the new old life

700 Miles to Home

2012-01-01T22:45:00.004-06:00

I woke up in Santa Fe, New Mexico this morning. Before the 10 p.m. nightly news I was back home.

The wife and I have been going up there off and on for almost twenty years. It's nice country.

Amigo

2011-12-11T13:06:00.007-06:00

He said he was a lucky man to have "the blood of Spain, the heart of Mexico and the freedom of America." Born Luis Antonio Dámaso de Alonso on December 11, 1905 in Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua, Mexico, the world knew him as Gilbert Roland.

In a former entertainment climate Roland's onscreen presence exuded a measure of masculinity, class and dignity that has all but disappeared for the appreciation of modern moviegoers. Today, he, as well as his body of work, are just about lost to memory, except perhaps by me in this little South Texas pueblito of Benavides; it too, forgotten by the world. Since I was a kid Gilbert Roland always reminded me of my dad's persona.

Long ago Roland penned his signature on a wooden column of La Perla restaurant in Acapulco's El Mirador Hotel. A local artisan then carefully carved it into the wood for posterity. Only God knows how long it had been there before I happened on it in the summer of 1985. I traced it with my index finger and that was the closest I ever came to Gilbert Roland. Happy birthday, Amigo.

Luis Antonio Dámaso de Alonso died in Beverly Hills, California on May 15, 1994 at age 88. His remains were cremated and the ashes scattered at sea.

Real Meat

2011-12-07T20:43:00.009-06:00

He says one day to Melba and me as we're sitting down to supper... "I don't like your meat." (carne picada) "I like steak... T-bone... the kind that Grandpa makes." This evening the boy sat down to a plate of steak and was very grateful.

A Break in the Routine

2011-11-16T11:58:00.019-06:00

(A True Story)
Early this morning Mom steps out of the house to feed the cats and the glass door swings shut, locking behind her. Now she finds herself locked out of the house with no phone and no way to get back inside. She walks around the house a couple of times imagining that if she found a window unlocked that she could somehow find the strength to pull her 85-year-old frame through a window that is five feet off the ground. At her peak Mom never stood more than five foot two.

She walks to the garage and explores for a tool that will multiply her strength to help pry open the locked door. She locates a small hacksaw and grows hopeful. After a couple of minutes of plying the narrow gap between the door frame and lock. her effort proves futile. She then resorts to brute force, deciding to utilize the oddly shaped 20-pound rock set by the door as a keepssake.

The new plan is violent. She pictures using the rock to smash the 30x48-inch plate glass on the door to gain entry. She utters a short silent prayer and hefts the relatively smooth white rock waist high then swings at the glass. To her surprise it resists the first timid blow. Now she swings again with greater force and the glass deflects the second blow. Then, in the process of adjusting her grip on the rock for a third try, her thumb catches a sharp edge of a griphold and it cuts her. The small wound is deep. She sets the rock down and examines the now bleeding thumb. Droplets of blood are falling steadily from the cut. They paint crimson discs the size of a quarter as they splatter on the wood planking of the porch she enjoys so much in the cool of the afternoons.

Mom sees a soiled rag draped over one of the chairs clustered around the metal table next to her and reaches for it. She wads it up and uses it as a compress against the wound and sits to collect her thoughts. She looks around is reminded of how very alone she is at the moment. She prays.

A tenacious spirit all her life, Mom decides to walk the five-hundred feet that separates her from the highway, presently, her only link to human assistance. She will stand between the road's edge and the cattleguard to flag down help. She needs a phone and every soul motoring today's roads carries one these days, thank the Lord. The traffic is sporadic. The few motorists that pass from north to south and south to north exchange friendly waves to the little old lady cutting the air with waves of her arms. It is an uncommon sight, but not alarming enough for them to stop and examine the circumstances.

Finally, an older couple passes, waves back, and continues northward, but before the vehicle disappears beyond the crest the hill, they slow and return -- Good Samaritans this morning. What follows are examining questions and the accompanying answers to shed light on the situation. A phone is produced and a son is on his way. Thirty minutes later Mom is back on routine and in town playing bingo with her friends.

A Day at the Office

2011-11-08T21:12:00.012-06:00

Just another day at the office standing on the top of the world... lookin' down on creation... please hold my calls.

My nerves cringed every time this guy hoofed it around the top of the water tower; the heels of his work boots treading lightly on a steel platform 130 feet off the ground. His dance with death high up there was eye-riveting and I found myself envying the man.

I finished my lunch then climbed back into my pickup and headed back to the office for three-and-a-half hours of sitting on my ass at the keyboard; the whole while in the company of females. I wonder if guys like him have ever envied guys like me?

Later, I saw his company truck and trailer parked at one of our two local eateries. He and his crew were likely having lunch. I didn't have time to stop or I would have gone inside and shook his hand and told him that he performed admirable, if not entertaining, solo work.

The Rifleman

2011-10-23T23:12:00.000-05:00

Canine Contentment

2011-09-23T12:44:00.000-05:00

The sweet air of the early fall season has descended on Benavides and that suits "Admin", the NSCL pooch, just fine.

Not Fast Enough

2011-09-22T18:14:00.001-05:00

Cars and trucks are solid objects that pack a heavy punch. Squirrels do not know that until it is too late. All they know is that cars and trucks move back and forth on the broad bands of hard black ground that run in straight paths all over their local territory. As they move, fast or slow, they produce a lot of noise, too. Sometimes, their squirrel buddies get hit by one of these loud moving things. They do not bounce off them like they would were they more pliable like a tree. No... when the two come into contact, death is instantaneous and permanent.

Squirrels simply can not compete with the moving objects on any level. They are just not fast enough. What are you going to do?

Nature's Resilience

2011-09-21T20:33:00.001-05:00

It had not rained enough since January in these parts to fill a thimble. This was drought showing its ugliest face. Yet, a couple of inches in September stirred sleeping seeds in the hard-packed soiled. What sprouts from the ground is evidence of nature's resilience.

There was this EAGLE, once...

2011-08-19T12:41:00.002-05:00

It Rained Here Once

2011-08-17T06:55:00.004-05:00

Before the gods of the air turned their backs on the parched brush country, they permitted rain with great inundation on old Benavides, Texas.

This Used to be Home

2011-08-16T00:01:00.008-05:00

Exercise patience. The video of the U.S. naval base at Yokosuka, Japan (shot by another party) jumps to life after 40 seconds.

He's Having A Hot Time

2011-08-15T07:08:00.000-05:00

"Admin", the NSCL wonder dog, has survived his assorted ailments only to spend his waking hours plopped down on a cool patch of earth stressing out the Dog Days of Summer.

Old Bones

2011-07-28T10:54:00.000-05:00

With tropical storm Don making landfall in less than twenty-four hours, mas o menos, my big brother took to the heights of the tallest mesquite to give it a trim job for safety's sake. Not bad for a guy who has 23,473 days worth of mileage on his bones.

I love the smell of...

2011-07-23T18:35:00.002-05:00

A dear friend and her husband have operated a raspa stand in Benavides, Texas for 19 years. It has become a commercial icon in our pueblito. I read her post on Facebook today and felt a little ashamed that her gift for writing had escaped me all these years. She wrote...

"I love to stand in front of the raspa stand window when the pool is open. I love the sights and sounds of the pool........but most of all I LOVE when a little breeze blows and.... hmmmm..... I LOVE the smell of chlorine and suntan lotion."

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

How Small the World Is

2011-07-16T11:46:00.004-05:00

In my former life, I taught school to high school kids. Mario Viera, an ex-student, graduated in 2006. Today, he serves our country and is stationed in Sasebo-shi, Nagasaki, Japan. Young Mario wears a United States Navy uniform aboard the USS Avenger. It's a minesweeper. Once in a while we chat via Facebook. At 10:01 a.m. Saturday my time, and 12:01 a.m. Sunday his time, we began a conversation separated by over 6000 miles of time and space.

[Mario Viera]
how r u sir
[Me]
Baking hot in Benavides, Mr. Viera. It's SUMMERTIME in the dry and dusty brush country.
[Mario Viera]
i dont miss that one bit
[Me]
We could use a cool sea breeze about now.
How goes the personal physical training?
[Mario Viera]
it going ok just gettin back from deployment
[Me]
Mario Viera.... Defender of the American Way and other good things...........
[Mario Viera]
lol
[Me]
My wife and I drove (DROVE!!!) to Florida last week to see the final launch of the Shuttle. It was fantastic.
[Mario Viera]
sounds like a real good time
wats new in benavides
[Me]
The dog population is up and the people is down.
[Mario Viera]
lol wow thats no good
[Me]
No... no... many of the dogs are much nicer.
[Mario Viera]
lol
[Me]
Do you have a Kindle, or a Kindle app on your smart phone?
The Kindle app is free.
[Mario Viera]
no i dont, i dont read books because i spend most of my work day doing paper work and reading instruction
[Me]
You are a busy man. If and when you do, buy this ebook. It's only $1.99. I wrote it.
www.amazon.com/Nobody-Reads-the-Backs-of-Cereal-Boxes-Anymore
[Mario Viera]
ok ill check it out
when did you write it
[Me]
A couple of months ago. It's fiction, but you may recognize some of the characters. Only people from Benavides would be able to.
[Mario Viera]
lol im sure its some good reading
[Me]
Well... it may help you go to sleep faster.
[Mario Viera]
lol
[Me]
Bueno, Mario.... ya no te quito tiempo. It's always good to hear from you.
[Mario Viera]
im not busy right now sir, im out at sea as we speak so i got plenty of time
[Me]
Wow! Out at sea! I love technology. What time is it for you on that side of the globe? Midnight?
[Mario Viera]
1222 am
[Me]
Night shift work or free time?
[Mario Viera]
free time at night
well our day changes every day, it depends on what watch we have
[Me]
Too bad the Navy doesn't allow pet dogs onboard. They could help pass the time and be fun companions.
[Mario Viera]
ya that would be nice
so what made u write a book?
[Me]
The Marines on your ship don't have any?
[Mario Viera]
i dont have no marines on my ship
and them clowns r like pets
[Me]
Hahahahaaaaaaaaaa...........
You ever seen an old movie called "V for Vendetta"?
I am watching it now. Good story. Blood and action and drama.
[Mario Viera]
hows ur family
[Me]
All healthy and content. Our mother turns 85 in three weeks and is as strong as ever.
[Mario Viera]
wow thats awesome
my mom just turned 44 on the 14th
[Me]
And.... and... and..... we each (her and I) have a couple of cold Budweisers on the porch every Sunday afternoon.
[Mario Viera]
lol
[Me]
44... I used to be 44... 14 years ago.
[Mario Viera]
lol
thats a while back
[Me]
Like yesterday for me. As you, sir, grow older and wiser... the passage of days will speed up like a rocket to the moon, and you will ask yourself every morning... "where is the time going."
[Mario Viera]
i feel it already
it dont feel like it but its been 3 yrs in the service for me
[Me]
"Three Years," is like the blink of an eye.
[Mario Viera]
yeah it is but its been fun
[Me]
You have so many more winks to go, sir.
[Mario Viera]
yup i sure do
[Me]
So when your Navy days are behind you, what employable skills will you walk away with?
[Mario Viera]
right now i got electrical technician, and small arms instructor
[Me]
I see in the crystal ball a Border Patrol electrician wiring up a 10,000 volt fence along the TEX MEX border.
[Mario Viera]
lol that's a possibility
[Me]
By the time you get out of the service the new war front will be the Rio Grande.
[Mario Viera]
ya i hear the border war is gettin out of hand
[Me]
The news people talk about "sleeper cells" of Muslim terrorists lying in wait in all fifty states. That's not the problem for us. The Mexican cartels already have their own "sleeper cells" in operation among us. (Don't I sound scary!)
[Mario Viera]
ya its a scary thing to think about but its out there and people dont realize it
[Me]
The wife and I will one day move north to a place that has no check points or Border Patrol cruisers.
[Mario Viera]
that would be a great idea benavides is doing no good for anyone
[Me]
My idea for Benavides is to make it the 8-Liner Capitol of Texas. That would bring new life to the town. New life and new people and better breeds of dogs.
[Mario Viera]
well sir im gonna go catch a few zzzzz it was great talkin to u and i will read ur book and tell u wat i think bout it take care and tell ur family i said hi
[Me]
Buenas noches, joven. God bless you and thanks for the chat.

I Wrote a Book

2011-06-26T06:38:00.006-05:00

It is an ebook and available on Amazon.com for only $1.99. Click HERE for a sample or to purchase. You can read it on your computer, a Kindle, an iPad, or other ebook delivery device. It is a work of fiction. Buy it and help make me rich. I always remember my friends.

It Doesn't Take Much

2011-06-19T11:53:00.003-05:00

Dad always appreciated a good thick spread of St. Augustine grass. One of my earliest memories is of Dad carefully digging up neat squares of sod grass from our old place, circa 1958, to transplant to the yard of the ranch house we moved to when I was five years old. More than fifty years later the grass is still there, thriving.

Dad always said it was the water, and our windmill pumped good water -- sweet. To date, it is the finest tasting well water I have ever come across. The water was so soft you could hardly rinse the suds off of your hands when you washed before supper. After a bath your skin felt silky smooth and your hair was as soft as a baby's. That was long ago and Dad is gone now. Sol me quedan los recuerdos.

Dad's parents, a brother and a sister, aunts and uncles, are buried in the Salas Cemetery, a half-acre patch in the heart of what was once a great farming community in the day of my great grandfather. When my father's father was laid to rest there in December of 1957 the cemetery was bordered by farm and pastureland in all directions, but by then, the decline had begun. The farming communities that were the norm of the time, and the area, became fewer and fewer. Today, a vast tangle of mesquite brush has dominion over the land that cotton ruled a half-century ago.

Time marches on. Ours is a different age and a different economy. A good number of the old Salas clan lay underneath that ground. A couple of times a year some of the living will hoe off the weeds and tidy up the place, but our number will to perform that chore is in decline. The graves, like the memory of the people that rest beneath, are being forgotten. It doesn't take much -- just time. Before the present generation passes, the weeds and prairie grasses are going to hide them from sight.

The idea that no one would tend his grave irked Dad. Offhandedly, he let it be known that this was a great concern to him. As dearly as he loved his parents, he declared on more than one occasion that when the time came, he wished his remains to be deposited in Benavides.

"A si me ponen flores y regarán el zacatito mas sequido," was how he worded it.

He got his wish. The flowers that color his grave may be artificial, but they are bright and pretty. The grass is real. It is thick and green. At first I tried getting Bermuda grass to cover the ground there, but it would not take no matter how much effort I made. Sun, no sun, water a lot, water sparingly, aerate the soil, for years I tried. Then I did what the old man would have done. I dug up a good bit of sod grass from my brother's yard in Bruni and put it to work at the cemetery. I watered it religiously and bingo -- the grass took and thrived. Dad just had to have his way. He wanted what he appreciated most, St. Augustine.

Today I mowed it in this hundred degree heat and then gave it a good soaking for a couple of hours. Even during this miserable dry spell, the resting place for his earthly remains is green and shady -- just like he would have wanted it. The old man has been gone since the fall of '95, but I still follow orders. It doesn't take much.

A Man on a Horse

2011-06-12T22:38:00.019-05:00

From atop his mount the rider motioned down with his head to the three-year-old mare as "un paso fino," referring to the light horse breed, as well as to how it handled. "See how she moves," he called out as the two cut figure eights between trees, posts and what obstacles could be had. The fluid motion of the pair trotting over the ground made for a graceful sight and a fine image. A bad picture cannot be taken of a man astride a saddled horse.

Easy Come, Easy Go

2011-06-11T15:12:00.000-05:00

This short video was recorded a long time ago using an old Magnavox VHS shoulder-mounted camcorder.
Remember those?

D DAY

2011-06-06T04:00:00.009-05:00

Sixty-seven Years Ago Today

"Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Forces:

You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.

"Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely.

But this is the year 1944. Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940-41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned. The free men of the world are marching together to victory.

"I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty, and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full victory.

"Good Luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking."

-- Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower
June 1944

El Cenizo

2011-06-05T23:24:00.001-05:00

A story came to my ears a few weeks ago; a sad one. Some kid at the high school had asked why the school yearbook was called El Cenizo. To add to the insult, another question followed. "What does it mean, cenizo?"

A Dead Fish in the Water

2011-06-04T22:53:00.007-05:00

The boy was not bothered in the least by the stench of the dead fish. Small waves from the bay were lapping on the remains at water's edge, preventing him from examining it more closely. He turned and dashed off to find a stick.

It had been a year to the day since the boy had last stood on this narrow strip of coarse sand. The cloudy water was not inviting to him, but the place was interesting. There was that half-rotted fish to examine. He soon returned with a stick of adequate length to prod it with.

He lanced the fish with the stick and brought it up out of the water, holding it high for us to see more closely. He urged us to look. The boy was fascinated with the scales, bones and exposed organs. We declined his invitation. Our just eaten dinner was still digesting in our bellies. It was nauseating to look on it, but the slimy carcass had no effect on the boy. His disappointment in our lack of enthusiasm showed on his face. He could not understand that we had not driven this far for a good meal to come look at a dead fish in the water.

Etiquette

2011-06-03T15:38:00.005-05:00

The lives of these proud but tattered banners at the BISD campuses could be doubled if they were only retired at the end of every workday and not left to flap unceremoniously around the clock.

It would require an employee to hoist them daily, then lower and secure them at day's end. In the present work climate, that is not going to happen.

Some would question the need to fuss with the flags at all if a light shined on them throughout the night. However, hanging limp, and bathed in the harshness of a mercury lamp throughout the long night hardly constitutes "a light shining" on them. The colors have earned more respect than that.

Many years ago Mr. Aureliano Garcia, Sr. used to perform the flag duties for the school; mornings and afternoons. Without witness or fanfare, he made certain the flag never touched the ground. Back in those days, proper etiquette was the norm.

My Birthday Girl

2011-06-02T14:52:00.001-05:00

Over the years I have seen my girl blow out a lot of birthday candles, but there weren't any today. As adults advance in years they begin snuffing out fewer candles, and instead blow more money. Cold cash is more fun than hot wax.
Feliz Cumpleaños, Babe.

Uncomplicated

2011-06-01T03:26:00.024-05:00

The long and narrow hallway linked the small brown man with the tourist families crowded into the noisy dining area. He was washing a never-ending march of dishes. Several paces from his back, fathers, wives and kids were chowing down Mexican fare. If any of them cared to pull their faces away from their food long enough, those seated at tables 3, 4 or 5 could look a couple of dozen feet down the hall and see the dishwasher rocking from heal to heal as he plucked dirty plates, glasses and silerware off a tray and ploped them into the stainless steel basin. The water was steaming hot. The collar and shirt sleeve arm pits of the brown man's shirt were damp from the steam and his sweat.

The dishwasher led an uncomplicated existence. That evening, after catching two city buses to his barrio, no one in the house would ask how his day had gone. They knew.

¿Que Chansa Tengo?

2011-05-10T12:18:00.001-05:00

As a lamb to the slaughter, he followed the women into the room. A plain countertop claimed one corner of the small space. Arranged neatly on the surface were a coffee maker, microwave oven, a short stack of foam cups and plates, salt, pepper and napkins. The ladies crowded around the tall table in the center of the room and began to build ice cream sundaes.

Taking turns, they each struggled with the ice cream scoop. The tubs of vanilla were frozen too hard and so he stepped closer from behind them to lend a hand. He had the required muscle to dig into the tub without grimacing too much. He wished to appear strong. In short order, he had their clear plastic cups topped past the rims. To his own detriment, he was especially generous with his.

On this date... 1975

2011-05-09T12:44:00.004-05:00

Old Betsy

2011-05-08T12:33:00.005-05:00

It would have been more prudent to have purchased the toy rifle when he first asked for it years ago. Today I am paying for it with 2011 dollars.

On this year's visit to "Shrine of Texas Liberty" the boy was especially inquisitive. His interest in the weapons employed by both sides at the Battle of the Alamo tested my ability to supply satisfactory answers.

From prior vists to the souvernier shop, the boy knew exactly where the toy "Old Betsy" rifles were racked. I did not hesitate a bit when his eyes moved from the orange-tipped toys to me and back again.

El Cinco de Mayo

2011-05-05T01:31:00.002-05:00

Ding Dong

2011-05-02T07:10:00.003-05:00

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Benavides High School Commencement - 1964

2011-05-01T10:34:00.001-05:00

1 year, 6 months, 24 days

2011-04-28T07:44:00.008-05:00

How time flies. La Mota Street has a fresh smooth surface this afternoon. 571 days have come and gone since that morning on October 2009 when the machines came to rip away this quarter-mile stretch of fragmented and pot-holed blacktop. No hay apuro en el pueblito.

Piedras

2011-04-27T22:34:00.000-05:00

Some time in the summer of 1979, the Ranch crew was working across Highway 359 putting up a new fence. We were setting T-posts and stringing barbed wire along the right-of-way of the former Tex-Mex Railroad tracks. Every couple of hours or so a train would come by and we would stop our work. What guy doesn't get a kick out of watching a very loud train rush by up close? There were a whole bunch of us back then. The crew was made up of Dad, Dick Shimer, Allen McDaniels, Ricky, Danny, and myself.

I don't know who picked up the first rock and threw it at a passing open boxcar, but very soon we all followed suit. The idea was to throw a stone or a rock clear through the open doors of the passing boxcar. It took a little skill and good timing to accomplish the task and it was a lot of fun. More often than not we failed at it and only heard the rock loudly bouncing off the steel walls inside the car. This was a great pastime and we took advantage of every passing train for the next few days that we were working on the fence line.

On one occasion, however, as the train was whizzing by and we were bombarding the passing boxcars with rocks and stones, we saw a couple of wetbacks duck for cover inside the boxcar when our barrage of rocks rattled the inside of the car they were occupying. After that we thought better of it and stopped the practice. These poor unfortunates had enough to worry about already without a bunch of locos like us pelting them with rocks and stones.

Keep Hope Alive

2011-04-26T21:46:00.003-05:00

"Admin", the NSCL pooch, visited with the vet at the Brush Country Veterinary Clinic in Freer this afternoon. After a methodical examination, he was diagnosed as suffering acute kidney disease. Admin is presently taking a cocktail of prescription medications and has been advised by his vet to avoid all forms of stress. Once the medication runs its course, he will return to the clinic for a follow-up visit. The prognosis is encouraging. His mashed paw remains tender, but it will heal satisfactorily.

Words do not come easily to Admin, and it is all but impossible for him to personally thank all those generous and good-hearted folks who worked to secure his health care fund. His gratitude will forever be true and boundless.

On a side note, most of his human friends figured that Admin was an old and tired dog. That is not the case. The vet determined that this once unfortuante canine was only about three years old. Life on the mean streets of Benavides, Texas must have taken their toll on Admin before his rescue and adoption. His outlook is hopeful.

Moved to Tears

2011-04-25T16:33:00.004-05:00

No lines on a body were ever shaped more seductively than those that stirred my lust today. The sheer and curvy figure was pure perfection. I locked my thumbs in my pants pockets to keep my hands in check. Animalistic desire to reach out and touch made me tremble. My eyes pooled, blurring my vision. Boldly, I stole one more look, then walked away.

Watching Smoke

2011-04-24T12:40:00.005-05:00

Mesquite smoke coming off the grill clouded their vision and made their eyes water, but did little to hinder their appetite for beer or barbecue.

Hands That Can

2011-04-23T07:47:00.007-05:00

He has a feel for machinery; how the moving parts should click and resonate when in good working order, and the telltale grinds and moans when not. It is a gift; a mechanical endowment that cannot be acquired from books or observation. In a perfect world, all men would be so blessed. Such as it is, in this world, he is a valued commodity, contributing as much to the quality of life as the sainted physician.

However, unlike the healer, the mechanic can bring the long dead back to life. The powers he calls on are the knowledge in his head, the right tools and replacement parts.

Have Sprayer, Will Kill

2011-04-22T08:10:00.006-05:00

Absent the slightest tremor or hesitation, he has come to kill. Late this afternoon, his poison will snuff the life of his victims using the pale yellow mixture in the spray applicator hanging from his shoulder. The deliverer of death is Sevin XLR in the form of a gentle, yet toxic, mist. It is the hope of the killer that the hive is not populated by Africanized bees. He has no assurance that they are not, but he entertains little doubt that they are. Regardless, he has come to kill.

Good Thursday

2011-04-21T17:44:00.004-05:00

"Admin", the NSCL company dog, conducted his raffle today. He did all right. Counting all the employee donations and raffle ticket sales, his health care fund rose to $477.15. Pictured are the Admin Office staff who initially adopted "Admin". They brought him in off the cold mean streets of Benavides last winter, and since that lucky day..., he has enjoyed a warm and loving home.

The cardboard box he had called his casita was today discarded for a swank and roomy hardwood model purchased by the Admin Office staff out of their own pockets. It was a good Thursday. Our canine friend visits with the vet next week. A great big wonderful 'thank you' goes out to all the good and generous people who reached out to this needful pooch, "Admin".

Tres Anacahuitas

2011-04-20T22:34:00.012-05:00

The anacahuita's blossoms fell to the ground mimicking flakes of snow as a dry wind, paired with the sparse motor traffic cutting west to east on Highway 359, helped sweep the curb free of petals that had spilled onto the hot pavement. A blanket of white spreading under the shade of the three anacahuitas was the only cheerful thing a passerby's eye might catch in the two minutes it took for them to put the cheerless little town behind them. The signs pointed to a dry Easter this year in Benavides, Texas.

Hey Mister, can you spare a dime?

2011-04-19T16:54:00.013-05:00

The company's resident dog enjoys breezy comfort in the shade of parked cars and trucks. On a workday, the lot is crowded with all makes. As the day progresses, each produces islands of shade that the dog migrates to. He picks a spot to flop down on, depending on the direction of the wind and the position of the sun. He naps more than a cat.

A few of the ladies at work call him "Lucky," others know him as "Admin," and one group named him "Flash." Regardless, he is either deaf or indifferent, because he answers to no alias that reaches his ears.

Sadly, in spite of all the shade and love he receives, his is not a life of comfort. The poor fellow may be afflicted with Gastric Dilation. It is a terrible condition more commonly refereed to as canine bloat. In his case, the stomach becomes overstretched by excessive gas content. It's an excruciating death sentence for Lucky, Flash, Admin, whatever, but his immediate concern these days is his leg. It got mashed when one of the employees was backing out. She was not careless, but the bloated dog was slow in relocating from underneath the Toyota when she started it up. The animal learned quickly that the hulking object that was the source of its shade was very heavy, and hurt very much, when it rolled over his hind leg.

The instant the driver heard his painful yelp, her heart stopped, and when all the fuss of the accident was over, she had a good cry. She was so very sorry for the poor animal. Thereafter, the dog made certain to hobble clear of man-made shade. For the next few days after his mishap, he avoided people, too. In the process, he discovered a preference for St. Augustine grass to nap on, instead of the cool shaded blacktop under the big hulks.

The dog's fortunes improved considerably this morning. Our boss, a kind and benevolent woman, took pity and initiated a collection for the mangled Flash, Lucky, Admin, whatever. She aims to get the pooch attended to by a vet. She had one of the clerks make the rounds of all the offices with a collection jar in hand and in only a few minutes amassed $104.00 from the kindhearted generosity of many employees. Tomorrow the dog is having a raffle to augment his health care fund. I kid you not. You can't make stuff like this up.

Elevated Position

2011-04-18T22:20:00.008-05:00

Years of skin mite infestation have rendered one ear all but useless. It is a horrid looking piece of raw flesh encrusted with short tufts of moldy-looking fur. The leathery fold simply hangs off the side of its head like the tattered flap of a worn shirt pocket. It isn't the least bit pretty. The cat is probably deaf out of that one ear. Periodically, it will show up at feeding time bloodied around that ear from all its scratching. The irritation must be as near torturous as hell itself.

We feed the poor animal regularly and provide it and its companions with cool fresh water in a clean bowl, but the wife and I do not claim it, or the others. The only nickel we'll spend on the miserable unfortunate is the twice monthly $6.97 for a seven-pound bag of Meow Mix Original Choice. The cheaper brands would suffice, but the wife prefers a quality product.

When it isn't eating, scratching or mounting felines in heat, it gingerly leaps to the top of the pickup cab and rests there, surveying the country from its elevated position. The cool of the day is its prefered time to siesta up there. It ought not to claim that spot as its own, but it will not be run off. It is a stubborn creature. Only the skin mites have the advantage over it. I really would like to be rid of it, but I fear my wife would find it difficult to forgive me if I shot it dead. I've given up.

Twist Wire

2011-04-17T06:46:00.000-05:00

Respect the wire, but do not be afraid of it. Do not be thinking that it is stretched too tight. Do not imagine that if it breaks, it is going to recoil violently and bite into you like a thousand fangs, tearing into your flesh, shredding it off your body as though tiny knives were hungry for your blood. Respect it. Do not fear it. If you let fear in, you will make mistakes. You will become careless. Your fear will come without warning and strike you like the rattlesnake that lies coiled on the ground, unseen in the tall grass. Perform your work sure. Have confidence. You were instructed by the best. His example will not fail you. Do not fear the wire.

By the middle of summer his confidence was such that he worked without gloves. He could take hold of wire stretched tight as piano string and twist its ends expertly, same as his father had modeled countless times. More often than not, he produced the same neat coiled pattern that his father did. Truly, he had the advantage over the ol' man. He did not have to work with mangled and splintered bones in his fingers and wrists as his father had for years. He did the best he could with the wire, but could never match the fine work of his father.

Five strands of barbed wired stretched tight like guitar strings for a quarter mile were a thing to respect, especially when it came time for their ends to be wrapped and securely twisted around a pair of ceder corner posts planted solidly five feet in the ground. With good men around him, each secure in their work, respect had edged out fear. He could draw near the barbed steel, almost letting it brush his cheek like a mother would a child. No fear.

Summertime (1955)

2011-04-16T23:25:00.029-05:00

David Lean's 1955 "Summertime" was filmed on location in one of my favorite cities. It's a chick flick. Ask me if I care. I liked it so much that I watched it twice today and didn't do a lick of work.

Best line delivered in the movie? "Sometimes I think a schedule in Venice is just.., well.., all wrong."

There ought to be a Make A Wish Fountain for guys like me. My request? "Lord, let me wake up in the morning endowed with the looks, charm and polish of a Rossano Brazzi."

Tax Day

2011-04-15T10:32:00.015-05:00

Seated behind the steering wheel, the man pulled on the release lever, then pushed against the floorboard with his legs, sliding back the seat as far as it could go. He adjusted the back to about 45 degrees, relaxed, reached for his iPhone and waited. In thirty-six years he had grown comfortable waiting for his wife to finish with her shopping, doctor visits, errands, etc. It was easy work for a patient husband. The man often recalled the days long ago when he had spent all his free time in pursuit of the girl. "All I want to do is be with her," the pangs in his heart had told him. He got what he wanted.

This evening she had disappeared behind the building's glass doors. "This won't take long," she had told him. "I love you," she said, with her eyes and her lips. "Lock yourself in." She had always had an elevated sense of security and caution -- more than the man.

He never bothered to look at the time. Not anymore. She would do what she had to do, and staring at his watch had never encouraged her to move any faster. He did not even wear a watch any longer. He hadn't for years. As the minutes passed, he listened to talk radio and amused himself with his phone.

After a while a neatly dressed person stepped into the open from behind the glass doors. From inside the cab of the truck the man took notice of the fellow's neatly trimmed mustache. The gentleman was about his age. He had a fine face, a face that showed character. He enjoyed a full head of thick dark hair, wore a white long-sleeve shirt and dress pants. The belt was thin and had a burnished look to it. His small boots shined in the artificial light. He stood by the building's entrance as though waiting. After a minute he began to pace a few feet, impatient with something or someone. The slightly built man was only about twenty feet away, but the man felt certain that the stranger could not see him in the shadow of the truck's interior. Presently, the stranger's attention was drawn a couple of blocks down the street to the sound of a train rolling through the heart of the city.

The noise of the train rattled something in the man's brain. Sitting patiently in his pickup, waiting for his wife, the man got a memory flash of his father. In this situation his old man would, too, have been waiting patiently, only he would have been outside, standing by the white stucco wall, enjoying a smoke. He certainly would not have been listening to the radio. Few of the vehicles he ever owned had had working radios. His father had not been much of a radio listener anyhow. He would have struck up a conversation with the mustached man. Later, he might have said something witty after the ice was broken, bringing a chuckle to the other. As the rumble of the passing train made conversation more difficult, the two would have turned to watch the squeaky cars roll and rattle by in the dim light from the corner street lamp. The two would have stood silent, each taking long slow drags of their cigarettes. Everyone smoked back then. Dad had an easy way with people. The man remembered his father, missing him.

La Fuente

2011-04-14T21:25:00.006-05:00

Over the years, it has been my good fortune to have stood before a few fountains in a few places; Tokyo, Fairbanks, Caracas, New York City, Paris, Rome, Benavides, others. With the exception of the one trickling arsenic tainted water in Benavides, all were lively places. They were people magnets.

Perhaps it's a location problem. The fountain in front of the city hall is void of pigeons, people, prospects, pennies and popularity. A remedy could be as simple as periodically tossing some loose change into its basin. That could attract a crowd for a short while. Change is in the air. Something will come up.

Contains Lead

2011-04-13T21:14:00.152-05:00

Long before boys and young men panhandled from their parents or guardian, they worked at a job to earn spending money in this town. Some pushed a broom or pumped leaded gasoline at a filling station. In better times, there were at least seven gas stations in Benavides, Texas; five full service, one self. Today? A lone self-serv remains to monopolize the motor fuel market. Full service and competition went the way of the 45 RPM, as did the better times for the pueblito.

A couple of the establishments had garage bays to perform minor auto service. When they weren't changing tires or oil, a mechanic would have been working on some fellow's car or truck engine. They offered a valuable community service. Why should anyone have to get out of their car to pump gas in it? Why should the more-seasoned members of the community have to wrap a bony arthritic hand around a bulky gas nozzle handle? Why should anyone soil their hands sponging splattered bugs off their windshield? There are so many whys.

Where the heck do all the high schoolers in this town work these days? Answer. Nowhere. There is no "where" in this place. The town's stock of young minds has not developed its sense of entrepreneurship. There is plenty of stuff to do that people would shell out cash for. Then, of course, they don't work because their Baby Boomer parents give many of them near all the money they want. Too bad the old service stations are no more.

They're all gone now. The full service, the boys that mowed your yard for a few bucks, the young man who would haul junk to the city dump using his father's pickup, they're gone. The dump is gone, too. The old filling station is the saddest loss of all. These places were excellent social centers for men and boys. Gas fumes, engines revving, girly calendars, cigarette machines, the hydraulic car lift, walls covered with fan belts, and racks of tires, all made for one testosteronic romantic image of Americana. It was a place that instilled a sense of community. All of that and more is long gone and lost.

Work at Home

2011-04-12T07:47:00.003-05:00

The boy needed adult and learned guidance to complete his weighty homework assignments. Equipped with patience, education and ability, I am the man for the job. The boy comes pre-programmed with stubbornness and disinterest in the paperwork. To his eight-year-old mind, it lacks relevance. Though I am in complete agreement with the boy as to the assignment's pertinence, I keep the thought to myself. He must be made to understand that the purpose of the work is to exercise and refine his cognitive processes.

It is not long before the bias of the material leaps from the page. Example. What kid around these parts uses the term "pop" to refer to a soft carbonated drink. To the boy, it is Greek. Crocus bulbs? More Greek.

Trying with the boy to make relevant real-world ties to the homework was a struggle. His underlying frustration broke the surface only once. Voices are never raised. He snapped his pencil in an effort to vent a little steam. The work trying, and 90 minutes later it was completed. The volume assigned was a bit much for a Tuesday night, and this is the case more often than not on most weeknights. Work at home is tough.

Like German Chocolate Cake

2011-04-11T18:19:00.009-05:00

A dry explanation exits to describe the reasons freshly dug dirt erupts with a bouquet of scented earthiness. The breakdown is so dusty and scientific that we are better served to let the colorless facts lie dead in the dirt. It is more satisfying to the senses to simply appreciate the aroma of earth and leave its analysis to the less passionate. Fresh dug dirt simply smells good.

My big brother is closing in on his sixty-fifth birthday. A minor earthworks project on the ranch has compeled this seasoned citizen to dig an impressively long and deep ditch the old fashioned way. With the force of his 160-pound frame, he drove his booted foot onto the shoulder of a spade and began to tear into the ground.

The labor is excellent exercise, working all the muscle groups. You needn't bother with a trainer or a fitness coach to hype you up. The depth of the hole, and the rising mound of loam next to it, serve as a barometer of one's progress.

The benefits of fresh mesquite-scented air gulped by the lungful are preferable to the flat and recirculated climate-control excuse for air found in a sweaty gym. Digging a ditch outdoors is a plenty-fine workout at the ranch. One can scratch, whistle, pick, adjust, spit, sing or whatever, without regard.

The image of a big chunky helping of German chocolate cake comes to mind when I start a dig. Nearing the end, the lip-smacking cake is superseded by the throaty soothingness of ice-cold beer.

All I Want Is the Girl

2011-04-10T22:44:00.003-05:00

My wife was a single teenage girl the last time the sun filtered softly through the leafy canopy of the "Big Tree" at Goose Island State Park and settled as sparkling butterflies of light on her long hair and small shoulders. It was February 1974. Standing next to her in the shade of that tree there was a fire in my heart that she was fanning with every dreamy bat of her eyes. Andaba de chicle with her family and exercising my best manners that day, but the only thought in my head was, "all I want is the girl." I did not give a damn about the tree, its legend or anything, except the girl.

Thirty-seven years later we stood again under the shade of the "Big Tree" and when I primed her memory, she could not remember that day long ago. Of course, I could. I am still on fire and still, all I want is the girl.

Simply Get Up and Go

2011-04-09T18:36:00.012-05:00

The cats don't belong to anyone, certainly not us, but before we simply get up and go, their water dish is filled. These three can survive for 36 hours without the twice-daily sprinkling of cat food they have become accustomed to. They don't even like us. It is only the sound of our front door swinging open and their anticipation of a free meal that keeps them lazing around. They do not even have names and that suites us just fine. We enjoy being able to simply get up and go someplace when the whim hits us.

That is the appeal of the route 66 television series that ran from 1960 to 1964. Todd and Buz could simply get up and go down the road to their next rendezvous with fortune or peril if life grew stale in their present location. As a kid, it was easy to imagine tooling around with this adventuresome pair, but I came to realize something much better when I reached adulthood. I achieved independence and got married. These days, my wife and I enjoy simply getting up and going anywhere we please. The cats have no notion why we disappear for days from time to time. They entertain no affection for us, but they display unusual loyalty. Wherever we drive back from, they wait patiently for us. Clean water and decent food are all a cat desires of humans.

We took off for the coast to picturesque Rockport, Texas this afternoon y pasamos la noche allí. Our reward for two hour's drive time was to dine deliciously at Bellino's, a cozy little Italian restaurant that seats only 40 patrons and offers a good wine list. Once seated, our order was taken and we enjoyed food too wonderful for words; Bruschetta Classica, diced herbed tomatoes on toasted garlic bread, Tilapia all'Arancia, filet of tilapia baked with tomatoes and vegetables in a delicate orange sauce with spaghetti. No two cats ever ate this well.

Rio Grande Wild Turkey

2011-04-08T10:27:00.007-05:00

I grew up on a large ranch. I was a boy when Ike was liked and Kennedy's words, "My fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country," resonated in the hearts and minds of young patriots. It was a different America that none younger than I today would recognize were the clock turned back 50 years.

Except for school days and the once weekly grocery trip to Alice, Texas, ours was an isolated existence. The family home was an island in a sea of brush and pastureland, miles from the nearest paved road and absolutely void of neighbors. Day or night, it was just us, KTSA, two television channels from distant Corpus Christi and no telephone. And wildlife.., there was so much wildlife we hardly took notice. It was simply life in the country and all that it entailed.

Aside from the herds of beef that taught us to watch where we stepped, our company in the brush were coyotes, javelin, rattlesnakes, raccoons, birds of every description, the occasional bobcat, Texas turtles, cotton tails and jackrabbits, horny toads, every flying bug in existence, and the old-fashion variety of wetback. We even enjoyed a good-sized fish pond big enough to drown in. Turkeys, however, are odd ones. In all the time I spent exploring the brush country, creek bottoms and the hidden places, I never saw more than a handful of gobblers. The Texas Parks and Wildlife Department must have been doing something right in the last 50 or so years. Today I see turkeys everywhere. Ours is the Rio Grande wild turkey. The sight of them makes me want to pick up a BB gun to go exploring again like when I was a little boy.

15 Acres

2011-04-07T17:49:00.009-05:00

A skinny gopher poked its head up from a dusty hole in the ground where the man was set to pound in the next T-post. The two eyeballed each other, the man to the gopher, gopher to man, neither moving for a minute. It never blinked, but the man did. Wind fanned up a small dust cloud off the rocky ground, irritating his eye. He released his grip off one end of the 6-foot steel post, letting it drop to the ground by his boot. His gloved hand came up to his mouth where he bit down on a leather finger, pulling his hand free. As he rubbed his eye, the gopher remained motionless, paying no notice to the dust or the man's actions. Its unblinking eyes remained fixed on the big fellow. The man stared right back with one eye, thinking, that of all the spots in his fifteen acres of brush, the gopher had picked the wrong one to hollow out an entrance to its burrow. The property line was not about to budge an inch or a foot or a yard to accommodate it. Documents at the courthouse would not allow for it. The lines were set on paper and in the man's head. He had paced off the perimeter of his fifteen acres many times since its purchase. Soon, this one misplaced hole would be a memory to him and the gopher.

The little animal blinked once and read the man's expression. Taking a tiny sniff of the dry air, it darted back underground.

"Sorry, little fellow," said the man.

The glove returned to the hand, the T-post was positioned, and the heavy post driver came down hard, again and again and again, planting the post solidly into the caliche soil mix. It was slow steady work in the heat of the afternoon and the man was content to labor on his land. He was here to relax.

"De poquito al poquito," is Simon's mantra. By summer's end the property will be fenced, selected areas of brush will be cleared and he can then turn his thoughts to a water well and to the electric power for his acreage. In this stage of his life he has all the time in the world to give to his 15 acres.

Elizabeth Todd Burns

2011-04-06T22:37:00.009-05:00

Elizabeth Todd Burns is a self-published author living in the Rio Grande Valley. Her first non-fiction work, A Random Encounter At The Post Office, is now available on Amazon.com and on the iBook app for the iPad. You can also download it for the Kindle from Amazon. Ms. Burns is humble. She does not entertain high hopes for a great commercial success, but simply enjoys the fun of following through on ideas... like writing a book. The cost to you? Only 99¢.

Do not let the title fool you. It is a good read. The news outlets along the porous and murderous Texas-Mexican border under report the brutal and violent residual effects of the illegal trade along that boundary. This is a fast-paced account detailing the intricacies of the decades-old illegal trade between two great North American countries that share a nearly 2000 mile border and little else. Elizabeth Burns does a first-rate job chronicling one veteran smuggler's firsthand account of his, and others, role in the illicit line of trade in contraband, firearms, drugs and desperate souls seeking a better life.

de MÉXICO

2011-04-05T08:05:00.005-05:00

The dead, resting in marked and unmarked graves in the city cemetery, get their bones rattled by the blast of the Kansas City Southern de Mexico about seven or eight times a day. The living get a respectable jolt out of it, too. With a name like Kansas City Southern de Mexico, the locals would be more forgiving of the train's speed and rumble through town if the salvo from its horn sounded more like a mariachi's trumpet. A few bars of "Jalisco" would be nice.

Day and night, the rails conduct their business, slicing east/west through eight city blocks of Benavides. A festive mariachi trumpet would find good company in these parts. The brush country has always been an ambiguous region of the United States of America. It's never been quite all Mexican, nor has it been one-hundred proof American. Culturally and economically, it is a menudo mix of people and ideas.

The KCS de Mexico is right at home here.

Poco Windy Con Polvo

2011-04-04T20:57:00.021-05:00

The National Weather Service issued a Red Flag warning this morning for Jim Wells and Duval counties. With a cold front moving through the pueblito late this afternoon, the dry air was forecast to collide with animal, vegetable and mineral at sustained levels of 25 to 35 miles an hour, with gusts reaching 45. This combination of low humidity and strong winds heightened the danger of potential grass and brush fires. As promised, the wind blew very hard, sweeping the ground clear and exposing the hard-pack laying just underneath the sandy surface. It got to be so bad that driving home from work I saw a clump of dried dog turds scooching downwind on a recently paved north/south street.

The whisk of dry air through Benavides today was only a minor annoyance. Had Mother Nature tacked another 15 to 20 miles per hour to this parade of dust and plastic bags that swept though, it may have taken with it some of the sad bounty of dilapidated houses and mobile homes that make up a good bit of the abandoned real estate around here. That would have been a blessing of sorts from her. At the very least, that extra puff may have been sufficient to splinter and flatten some of these shabby derelicts. In due time the native grasses and thorny brush will reclaim the township grid that was staked out over a hundred years ago when Benavides was looking like it was going to make something of itself. The best guess is that what will remain in the confines of the city limits in the next score of years will be pockets of prideful home owners who will continue to keep their yards clipped, their homes painted, the trees trimmed, and their front yards clear of 55-gallon barrels filled with trash. These folks will not landscape their property with rusting Chevy 350 cubic inch engine blocks being slowly reclaimed by the earth.

I hope I'm wrong... wrong about the decay. Through the years, my self-professed prognostications concerning the prospects for many of the young people I have worked with in the schools have proved faulty. A good number of those I have silently pronounced doom over have done well as responsible tax-paying adults. I never mind being wrong when society profits. I am probably wrong about Benavides, Texas. Maybe the next big blow from the North will bring something good with it. Hopefully, new blood and ideas will be borne by the winds that today only brought polvo and grit between our teeth.

4,748 Days Ago

2011-04-03T21:41:00.005-05:00

Today, Isela celebrated her 13th birthday.
"I used to be thirteen," I quipped to her. It is something I say to everyone out of habit, depending on their age. The humor probably wore off the crack a long time ago, so my attempt at wit brought no response from the child. She knew there was money in the envelope stamped with a birthday greeting. That was all that mattered today for the girl. It is to be expected. She is a child born to the material age of consumerism. I doubt there is much magic left in little girls' birthdays in these times that we live today. Happy birthday, darling.

Hey, Birdman!

2011-04-02T09:51:00.019-05:00

   "Hey, birdman!"
   The little voice grated on the old man's ears. He tried to ignore the child.
   "Hey, birdman! What do you feed the birds?" the boy continued. He stood by the cages stacked three-high on a long table, pointing with a tiny finger. "Those birds are green. Are those parakeets?"
   "Yes," The man puffed the word out along with the smoke from the cigarette that hang limp at the corner of his mouth.
   "If they're parakeets how come they're not talking? How come they're not saying anything," the boy asked.
Pretending not to hear the child, the man offered no answer.

   "Hey, birdman!" the boy called again. "Hey, birdman! Did you hear me? How come they're not saying anything?"
   "Parrots," said the man. He did not look at the boy, but continued to arrange the wire cages.
   "Those are parakeets. I thought they were parakeets?" the boy sounded uncertain now.
   The man would not repeat himself.
   "Hey, birdman!" The boy was insistent. "Hey, birdman! Did you hear me? How come the parakeets aren't talking?"
   "Parrots talk. Not parakeets," the man answered reluctantly. "You need to go. Go home to your mother."
   At the far end of the table an old van with a dull white finish was parked with its rear doors swung open. A plump girl in a faded blue dress was bringing out more cages filled with birds. Her sandaled feet were dusted with the caliche that topped the shaded spot they had pulled onto from off the highway. Some of the cages held canaries, lovebirds, budgies. Others were populated with jardines conures, and mini macaws.
   The boy had never seen so many birds in one place. Certainly, he had never seen birds like these in the small town where he lived. The table was taking on a colorful flourish of feathers. The cage the girl was pulling out now held a lone and proud-looking cockatoo.
   "Hey, birdman!" The boy was not going anywhere. "Hey, birdman! Are you selling all these birds?"
   From the other end of the table the girl took no notice of the little boy.
   "Hey, birdman! How come they're not talking?"
   The man set a cage down, brought his cigarette to his lips, and took a calming drag. He exhaled wearily and turned to the boy. He drew once more from his half-spent smoke and brought the cigarette down in his fisted hand, resting the knuckles on his hip. The cigarette remained lightly pinched between the curled first and middle fingers of his right hand. A thin and pretty blue ribbon of smoke corkscrewed from the half-smoked butt.
   "I told you, boy," he said slowly. "Parrots talk. Not parakeets. I don't have no parrots here." The man had not meant to say so much, but he thought it would be enough to discourage more questions.
   The boy stood silent for only a second. With a quick twist of his little neck he surveyed the mounting inventory on the long table and turned back to look up at the man. The cigarette had returned to its place in the corner of his broad mouth.
   "Hey, birdman! How come you don't have parrots?"
The plump girl in the blue dress had walked a few feet down the highway holding a couple of crudely painted signs. Blood red letters on a white background read "EXOTIC BIRDS FOR SALE." She drove the long wooden stakes they were stapled to into the soft ground with a flat caliche rock. She walked back to the van, looking tired though it was not yet nine in the morning. She was a morenita as the locals would say.
   "Hey, birdman! Did you hear me? How come you don't have any parrots?"
This was a stubborn one. The old man pushed back his straw fedora, then flicked the spent butt to the ground. "How come you're not at school? You should be at school. Yes?"
   "We don't have school today." It was the first time the boy had not asked a question that morning.
   "Hey, birdman! How come you don't have parrots?"
   The man ignored the question. With some little ones, no answer of any kind was sufficient. Soon enough, this one would grow weary from lack of attention and go away. He had not come here to talk to children. He had come to make a few dollars. He had claimed this shady spot to sell birds. They were not his birds, and he could not keep all of the dollars that he would put into the metal box on the table, but his percentage was enough to live on.
   "Hey, birdman! Don't you like parrots?"
   He wanted to say something ugly at the boy to scare him, or make him cry a little so that he would leave, but he dared not. It would be poison to do so. He did not care for the boy's feelings, but word would spread through the little town that the man selling the caged birds under the big shady tree on the edge of town had verbally roughed up a child. That would be trouble. It would ruin his small trade.
   "Hey, birdman! How come you don't answer nothing?"
   A big shiny black Escalade pulled over and a pretty woman with sparkles like tiny suns around her neck and on her hands stepped off. Her expensive black shoes stood in sharp contrast to the caliche. She asked about the cockatoo. If she would take that bird right now, thought the old man, I would make my day and get out of this town this morning and away from this child.
   "Hey, birdman! Don't go away. I'm going home to go get my little brother."

Benavides Tough

2011-04-01T22:31:00.004-05:00

The photo is of a human molar. It is not a man's. Something like this can never belong to man. A man could not tolerate a tooth cracked this severely for any length of time. This molar belongs to a woman... a local girl. Only a woman who has labored from beginning to end in childbirth could defer the discomfort and aggravation of a molar split right down the middle.

The pulpy pinkish blob protruding between the split halves is gum tissue. It's growing, and has been for some time. Some people have a respectable tolerance for pain and discomfort. That is tough behavior. Tolerance of this degree is on a higher plane of the human experience. Let's call it Benavides tough.

Thankfully, the woman attached to this horrid molar will be taking care of it soon. Until then, she has been, is, and will remain... Benavides tough.

Absolutely Nuts

2011-03-31T21:48:00.010-05:00

They come in pairs. Before they are washed, peeled, sliced, soaked in a milky rich eggy bath, dusted with flour, pepper sprinkled, deep-fried, then served hot in a toasty tortilla, they have to be liberated from between a bull calf's hind legs. It takes a sharp knife worked by a sure hand. This is not work for the squeamish.

Below the Rio Bravo they are called los huevos del toro, but north of that tumultuous border line, they are more commonly refered to as mountain oysters, Texas calf fries, or prairie oysters. They are a tasty delicacy if you don't think about it too much. It's absolutely nuts.

Bank Shot

2011-03-30T20:48:00.023-05:00

An instant before the pretty bank teller behind the counter pressed the button to unlock the exit door, I gave the handle a hard push. The effort went nowhere, but the momentum I had built up did, bringing me within a quarter-inch of bumping my head on the plate glass. A bank robber had proved successful holding up the place in the summer of 2007, so security at the little bank had been kicked up a notch, and ever since, customers had been buzzed in and out of the tiny building. Security cameras stared down from every corner now. It remains uncertain how the new security measures would have thwarted the bank robber. He used a handgun that one time, and to date, he remains unidentified, free and probably in good spirits.

Waiting for the lock to click free and for my embarrassment to fade, I looked out across the railroad tracks to the long-abandoned Merchants Exchange Bank. A tenth of a mile from my vantage point, the grand relic stood framed by the stenciled letters on the glass door in front of me. I thought it curious that my feet were planted on the floor of this little bank today, but fifty-plus years ago, these same feet, more tender and small, had taken little steps across the black and white checkerboard pattern on the shiny floor of the old bank's lobby. To a little boy the place had seemed cavernous. Back then, cash and commerce had been its lifeblood and it had enjoyed good years of solvency. Today, the only deposits in the old bank were those left by the pigeons. The thought was only a flash, but it was enough to feel a tinge of sadness to realize how the old bank now stood like a tombstone of sorts over the dead and decaying pueblito.

After the all death, destruction, and defeat suffered by the Confederate States of America, the refrain 'the South shall rise again' could be heard continually by Dixie's faithful for decades following Lee's surrender at Appomattox. It did. The South did rise again, and it did come to know growth and prosperity once more, but not in any incarnation that veteran Johnny Rebs would have imagined. Perhaps, Benavides too, will rise again in a new and different mold. These feet may yet walk there before they grow stiff, cold and bloodless.

Narrow Bipinnately Compound Leaves

2011-03-29T21:52:00.011-05:00

"As a tree it seems to me as graceful and lovely as any tree in the world. When, in the spring, trees and bushes put on their delicately green, transparent leaves and the mild sun shines upon them, they are more beautiful than any peach orchard… The greens seems to float through the young sunlight into the sky…"

J. Frank Dobie,
“The Mesquite,” Arizona Highways, November, 1941

The mesquite's small frothy-looking clusters are called catkins. Each bunch is made up of tiny pale green or yellowish flowers that lure swarms of pollinating insects. They're called candelillas in Spanish.

“It (the mesquite) comes as near being characteristic of the whole Southwest, including much of Mexico, as any species of plant life known to the region,” said Dobie. “I ask for no better monument over my grave than a good mesquite tree.”

Fish

2011-03-28T22:13:00.006-05:00

The boy won a gold fish at a carnival game and soon discovered he had no place to plop it into. When a kid wins something for nothing, the prize is supposed to be free. Not so, and my little friend would soon learn that nothing is ever really free.

After the fun of the rides and the food at the carnival, a late night trip to Walmart was in order. The fish needed to be outfitted with survival gear. That was when the cost of "free" began to add up. The little gold fish required a small tank. The boy wanted a nice one, and nice ones come with an aquarium light hood and a 15-watt incandescent bulb. The extension cord to reach the electrical outlet in the far corner of his room is extra. It did not come in the box. Fish get hungry and are more content if their water world is kept sparkling clean. Next to the various tanks on display there were fish foods and water care products waiting to drop into the shopping cart.

"Can I buy a toy?" the boy asked his mother. The toy aisle with the new Halo 3 action figures was coincidentally under the same roof as the fish supplies.

"No. Not this time," she answered. Her tone was soft. "We're buying toys for your free fish right now."

"My fish is going to need a friend," the boy said. "He's going to be lonely in his aquarium. Can we buy him a friend."

"We'll get him two." Mother was feeling generous tonight, but $40 poorer.

The Card Reader

2011-03-27T22:04:00.006-05:00

   "That man that reads the cards is here," she said. The excitement in Lupita's voice gave it a little girl's lilt. "They just told me. He's here in town. I just heard."
   "¿Las barajas?" asked Maricela. "He reads barajas?"
"Yes, girlfriend," she answered. "He's very good. They say that... that he's very good. My sister went to him one time and he told her everything. How could he know? But he did. He told her all about everything."
   "Like what? What did he say" What did he tell her?" asked another. It was Evita, the one who hardly ever spoke at all. Her eyes grew wide.
   "Like about her husband and of the time she got sick and everything. How could he know? And he didn't have to use the cards, girlfriend. He just lookteded at her eyes. He read her eyes. He told her everything," she said.
   "Where? Where is he?" she asked. "Let's go Lupita. You'll go with me, right?. Okay? Let's go. We'll go at lunch."
   "Yes, girlfriend. I'll go with you."
   "But what if he tells me something I don't want to know? What if it's bad? I don't know, now," said Maricela.
   "What! Don't be like that. I know about this man. He's very good. He's helped a lot of people. He's good. He has a good face," Lupita assured her. "He only charges what you can pay him. Whatever you want to give him. That's all."
   "A good face? Yes, that's good. Right?" asked Maricela.
   "He can help, girlfriend," said Lupita. "My sister went to him and he helped her a lot. He did. She has her baby now. He can help you, girlfriend. Yes? You want your baby, right?"
   "Okay. Go with me at lunch," answered Maricela. She grew quiet after that and left the room.
   "Baby? Maricela has a baby?" Evita looked to Lupita.
   "No! She wants a baby. She has had problems with that. She wants a baby, but she can't," said Lupita. "That's why she has to go see the man to read the cards. He can help her with this."
   "How? Is he like a doctor?" Evita asked. "Is that how he can help?"
   "No! Don't you see? He will read her the cards. The cards can tell what is wrong," said Lupita. "The cards will help make things right again."
   "How? I don't understand," she asked. "Make what right?"
   "Don't you know nothing, girl?"
   "Maricela has been trying to have a baby," explained Lupita. "It's never happened for her. She wants to give her husband babies so bad. She feels so bad inside because she thinks she cannot have children and never will. Maricela feels so bad and I think she has lost hope in her life. She has been to doctors and they tell her that she is perfect inside. That nothing is wrong. That her ovaries and her uterus are fine. They tell her they are healthy. Nothing is wrong with her. I say the doctors must be wrong. It is something else. Something else is wrong! The cards will explain. I have seen it happen before with others."

There is a very real danger in pursing answers to life's questions through the occult. It works to build a wall of resistance between your spirit and the Word of God. The reality of the occult world is undeniable, but God demands that we look solely to him for guidance and life's answers.

A Light Workout

2011-03-26T22:11:00.010-05:00

At times, the geography of the mesquite brush makes it impractical to employ a chain saw or an excavator. You have to low-tech it and get in there with a three-and-a-half-pound single bit axe. My brother and I called it a light work out today. We thought we could fool ourselves into believing that clearing a path through the brush was a simple undertaking and not the life-threatening ordeal that it actually was for two males past their prime. He's 65. I'm 58. I cannot speak for him, but I lead a sedentary life. In the course of a regular day, the most I physically tax my body is a fast-paced 30-minute walk after work. Swinging an axe in humid 90-degree air is pushing the envelope for this guy.

Dad's words of caution always sound in my head when I look at the business end of a well-sharpened axe. "Tenga cuidado, mijo. No te vayas a mochar un dedo, por que esos no cresen para atrás." That was his way of saying that when the axe head completes its downward arc and makes contact with the wood or your foot, the sharpened edge will strike with 10,000 pounds of pressure. If you make a mistake with your first swing on the mesquite, you can always try again, but you cannot afford to be careless because there is no way you can stick your toes back on your foot. That's important. Big brother is outfitted with steel toe boots. I'm operating out here in my well-worn athletic shoes from Walmart. The ol' man would certainly look down on that piece of judgment.

The brush clearing served as an excellent workout. We proceeded cautiously, keeping an eye out for critters that sting or bite. Our pace was steady, we hydrated often and enjoyed good conversation. These bodies that are past the half-century mark still serve us well. We felt like powerful men today; using our torsos, gluts and legs to deliver steady and efficient blows with our axes. Dad taught us well.

Puppy Love

2011-03-25T23:38:00.004-05:00

Three pups came calling today. A dozen steps from our office door, a patch of St. Augustine became their playground. All females, they yipped, yapped, and rolled under a warm South Texas sun. For the better part of the workday, their sight and sounds acted as an agent to lower our blood pressures. They liked me and I liked them.

If they didn't have the need to eat, defecate and chase cars, one might have been tossed in the back of the pickup at quitting time and taken home.

That did not happen. In the long run, I would rather refill the blood pressure medication and not concern myself with what I may step in when I fetch the morning paper.

Taking Hold of the Wind

2011-03-24T06:34:00.009-05:00

Invisible rivulets of air piercing past the narrows between the flesh of the fingers at eighty miles an hour delivers a dynamite sensation. It is instant. It takes seed in the cerebral cortex in a microsecond, and it does it without the aid of an external chemical delivery system. It is a natural rush supported by the internal combustion engine, a heavy foot, and fifty cents worth of 87 octane gasoline.

The hit is best experienced at illegal highway speeds on roads leading away from Benavides, Texas. This low-grade nirvana induces feelings of escape, deliverance, release, independence, liberation, et al. In the American male, holding the reins to 360 horses on the open road, the gut feeling is one of rugged individualism. It is a trip, but one best taken in daylight, on a long ribbon of highway in the wide open spaces under the big South Texas sky. To launch into it at night is a lame effort, with the unwelcome specter of suicide riding shotgun.

State Highway 359 works best in this mix. Exit the pueblito from the east, lean into the slow lazy curve just beyond the city limits that points you toward San Diego, and then stomp it. Roll down your window and push your free hand into the slipstream. It is as if you are taking hold of the wind. You begin to rise with the landscape. Two and a half miles later, you find yourself 100 feet higher than the curve you left behind. This is a kid's game played at any age.

What's in a Name?

2011-03-23T21:45:00.006-05:00

Proverbs 22:1 - A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favour rather than silver and gold. KJV

Benavides, Texas and Raymundo Ramos came of age in the crest of the 20th century, the post World War II years. The two drew sustenance and strength from a reservoir of resources that few imagined would one day play out. Collateral wealth from the oil fields worked to shape Benavides into an exceptional and amiable community. Its citizens took pride in that, and rightfully so. The family culture that groomed Raymundo Ramos into a fine young man, promoted a strong work ethic, bolstered by the tenets of the Roman Catholic Church. Faith, morality and self-reliance were infused into the bloodstream of his generation.

Today, the town is a sad scrap of its former self, but not Raymundo Ramos. The mantle of goodness, civility and polish that adorned Benavides, Texas generations ago is personified today in this fine gentleman, one of its favorite sons. His good name and reputation have acted as a moral compass, pointing the countless lives he touched in his long teaching and coaching career, to true north.

Artifacts

2011-03-22T22:08:00.061-05:00

These days, the shallow moisture sponged into the sandy loam of South Texas after the last rains is being drawn into the air and scattered by the seasonal winds. First, the dampness is blown away, stealing the supple newness of the early spring, and then the powder-fine sands follow, laying a dull coat on the flushes of green. When this occurs, the wind's sweeping action forces the ground to give up buried vestiges of an earlier time. One such artifact lay unearthed this morning a couple of dozen steps from my front door, its faded colors bringing to light images of near-forgotten Texas lore. It was a crushed and flattened aluminum can of XXX Pearl Fine Lager Beer, one of the foulest brews ever produced for the consuming public. The best estimation dates the can back to 1972.

This was trash day and the first impulse was to toss it into the stiff plastic bin before wheeling it out to the street, but hesitation took hold and the mashed can was set aside for closer examination at a later time. The rhyme and rhythm of the workday's morning routine took president over this dated curiosity. The can would wait.

The can's survival serves to remind the present that the beer culture has been prevalent in South Texas for generations. The brand and brewery matter not. A press of beer trucks races from San Antonio to Brownsville to Laredo to Corpus Christi and points in between in a never-ending delivery cycle. The insatiable lust for beer around here is only equal to the area's appetite for marijuana and cocaine. Dulling the senses to the realities of life is big business.

Wind and erosion coax arrowheads and charred pottery to tell us about the peoples who walked these lands a millennia ago. What will our artifacts say about us? Beer cans pounded flat and long buried will have a sad tale to tell.

Un Miedo Terrible

2011-03-21T21:45:00.008-05:00

Benito Juárez terrified me to tears when I was four years old. One evening, Dad was cruising the family down Avenida Vicente Guerrero in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. Two miles south of what was then the only vehicular bridge linking los dos Laredos, he reduced speed as we neared a traffic circle. Its focal point was a combination earthen-concrete platform serving as a base for a 30-foot column topped by the most frightening figure I had ever seen in my young life. It was a very menacing Benito Juárez and he was looking right at me.

I dropped to the floorboard, hiding from the stone monster. The family thought it all very amusing. To my horror, they began to exit the safety of the car. Were they crazy? It was dark out there. My mother urged me to come along with them and enjoy a closer look at the towering monument. Slowly, I raised my little body from off the floor behind the front seat and took one quick peek through the passenger door window. I let go with a meek child's wail and began crying. I just wanted out of there. I wanted everyone back in the car now and I wanted us to drive away from that horrible place as quickly as possible. Take me home! How long we parked there, I cannot recall, but I stayed down on the floorboard the whole time, curled in a little ball.

Four or five years later, a bit older and a tad more sophisticated, Benito and I again came face to face. The family returned to that traffic circle and parked in the same spot once more. My older siblings were teasing me, chuckling about the torment I had suffered that night. When Dad switched the engine off, I was quick to exit and make my way directly to the monument's base to confront my former vexation. I recalled feeling silly over my behavior on our first encounter.

Señor Juárez and I get along splendidly these days. Happy birthday, Benito.

Authenticity

2011-03-20T07:48:00.019-05:00

The steel-plated behemoth that he walks up to is a Type-1 Chi-He tank, a vintage Imperial Japanese Army killing machine of World War II, completely authentic, and the boy knows it. He had visited the National Museum of the Pacific War in Fredericksburg, Texas back in December of 2008, but its Pacific Combat Zone outdoor complex did not exist then. The boy is pleased and impressed with the new addition. The little plastic models he gets from Walmart are fine to pass the time with, but the real things, the ones whose cold pitted steel he can pat with his small hand, have greater significance. It is their authenticity that he values. The excitement that his eight-year-old mind cannot verbalize, his eyes speak loudly for him.

Hill Country Lemmings

2011-03-19T08:19:00.002-05:00

The caravan of cars, pickups and SUVs had been at a standstill for a long time. Mommas were having to lead their toddler boys from their idle vehicles out to the bushes off the highway shoulder so the little ones could take a tinkle. The little pricks enjoyed no privacy. A stretch of highway near the entrance to Enchanted Rock State Natural Area on Farm to Market Road 965 had become a narrow mile-long parking lot, so more than a few prying eyes watched as the kids watered the weeds. Traffic waited patiently to inch forward. All the while, the northbound traffic continued to appear on the crest of the hill to the south. They, too, would have to come to a stop at the end of the growing line of Hill Country lemmings.

Tiny figures could be seen making their way to the top of the granite dome. From where we were sat, just over a mile away, we stewed in envy. Yet, few in the long line were willing to break the ranks and turn back to Fredericksburg. None had any notion what lay ahead. There was no hint how long it would be before we, too, would tramp our way to the top of the dome. We were as clueless as lemmings.

A Feel for Wood

2011-03-18T23:08:00.017-05:00

An image of a small dark-skinned figure with painted skin and feathers on his head came to mind when I saw the sign above the door that read "Specializing in Mexican and European Primitives." Walking past the threshold into the antique store what I saw instead were old men tagging behind their silver-hared wives, but no primitives adorned in paint or feathers. The women would take an article in hand, raising to their noses for closer inspection. Others followed the contours of a weathered table or rocking chair, tracing them with a finger and an admiring eye. The mens focus was fixed on the numbers penciled on the small tags attached to each piece. It was amusing to watch them raise an eyebrow as they moved a wrinkled hand protectively near their wallets.

My friend has flecks of gray on his full head of hair, but unlike the other men there, he was less concerned with what might catch his wife's fancy or the dollar amounts scribbled on the little white tags. He was looking for the right piece. My friend has a feel for wood, and so the antique would have an element of it. He did not know what the piece was, but he would recognize it when he saw it.

Before long he reached for something and brought it up, holding it in his hands. "What do you think?" he asked.

Initially, I did not know what it was. I was surrounded by the kinds of household items we had emptied my grandmother's house of more than forty years ago, and tossed out as junk. Yet, here it was again, stacked high and for sale with inflated prices.

"It's an old paper dispenser," my friend says.

Yes, it was, I agreed. Before I could point out to him that it would not hold any sized rolled paper on the market today, he tells me that he is going to "fix it" in his workshop back home. The conviction in his voice gave no reason to doubt that he would.

What For Green?

2011-03-17T11:24:00.004-05:00

Should anyone tease me today for not wearing green, I will say to them...

"The day I see merry throngs of the Irish dancing to "Viva Jalisco" down 5th Avenue in Manhattan on Cinco de Mayo, then I will be happy to adorn myself as green as a pea."

80 Patties

2011-03-16T06:32:00.006-05:00

The hamburger patties he was hand-patting were of certified Angus beef. Friends often asked how his hamburgers tasted extra good on the grill. He had a few tricks. To make good burgers, he started with high fat meat. He had never been remotely tempted to buy leaner meat. It cost more and had less fat. He was not about to start making that mistake. The problem with the lean meat was that it failed to drip and feed the fire. Burgers tended to come out dry rather than juicy when using the leaner variety of beef. He found that an 80 percent lean to 20 percent fat ratio worked well for his brand of burgers.

He aimed for a little over a quarter-pound patty per burger. That was a good-sized chunk to pat out, but most of the extra fat cooked out, leaving the burger smaller when cooked than when raw and waiting to go on the grill. He never measured out anything. It was a simple thing to just eyeball the ground beef and grab enough to make the patty a bit larger than the size of the buns.

It was best to use fresh meat; nothing from the freezer, fresh or not. Years ago he had used meat partially frozen or quickly defrosted in the microwave or dipped in water to thaw quickly, but once the patty began to cook on the grill, it lent itself to crumble badly.

He always used his hands to pat and shape the patties. In his opinion, the contraptions sold in stores to shape burgers packed the meat too hard. Patties made this way were tougher and prevented the marinade from soaking in. He would use his thumb to mash down on the center of the patty. This allowed the marinade to sit on top while cooking and do the most good. Before setting them on the grill he would sprinkle them on both sides with lemon pepper seasoning. These he would cook slowly over an even bed of charcoal. Slow cooking and even temperatures guaranteed tender juicy burgers. Many of his compadres insisted that he could coax better flavor using mesquite coals, but he knew they did not know what they were talking about. Mesquite had its uses, deservedly so, but not for the hamburger patty.

Using a spatula for flipping the burgers was best. If a fork was used, holes would be made in the patty, making its juices run out. The meat would then turn out tough and dry. And he never mashed the burgers. His method took longer, but the patient were rewarded with a better tasting burger. At mid-morning on this day, it was his job to produce 80 by lunchtime.

Chamuscar

2011-03-15T22:40:00.009-05:00

More often than not in the man's work-weary life, South Texas had endured long dry spells, and dry times were always hot times. Temperatures at the ranch that summer hovered around the 100-degree mark for the better part of the day. It seemed to him that la nopalera thrived in that sun and this morning his job was to burn the spines off from acres of prickly pear. Cattle were growing hungry in this drought and el jefe had made it plain that buying trailer loads of feed was not economically practical. So today, the man would be putting out a 2,500-degree roaring flame. It would be hot work. He did not like it, but he was paid to do an honest day's work.

In this terrible heat he would dress accordingly. His pear-burning attire would consist of heavy boots, jeans, a pair of leather chaps to protect his legs from the cactus spines, a heavy shirt, a brush jacket, a bandanna, his large-brimmed straw hat and a pair of White Mule gauntlet gloves. Before turning the valve shut on the chamusquera at the end of the day, he would have sweated gallons from the heat and and the heavy garments, but there was reason for the uncomfortable attire. First, he was about to wade into a patch of prickly pear as tall as a horse. Their spines would be deflected by his boots, chaps, brush jacket, and gloves. This was not work conducted in Bermuda shorts and tennis shoes. Second, he never knew what might be in that patch of pear besides the spiny pear. Rattlesnakes, copperheads, and other unpleasantness such as scorpions, centipedes, and wasps were fond of the shade and protection provided by the pear.

The man would be careful, but he would be alone, too. In the work pickup that morning he had set a 55-gallon barrel of water with a hand-pump and hose attached. His drinking water, and he had plenty, was iced down in a 3-gallon Igloo in the pickup's cab. The water in the barrel was not for him. It had another purpose. The brush and grass were very dry all around. He would use the pump and hose to soak the ground and vegetation around the patch of pear so it would not catch fire while burning the pear. And, God forbid, he would use it to put out any fires he accidentally started.

Once the grass and ground were dampened, he was ready to begin chamuscando. He shouldered the strap, hung the tank just below his behind and turned open the valve to the tank. The man heard the hiss of the propane bleed out the nozzle, then introduced the venting gas to the flame of his lighter. Instantly, he was rewarded with a sudden roar as two feet of flame leaped out of the business end of the pear burner. The real work had now begun. Like a fly fisherman, he waded into the patch of pear, spewing spine-singeing flame with every watchful step he took.

He was a good man with a pear-burner and there weren't many like him these days. In this horrendous heat from the sun and the blast from the pear burner, if he didn't dehydrate and die of thirst, he could expect to burn the spines off an acre or so of pear in a day. It would take his jefe's cattle most of the next day to chew the nopales to a stringy mass, extracting its nourishment and moisture. At the rate the cattle would take to satisfy their four stomachs, the man would be repeating this process a good part of the summer. He hoped that el jefe was praying for rain as much as he.

The man also prayed that he could keep his mind off the cigarettes tucked in the visor of the ranch pickup. He usually kept them in his shirt pocket, but it would not be long before they'd be soaked through with his sweat and ruined. With a pear-burner in operation you did not smoke. The pressurized propane being bled out from behind his ass made him nervous, and when he was nervous, he liked to smoke.

Stemmed by a Valve

2011-03-14T19:35:00.038-05:00

The great marvel of the ranch tractor is that it can take a man of nominal abilities and empower him like a superman. It is one of the most enabling motorized contraptions of the last hundred years. But as with all things super, it has an Achilles' heel. It matters not if the tractor and its operator are pulling, pushing, lifting, digging, or hauling. When a valve stem goes bad, the little man is super no more.

Oral Gratification

2011-03-13T18:46:00.076-05:00

A hungry man could quell the growl in his stomach with creamy cheddar cheese sandwiched between light buttery crackers. With no eateries open in Benavides on a Sunday afternoon, some probably do. On weekends, a good bit of its male population customarily down a few brews, then set themselves to barbecue great slabs of beef soon after the sun begins its westward arc into the cool of the evening. In the big picture, it would be best if they abandoned their grills and ice chests. Excessive beer consumption, coupled with high blood pressure and diabetes is cutting Latino males down to size one piece at a time; like a toe, a foot, a leg, if not their hearts and livers. A few Lance's Captains Wafers do not seem as threatening.

Mejor me conformo con unas quantas galletitas. Once the doctors cut an appendage off, another will not grow to take its place like a lizard does its tail.

Lost His Touch

2011-03-12T22:16:00.026-06:00

Entertaining no credence in the practice, the man first witnessed dowsing over 30 years ago. On that distant afternoon, it was a long-buried waterline that required discovery before repairs could begin. He watched as a ranch hand took a pair of welding rods from his pickup's toolbox and worked to beat their flux coating off with a small ball-peen hammer. Once the steel rods were bare, the ranch hand took the end of each, expertly bending it to a 45-degree angle. Removing his work gloves, the ranch hand reached back for the rods and walked out to the open area were the suspected waterline lay. Taking each rod gingerly, he balanced each between his calloused thumbs and bent forefingers, the longer ends pointing straight ahead and parallel to the ground. The ranch hand began to walk in a straight line. He took slow and deliberate steps; never taking his eyes off the rods. After covering only a few yards of ground, the rods mysteriously swung into each other, forming an X. He stomped a boot heel into the ground and declared, "Por aqui corra la línea."

A few shovelfuls of dirt later proved him correct. The man, moderately convinced, gave dowsing a shot, and to his surprise, was a skeptic no longer. On the ranch that summer, he put his own dowsing ability to work many times. Unashamedly, he was now a believer.

Flash forward to March 2011 and the location of buried waterlines is once more the afternoon's topic. The years had blurred any memory the man once had of which direction the old pipe network followed below the surface from points A to B to C.

In short order, the man fashioned the prerequisite dowsing rods and got to work. He paced back and forth over the hard-packed earth, but with no success. The buried pipe refused to be revealed. He tried again and again. The man suspected he had lost his touch after so many years, but then, perhaps not. A confluence of background interference may have thwarted the dowsing effort.

Inside a 25-foot radius were a hurricane fence, a clothesline, two cesspools and their overflow line, the root systems of two large oak trees and other variables. The man and his rods never stood a chance.

Heavy Metal

2011-03-11T12:11:00.025-06:00

The old woman had never planted a flower garden. Not when she was a young girl. Not when she was courted for four years by her future husband who lived to see their golden wedding anniversary. Certainly not when she was raising their six kids. Between cooking, washing, and kissing boos boos on her little ones' scraped knees to make it "all go away," there was never the time. She enjoyed some success with the potted variety. Caring for those in her screened porch was a small task, but she had never knelt under the sun to coax petaled color out of the South Texas soil. She did not have to. There had really been no need when she had been eight, or eighteen, or even now at 84. For countless springs, the wild flowers had bloomed outside her kitchen window at their appointed time and that was garden enough for her.

When the last dates marking the frosty mornings were torn from her wall calendar, the woman became concerned for wild flowers that had yet to sprout. A scattering of dead and dry knee-high buffelgrass mixed with low brush threatened to choke the promise of spring color from the field out in front of her place. Regular mowing of those acres had gotten away from the parties responsible. It gave her a sad feeling to think that those pretty flowers would have to compete for space with brush and grass that already enjoyed an advantage.

The flowers that come up were seldom the same from year to year. Some seasons the field was a plush of scarlet hosted by a profusion of Indian Blanket. Other times, Yellow Flax would best the sun for golden color. Accenting the pallet on the field were lavender highlights of Texas Thistle, white and yellow daisies, Blue Bonnets, and what one hardy old timer referred to as yellowtops. Most people simply called them sunflowers.

Aside from the rich color, what the woman appreciated best was that nature did all the work, except for the mowing. This was already the middle of March and time was growing short. It would be a great disappointment to her not to be able to help those flowers along.

"Por eso, Dios me dio hijos," was her silent affirmation to God. The woman's hopes would not be foiled. At two in the afternoon the mechanized rumble of heavy metal reached her ears. She walked to the window. With the fingers of one hand she pulled the blind's narrow slats apart to peer out and focus on the source. She saw a sizable tractor pulling a shredder with its wings folded up. The driver, a man in short sleeves, jeans, and a black cap, turned off the highway and rolled his way through the cattleguard.

The operator wasted no time. She heard him power down the machine and the bladed wings came down to cover the ground. With a black puff of diesel exhaust, the machine became aggressive again and began tearing into the dead growth.

The woman who loved wild flowers pulled her fingers away from the blinds. The plastic slits snapped back to their horizontal positions. "Gracias, Señor," she said softly, her lips barely moving. She slipped on her shoes and went outside to watch the show and her answer to prayer.

Bad Picture, Good Company

2011-03-10T07:32:00.003-06:00

Melba brought the frosty margarita glass to her lips and took a cautious sip, and then her eyes lit up. It was not a margarita. Instead, she had discovered the mild titillation of the creamy brandy alexander. More commonly served in a cocktail glass, the bar's faux pas did little to diminished her approval.

The wife and I were dinning with good company. Cutting into some of the finest beef fatted by American grain, we were a happy lip-smacking group. To look from face to face around the table and take in the content of the conversation reaffirmed the satisfaction and contentment of middle age. These are very good days to carry on without totting the weight of adolescence or the angst of young adulthood.

The sole regret of the evening was the miserable quality of the picture that captured the good cheer and fellowship. In dim light, cell phone cameras do not serve us well.

No Batteries Required

2011-03-09T22:01:00.007-06:00

Count yourself lucky that you did not wake up wearing a cow's hide eighteen winters ago on the former El Agua Poquita Ranch. Far removed from the clean glass, shiny chrome, and paved thoroughfares of the country's population centers, growing beef-on-the-hoof to keep the fast food joints and steakhouses in business is often a rough and bloody business. Ranch work is not always pretty and certainly not the romanticized canvas that the naive and uninformed have in their sheltered little heads.

The good guy in the white hat is my dad. Sólo quedan los recuerdos.

Apple Seeds

2011-03-08T22:06:00.008-06:00

The little boy with the smiling eyes stretched out an open palm dotted with apple seeds. Looking up to me, he says, "Let's plant them." How could I not say yes.

One of his lessons at school this week centered around the life cycle of plants. Naturally, it begins with a seed. In short order I secured all the essentials for a successful planting and before we lost our natural light, the seeds were potted in two large plastic cups, watered, and set out were the day's sun would do them the most good.

Benavides, Texas is in the USDA Hardiness Zone 8. That does not bode well for apples. I did not tell him that. Nor did I tell him should the seeds sprout and survive to young tree status, apples require cross-pollination to bear fruit. No matter, he and I will be happy to see a couple of tiny sprouts poke through the surface with a tender green stem with tiny leaves. Anyhow, we are not growing fruit here, he and I are growing memories.

Out of Gas

2011-03-07T21:44:00.004-06:00

The old man was not sure if the boys on skateboards were laughing at the limping dog that had crossed his path or at him, riding past by on a girl's bicycle. It didn't matter. What was not going to be funny was that he was going to have a limp as bad as the dog's when he eventually reached his destination and climbed off the bike. His knees were hurting something awful and the force of every down-stroke sent a discomforting pain he felt all the way to his hip sockets. "I must have been out of my mind," he mumbled to himself. Hell. He was almost there and there was no sense in turning back. The time and place to exercise better judgment were behind him.

When he had slid out of bed that morning the thought of peddling across town to buy the paper and a pack of Winstons had made perfect sense to him. Why bother cranking up the Chevy pickup and burn $3.59 a gallon gasoline, when with a little effort, he could just peddle out to the Kwik-Stop and back? With only one convenience store to service the small community, the scattering of houses, trailer homes and abandoned buildings could hardly be called a town. The old man figured he could get there and back in short order. At most, the round trip couldn't be more than a couple of miles. Besides, it was a matter of simple economics.

The cost of everyday basics from milk and bread to aspirins and haircuts was shooting past the reach of people on a fixed income, such as himself. Ultimately, things would turn around, they always did, in spite of the best efforts of the politicians in Austin or Washington. Trouble was, he was too old to wait around for the next cycle of recovery and prosperity. He was taking matters into his own hands, thus, the bicycle came into play.

When his granddaughter still enjoyed her visits to the small town and with him, he had bought her the bike. It was second-hand, but in excellent condition. That was years ago and his grand baby was off at college now. Not long after he had bought the bicycle, she had grown to discover other interests and her visits grew less frequent. The bike, a silent memento of livelier and happier times, now hung in a storage shed in back of his small frame house. For that matter, the house, too, was a muted memory of a life he had shared with his wife of 60 years. Little had changed in their home since her passing, except for the flowerbeds. He had given up trying to keep them up. What had been a simple pleasure for her was a laborious undertaking for the widower. The small yard these days, front and back, was mostly blanketed in what the locals called zacate chino. It hardly required his attention.

The old man coasted to a stop by pump number one at the Kwik-Stop. He did not dismount, but leaned there against the support post of the large awning shading the pumps. It would be a few minutes before he could draw the strength to lift his tired and shaky leg across the low frame of the bicycle. This had been a mistake. He was out of gas and he still had to get back. Patting the breast pocket of his jacket, he reached for his Winstons and lit one.

Bienvenido al Anochecer

2011-03-06T21:56:00.009-06:00

Of the blue in the sky, Georgia O'Keeffe, the American artist, said that it would "always be there as it is now, after all man's destruction is finished." No doubt, a fatalistic commentary, but inarguably true. This evening, had she been sitting in the porch alongside me, I would have hung on her every word concerning her evaluation of the colored strokes that God used to painted the sky to my west.

"What do you think of that, Ms. O'Keeffe," I would have asked. "Isn't it pretty?"

America lost Georgia on this day 25 years ago, so the question would have been moot. I cannot imagine what she would have turned to me and said en este anochecer.

The Ground Will Stop Me

2011-03-05T11:14:00.005-06:00

Every time Dad worked off the ground we would caution him to be extra careful. You always have a little fear that one can slip and fall when working in an elevated position. "Don't worry," he would quip, "The ground will stop me." His principle was sound, if not problematic. In the forty-some years I knew him, it was put to the test only a handful of times. The man was incredibly tough and resilient.

This afternoon it was me, a telescoping latter, and an oak my dad planted at the ranch a long time ago. Today, the tree and me are older, but the oak has grown bigger and much taller. With bow saw in hand I climbed and began the work alone. My supervisor of days gone by is no more. Dad has been gone over fifteen years, but I can still hear his retort in my head, "The ground will stop me," as I work my way deeper into the leafy canopy.

I welcome the labor before me and I know how to work the saw; methodically and with purpose. There is no wasted motion and the limbs, large and small, drop steadily to the ground. "Toma tu tiempo," Dad would say. "No hay apuro."

I show respect for the tree. The work of the saw cannot be undone, and so a measure of thought for the tree's eventual aesthetics must come into play. In and of itself, an oak is a beautiful piece of God's creation. My actions off the ground are simply to better define that beauty to suit the needs of people. As the limbs fall, I climb down from my perch to survey the work from ground level; stepping away from the perimeter of the tree to gauge our progress. Satisfied with what my eyes see, I study the effect of what my next cut will produce, then proceed to move the latter. Up again I go; satisfied that it goes well.

An unexpected bonus was the blustery wind. The sound of limbs creaking under its strain and watching them bend contributed to my sense of self preservation. Except for my 84-year-old mother watching my progress through her living room window a few yards away, there was no one to call for help if things went south. Yes, the ground would stop me, but it would hurt.

En el Monte

2011-03-04T21:15:00.013-06:00

With apologies to the acting great, Robert Duvall, the prolific director, Francis Ford Coppala, and gifted screenwriter, John Milius, permit me to state that "I love the smell of mesquite smoke in the evening." I really do.

Our men's Thursday night meetings have moved from their former urban setting off a lonesome side street in Benavides to a rugged patch of uneven ground in the thorny brush a few miles outside of the pueblito. The location offers no electricity or running water, and what comforts we find there, exist only in our minds. The supplies necessary to conduct a good meeting have to be trucked in over a back-jarring road strewn with caliche rocks the size of fists. The crooked way hacked out through the dense mesquite is hard on man and machine.

It is a mean march by truck and well worth the punishment. Except for distant sounds of sporadic motor traffic on 359, the encampment's solitude is near absolute. Our centerpiece en el monte is the mesquite fire and its distinctive aroma that I like so much.

Comí Muy Bien Anoche

2011-03-03T22:32:00.014-06:00

We sit and eat at the long table as though we were condemned men who accepted that they would never see another sunrise; shoveling forkfuls of cheese and gravy laden foods into our mouths with a self gratifying lust. We are a weak people; the crowd I run with. Last night, our bellies would have been easily satisfied with only the pre-meal tortilla chips and condiments, and a single beer to wash them down. Self discipline never makes an appearance at restaurants that serve up steak, potatoes, or Mexican food. As the evening progresses, clinking knives and forks on porcelain plates produce a bad symphony celebrating our gluttony. When I push my empty plate away, the sneering specter of guilt pulls up a chair alongside me and begins to laugh in my ear.

"Why do you do this?" I hear it say.

After the last swig of my beer, I set the cold bottle back down on the ring of condensation it printed on the table and say to myself, "Por qué yo quise comer bien."

Feliz Cumpleaños

2011-03-02T06:27:00.002-06:00

The United States of America had a vigorous space program going the year my little brother was born. NASA had begun launching its ambitious two-man Gemini flights into earth orbit in its bid to beat the Russians to the moon and the Space Race was hot. As little brother stretched and filled out, American would come to learn that LBJ was not. These were exciting and changing times.

My kid brother is the last born of my siblings. Feliz cumpleaños, hermanito.

The Boy, the Books, the Bond

2011-03-01T07:08:00.004-06:00

If the time and resources were readily available to them, the boy and the man could probably trace their ancestral lineages back 10 generations and discover that their roots never cross. They do not share kindred blood; not one precious drop. The difference in their ages is 50 years, yet the two are close friends. He knows the man's cell phone number by heart and calls him often, uttering a refrain that is a glad sound to the man's ears; "Hey! Come pick me up. I want to go to your house." The words sound a happy chord that make the man smile inside. He is fortunate to hear it on many weekends and on afternoons when the boy comes in from school. The boy's company contributes more good to the man's health than the blood pressure medication on his nightstand. The two get along splendidly and often read books together.

Little boys have a fascination for dinosaurs. Whether on the pages of a book, in tiny colored plastic figures, on television or motion pictures, the image of the gargantuan meat eager is riveting. Interest in them is universal. In the ranks of little boys, few exceptions exist. His little friend owns dozens of illustrated children's books on the subject of dinosaurs and the small volumes are scattered all about. They are in the man's pickup, the man's wife's car, in the four drawers of their living room coffee table, in the boy's home, his grandmother's home, his great-grandmother's home and in his school backpack. He reads them all. Many times the boy asks the man to read them to him. The young mind asks questions. He formulates opinions. He conjures up "what if" scenarios centered around what effect dinosaurs would have on people's existence should the toothy giants make a surprise appearance today or tomorrow in the town they call home.

The man and the boy are fortunate to have each other. It is a sad little town they live in. It is no exaggeration when its people lament, "there is nothing to do." Thank God for books. They are one of the many strands in the bond the boy and the man share.

Compre un Libro

2011-02-27T11:24:00.004-06:00

In Corpus Christi's Moore Plaza, Half Price Books isn't but a five minute walk from its pricey competitor, Barns and Noble. Sticker shock at B&N was getting the better of me, and after a while the dog-eared pages at the reseller began to look very attractive. I was parked at the retailer, but the blustery conditions persuaded me not to beat a path to the independent bookseller. Besides, a busy street bisected the two store locations. To save a few dollars on a book purchase, I burned a cupful of $3.19 a gallon gasoline to get there.

The book cost only $2.00 and was in fine condition; not a mark or dog ear on it.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Mens Toys

2011-02-26T22:03:00.008-06:00

Aside from the usual bees, birds and bugs, turkey vultures of the South Texas sky may soon have winged company of another sort at low altitude. My brother is determined to fly again. A few years ago he invested in ultralight flying lessons at Kitty Hawk Flying Field Ultralight in Garden Ridge, Texas. He was an apt pupil and had great fun learning; so much so, he bought one for himself. Its acquisition was pricey. In the months that followed, he would drive up and fly his heart out. At day's end, he would park his ultralight in the small hanger at Kitty Hawk Field and drive home, 166 miles south. Garden Ridge is northeast of San Antonio and the long weekend drives to and from his flying toy proved tiresome, so he made the decision to house his aircraft at Alice International Airport in relatively nearby Alice, Texas. My brother flew in short hops south like a migratory bird. Thereafter, he flew the friendly skies around Alice, Texas.

Now operating under a new administration, the rules changed at the airport and his ultralight can't sleep there any longer. It is not considered an airplane worthy of hangar space. This being the case, my brother engaged the help of my younger brother and me to assist in the ultralight's partial dismantling. He could easily fly it out of Alice, only he would have no place to land and store his toy. It can't sleep outside and the South Texas sun would soon turn the delicate fabric of its wings into toast. It's headed for temporary storage until it can fly again and return to the earth and get nested in a new and welcoming space.

The ultralight is an exciting toy for a grown man. What kid never dreamed of flying over his neighborhood, town and surrounding country? For some boys the dream never fades.

His toy does not ask for much. Just give it 120 feet of level ground and it will pop off the ground and climb steadily. His ultralight supposed has the capability to reach a ceiling of 10,000 feet. Who would dare try flying that high in one of these things. The air is cold up there. My brothers says that 500 feet is plenty fine. Any higher and no one can see anybody waving back; not the pilot and not the observer on the ground. This flying lawn chair has a range of about 60 miles and its 65 horsepower engine can crank the five-and-a-half foot wooden propeller fast enough to push you along at 55 miles per hour. If you're having fun, what's the hurry? When it is time to set back down to the good earth all it demands is 75 feet of the same level ground.

Even though this little flying machine is a toy, it takes up a bit more room than you can imagine. It is seventeen-and-a-half feet long and is surprisingly wide. The wingspan is nearly 33 feet, but it's a light weight. Then, it has to be. It's an ultralight, after all. It weighs only 330 pounds, empty. The toy is just over nine feet tall.

Taking this thing apart to fit it onto a small trailer for transport did not require much knowledge or special tools. Labor and time required were minimal.

Back in the summer of 2000 my brother treated me to a half-hour hop on one of these flying toys. It was a great feeling. We were zipping along at 500 feet in a small lawn chair strapped underneath a nylon canopy sailing through the air like a kite. The landing was quite sensational, too. He lined up with the runway, killed the engine, glided in at a steep angle. The ground quickly came up to meet me, and then he flared the ultralight out, kissing the ground with its tricycle wheel.

I sure hope it flies again soon. The turkey vultures are waiting for the company.

Dominion of the Air

2011-02-25T08:11:00.005-06:00

Long before nomadic Coahuiltecan tribes were beating the brush of present-day South Texas in search of rabbits and rodents to supplement their meager diet of mesquite beans and roots, turkey vultures lorded the sky above them. Riding thermals in lazy circles for hours, the vultures suffered little concern over their few natural enemies. In the 12 to14 thousand years that the tribes existed here, living pitifully short lives of constant struggle, the impoverished Indians were never as fortunate as the black feathered ones that enjoyed their dominion of the air.

When the Spanish conquerors invaded in the 1600s and closed out the Coahuiltecan chapter of this region, the turkey vultures paid them no mind. Life went on as before. The tribes did not have the choice of paying the Spanish no mind and did not live to make the same claim.

For the vultures, little has changed since the long arm of the Spanish Crown withdrew from Nueva España. Unlike their former neighbors, the Coahuiltecan tribes, their numbers have not suffered a decline of any fashion. In and around Benavides, they rise majestically above the landscape like bubbles boiling in a pot. There is carrion in sufficient quantity for them to eat in the streets of town and on the hundreds of miles of roads in the county. Life for them, such as it is, is good. Where I live, they are the lords of the air.

Plastic Jungle

2011-02-24T09:53:00.006-06:00

The boy is granted free reign of the space and the contents of the livingroom. Once in a while he may forget to place a coaster for his cold drink on the coffee table, otherwise, he is careful and responsible.

The coffee table was purchased with the boy in mind. He was the only consideration when my wife and I picked it out. The table is long and wide, and has four good-sized drawers that alllow for much storage; two on one side and two on the other. The boy has filled them with toy soldiers, small plastic dinosaurs, colored chalk, crayons and some of his favorite books to have read to him.

When he visits with us and no longer wishes to play outdoors, the boy retreats to the cool comfort of the livingroom and begins to configure the space into his personal world of battle, adventure, and imagination. Every potted plastic plant in the place is procured, relocated to the top of the coffee table, and its broad surface is transformed into a plastic jungle populated with good guys pitted against the bad. These are the good times I will recall if I live to be an old man.

Uncommon Valor

2011-02-23T17:24:00.004-06:00

Sixty-six years ago today 22,000 Japanese soldiers and 70,000 U.S. Marines were facing off against each other on a tiny volcanic island in the Pacific, 750 miles south of Tokyo. It was war. After a 34-day battle over 28,500 young men lay dead, suffering a violent death far from home, never to return to familiar ground or to the embrace of their loved ones. The youngest Marine to fight on Iwo Jima was a fellow named Private Jacklyn Harold Lucas from Plymouth, North Carolina. He had just turned 17 six days before the battle. Lucas was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his heroic actions on Iwo Jima and survived to see his 80th birthday. He carried about 200 pieces of metal, some the size of .22 caliber bullets, in his body.

Thanks to his service and sacrifice, and those of his fellow United States Marines past and present, today I can enjoy a productive workday in comfortable surroundings among good and decent people. At day's end I will drive home in the same condition I left for work in the morning; a free man in Benavides, Texas, The United States of America.

A Dog's Last Leg

2011-02-23T01:05:00.002-06:00

A few weeks ago temperatures dipped into the low 20s. In this part of the country, uncommon chills of that nature can make life difficult for man and beast. With that in mind, the goodhearted ladies in one of the outlying offices took pity on a stray that had been hanging around the offices and parking areas for weeks. They quickly adopted the beagle. A sturdy cardboard box was located and sheathed in plastic sheeting in an effort to make it somewhat weatherproof. With the freeze would come freezing rain. A cushy blanket was set inside the box for the animal's warmth.

Except for the failed prognostication of snow, the days after the dog's adoption will long be remembered for the paralyzing effect the ice had on Benavides, Texas. Man and beast survived, but greater troubles than mere cold were vexing the dog. The goodhearted ladies had a faithful, yet sick, canine on their hands.

Gastric dilatation-volvulus (GDV) is known as "bloat," "stomach torsion," or "twisted stomach. The condition is a dog killer. This pooch is on its last leg because it is afflicted with it. I am not a veterinarian and I do not play one on TV, but that is my guess. The poor beagle exhibits many of the symptoms; swollen belly, the animal appears to be vomiting, but nothing comes up, rapid shallow breathing. Basically, the dog's got a belly full of air and can't burp it out. Things begin to happen in the abdominal cavity that are to distressing to post here. It isn't pretty. The condition is painful, stresses the heart, and eventually the dog goes into shock and drops dead.

There it is; GDV. I hope I'm wrong. It wags its tail when he sees me or I call to it. I like him. It must have had a former master at one time. The animal's nuts have been expertly hacked off. I hear they may pass the hat to help get the animal to a vet, if it's not too late already. I'll pitch in a few bucks.

A Sense of Space

2011-02-22T12:29:00.016-06:00

A sidewalk is a walking path set aside for human traffic along the side of a road or parking area. It is a recognized distinction of space between the pedestrian section and the vehicular section of private or public property.

With that said, let us consider the act of properly parking a motor vehicle. The correct way to park a car is to, first, wear glasses when driving, if your natural vision is impaired to any degree.
Second: Locate a parking spot.
Third: If you are turning right into a spot, pull away from the spot and the other cars to the left side and make a direct right turn in to the spot. This way you are parked in the center of the spot making it easier for you and the others beside you to get out of their space without fear of scraping or gouging your car or the other car.
Fourth: Be especially conscious of any sidewalk or foot path that may run perpendicular to the parking spot you have chosen. The front end of you car should never protrude over any portion of the sidewalk or path. A sense of space plays an important role in parking any size vehicle.
Fifth: Pay attention to how the car is parked before you exit your vehicle. Some drivers may need to pull out slightly to readjust their alignment.
Sixth: Remember... Parking a little farther away is not going to hurt and the walk will do you good.
Seventh: If the car is parked crooked, more than likely your car is going to get scraped when they pull out.
Eighth: If someone you work with always parks like this and you know it, make it a point to park somewhere else if you get there before they do.

A Filthy Animal

2011-02-21T19:51:00.013-06:00

The lowest form of life in the no man's land hemmed by the Nueces and the Rio Grande is the filthy human animal that liters the roadsides. The volume of trash they discard from moving cars and trucks is criminal, if not sinful. These sad excuses for people exercise no restraint, no regard, and no respect. The two-legged scumbags toss glass and plastic containers, soiled pampers, crumbled paper sacks, game the skinned hides of game animals, their innards, a planet's supply of aluminum cans, old sofas, stoves, water heaters, Styrofoam cups, yard clippings, cardboard boxes, candy wrappers, fast food containers, plastic bags filled or otherwise, and beer cans ad nauseam. I even came across the skinned carcass of an alligator many years ago. The country would do well to rid itself of these reprobates.

This rugged, but pretty, brush country has not been pristine since the inhabitants' new-found prosperity following the Second World War greatly multiplied their purchasing power. That marked the start of our local "throw away" society and the roadside litter that goes with it. Folks around here were probably always untidy and never picked up after themselves, it's just that before they had any disposable income in their wallets they simply could not afford to buy anything worth tossing out their car or truck windows. What exasperated the excessive and unrestrained litter was the EPA in the 1980s. It forced the county to close the landfill servicing Benavides. The countryside, creek crossings, and crossroads became an awful mess thereafter. You ought to park at a highway creek crossing around here, walk out to the middle of the small bridge and have a look over the side.

The county is disgraceful. Animals aren't this filthy. What is so difficult of picking up after yourself?

The Sun, the Grubbing Hoe and Cold Beer

2011-02-20T20:58:00.016-06:00

The sun, the grubbing hoe and a cold bottle of beer at day's end are the pseudo-sacred trinity of unskilled farm and ranch labor in South Texas. Few of the faithful remain to appreciate its gifts of vitamin D, muscle building and the quenching satisfaction of the parched mouth. In this day and age, many cannot? How can they know of the trinity's benefits in this mercurial era of Facebook, smart phones, and iTunes? No se puede. The notion of performing the kind of physical labor that extracts a protracted toll from the heart, the lungs and the sinew of a man is lost on many souls these days. I count myself fortunate not to be numbered among them.

This afternoon I knocked back a couple of Budweisers sitting in Mom's open air porch at the ranch. I like beer, but at my age, beer calories waste little time adding territory to my mid section. I sit on my ass at work from 8 to 5 Monday through Friday. The same pants and belts have hung in my closet for years and shopping for more generous sizes is discouraging. I will not do it. So, the waistline has to be kept in check, but we have no athletic clubs or gyms in Benavides, Texas. There is no market for that brand of business. Physical fitness doesn't sell nearly as well as ice-cold beer in this drinking culture county. Nevertheless, 290 calories needed to be worked off on this pleasant Sunday afternoon before the guilt feeling of my consumption eroded away.

A quick and cost-free solution was to grab a heavy grubbing hoe and tear into the base of the chain-link fence; clearing it of the tall dried buffelgrass and their stubborn root stumps. It was hot work under an unblinking sun piercing the cloudless blue canopy. The two worked in partnership with the stunted arc of the hoe in my hands, validating a man's raw masculinity as I rented an earthy wound along the fence line. (This isn't serious writing. I just enjoy passing the time with words. You can quit any time you wish.)

Data gleaned from several sources points to 500 as the number of calories consumed by the body of a short, semi-fit, Latino male in his late fifties, steadily working a grubbing hoe in dry soil for an hour in the sun. I earned my two beers for next Sunday.