Best is yet to come

I was at a meeting the other night where a newcomer said that he is “54 years old.   Old!  Really old.  What do I have to live for?  Why should I bother to get sober?”  I wanted to shake him since (a) I am older than he is and (b) I can’t imagine applying that logic to my life. That kind of thinking is somewhere between “Life’s a bitch and then you die” and “Why bother to do the laundry?  Clothes will just get dirty.”

I can’t say that life has been easy in the 13-1/2 years that I’ve been sober.  An old-timer used to announce when I complained about how hard life was that this is “Alcoholics Anonymous.  Not Hunky Dory Anonymous.”  I thought people who said that their worst day sober was better than their best day drunk were nuts.

Over the years I’ve found that this way of life works to keep me sucking air even when events make me want to pull the covers over my head and just quit.  It helps because it lets me know that nothing-no pain, no joy, no person, place or thing-lasts forever.  I don’t like that thought when things are going well, but it comforts me immeasurably when the wheels fall off and the car is leaving a trail of sparks as it skids off the road.

I don’t have any guarantees about what life has around the corner.  I was thinking about “the best is yet to come” when I noticed that I took Alleve a couple of days last week because of a stiff neck.  That happens when I drive or when I sit hunched over a drafting board studying plans for several hours during the day.  That means that most days it’s a low ache and occasionally it’s bad enough to take something to ease the pain.   Jumping out of Bob’s truck, my right knee reminds me that it’s there.  Sometimes it whispers and sometimes it shouts.  It is no longer silent.

My friend Glenda got sciatica bad enough to warrant surgery.  I watched her struggle with a pain that was so raw that nothing relieved it and she wept with the exhaustion.  It scared me.  Would I be able to still sit here and say the “best is yet to come” if I were enduring that kind of pain?  Easy to say when things are going well and nearly impossible when unspeakable pain is a 24 hour visitor.

I don’t know how I would feel.  I know that I continue to walk through the grief of losing Jack.  Were there something that could numb that pain, I am not sure I would take it.  Oh, heck.  I did the best I could to anesthetize feelings for nearly half his life when I drank.  Feeling the pain lets me know that I am alive, that he was alive.  Shutting that off is unthinkable.

Have a heart that never hardens, a temper that never tires, a touch that never hurts. ~Charles Dickens

I am glad I don’t know the future.  I thought about taking the test for genetic predisposition to Alzheimer’s disease since we watched our Dad suffer and die from that horrible sickness.  I don’t want to know.  Really.  I may someday, but I would rather enjoy this day without the pall of dementia shadowing it.

Is the best yet to come?  Is the worst over or is the other shoe getting ready to fall.  Glad I don’t have a crystal ball to magically let me know.  Day at a time works best when I just hold the steering wheel and let the Creator handle the itinerary.  God often lets me have the illusion that I’m driving even when my feet don’t reach the gas pedal.

Small claims court

I went to small claims court with my boss, Max, yesterday.  We finished a project for a local business owner who didn’t pay us our retainage.  Retainage is that 5% or 10% amount that a property owner or general contractor holds to make sure that you complete your work in a timely, workmanlike manner.  It is usually paid 30 days after the property owner accepts the job, but that didn’t happen this time.  Since we were the sub of a sub on this job with nothing more than a verbal agreement, we used the JP court to try for the collection.

I know better than to start a job without a written agreement.  I gave the contract to Max so he could get it signed, but his words:  “He’s a good guy.  He’ll pay us.”  That’s sort of like saying “Things could be worse” or “My child would NEVER do that.” 

In fairness to Max, we were doing a $600K subdivision for this fellow and he was paying us regularly.   Unfortunately, Max and this fellow, whom we shall call Gordo, had a disagreement and things ended ugly.  When it came time to pay out the $3,000 owed on this little project, he didn’t come through with the money.  Since we got dead-beated by Gordo, Max says things like “Now don’t forget to get a contract this time, Margaret.”  (“Yeah.  I’ll keep it in mind.  Don’t forget to get it signed.”) 

I tried collecting the money.  I find it a little funny that my deadbeat self has the job of collecting for Max.  I have been a deadbeat through design and through circumstance; the truth is that a deadbeat is a deadbeat is a deadbeat.  Might not be as pretty smelling as a rose or as fun to ride as a horse, but it is what it is.

As a first year business entity, Max’s company has gotten 1 large job and about 20 small jobs which have kept the crews busy building and me busy collecting.  When Gordo decided he didn’t want to pay, he told me in a string of obscenities that I’m pretty sure I’ve never been called.  At least not to my face.  The “FU, Margaret” morning was the day I decided to try the claims court process.

I don’t know how it works in any other county or state, but in Nueces County, you can file your claim in any JP court.  The reasons I picked our judge were racial and political.  I have much more in common with a Hispanic Democrat male than an Anglo Republican woman.  So Henry Santana got our business.  We filed this suit in late August and got a letter a couple of weeks later setting the date for 11/3.  The letter said to be in court 15 minutes before the appointed time of 9:30 and we were almost late.

Flex time in Margaret's world

I think Max gets hives if he makes it to an appointment on time which makes us a bad pair.  I have the same problem.  Hey!  I’m an estimator.  I know how long it takes to get somewhere.  In perfect conditions.  If the car has gas.  And it’s running right.  And I don’t stop really, really quick for a to-go cup of coffee.  And I don’t spill anything on my shirt.

Maybe you can see why being on time is a flexible concept for me.  You know that “you spot it, you got it” saying?  There’s nothing that irritates me more than for someone to make me late which Max does habitually.  The pair of us are in a 3-legged race to arrive anywhere on time.

We found a place to sit right in front of Gordo.  Gordo looked like he could be renamed XL-Gordo; he also had the flush of a man who drank his last 4-5 meals, washed them down with tequila, and finished off the meals with a couple of shots of rum for dessert.  He was wheezing and shuffling papers, giving us a glare that resembled Gollum when he beheld the ring on Bilbo’s finger.

The courtroom got crowded as plaintiffs and defendants rushed in to make the 9:30 deadline.  Judge Santana walked in right at 9, called us to order, swore us all in, and sat down.  There were 10-12 cases which mostly involved evictions and repossessions.  Budget Auto and Ajax Loans won their cases by default as did a couple of the evicters.  

The evictees were an interesting lot.  When the judge asked one of the women if she had anything to say in response to the evicter’s claim that she hadn’t paid any rent, she said, “I just need a date so I know when to move my things.”  She swept out of the courtroom waving the signed eviction notice in her hand and tossed a grand thank you to Judge Santana.   

When the judge called Max, Gordo and me to come up, Max hissed, “You are going to do the talking, right, Margaret?”  I nodded and gave my little recital of facts, omitting any reference to Gordo’s dirty mouthed response to my payment request.  Gordo gave his little recital of facts (as he had fabricated them).  He had an affidavit signed by his bookkeeper that said he’d paid some bogus charge for Max not doing something on the job.  Note that he did not have a cancelled check, just the affidavit.  He also had a letter from the GC that had a close but different typeface on the paragraph that said they wouldn’t pay $1,500 for change order work that hadn’t been approved.  And he had sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. 

In small claims court, each side gets 2 times to speak.  No more, no less.  Max had started raising his hand shortly after Gordo started talking; midway through Gordo’s speech, Max looked like a beached goldfish.  Finally, the judge told Max “not to worry.  You’ll get a turn to say something when he finishes talking.” 

As soon as the judge got “It’s your turn” out of his mouth, Max started machine gunning his recitation of facts.  English is not Max’s first language and the more agitated he gets, the less easy it is to understand what he’s saying.  There is no court reporter in small claims court, but if there had been, they would have run screaming out of the courtroom. 

The good thing was that when it came time for Gordo to give his 2nd speech, he couldn’t say anything because he hadn’t understood what Max was talking about.  Heck, I’m used to translating Max’s English to my English and I didn’t understand enough to do back-up. 

I don’t know how the judge will rule.  He nodded and listened intently to Max and eventually told us that he would send us his ruling by mail in 10 working days.  That’s probably so animated personalities can’t make a travesty of his small claims justice.  Or maybe it was to avoid having Gordo flounce out of the courtroom, tossing a “Thank you” over his shoulder. 

Longest cross walk in the world

The three of us silently walked out; I would say Gordo was slinking but that might be my prejudice.  He tried to distance himself from us, but the light at the cross walk trapped us together on the same side of Leopard Street.  I stood between Gordo and Max while Gordo pretended like his consciousness had teleported to another star system and Max loudly ranted about his day in court and “SOME people who don’t tell the truth.” 

Could the light have taken any longer?

Angel dates

After Jack died, I attended meetings of Compassionate Friends.  I hated being there. Maybe it was too soon to mingle my grief with the grief of others who were ahead of me on the loss journey.  Whatever it was, I was horribly uncomfortable and resented most people who were sharing.

I know enough about the process in my 12 step program to know that I most likely just despised the fact that I belonged in a  room full of other parents who had lost a child.   The group calls death anniversaries Angel Dates and I sat in stoic, disapproving  silence when other parents would name their child’s Angel Date.  (“Can’t you admit that they are dead?  Why are you trying to dress up that horrible fact?  What is the matter with you?”)

I know enough to know that what was the matter was with me and not them, but the words still seem awkward.

Mother's engagement picture from the S.A. Express

November 3 is the anniversary of our mother’s death.

When I got in my car at 6 a.m. to drive to San Antonio on the morning of November 3, 1993, I hadn’t slept much the night before.  Mother had been in the hospital for more than a week; her heart was failing and she would bounce from a very good day to a very bad day with lightening speed.  I didn’t see her on November 2.  We had agreed that she would spend that day with my sister and nieces.  Talking to her after they left, she seemed a little tired but very happy.

(“Want me to head up there?”) (“No.  Stay with your family.”) (“I can leave now.  John’s there.  He’ll take care of J.D.”) (“Come tomorrow. If I’m still here, I’ll see you in the morning.”) (“Here?  Where else would you be?  I’m scared.  I don’t want you alone tonight.”) (“We come into this world alone and we go out alone.  I will see you in the morning.”)

There was something in her tone that didn’t allow disagreement.  I called my aunt in San Antonio and she said she’d stay at the hospital and call me if I needed to come.  We spent the next 5 hours on and off the phone.  Mother refused the priest and asked Mose to go away.  She said she’d made her peace and was just tired.  At 3 a.m., she was able to get rest.

I missed her almost immediately.  I talked to her on the phone most nights.  That was in the day when phone calls weren’t cheap.  John shook his head in dismay over the phone bill.  The first time Jack got sick or I had a disagreement with GE and couldn’t pick up the phone to call her was tough.

I have to admit that she was my best friend in addition to being my mom.  We spent enough time together for me to know her, forgive her for being a human mom, and enjoy hanging out with her.  She didn’t cut me any slack.  She was the only person who would call me on my drinking.  (“You sound drunk.”) (“No, Mother.  I’m just tired. Why would you say that?”) (“You are slurring your words.  If you are that tired, get some rest.”<click>)

I try that with mushy-talking sponsees but I can’t enforce the click.

Mother as the secretary for the AD of SAISD

I’ve thought about her this week. She was older than most moms.  Both of our parents were closer to the ages of our peers’ grandparents.  If she were born 40 years later, she’d probably have been in business and skipped the motherhood role.  Not that she was a bad mother, she just attacked most things like an ambitious T-Rex.  This picture accompanied an article in the SA Express about the opening of Alamo Stadium in the late 30’s.  Mother was the go-to person before that was a label.  After making and clearing numerous contractor punchlists, she set up EMT staff in case of an injury on the field and made sure city and district VIP’s sat in appropriately visible spots.  When the printer delivered game tickets for distribution, they had failed to number them and Mother hand numbered 12,000 tickets.  Her quote in the paper:  “Any time you think Thanksgiving football games just ‘happen,’ you are crazy.  These tickets won’t number themselves.”  They didn’t say she snapped that quote, but I can hear the snap in the newspaper writing.

Mother in the mid-60's.

She approached motherhood with an efficiency that most CEO’s wish they had.  For most of my life, I ate 3 meals at home, walking home at lunch for a meal that Mother had prepared.  We all had music and art lessons and made A’s “or else.”  She sewed pretty much every outer garment of clothing that we wore until we were well into high school.

She took us to church every morning during Lent and Advent, on Saturdays for confession.  As kids, we knelt around our parents’ bed for night prayers and  said the rosary at the start of every car trip that lasted more than 2 hours.

She wasn’t some kind of plastic saint.  She was a wild child and lived in fear that we, her daughters, would follow the same path that she had started on.  My grandparents sent her to stay with an aunt in California in the hopes that she would forget her bad boyfriend.  It was there that she took an excursion into the snowy mountains outside of Los Angeles with her new California friends and took her first toboggan ride.  The ride ended up in a horrible crash.  I wonder what she thought while she waited  for rescuers to come get her and the boy who was with her.  He died and she lay in the cold with a broken back for hours.  Was that the defining moment?  Was that what made her so terrified of the unexpected?  I suspect it might have been.

Mother with Daddy, 1974

Mother was funny in a way that could have made her a comedian.  She said she was a jack of all trades and a master of none.  Maybe that’s one of the best qualifications that a mother can have.  Good at so many things and glad to let those she loves shine.

I was thinking about that Angel Date idea.  If Mother’s hanging with the angels-and I have no doubt that she is-she’s probably got a good mystery in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  She smelled like cigarette smoke and Blue Grass perfume for most of my life.  Possibly she is reading over my shoulder and rapidly correcting my grammar and syntax, with an “Oh, Margaret.  Don’t use that picture of me!”

A saint I ain’t

At the 12 step meetings I attend, a usual reading contains the phrase that “we are not saints.”  As soon as it’s read, a friend always says “Thank God!”  We are so used to hearing that “Thank God” that someone will usually say it if our friend isn’t there.

From the years when sainthood was my career path

Yesterday was All Saints Day.  Throughout my growing up years we went to Mass on the 1st of November, walking in the dawn light (or dark) to Church at 6:30 a.m.  If you’d ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up back in those days, I would have said a saint.  Nothing too nuts about that.  Guess I was trying to aim high. The concept lost its appeal when our mother told me that most saints became saints through martyrdom.  Yikes.  Change of plans.

The Catholic Church has 10,000 people who have been officially proclaimed as saints.  I invoked the name of St. Anthony when Bob lost his car keys.  It’s something that I’ve always done since Anthony is the patron saint of lost things.  According to Catholics.org, patron saints are special protectors or guardians.  Popes can make the patron designation, but so can cities and community groups.  I don’t know if Anthony helped; I was getting ready to invoke St. Jude (patron saint of impossible causes) to back him up if the keys didn’t materialize.  Since they did, Jude got to take the night off.

Checking out saints that I might need in my life, I found Matt Talbot.  Matt Talbot (who is a saint in waiting) is the unofficial patron saint of alcoholics.  He was an Irish carpenter who quit drinking in 1887, devoted himself to prayer, made amends to everyone he had hurt, and spent his life helping others.  He died in 1925.  He’s not a full saint yet since they haven’t been able to attribute enough miracles to him.  He’s probably been flying around to alcoholics for the past 86 years and they think they are hallucinating.

Here are some patron saints who are on the edge of really weird.

1.  St. Nicholas–You wouldn’t expect him on this list, but he is the patron saint of an unusual group of people.  We associate him with children and Christmas.  In Turkey, women who didn’t have a dowry often ended up as prostitutes.  Legend has it that Nicholas dropped 3 bags of gold coins down the chimney of a very poor man who had 3 daughters, thus saving them from a life as women of the evening.  St. Nicholas is also known as the patron saint of prostitutes.

2.  St. Fiacre–He’s a hermit priest who is the patron saint of STD’s.  It isn’t because he had one or helped out those who did, but because he had an intense aversion to women.

3.  Saint Drogo—A Flemish nobleman was reportedly able to maintain his presence in two locations at once. Witnesses claimed seeing Drogo working in fields simultaneously and going to mass every Sunday. He is the patron saint of coffee and coffeehouses; I nominate him as the patron saint of multitaskers.

The worried look on Gertrude of Nivelles is rodent fear.

4.  Gertrude of Nivelles–In charge of an abbey in Belgium, Gertrude had an intense dislike of mice and kept herds of cats to keep the mice at bay.  She’s both the patron saint of cats and of those who suffer from suriphobia (fear of rodents).

5.  Hubert of Liege–He’s a French nobleman who wears many patron hats.  He supposedly found a crucifix in the antlers of a deer he shot and became a devoted Christian.  I like the fact that he is specifically the patron saint of bad behaving hunting dogs.  Now Halo has a patron saint.

6.  Arnold of Soissons–This Belgian priest is the patron saint of beer and brewers.  He encouraged the peasants in his village to drink beer, calling it “the gift of life.”  I’ve called it the same thing, but not since I joined a 12 step program.

7.  St. Godebertha–The name is enough to make her patron of SOMETHING.  She is the patron saint of drought relief since she put out a fire that was consuming the town of Noyon.  She made a sign of the cross and torrential rains took care of the rest.  She also drove the rats out of Noyon at the same time so maybe she and Gertrude should get together.

This is the look of a Disappointed Mother

8.  St. Clotilde and St. Matilda–These women are the patron saints of mothers who have disappointing children.  Really.  Clotilde’s 3 sons fought over control of their father’s kingdom and Clotilde had to go into exile to keep from being murdered by them.  Matilda’s son Otto tried to have her convicted of larceny because she was using royal treasury money to help the poor. 

9.  St. Eugene of Mazenod–He is the patron saint of disfunctional families.  A crazy grandmother and a nutty aunt controlled the family.  When his family fled France during the Revolution, his parents divorced and he was left, more or less, to fend for himself.  He became a priest and worked among the poor.

Jesus Malverde-a saint HE ain't

10.  Jesus Malverde—He is not officially a saint and the church isn’t likely to name him one, but tell that to those who visit his shrine in Culiacon.   Malverde is a folklore hero in Mexico and legend says law enforcement officers killed him on May 3, 1909.  In the Mexican state of Sinaloa, he is a Robin Hood figure.  He is popular amongst the poor and the drug trafficking business adopted him as their Patron Saint.  They come regularly to his shrine to pray for miracles.   Not being arrested by the DEA while visiting his shrine could be one of them.

Lost keys and big bucks

When I am unhappy or uncomfortable with a situation, I am usually reminded that “I am right where I’m supposed to be.”  Sometimes discomfort means that I need to make a change in my life.  Sometimes the most spiritual thing I can do is to accept the feeling of sadness.  I have been told, and I believe, that “acceptance is the key to to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing or situation-some fact of my life- unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I can accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.” (Pg. 417 in the 4th Edition of the Big Book)

That kind of advice has gotten a mental “Go to hell” when I am going through a bad time.  But the truth is that my resistance to pain generally causes me more pain.  It is much easier to dole out that advice to someone else.  That’s what happened yesterday.

Big Buck auditioning for America's Next Top Deer Model

Bob had Monday off.  He intended to use the day to bow hunt on one of the last days before rifle season starts.  He planned to make his family’s Michigander chili using some of last year’s venison and install a couple of doors for friends.

He spent the week-end stalking the big buck.   Bob saw him throughout the weekend but couldn’t get close enough to get a good shot off with the bow.  This is one of the things I like about archery hunting:  the deer stands a great chance of making it through the season.  Bow hunting takes a patience and calm that rifle hunting doesn’t.  It also takes skill that goes beyond target shooting.  Bob’s arrows land in a packed area around the bull’s-eye on the target in his backyard.  That doesn’t translate into deer meat in the freezer.  Darn deer and hogs are 3-D.

Sunday evening we didn’t see Big Buck until we were leaving.  The buck slowly walked out of the brush on the rise at the edge of the property, stood in the waning light, silhouetted against the horizon with a wind turbine behind him, and shook his antlers at Bob.  Really.  We sat there and stared as he sauntered across the sendero, paused, and did his runway walk again.  What a taunt!

Bob preparing venison

Bob took off at 5 a.m. on Monday to track Big Buck and enjoyed being outside but came back empty-handed.  Grinding venison for the chili and chopping onions, Bob was nostalgic about his dad who passed away a few years ago and, I think,  more than a  little homesick.  When the can opener broke, it seemed like a good idea for a change of scene and a trip to the grocery store.

That’s when the car key disappearance became apparent.  Bob is considerably more organized than I am and rarely just drops his keys any old place.  He sets them in the same place 96% of the time.  But they weren’t there.  He spent an hour tearing the house apart, rifling his backpack, dumping his jacket pockets.  No keys.  After an hour of futile searching, Bob gave up the hunt.

A few hours later, I came home and we resumed looking.  I was quite sure that I would be able to find the keys.  I have an estrogen powered finding device and plenty of practice because of my chaotic method of putting things away.  No luck.

We did the kind of house search that involved pulling furniture to the center of the room, sweeping and mopping since everything was out-of-place anyway.  I washed the clothes, emptying pockets and shaking out jeans.  Bob cleaned out his backpacks.  No keys.  Bob decided he might have locked them in the truck and broke into his truck with coat hanger and wire.  No keys.

I did the back track kind of thing, discovering that Bob had taken food and water out to a stray dog.  We checked the dog food container and the yard.  No keys.

The man in The Scream was thinking about his lost keys.

At that point, we decided to go to a meeting.  Bob chaired and a friend suggested anxiety as a topic without knowing that Bob had been swirling in panic hell for the past few hours.  Good advice all around the table and a sense of calm by the end of the hour.  As Bob and I drove to the grocery store to get the darn can opener, we decided that I’d drive Bob to work, get a replacement key for the truck, and that he would have to get permission to cut the locks on his many toolboxes at work.

We had a plan for the day ahead when we got to Bob’s house. Bob wasn’t thrilled but he wasn’t agonizing, either.   As we walked into the house, I looked at the little brick wall and perched on the concrete were the keys.  All the keys.  Just sitting there.  How they got there, we have no idea.  I know they weren’t there when we left. Blasted, blessed keys.  Maybe they were in collusion with Big Buck.  Maybe the house threw in on the deal so it would get cleaned.  Whatever it was, we were right where we were supposed to be all day long.  And when we accepted that fact, we were okay.  With or without keys.

Much nicer with keys, though.

It made the chili taste better.  Michigander chili does not taste like Texas chili but it’s good and has a memorable flavor.  Here’s Bob’s interpretation of his dad’s (and mom’s) chili.

Elmo’s Michigander Chili

• 2 lbs ground venison (or beef), browned
• 4 medium cans of red kidney beans
• 2 cups chopped onion
• 1 yellow bell peppers, chopped
• 2 small cans of tomato sauce
• 3 large cans of diced (not crushed) tomatoes (Bob’s family uses fresh-about 4 lbs skinned and diced tomatoes)
• 3-4 tbs chili powder, or to taste
• Garlic power, to taste
• A sprinkle of oregano
• Salt and pepper to taste

Add onions and peppers to the browned meat; saute til onion is translucent.  Add remaining ingredients to a Dutch oven, bring to a boil, turn down heat and slowly simmer for a couple of hours.  Add water if necessary.  (You can crock pot it instead.)  Serve with oyster crackers and top with grated cheese.

Heartbreak of Texas baseball

I live in Texas which is, in my humble opinion, the best state in the union.  I was born here and get a rash if I’m out of the state for more than a week.  Seriously.  I really do understand how you might not agree if you were born in another state, but it’s the kind of understanding I have for people who were born right-handed instead of left.  (It’s ok, honey.  Not everybody is born left-handed.)  The best state in the union should have the best baseball team in the world, right?  Right!?

Early in my life, I learned that Texas only has one professional baseball team.  Yes, by 1972 we had the Texas Rangers, but the only team that counted was the Houston Astros.   The Astros had previously been called the Colt 45’s before NASA moved to Houston and the Astrodome was self-proclaimed the 8th wonder of the world.

Our grandmother was a big Astros fan, listening to them on the radio every night right after she said the rosary.  I’m not sure if it was because then as now I had the physique of a pillow pet or because I slept like one, but I was the one who shared the bed with Grandma when our family visited her in San Antonio.  Listening Grandma softly murmur encouragement (“Come on, boys.  You can do it!”) as she listened to the game on Astros Radio was what put me to sleep.

Grandma never got to see her Astros in the playoffs; they didn’t win the NL West Division until 1980 and she passed away in 1976.  Out of loyalty to her, I watched them in the playoffs, but every playoff game I saw her Astros play were heartbreakers.  I can’t imagine her disappointment when they got bushwhacked by the Chicago White Soxs in 2005.

Disloyal as it might have been, I watched the Rangers last year when they played in the World Series against San Francisco.  They lost 4-1 and I began to see a trend with Texas teams in the World Series. Friday night when the Rangers lost the World Series 4-3 to the St. Louis Cardinals confirmed the hypothesis.  What the heck!

Rally Squirrel before he became famous

Evidently, Texas is not destined to have a World Series winner.  Personally, I think it was the darn rally squirrel.  I wondered why people were waving squirrels at the game when cardinals are the mascot.  Then, I watched the Fox News pre-game and found out about the Rally Squirrel.

The Rally Squirrel made his arrival during Game 3 of the NLDS, when he ran around the outfield and down the third-base line to briefly interrupt the game with Ryan Theriot at the plate in the sixth inning.  In Game 4 the Rally Squirrel took center stage when it darted across home plate just moments after Phillies right-hander Roy Oswalt threw a pitch to Skip Schumaker whichh the ump called a ball.  The squirrel then ran into the stands as Oswalt protested that the pitch shouldn’t have counted because the squirrel distracted him.  That was when the Power of the Rally Squirrel exerted itself.  They ruled against Oswalt in an obvious miscarriage of justice.

Rally Squirrel after he hit the big time, jinxed Texas, and fixed the World Series

Did the Rangers have a Rally Squirrel or something comparable?  I think not.  We probably should have just forfeited the series.  The odds were against us before we ever got to St. Louis.  Or maybe there are just some things that Texas, great state that it is, doesn’t get to have.   I mean, New Jersey has a Republican governor who recognized that the state was is deep doo and decided against running for president with the words: “Now is not my time,” Christie said. “New Jersey, whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with me,”

"You can always follow me on Tweeter." –Rick Perry, mistakenly referring to the social networking site Twitter in a videotaped message to a crowd of conservative bloggers and social networkers, Minneapolis, June 21, 2011

Does Texas get to have that type of Republican governor?  Dear heavens, no!  We’ve got Rick Perry who is trying to convince everybody but us Texans who know better that “everything is just fine.”  Ignore the drought, the wildfires, the lack of funding for schools, the troubles at facilities for the disabled, and rising unemployment.  Everything is just fine.

Maybe a squirrel needs to run through the Governor’s mansion and bring us some good MoJo.  We may need a herd of squirrels.

Finding home

For much of my life, I’ve been obsessed with having a house of my own.  As kids, we lived in rent houses.  They were nice rent houses, but they didn’t belong to us.  I think the P’s worried that the school district wouldn’t renew Daddy’s contract.  Looking back I realize that fear played a huge part in our daily lives, drifting insidiously into every crack of our lives.

Mosaic house number plaque I made in 2009

I inherited that fear thing; it is genetic.  Even as a raging nutso dry drunk, the underlayment was always fear.  What am I not getting that I want?  Who has something I don’t have?  I held a measuring stick on the universe and always felt like I came up short.  It took working the steps a couple of times before I could put the measuring stick away most of the time.

It was in 2002 that I realized that nobody was going to provide me with a house of my own and, like the Little Red Hen, I set about finding one for myself.  I found a realtor which was the easy part.  Got pre-qualified so I knew what range of $ I could spend.  That was a little scary.  I’d been in business for myself up to 1998 and the close out on that deal was a financial train wreck for me.  I wasn’t sure that anyone would loan me money, but I was a single mom and first time home buyer so there were special programs to guarantee my re-payment and, to my amazement, I did qualify.  For all I know, a 3 legged, 1 eyed cat would have.

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. Maya Angelou

I searched out my house with a scouting party composed of Georgie, Jack, Mary Ann, Gerald, Savanna, Nina, and Claire.  The realtor kept asking, “Now who are all these people?”  The house I eventually bought was frozen in the 70’s with gilded wallpaper and over-sized microwave.  The family who had lived there kept their animals unfettered and unlitterboxed.  Although my little house was structurally sound, it was filthy.  When I told Jack which house I thought would be best, he said in horror, “The cat pee house?!!”

Jack with his handiwork

It took a considerable effort to rip off the old wallpaper, refinish the floors, repair dry wall, and paint.  My friend Bill was the plumber and re-did the kitchen fixtures.  The utility crew I was inspecting loaned me a pipelayer and he did my electrical.  (He had been an apprentice electrician in Mexico.)  My carpenters were the form builders from another company’s concrete crew.  None of them spoke English, but they all spoke the language of “get it done.”

Jack tiled the entryway with a glass inlay which he claimed is “Welcome” in Japanese.  I have not a clue if that is true; it could say, “Die, round-eyed demons” but it’s festive.  Jack and I placed ceramic tile in the living room.  Jack worked with our neighbor across the street laying tile and decided he was an expert.  Carpal tunnel from computer work?  Try grouting work.  An 11′ x 17′ room becomes the coliseum.

Bill, Georgie, and I rented a floor sander and re-finished the wood floors.  There is nothing more beautiful than wood floors.  We also ripped apart the leaning wood structure in the backyard and used the lumber to construct a back porch.

I love this little house.  Not as much for the structure that it is but for what it represents.   None of the work is perfect, but love did it all.  For awhile after I moved into the house I would stand in the middle of the hallway, look to the right at the living room and to the left at Jack’s bedroom, and marvel at what a gift God had given me.  I still feel that way when I walk in the front door.

I bought a house; I got a home.

Why so many, Robert?

Jenny, Bob’s mom, asked that question after seeing the picture of Bob with the hog tree.  That’s the only way I can describe it.  Bob’s house is in a nice neighborhood in Portland.  It is a pleasant, solidly middle class area of the city.  To have hogs hanging from the mesquite tree in his front yard was not a common sight.  Sort of a replay of Silence of the Lambs using pig actors.  The elderly woman who walks her miniature poodle a couple of times a day pointedly crossed the street and hurried past Bob’s house with a tightened grip on her little white dog.

I’m not sure if it would have gone over better if they had been hanging from the hackberry tree in my front yard, but I live in a solidly working class area and my neighbors most likely would have been in the yard with BBQ grills and smoking charcoal waiting for a share of the bounty.

This free ranging, non-native, invasive species exhibits one of the highest reported reproduction rates of any ungulate. (TPWD brochure on feral hogs in Texas)

The answer to Jenny’s question is that the State of Texas frowns on catching and releasing feral hogs.  Even young feral hogs.

There are 2.6 million ferals in 225 out of 254 counties in Texas and the 2010 estimate of property damage caused by them comes to $90 million.

The main damage caused to livestock and wildlife by feral hogs is indirect destruction of habitat and agriculture commodities. Rooting  for food damages crops. The hogs also destabilize wetland areas, springs, creeks and tanks by excessive rooting and wallowing.  While not active predators, wild hogs may prey on fawns, young lambs, and kid goats. If the opportunity arises, they may also destroy and consume eggs of ground nesting birds such as turkeys and quail.  Hogs also carry diseases which are not a threat to humans but which can infect livestock.

As a result, TPWD requires a hunting license to kill ferals but there isn’t a limit or a season.  Recently passed legislation permits aerial hunting of hogs which just seems mean, but I’m trying not to think “poor creatures.”  The feral hog has managed to survive, adapt, and increase their numbers despite attempts at population control so we probably won’t make a big impact on the (poor creatures) hog community.

One of the two sows trapped a few weeks ago

Bob’s friend, the one who lets him hunt on his property, requests that Bob set hog traps since the hog population is burgeoning and the farmer who leases his property suffers crop damage due to the hogs.  A few weeks ago when Bob was setting up feeders, he put corn in a couple of the traps.  At the end of the day, 2 sows were in one of the traps.

Last week-end, Bob set the traps again.  Saturday evening, there were two young pigs in one of the traps.  I asked Bob to let them go and he agreed if he couldn’t find someone to take them.  I know the someone he was going to get planned to fatten the (poor creatures) hoglets and butcher them at a later date, but I was doing that Pontius Pilate thing.  Sunday morning, he hadn’t found anyone who wanted the little hogs and he let them go. Then, Bob and his son checked trap #2 and there were 9 hogs in it of varied ages and sizes.

The good news is that feral hogs make good eating. According the TAMU.edu, meat from feral hogs  is much leaner than penraised pork.  I made posole using the pork loin from one of the sows that Bob caught a few weeks ago.  I tried to imitate the recipe my cuñado, Gerald, uses.  He was camp cook when Bob, Bobby, Mike, and he went hunting last year.  Bob still raves about the posole he cooked.

My Imitation of Gerald’s Recipe for Posole

Heat a couple of tablespoons of olive oil in a skillet. Chop a large yellow onion and 4-5 cloves of garlic with a couple of serrano peppers and soften in the skillet.  Empty into large crockpot.  Add 2 lbs pork (I used the wild kind), chopped into chunks, to the skillet and brown.  Dump that into the crockpot and cover with 1-1/2 quarts of chicken broth.  Turn crockpot to low and go to work (or on high and leave alone for 2-3 hours).

After the requisite crockpot cooking time, finely chop 4 poblano peppers and 10 tomatillos; stir fry to soften.  Add 2 tablespoons of chili powder, 2 teaspoons of adobe chili powder, 1 tablespoon of comino and as much salt as you like.  Dump mixture into crockpot and stir to mix.  Open and drain 2-15 oz cans of hominy.  Add to crockpot and let heat together for 30-45 minutes.  Add finely chopped cilantro to the crockpot just before serving.

Serve with chopped radishes, avocado, finely chopped cabbage, chopped red onion, sour cream, grated cheese…the possibilities are endless.   We warmed corn tortillas to go with the soup.

(We were too busy eating to take pictures, but it looked good and tasted great.)

My top 10 favorite songs

Or at least my favorite as of 10:36 a.m. on October 26, 2011.

January 28th is National Kazoo Day. Just so you know.

I love music.  I am sitting in an office with no sound other than the A/C that just kicked on so the only music I’m hearing is in my head which is better than listening to the voices in my head.  I like music that I can dance to, sing, play air trombone to, and which makes me happy.  My ability to play the piano is only slight above “Chopsticks” grade since I can pick out the treble line of “Fur Elise.”  When I sing, I should carry a sign that tells people which melody I’m going for.

The kazoo is my instrument of choice.  When I die, I want people at my memorial service to play “Amazing Grace” on the kazoo.  Playing a kazoo makes you laugh.  “Amazing Grace” is one of my favorite songs but I didn’t put it on the list.  Too predictable.

Here is my top 10 list.  It’s a flexible listing, more of those quick “In 5 seconds, tell me which songs you’d want to listen to if you were on a desert island (with electricity).”

10.  “Hakuna Matata”- I bought the CD as a reward after Jack got his pre-K shots.  We were driving down to Port Isabel where John was fishing in the Texas Invitational Fishing Tourney.  It’s a 3 hours drive down and back and we listened to that CD the entire time we were in the car.  When “Hakuna Matata” came on, Jack usually repeated it and repeated the repeat.  I still know the lyrics.  Hakuna Matata?  Yeah. It’s our motto!  What’s a motto? Nothing. What’s a-motto with you?   That joke never gets old.  Here’s another one from Raffi’s “Banana Phone” which is a song with a-peel.  (Get it?)

9.  “Lay, Lady, Lay”-My older sister (aka Georgie the Older) introduced me to this Bob Dylan song.  We sat up late at night, listening to it on the radio, and whispering confidences about love and life.  “I long to see you in the morning light, I long to reach for you in the night, Stay, lady, stay, stay while the night is still ahead.”    Woo!  Still gives me shivers!

One of the Pictures in Mussorgsky's Exhibition

8.  “Pictures in an Exhibition”-I first heard this music when Emerson, Lake and Palmer recorded it.  MA, who got 85% of the musical genes in our family, got the album for Christmas and we listened to it until scratches rendered it impossible to tolerate.  It wasn’t until a few years ago that I heard it on KEDT and found out that it was a 19th century work written by Modest Mussorgsky in memory of an artist friend.  It wasn’t even performed for 5 or 6 years.  I can’t hear it without adjusting the speakers and the volume and taking a road trip so I don’t have to miss any of the music.

7.  “I Like Dirt”-Red Hot Chili Peppers.  They almost can’t do a song I don’t love.  I always play RHCP’s Greatest Hit cd when I’m on the road and I do a Jack when this song comes on, repeating it a couple of times. 

6.  “When Love Comes to Town”-GE introduced me to this song recorded by B.B. King and U-2.  I like B.B. King anyway and this song has a special place in my music library because it played on the radio as we were heading to the hospital to have Jack.  GE lunged from the back seat to the radio control when it started with a loud “They are playing that song!”  Pretty much anything by B.B. King would be on my list anyway.  My friend Bill and I saw him perform one cold and wet October night at Concrete Street Amphitheater.  Any other artist would have called it a night, but King, who was nearly 80, played the whole show.  It was awesome.

5.  “Henery the Eighth”-If you are old enough to remember this song, you are already on an “I am, I am.”  MA and I delighted in loudly singing this song while our older sister drove the car.  It drove her nuts which made us sing louder.  The song is contagious.

4.  “As Time Goes By”-As sung by Jimmy Durante.  I like his gravelly voice singing, “And when two lovers woo, they still say ‘I love you.’ On that you can rely. The fundamental things apply as time goes by.”  It just makes me happy.

3.  “You Are So Beautiful”-It’s Joe Cocker’s weird voice that makes this one of my favorites.  I love the lyrics of the song; it makes a great lullaby for babies and I’ve sung it to each of my children and grand-children.  I like doing my Joe Cocker imitation in the shower. 

2.  “Walkin’ After Midnight”-Patsy Cline does this song the best.  There are others but I scoff at them.  The song plays in the background of a mental video when John and I came home to GE who was babysitting Jack.  She was singing this song with Patsy, Jack on her hip, and dancing a slow two-step in an attempt to get him to sleep.   The song is great; the memory is priceless. 

Panda Bears in pandemonium

1.  “Zombies Are Bastards”-Jack wrote all kinds of songs.  We recorded a few and those are precious.  I didn’t think there was a timeline and assumed that I’d record his whole show “one of these days.”  This is one of those songs that I have recorded and it makes me laugh when I hear it.  The song title is the only lyrics.  The surf rock bridge is what makes me dance. 

 

 

 

No me moleste, mosquito!

 A tiny benefit to the worst drought in south Texas since 1917 is that few mosquitos attended backyard BBQ’s this summer.  Our little city’s mosquito spray truck usually stays busy from April til October, spray pluming out of the back of an old City of Portland 1/2 ton truck at dusk and dawn.

I’d be willing to bet that the mosquito man has to jump start that old truck when he makes his rounds and maybe take a second job.  The truck runs for about a week or so after the infrequent showers that have dampened our grass over the past 3 months, but he hasn’t needed to do daily service for most of the summer and fall.

Those are mosquitos, not birds, flocking to the truck.

We got one of those showers last week and the mosquito population came alive.  They were especially noticeable near Bayside where the mosquitos stalked us as Bob stalked the big buck.  Friday night when I rode with Bob to help (watch) him put corn in the feeders and check the timer batteries, we got a preview of what The Hungry Mosquito Show would look like.

Mosquitos are amazingly simple little insects.   Their name means “little fly” and is Spanish in origin, but mosquitos themselves aren’t limited to the New World or to recent times.  Aristotle identified them in his Historia Animalium in 300 B.C.  There are more than  2,700 species of mosquitos; about 173 identified species live in the U.S.  Mosquitos buzzed back as the Triassic Period (4 million years ago).

According to mosquito.org, mosquitos go through their life cycle in 4 to 14 days, depending on the species.  Here are some other interesting facts to consider when you are walking through tall grass on the way to a deer blind.

• Mosquitos find hosts by sight (they observe movement); by detecting infra-red radiation emitted by warm bodies; and by chemical signals (mosquitos are attracted to carbon dioxide and lactic acid, among other chemicals) at distances of 80 to 115 feet.
• Mosquitos fly an estimated 1 to 1.5 miles per hour.
• Salt marsh mosquitos can migrate up to 40 miles for a meal.
• Bigger people are often more attractive to mosquitos because they are larger targets and they produce more mosquito attractants, namely CO2 and lactic acid.
• Active or fidgety people also produce more CO2 and lactic acid.
• Women are usually more attractive to mosquitos than men because of the difference in hormones produced by the sexes.
• Blondes tend to be more attractive to mosquitos than brunettes.
• Smelly feet are attractive to mosquitos.
• Dark clothing attracts mosquitos.
• Movement increased mosquito biting up to 50% in some research tests.
• A full moon increased mosquito activity 500% in one study
• Mosquitos is the correct Spanish pluralization of mosquito; mosquitoes is the correct English pluralization.  (I can’t get use to the TOES in mosquito so we are going Spanish.)

Bob and I used Cutter’s outdoor spray which contains DEET, an old and recognized mosquito repellent.  Repellents only confuse a mosquitos sense of smell so they can’t find you, but they can find the dime sized area on your neck that doesn’t have repellent.

American Academy of Pediatrics doesn’t recommend using DEET on children under 2 months; over 2 months, AAP says a 30% concentration can safely be used. That gives protection for a couple of hours.  A concentration of at least 20% provides protection from ticks.

EPA has registered several other mosquito repellents.  The same companies that use DEET also use a chemical called picardin which is less damaging to fabrics and has less odor than DEET based sprays.  Oil of lemon-eucalyptus is another effective repellents but it shouldn’t be used on children younger than 3 and may cause skin irritation in high concentrations which is what you need to repel ticks, too.

Metofluthrin is another chemical used in repellents and is currently sold as OFF! Clip-On.  Metofluthrin both repels and kills flying insects. Catnip has been noted for years as possessing repellency against mosquitoes.  DuPont has engineered a catnip formulation that exhibits the traits of a commercially effective repellent and has registered the product with the EPA, but it isn’t available commercially.

The Iroquois Indians have a legend of the mosquito. The story goes that originally there were just two mosquitoes, but they were giant creatures as tall as a pine tree and they attacked and ate people. A bunch of braves surrounded them one day and finally killed them, but as the blood of the beasts touched the ground, a swarm composed of millions of tiny mosquitoes sprung up from it. The little ones bite us today because they crave revenge for their ancestor’s defeat.

As one of the most likely mosquito targets-an overweight blonde woman-I will be careful to avoid my little black dress if I am walking (not running) under the full moon.  Otherwise, I will be giving those little suckers a chance to exact some vengeance for their ancestor’s demise.