the first 300 pages to Houghton-Mifflin in the faint hope of piquing the interest of the Boston publisher.
To the apprehensive author’s amazement, Houghton-Mifflin immediately asked for the whole enchilada. Still believing the sheer size would result in rejection, Cooper mailed the next 500 pages. The response was again swift and favorable, and the repeated request for the rest of the manuscript had an air of urgency.
Cooper summoned the courage to comply and anxiously awaited the verdict. The publisher phoned in December 1951 to invite him to Boston to discuss the book, but the Texan got cold feet and begged off with the lame excuse that he was too busy to make the trip.
Weeks went by without a word from Houghton-Mifflin, and Cooper cursed himself for blowing the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He finally placed a long-distance call to Massachusetts only to discover that his book was a done deal and would be printed in its record-breaking entirety.
Enough readers bought the boxed, two-volume first edition at the unheard-of price of ten dollars to put Sironia, Texas on the New York Times best-seller list for 11 weeks. Cooper basked in the glow of his hard-earned acclaim, which included several prestigious literary awards, and took pride in the fact that he had beaten his timetable by 18 years.
Wacoans naturally looked for their ancestors among the fictitious inhabitants of Sironia in spite of Matt Cooper’s emphatic assurance that he had not based any characters on real persons living or dead. But when his files were deliberately destroyed after his death in 1956, folks could not help but wonder.
“Secession & Civil War” – newest “Best of This Week in Texas History” collection available for $10.95 plus $3.25 postage and handling from Bartee Haile, P.O. Box 152, Friendswood, TX 77549 or order on-line at twith.com.
Mexican Bandits Hold ‘River Pilots’ For Ransom
Two “river pilots” on patrol over the international border on Aug. 10, 1919 mistook the Rio Conchos River for the Rio Grande and took a wrong turn deep into the Mexican interior.
A chronic burr under the Lone Star saddle since San Jacinto, Mexican bandits once again were making life miserable on the border, especially in the Big Bend. Utilizing the latest technology in the war against this old menace, the Border Patrol took to the skies in June 1919.
From an airfield at Marfa, four biplanes flew daily surveillance over the shallow waterway separating Texas and Mexico. Eagle-eyed “river pilots” scanned the barren landscape for any sign of the elusive outlaws.
While on routine patrol on Aug. 10, Lt. H.G. Peterson and Lt. Paul Davis became so confused they followed the Rio Conchos west into Mexico instead of setting a northerly course by the Rio Grande. When the engine of their two-seater suddenly sputtered, the two were forced to make an emergency landing 80 miles inside Mexican territory.
After a picture-perfect touchdown, the young officers removed the machineguns from their disabled craft and hid the high-powered prizes in the brush. Walking to a nearby hut, they met a friendly peasant who agreed to lead the lost gringos back to the border.
Six miles later, the trio was surrounded by a score of riders headed by Jesus Renteria, a former follower of Pancho Villa who had gone into business for himself. Known as Gacho, he wore a steel hook in place of a severed hand.
Recognizing the potential profit in the chance encounter, Gacho ordered the fliers in flawless English to inform their superiors that the price of their freedom was $15,000 in cold American cash. Given the choice of writing the ransom note or dying, the aviators obliged their host.
When the river pilots failed to return to base, civil and military authorities launched a massive air and ground search. The hunt was seriously hampered by President Carranza, who true to form banned American planes from Mexican air space.
A Mexican boy riding a burro delivered the ransom note to a U.S. Army cavalry camp just over the border. In a matter of hours, local ranchers raised the 15 grand, and Capt. Leonard Matlack was assigned the hazardous duty of arranging the exchange.
Negotiating by messenger, Matlack and Gacho ironed out the details of the swap. Late in the evening of Aug. 18, the Mexican would flash a light from the hostile bank of the river, which would be the signal for the American to come alone with $7,500 for the first hostage.
Seeing no signal light, Matlack impatiently plunged ahead with the plan. He located Lt. Peterson ready and waiting, handed Gacho’s henchmen the money and retraced his steps with the rescued hostage.
Depositing the grateful pilot in safe hands, the captain went back for his comrade. Making his way slowly through the darkness, Matlack overheard a couple of bandits discussing in Spanish the tempting idea of killing both gringos and vamoosing with the loot.
Approaching the second pilot and his armed guard, Matlack whispered to Lt. Davis to jump aboard his horse. The prisoner instantly complied, and the soldier whipped out a six-shooter in lieu of the balance due.
“Tell Gacho to go to hell!” Capt. Matlack shouted at the frozen bandits. “He’s had his last American dollar!” Before the dumbfounded Mexicans knew what had happened, the duo disappeared into the night.
A five-day expedition turned up no trace of the kidnappers, and the controversial incursion was marred by the execution of four Mexicans whose complicity in the crime was open to question. Left in the custody of civilian scouts, the victims were gunned down as soon as the cavalry was out of earshot.
During the mischievous mission, two excited pilots reported killing a bandit with a hook. Before a skeptical Matlack could confirm Gacho’s death, the jittery Army brass called of the chase rather than risk an international incident in a clash with government troops.
A few months later, Capt. Matlack sent a trusted Mexican agent to determine the fate of the bandit chieftain. He discovered Gacho fit as a fiddle in a cantina. After the airborne Americans had returned his fire, he played possum until they flew away.
In the public ovation that greeted the heroics of the courageous cavalryman, a U.S. Senator from New Mexico sounded a solitary sour note. He argued that Capt. Matlack deserved to be court-martialed for refusing to pay the rest of the ransom. But sanity prevailed, and the matter was dropped much to the embarrassment of the grandstanding politician.
Bartee Haile welcomes your comments, questions and suggestions at haile@pdq.net or P.O. Box 152, Friendswood, TX 77549.
Plum Good
I have fond, if hot, memories of my parents making plum and grape jelly. I remember accompanying them to pick the plums at least once when I was very small, probably too small to do much actual picking. I can definitely conjure up the feeling of intense heat in our kitchen during the creative process. It was memorable. (And it was the same when they put up pickles a little later in the summer). This was before we had central air and heat.
As I remember, I gratefully escaped to one of the two rooms with A/C units—-and lost myself in a Nancy Drew mystery book. 
I remember spending many happy summer days that way. If it was too hot to ride a bike, play a little kickball with the neighborhood kids, or climb a tree, I wanted to read, make something, or go to my friend Pat’s house to sit in their one air conditioned room. Pat had brothers, and her brothers had friends. So we might bring out a board game (at which I always lost), play with little cars, or read comic books. If the boys weren’t around, we might haul out the dolls. Whatever we did, it always seemed to be accomplished on the floor.
We all have memories of summer. My own remembrance of plum jelly manufacture unfortunately didn’t include how to actually do it. So when our neighbors kindly offered us some plums last week — and asked if I knew how to make jelly; the gentleman’s response to my negative answer was to suggest it was about time for me to learn! And I agreed.
The first time one does anything, it’s an adventure. Zack chided me for even attempting this project, as busy as I am these days. We have an expression that covers this sentiment perfectly. Like several other of my most beloved expressions, this one was translated badly from Yiddish, by a relative I never even knew. It was passed down — with several of her other gems — by her daughter, my mother’s first cousin, now also sadly long gone. The expression goes like this, “If you don’t have any trouble, go out and buy yourself a little pig.” The point is that if things are going too easily or too smoothly, we always seem to find ways to busy ourselves — so that we become overwhelmed again.
When Zack suggested that perhaps I didn’t really need yet another project, I casually dropped the fact that HE was the one who wanted bees recently. I rest my case. New experiences are almost always welcomed here, for experiences make memories. And the way things often turn out; they give me something to write about.
The next day found me on a ladder picking plums from the overloaded tree. The neighbor admitted that several others had already taken what they needed. I don’t know what he does to that tree, but it was amazing. He and I picked enough for at least one big batch of jelly or jam. His wife offered to share her recipe, and I was grateful. But when I saw it was from Joy of Cooking, I told her not to bother, because I had my own copy. (As it turned out, MY newer edition had NO recipes for jelly. I suppose the editors decided modern cooks didn’t have the time and declared jelly making a lost art). I decided to trust the recipe included with the Sure Jell box, novice that I was.
I believe this must have been a banner year for plums. Both our local groceries had completely sold out of the regular package (as opposed to the variety for low or no sugar jelly) of Sure Jell. In desperation I close another brand and was grateful to find it. (Probably contains the exact same ingredients and formula, like generics and name brand pharmaceuticals). Zack’s father’s wife reported the same shortage at Wal-Mart and another store or two near them. As it turned out, I was forced to delay my jelly making for a day. By that time, Sure Jell was again available, and that was what I used. I suppose I’m a victim of name brand recognition.
So I learned how to make the jelly. (Zack chose that day to disappear into his shop to fashion a workbench that absolutely couldn’t wait). It turned out I had enough plums for two batches of jelly. The time was easier than the first, of course. And if we have as many grapes as I think we might, I plan to make grape jelly as well. There is no doubt that it was/will be hot, sticky, messy work. There was gorgeous, fuscia colored juice on every surface, including me. I was in the kitchen for hours, cleaned up twice, once for each batch. But to show for it, I have 11 jars of gorgeous, plum jelly, and am very, very proud of myself, in the same way I’m proud that I can drive a stick shift, haul hay, stretch fence, write a story, draw, paint, sculpt, knit, or “clean up good” (to the point, thank goodness, that people who see me during my normal work days don’t recognize me. But on the other hand, this certainly says something about my everyday appearance).
Our senses can trigger memories buried deep within our brains — the smell of gardenias or sheets just off the line — the sound of church bells, a train whistle, birdsong, or a screen door — the rough texture of a cat’s tongue, the softness of a baby’s skin, the warmth of a puppy or kitten. The first taste of my very own homemade plum jelly rewarded me with memories of a thousand childhood mornings in an instant — when exactly the same unique taste was part of my breakfast.
Doak Walker Plays His Last Season Of Football
Doak Walker ended the speculation about his future in football by announcing on July 29, 1955 that he had agreed to play one more season with the Detroit Lions.
Grantland Rice, dean of American sportswriters, called him “the most authentic all-around player in football history.” Doak Walker could do everything – run, pass, catch, punt and kick – and did it with a modest grace that endeared him to fans who never had heard of Southern Methodist University.
The three-time consensus All-American led the Mustangs to back-to-back Southwest Conference championships in 1947 and 1948, while winning every individual honor college football had to offer. (He was the first underclassman awarded the Heisman Trophy.) The Cotton Bowl had to add an upper-deck to accommodate the record crowds the triple threat attracted and became known as “The House That Doak Built.”
Following an injury-plagued senior season at SMU, an East Coast coach the Texan met at the College All-Star Game urged him to skip the NFL. There was no way his 5-foot-11, 165-pound body could withstand the punishment of the brutal professional sport with its crazy rule that the ball carrier was fair game even when he was down.
But Doak could not resist the challenge nor the long-awaited reunion with high school teammate Bobby Layne. The coach of the Detroit Lions was none other than Bo McMillin, one of the earliest All-Americans from the Lone Star State, and it was his brilliant idea to bring the two old friends back together in the same backfield.
In addition to Walker and Layne, McMillin stocked the Lions with other native Texans, several of whom were stars in their own right. They included with position, hometown and college: Yale Lary (safety and punter, Fort Worth, Texas A&M), Harley Sewell (lineman, Saint Jo, Texas), Cloyce Box (receiver, Hamilton, West Texas State) and Bob Smith (halfback, Ranger, Iowa).
In 1950 Doak proved beyond all doubt that talent trumped size. He led the league in scoring with five rushing touchdowns, six receiving TD’s, eight field goals and 38 PAT’s to come within 10 points of the single-season best. The guy, who was too small for the National Football League, was everybody’s choice for Rookie of the Year.
Under the guidance of Buddy Parker, another Texan who stepped in for terminally ill McMillin, the Lions played in three straight NFL title games. Each time the opponent was the Cleveland Browns, and Walker, Layne & Company took two out of three.
Doak was instrumental in both victories. After missing much of the 1952 season with a bad hamstring, he put the game out of reach with a sensational 67-yard touchdown run. The next year, he accounted for 11 of the Lions’ 17 points, including the PAT that broke a 16-16 tie late in the fourth quarter.
Doak was never an athlete in denial and always knew deep down that someday he would have to give up the game he loved. Looking back decades later on his decision to retire at the age of 28, he said, “I didn’t want to be one of those guys who stayed a year too long. I didn’t want to leave burned out or crippled.”
Then he added on a more positive note, “I’d been on three division champions, two world champions. I’d been to five Pro Bowls. I’d been All-Pro four times. What else was there to do?”
No one on either side of the field, not the Detroit Lions or the Philadelphia Eagles, kidded themselves about the unusually large turnout for an exhibition game on a hot August night in Dallas. The forty thousand fans were not about to miss Doak’s final appearance in the Cotton Bowl.
In a halftime ceremony, Number 37’s many admirers showered him with praise and presents. The State Fair gave him a solid gold, lifetime pass to the stadium he “built,” and not to be outdone Matty Bell, his former coach, handed him a solid gold membership card in the Mustang Club. It was hard to top the showroom-new Cadillac from a group of anonymous donors, but Doak’s ex-teammates gave it the good, old college try with a gag gift – a broken-down jalopy.
The guest of honor almost made it through his appreciation speech but choked up when he tried to thank his parents.
Three months later, 43,000 Detroit faithful braved sub-freezing weather to pay a final tribute to the little Texan that had won their hearts. It certainly was not their team that made them risk pneumonia for the Lions were about to finish a disappointing campaign with nine losses in 12 games.
The lieutenant governor of the state of Michigan set the tone for Doak Walker Day by saying, “I want you to know that personally and officially we all regret seeing you leave.” Then came all the gifts and testimonials.
Finally, it was Doak’s turn at the microphone. “Looks like Christmas came early,” he drawled. “I just want to thank you for giving me a home in Detroit and from a Texan that’s really something.”
“Secession & Civil War” – newest “Best of This Week in Texas History” collection available for $10.95 plus $3.25 postage and handling from Bartee Haile, P.O. Box 152, Friendswood, TX 77549 or order on-line at twith.com.
Rich People Love Goofy
According to several newspaper accounts, extremely rich people are spending their money on something that surprises me: theme parks. It just goes to show how out of touch I am with the ultra rich. I thought that those who have an extraordinary amount of money might treat themselves to things like putting an extra stamp on an envelope “just in case,” showering for as long as they want, or splurging at the car wash and getting that carnuba wax. But I was wrong. Now the picture is more like this: After an executive receives his obscene bonus of tens of millions of dollars, he starts for the office door and is stopped by a colleague who asks, “Where are you going?” The guy with the big bucks looks at the camera and replies, “I’m going to Disneyland.”
Theme parks are suffering financially these days. While so many people are struggling to pay their grocery bills, the last thing they are thinking about spending their money on is “The Mad Hatter’s Tea Cups.” However there is a niche market that is spending more than usual on things like Disneyland, Sea World, and Universal tours. That niche with a spending itch is the very rich.
For years, rich and bored people have gone on challenging and dangerous vacations. They’ve run with the bulls in Pamplona, hunted bears in Alaska, and even taken the ultimate risk by having their kitchens remodeled. So it’s not surprising that Disney and the others have been trying to attract this kind of spending. Sea World plans on expanding their special “swim with the dolphins package” that starts at $199 per person now. Disney World has started to sell homes ranging up to $8 million with special access to the rides and fun at the theme park. If I had $8 million to spend on a house, I think I’d want it to be as far as possible from a theme park. Once again, I’m just not thinking like the very rich.
How much money do you have to have to be considered “ultra rich,” and how does anyone know how these people are spending their money? American Express gathered the statistics and released them. (Isn’t it nice to know that credit card companies can do things like that)? American Express classifies people as “ultra-affluent” if they charge at least $7,000 a month — or $84,000 a year — on their credit card. And someone at American Express noticed that these ultra-affluent cardholders spent 32% more on theme parks in the first quarter of this year than in 2009.
So how will theme parks cater to people who have all that money? I assume that they will have more and more adventurous and exclusive experiences. Sea World, for example, already has plans to expand its Discovery Cove. That’s where admission is limited to just over 1,000 people a day who do things like hand-feed parrots. You can also pay $500 to be a trainer for a day at Sea world. I think it’s worth every penny to have your hands smell like fish for a week. A new addition will give rich visitors a chance to have “shark encounters.” The only problem with having some of these Wall Street instant millionaires in that tank is that it’ll be hard to tell which ones are the sharks.
There will be more exotic rides and attractions at all of the theme parks. Don’t be surprised if a night at “Psycho’s” Bates Motel includes being attacked when you take a shower. Isn’t that just perfect for the wealthy honeymoon couple? At the “Dumbo, the Flying Elephant” ride, you’ll be able to jump out of a plane while sitting on an elephant – which, is better than the other way around. And on the Jungle Cruise, the pampered but bored ultra-richie will be able to wrestle a python while getting a pedicure.
Maybe I should sign up for one of these exclusive adventures. I could meet somebody there who could help me in the business world. Who knows? I might be in line with a super billionaire who would want to go into anything business with me. It’s possible. Let’s face it: it’s a small world after all.
Lloyd Garver has written for many television shows, ranging from “Sesame Street” to “Family Ties” to “Home Improvement” to “Frasier.” He has also read many books, some of them in hardcover. He can be reached at lloydgarver@gmail.com. Check out his website at <lloydgarver.com> and his podcasts on iTunes.
Veterans Administration — Ending Its Own Addiction
It appears as though the health service of the Veterans Administration is finally beginning to move off its dependency upon the crutch of prescription medicines.
The standing operational policy at VA clinics has long been to send patients directly to the pharmacy.
After all, there’s a pill for whatever ails the veteran, and writing a “scrip” is far simpler, not to mention a damn site faster, than actually wasting time attending to a medical issue.
Besides, while the Government spends uncountable taxpayer dollars on the tools of destruction, it makes a sham attempt at “fiscal responsibility” by procuring only meds that have passed their patent expiration dates.
Thus, the vet is typically being treated not with the latest, state-of-the-art remedies, but with mendicants that are, in many instances, nearly two decades behind current scientific proficiency.
When in doubt, or unable to provide something approximating proper treatment, the VA doctor will prescribe ibuprofen or aspirin in large doses.
The aforementioned are precisely the reasons why I steered clear of VA healthcare for 30 years, until there was no choice.
Now, it would seem, the VA is attempting to wean itself off the teat of laboratory cures in lieu of Mother Nature.
Oh, ‘tis but a wee step, to be sure, but one in the right direction, nevertheless.
In direct contradiction to archaic Federal laws that have stood for more than 70 years, the VA has announced that it will recognize the legitimacy of cannabis as a bona fide curative – at least for veterans in states that have passed medical marijuana laws.
Currently, there are 14 states with “medical marijuana” laws on the books: Alaska; California; Colorado; Hawaii; Maine; Maryland; Michigan; Montana; Nevada; New Mexico; Oregon; Rhode Island; Vermont; and Washington. Despite being Federal territory, Washington, D.C. is also on the list.
An already passed law in New Jersey will take effect this January. Voters in Illinois will decide on the issue this November, while in California all-out legalization is on the ballot.
One might find it somewhat surprising that several of the states on the list are bastions of conservatism that rarely vote Democrat.
Despite the deep pockets of Big Pharma, along with those of gargantuan chemical-industrial conglomerates (such as DuPont and Dow) and the liquor industry, even these megacorporations’ worst efforts can no longer impede education of the public regarding the medical benefits and manufacturing possibilities of hemp.
Vilify the “noble weed” as these entities might try, there is no way to dance around the facts that marijuana use is non-addictive, and there is nothing on record to indicate that anyone has ever died as a direct result of “pot.”
The only reason violence has any association whatsoever with cannabis is because, although being extremely popular, it remains illegal, making profitability a prime motivator for traffickers. As with booze, prohibition hasn’t worked – it’s time to repeal the Stamp Act.
But, I digress…
The VA has for years withheld medication, specifically painkillers of the narcotic, or opioid, variety (morphine, oxycodone, methadone), from patients who use illegal drugs; such insipidness will no longer be the case.
Lumping marijuana with hardcore narcotics is, by itself, one of the major flaws in drug policy, as they emanate from wholly disparate families.
Calling pot a “narcotic” is akin to comparing your juicy, medium rare rib eye steak to the sprig of garnish placed atop it by the chef.
In accepting its use by vets who have legal access to cannabis, the VA has concluded that the system will ultimately save money on prescription drugs – most of which are potentially dangerous and highly addictive.
This new directive is also vindication of marijuana’s potential for catharthis.
This may only be a baby step, but it’s a giant stride in flushing out our corporate-sponsored Government-controlled habit.
In a world that’s increasingly far too overmedicated, the VA fighting off its own addiction is a welcomed remedy.
For more information, visit the Department of Veterans Affairs: <; or Veterans for Medical Marijuana Access: http://www.va.gov>; or Veterans for Medical Marijuana Access: >.
Shalom.
Jerry Tenuto has earned a BS in Radio-Television and an MA in Telecommunications from Southern Illinois University-Carbondale. In addition to some 25 years in broadcasting, he is a seven-year veteran of the U.S. Army. Since 1995, Jerry has found himself trapped in a “Red” enclave within the middle of the “Blue” state of Illinois, which he refers to as “slow death hell.”
The Annoyance Police
In these very serious times, it seems that it’s appropriate to get rid of some of the silly or outdated laws that are still on the books. I’m talking about things like its being illegal in Oklahoma to tease dogs by making ugly faces, Michigan’s law that forbids a wife from having her hair cut without her husband’s approval, and in Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina, the law that prohibits people from “singing, whistling, or hooting” if it annoys somebody else. Wait a minute. That last one isn’t an old law. It’s an ordinance that was just passed by the South Carolina town.
Before you laugh at this law, I should make it clear that it is not in effect 24 hours a day. That would be ridiculous. It only applies to sounds that annoy somebody between the hours of 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. It also only deals with these actions if they are performed in public. You can still sing in the shower, and you can still do your indoor hooting wherever you usually do it.
Chief of police, Danny Howard, doesn’t want this ordinance to be fodder for people like me to ridicule. He pointed out that nobody is going to get a ticket just for singing in public. However, if that singing annoys other people, then they might get a $500 ticket.
When I first heard about this ordinance, it struck me that if there were just a slight twist to it, it would be the kind of thing that teenagers would like to be the law. That imaginary twist is that the law would apply only to parents, not to kids. If you’ve ever had a teenager and you started to sing in public, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Typical reactions include the rolling of the eyes, the shaking of the heads, and acting as if they’ve never seen you before. Similarly, if you talk in a normal voice, but they think it’s embarrassingly loud, they would feel that a mere fine would be too lenient of a punishment.
But the law was not written by teenagers to apply to their parents. It was written by adults to apply to everybody. The part I find most intriguing is that it’s not the decibels that are the issue. It’s whether the sounds somebody makes annoy somebody else. The knee-jerk reaction to this law is that it’s too broad. I think it may actually be too narrow.
Why stop at sounds that are annoying to other people? There are lots of annoying things that people do in public that could be outlawed. Here are a few off the top of my head:
In a better world, people who wear T-shirts that read, “I’m with Stupid” shall be committing an offense in all 50 states and the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico. Anyone walking down the street and talking into one of those cell phones with the ridiculous ear things so you can’t tell if they’re talking to you, if they’re crazy, or if they’re just self-important, should be arrested and not allowed to text for 30 days. If you’re waiting for an elevator after you’ve pushed the button and someone joins you and pushes the button as if you wouldn’t have had the knowledge or experience to have done it yourself, that person should be taken to jail immediately. If you’re in a grocery checkout line, and the person in front of you has… You get the idea.
Everyone could make a list of things that other people do that they find annoying. It might even be people who ask you to make lists. Again, the fascinating thing about the Sullivan’s Island ordinance is that the crime is not based on the action of the perpetrator. It’s based on the reaction of other people. So you can “sing, hoot or whistle” as loud as you want if it doesn’t annoy anyone. On the other hand, if people have a negative reaction to what you do between 11:00 P.M. and 7:00 A.M., you’re in trouble. It’s because of this last fact that I must insist that, just in case, everyone in Sullivan’s Island only read my column either before eleven or after seven.
Lloyd Garver has written for many television shows, ranging from “Sesame Street” to “Family Ties” to “Home Improvement” to “Frasier.” He has also read many books, some of them in hardcover. He can be reached at lloydgarver@gmail.com. Check out his website at lloydgarver.com and his podcasts on iTunes.
The Lost Art Of Hitching
The other day, I recounted to my son, Pete, a story about hitchhiking while a young undergrad at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale.
In 1972, people were neither particularly freaked out about picking up hitchers, nor too scared to thumb a ride. Songs extolling the praises of riding the asphalt as a free spirit were commonplace (“Me and Bobby McGee”; “Sweet Hitchhiker”; “Hitchin’ a Ride”).
On several occasions, when traveling alone, I played the part of “hitchee.” During a trip to see several of my Army buddies in New York City, the journey became boring, tiresome, and somewhat daunting – not to mention uncomfortably hot during August in a 1965 Dodge Polara with vinyl seats and no air conditioning.
Somewhere in eastern Ohio or western Pennsylvania I spotted two longhairs with their thumbs out. If one hadn’t had a guitar slung over his shoulder, I might have passed them by. (Ignoring the whole Charlie Manson-as-musician thing as an anomaly, I inferred that these guys were essentially harmless.)
As it turned out, they were college students on their way home to Newark, NJ, after spending the summer hanging around the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco.
I had a reservation at a Holiday Inn about midway through Pennsylvania, and (perhaps somewhat foolishly) snuck them into my room. Happy to finally be spending a night inside, they considered sleeping on the floor plus unlimited use of indoor plumbing somewhat akin to luxury accommodations.
When I deposited them near the Newark airport the following day, I was sorry to say farewell.
On the return trip, I picked up a westbound passenger in the same general area.
That guy was a young Frenchman who had spent pretty much all of his money just getting across the pond. His destination was Chicago, but he’d only had enough for airfare to New York.
In true French fashion, he had embarked upon his quest for love of a woman. As it turned out, she lived less than a mile from my North Side apartment; to his great pleasure and surprise, I was able to drop him off right at her door.
Conversely, my own experiences as a “hitcher” were usually of the local variety, born out of necessity rather than for travel purposes.
At 15, I had a job at a McDonald’s about five miles from home. Most days, my Mother wouldn’t give me a ride, requiring that I take the bus. A major problem was that the bus route ended over two miles from the McD’s. So, I generally thumbed the last leg of the way.
I shall never forget the time a woman of 60 or so picked me up in her air-conditioned 1966 Polara two-door hardtop. Unlike the “Plain Jane” version as described above, (originally) purchased by my Father, this car had all the bells, whistles and bling – including a 383 Hemi V8.
It was obvious that this woman smoked like a prohibition against cigarettes was about to begin. She also drove as though automobiles were to be banished the next day.
In all honesty, I never rode with a teenager who had as heavy a foot, or weaved between cars as much – she was Northern Illinois’ very own version of Jan and Dean’s “Little Old Lady From Pasadena”. That woman scared the shit out of me.
Moving forward six years, the occurrence which I had related to my son took place on a blisteringly scorching Saturday afternoon. Without going into great detail, I didn’t have a car at university that quarter because my parents remained mired in the 1940s.
Seeking carnal pleasures and/or a little noble weed, I went along with a pair of young ladies to their trailer in a “park” south of Carbondale. When it became obvious that there would be no success regarding either pursuit, I headed back to town.
The midday heat being almost paralyzing, I sought free vehicular transport. It short order an old school bus pulled up. The driver was a young man who had transformed the conveyance into a most remarkable rolling apartment.
In addition to a kitchen, living area, and sleeping space, he had installed an incredible stereo system with speakers all around – better than most home systems of the day.
The guy was a musician, a modern day troubadour who traveled a circuit of college towns. He was, as Peter Fonda said of the farmer in “Easy Rider”, “…doing his own thing in his own time.”
My point in all this is that, back when I was a young man, beautiful people were found everywhere. We had no logical reason to fear extending a helping hand to, or reaching out for a little help from, our contemporaries.
At 30, in Pete’s lifetime one would not, could not, even consider giving a ride to a stranger; nor would anyone with half a brain think about hitching a ride.
The world has become treacherous, and it has nothing to do with terrorists.
We have lost pretty much all sense of the camaraderie and brotherliness that bubbled up throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s. We tail-end baby boomers, my generation, tried to share love for all living beings and spread the fruits of goodwill throughout the family of man.
These days, most unfortunately, whenever anyone speaks out for peace and understanding, the response is typically virulent and insulting – oftentimes threatening — from those who dwell within the realm of intolerance.
Self-importance has soured mankind’s focus, and our family has become an utterly dysfunctional lot.
How sad.
Shalom.
Jerry Tenuto has earned a BS in Radio-Television and an MA in Telecommunications from Southern Illinois University-Carbondale. In addition to some 25 years in broadcasting, he is a seven-year veteran of the U.S. Army. Since 1995, Jerry has found himself trapped in a “Red” enclave within the middle of the “Blue” state of Illinois, which he refers to as “slow death hell.”
Transplanted Texan Fights Duel With U.S. Senator
California Democrats allowed David Smith Terry, chief justice of the state supreme court, to address their convention on July 18, 1859 after he promised to behave himself.
Nothing was more important to the transplanted Texan than his good name, and he never backed down from a fight. While other 13 year old boys stayed home with their mothers, he risked his life for Lone Star independence. When Texans fought a second war with Mexico, the young lieutenant won the respect of fellow Rangers twice his age.
Bitten by the gold buy in 1849, David Terry joined the army of fortune hunters that invaded California. He soon realized, however, that prospecting was a losing proposition and returned to practicing law.
As a Know-Nothing candidate in 1855, Terry was elected to the highest court of the 31st state. In two short years, he was promoted to the post of chief justice.
With his term due to expire at the end of 1859 and the Know-Nothings no longer an influential force, Judge Terry tried to get back in the Democrats’ good graces. But his old allies held a grudge and refused to reward the defector with a reelection nomination.
Given the opportunity to address the state convention, Terry turned what was supposed to be a swan song into in a double-barreled blast at Sen. David C. Broderick, leader of the party’s anti-slavery faction. The Tammany Hall product was a Douglas Democrat, the Texan slyly conceded, but his hero was black abolitionist Frederick Douglas not presidential candidate Stephen A. Douglas.
A few days later over breakfast with a good friend of his accuser, Broderick responded to the charge. Calling Judge Terry “a miserable wretch,” the senator snarled, “I have spoken of him as the only honest man on the bench in a corrupt supreme court, but now I find I was mistaken. He is just as bad as the others.”
Broderick had impugned his integrity, and Terry would not stand for it. Believing a jurist should not break the law by dueling, he waited until the fall elections to submit his resignation and to seek satisfaction as a private citizen.
Terry wanted to be fair, which meant allowing Broderick to retract his rash remark. But Broderick was not about to apologize, and preparations proceeded for the one-on-one combat.
Hoping to avert senseless bloodshed, a mutual acquaintance knocked on the senator’s door the night before the duel. A cocky crony refused entrance to the peacemaker explaining, “It’s no use. You are too late. The fight has got to come, and this is the best time for it. Broderick never had a better chance. He can hit the size of a ten-cent piece at this distance every time.”
The overconfidence in the senator’s camp went all the way to the top. “Don’t you fear,” Broderick assured a worried supporter. “I can shoot twice to Terry’s once.”
In sharp contrast to the devil-may-care attitude of his adversary, Judge Terry kept
to himself preferring to let his pistol do the talking. His reply to the “good luck” encouragement of a friend revealed grim determination mixed with compassion. “I will hit him, but I do not want to kill him.”
The combatants waited for an hour and a half on the morning of Sept. 13, 1859 for their seconds to work out the details. Terry lost the coin toss and had to face the rising sun.
Six San Francisco newspapers covered the confrontation, the most famous in California history. Their eyewitness accounts told the riveting story.
“Mr. Broderick lost all presence of mind and trembled,” reported the Eco del Pacific. “Meanwhile, his antagonist remained as immovable as a statue.” That was how the correspondent for The Phare saw it too. “Judge Terry was as cold as a marble statue. Not a muscle of his body moved. Broderick was less collected. His cheeks were flushed.”
The Alta described the fateful exchange. “Mr. Broderick partly raised his arm, when his pistol went off prematurely. Mr. Terry raised his weapon deliberately, covered the breast of his opponent and fired.”
Sen. Broderick collapsed with a mortal wound. He lingered at death’s door for three days before finally passing through.
Overnight the slain senator became the martyr of the northern cause. Suitable last words were put in his mouth: “They have killed me because I was opposed to a corrupt administration and the extension of slavery.”
Since saints do not lose their nerve and fire wildly into the ground, a diabolical plot had to be invented. Broderick was handed a pistol with an unusually sensitive trigger fiendishly designed to go off at the slightest touch. The senator’s two seconds, who examined the weapon, disputed the ridiculous claim in sworn testimony.
In spite of the inquest verdict and his murder trial acquittal, David Smith Terry still stands accused of killing Sen. David Broderick in something less than a fair fight. As recently as 1997, a cable-television documentary on dueling presented the hair-trigger fantasy as fact.
“Secession & Civil War” – newest “Best of This Week in Texas History” collection available for $10.95 plus $3.25 postage and handling from Bartee Haile, P.O. Box 152, Friendswood, TX 77549 or order on-line at twith.com.
Summer Time 2010
Ah, summer, the season of lovely, growing things. Summer’s about to kill me.
All around us, there has been rain, but oh no, not here. We often claim we live in some sort of meteorological black hole. Our weather only sometimes resembles the forecast and rarely matches that of our neighbors. An old high school acquaintance posted on Facebook recently that he was so happy there had been no days over 100 degrees — and here it was the middle of June in Central Texas. HELLO — Our thermometers at strategic spots on various decks and porches have registered as high as 109 — and certainly well over one hundred several afternoons. Like I said, we’re in our own zone. So I spend much time watering. I water the garden. I water the flowers. I water the dog.
Ah, the summer garden. I water. I weed. I pick. I wash. I pinch off bugs and worms. I shell black-eyed peas, cut the “spines” from the spinach leaves. I cook squash. And squash. And squash. Don’t get me wrong. I do love squash. It’s just sort of labor intensive, but not nearly so much as the peas and spinach, which I also find delicious. With all the peelings and scrapings and discarded parts, I’m often tempted to start that compost pile I’ve always threatened. But that would be yet another project demanding my attention, and extra time is something I truly don’t have in the bank.
Soon there will be potatoes to dig, wash, and prepare. And onions. And peppers and okra to pick. And tomatoes. And cucumbers. And cantaloupe. And whatever else I forgot. If I don’t go out to pick the asparagus each and every day and sometimes twice, it turns into little trees before I know it. Asparagus and okra are impatient vegetables. I think sometimes they can grow visibly larger in the time it takes for me to walk from one end of the garden to the other.
Although our plums are barely ripe, our kind, generous neighbors offered me enough of theirs to make two batches of jelly. This was a new experience for me, and one that deserves its own story. (Stay tuned). Soon we will have peaches to freeze and grapes for more jelly — and for wine. I can’t think about that yet. So much work. And hot work to boot!
So for all my trouble, I was stung by something in the garden that burned like fire and now itches uncontrollably. But we’re eating well. At least I am. When Zack is hungry, he’s apt to grab the first thing he sees — or want meat and tomatoes as quickly as possible. I warned him if he didn’t start helping eat some of this squash, a garden would not be on my agenda next year. Although Zack does a huge amount of work plowing, tilling, planting and mowing around the perimeters— it seems he always becomes consumed with some other major project just about the time the garden becomes a real chore. Then the weeding, watering, picking, cleaning and cooking all falls to me. And sometimes the eating — unless I put it in front of him and tell him, “You’ll eat it and you’ll like it.”
The ducks and ducklings flew away when our tank dried up. I guess those babies learned to fly just in time – -and I hope they found another home close by. From what I could see, of their newly discovered navigational skills, they might not have made it very far.
A bird has been feeding her little ones — in one of my hanging baskets. She occupies herself, for hours a day, fussing at one of the cats. And he, in turn, spends an inordinate amount of time staring at her and the little “peepers” in the nest. It isn’t the first time a bird had chosen this particular piece of real estate for a home.
The dog seems to need more attention in this weather. He certainly has more baths. I’ve found a trick to keep him still while I shampoo and rinse him with the hose I will share this with you because I’m a true humanitarian. I discovered quite by accident last year that if he has one of those chewy stick things in his mouth, he’ll stand stock still for the entire ordeal until I release him to shake off and enjoy his treat. Other than the drooling, it’s a minor miracle. You’re welcome.
The humans around here need more showers in the summer time too. Spending most of our time outdoors and with the kinds of “job descriptions” there are here, we always seem to be hot, dirty or both. I’m grateful we don’t live in the desert. We might think it’s dry here, but I know for a fact it can be worse.
I also discovered that I can keep the dog still much more easily for his “pedicure” if I sing to him. If you ever heard my voice, you might think he’s betting I’ll stop sooner if he’s still and we get it over with quickly. I prefer to think he’s the only one who truly appreciates my dulcet tones.
Have a lovely, HOT week everyone. Remember the sun block and drink plenty of fluids!
Jumping Through Hoops
Are you tired of the way nominees are grilled by Senators before they get the job? Well, get used to it. Because of today’s economy, an employer can subject prospective employees to just about any kind of interview. I managed to acquire a transcript of one of these interviews – I’m not saying I got it from a Russian spy at a kid’s soccer game last Saturday — and I have printed it below. It is the story of a young woman who has applied for a cashier’s job at a neighborhood super pharmacy.
HERBERT BARRINGTON: Mrs. Coogan, on behalf of management, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to sit down with us to answer a few questions.
ELLEN COOGAN: You’re quite welcome, Mr. Barrington, but it’s Ms. Coogan, not Mrs.
ROGER MARSHALL: And representing labor, I’d like to welcome you too, Ms. Coogan.
COOGAN: Thank you, Mr. Marshall.
BARRINGTON: When you say you like to be referred to as Ms., is that just because you have no respect for traditional marriage, or have you decided to never get married?
COOGAN: I’ve never been married, but what does this have to do with the job?
BARRINGTON: So you hate men?
COOGAN: I don’t hate men. I just haven’t gotten married yet. I’m only 22.
BARRINGTON: What are you suggesting? That my 21-year-old daughter got married because she was pregnant?
COOGAN: I didn’t say that.
BARRINGTON: (MUMBLING ALMOST TO HIMSELF) We sell condoms in our own stores. She had to know that. She used to work here in the summers.
MARSHALL: Mr. Barrington.
BARRINGTON: (COMING OUT OF HIS OWN WORLD) Uh, yes. How do you feel about the rubber thumb issue?
COOGAN: I beg your pardon.
BARRINGTON: Many cashiers wear rubber thumbs over their God-given, real thumbs so they can separate bills more easily for counting. How do you feel about this practice?
COOGAN: I guess I feel it should be up to the individual to choose a rubber thumb or not.
MARSHALL: Good for you. She’s pro-choice.
BARRINGTON: (AGAIN, IN HIS OWN WORLD) We don’t even hide them anymore. We put them right out in the open, next to the batteries. How hard could it have been to …
MARSHALL: Ms. Coogan, were you involved in some volunteer work while at college?
COOGAN: Yes, I read to blind veterans.
MARSHALL: How admirable. I’d like the record to show that, I too, served my country by mowing the lawn in front of the post office and…
BARRINGTON: Let’s move on to a subject that concerns all Americans: Paper or plastic? If a customer has no preference, would you bag the purchases in a paper bag or in a bag made from the best plastic in the world produced by American trading partners?
COOGAN: Since you put me under oath, I’ll have to say I’d go with paper. Better for the environment.
BARRINGTON: The environment? So, you admit you’re a tree-hugger. I have here a copy of a paper that you wrote that is an example of radical environmentalism. You wrote this, did you not? (HANDS HER THE PAPER)
COOGAN: Yes, it was about putting pizza boxes in the recycling bin, and yucky leftover pizza in the regular trash. I wrote it in the fourth grade.
BARRINGTON: Have your views changed on this matter?
COOGAN: Not my views, but my spelling. Now I know that pizza has two “z’s.” Can we get back to talking about the job? How about benefits?
BARRINGTON: “Benefits?” The benefit would be that you’d have a job.
MARSHALL: Have we mentioned that she did community service work while she was in college?
BARRINGTON: Yes, and I was not impressed. Maybe some of those blind veterans would have learned to read on their own if she hadn’t taken away their initiative by reading to them.
MARSHALL: What?!
BARRINGTON: I believe in the maxim that if you give a guy some fish, he’ll have something to eat, but if you teach him to fish, uh, then he can always go fishing with his buddies.
MARSHALL: What does that have to do with Ms. Coogan?
BARRINGTON: I just think… hey, where are you going, Ms. Coogan?
COOGAN: This interview is just too much for me. I’m going to apply for a job that’s a little easier to get. There must be a Cabinet post that’s open.
Lloyd Garver has written for many television shows, ranging from “Sesame Street” to “Family Ties” to “Home Improvement” to “Frasier.” He has also read many books, some of them in hardcover. He can be reached at lloydgarver@gmail.com. Check out his website at lloydgarver.com and his podcasts on iTunes.
Sam Houston Odd Man Out In Love Triangle
On July 12, 1839, Sam Houston wrote his favorite pen pal, who was young enough to be his daughter, to say how much he missed her and his beloved Texas.
The three sides of the best known romantic triangle in Lone Star history first laid eyes on each other in 1833. Fourteen year old Anna Raguet had settled recently in Nacogdoches with her father Henry. Dr. Robert Irion, 15 years the beauty’s senior, had buried his wife the previous year, and Sam Houston was at 40 only four years removed from the scandalously short marriage to a teenaged debutante that led to his resignation as governor of Tennessee.
The night before Houston left to assume command of the rebel forces in January 1836, he was the guest of honor at a dinner hosted by the Raguets. Hearing the dashing hero grumble that he lacked a belt for his sword, Anna fashioned one from red cloth and presented it to him at his dawn departure the next day.
As soon as the Texans’ crushing victory was secure, the victorious general sent a sprig of laurel by special messenger to his young admirer. An enclosed note made clear the thought behind the gift: “These are the laurels I send you from the battlefield at San Jacinto. Thine, Sam Houston.”
Like most educated men of his day, Houston was a prolific letter writer and corresponded on a regular basis with dozens of individuals. But he seemed to take special pleasure in the steady stream of mail from the blond maiden. In October 1836, an astonished aide watched him plant a score of kisses on the latest letter from Miss Anna.
Up until then, Houston had shown little interest in severing the legal tie which still bound him to Eliza Allen back in Tennessee. But divorce suddenly became a pressing priority, and in April 1837 the republic he served as president issued the necessary decree.
Houston’s infatuation was such common knowledge that friends and those keen on currying his favor kept him well informed on Anna’s hectic social life. While admitting the parlor of “the brightest and loveliest star of Texas” was the busiest place in Nacogdoches, an accomplished flatterer gave the many suitors no chance against “the Conqueror who gave our banner to the breeze.”
Houston often wondered why Anna did not wed this or that young man and went so far as to review the qualifications of each candidate. His sincerity was clearly suspect since the real question may have been whether she considered him husband material.
He once came right out and asked the junior miss why she did not marry their personal postman, the good doctor Irion. Was sly Sam unaware of their mutual affection or giving her the opportunity to deny the rumored romance?
Nowhere in the extensive correspondence, which has survived the wear and tear of a century and a half, did Houston ask Anna to be his wife. But a letter penned in June 1838 implied that he had proposed marriage because it contained his pledge never to raise the subject again.
By contemporary standards, Houston was acting the fool and an old fool at that. He was 45 in the summer of 1838 – three years older than Anna’s father – and she was still in her teens. Even though the union of middle-aged men with females young enough to be their daughters was more widely accepted in those days, Houston’s conduct made him a laughingstock in some quarters.
Houston was between presidencies in 1839 and treated himself to an extended vacation. Passing through Alabama, he was introduced to Margaret Lea, a southern belle the same age as Anna with matching blue eyes.
In a letter to Dr. Irion soon after the chance encounter, Houston wrote, “You have basked this summer in the sunshine of Miss Anna’s countenance and must be very happy. She is a great woman! Who will marry her? If she were out of the way, I would be better off in my feelings.”
Eight months later, Anna was no longer on the market thanks to Robert Irion. They eloped over the objections of her father, who had a rich Philadelphia businessman all picked out, and exchanged vows on March 30, 1840.
While it is true that Houston did not exactly marry Margaret Lea on the rebound, the fact remains he tied the knot for the last time six weeks after Anna ceased to be available.
The two couples maintained a close and treasured friendship despite any lingering emotions from the three-sided relationship. The Irions honored the odd man out by naming their first son Sam Houston.
Anna Raguet Irion outlived her husband, who died on Houston’s birthday in 1861, by 22 years. She never mentioned much less discussed the carefully preserved private papers discovered after her death.
So if Miss Anna never loved Sam Houston, how come she held onto his letters for nearly half a century?
Bartee Haile welcomes your comments, questions and suggestions at haile@pdq.net or P.O. Box 152, Friendswood, TX 77549. And come on by www.twith.com for a visit!
