The Week That Was, June 23-26, 2011

Charles Dickens may have summed up these last four days best.  Remember reading that in Sandy Coburn's freshman lit class...

The Ride, of course, was totally blown off course by The Greatest Choir Ever  concert Saturday night and all the trimmings building up to it since Wednesday.  Well into my 63rd year, this was the first occasion I've ever had to put on a tuxedo.  Turned out one 'buy' was cheaper than two 'rents', so now I own the sucker.  AnniePie assures me I'll get at least THREE wears out of it.  She's gonna have me burnt in it.

The HEAT goes on!  Here on the southern plains July 4 fireworks celebrations were deep sixed right and left last week.  Any knuckle dragger out there who is convinced it is his/her god-given right to set the world on fire with pyrotechnics needs to sit down for a heart-to-heart with a firefighter.

Our water bill here in River City doubled over the past month because of outside watering.  Deciding, finally, to let the front and back lawns rely on the Good Lord for their next drink was tough.  We've got trees--oak, cedar, redbud and pecan--to keep going as well as holly shrubs and AnniePie's gardens.  We're already pulling tomatoes as soon as they show color to cut down on them cracking, and one zucchini plant simply gave up the struggle in spite of nearly daily watering.

Every summer when the heat starts piling on like it is now, I tell myself I'm getting too old to fight it any longer.  I firmly believe we have yet to see and feel the worst from climate shift.  Time has come to look northward, perhaps back to the Pacific Northwest or to the Upper Midwest, for a kinder climate, and, no, we don't mind the snow!

I'd Love To.....

stick around and chat, but I've got to go pick up my brand new (to me) TUXEDO! because it is CONCERT WEEK!

C minus one thirty and counting....

That is 130 hours, as I write, until Legacy Choir takes the stage for a once in a lifetime concert, live, right here in River City. Eighteen months ago, this week seemed it would be another lifetime, at least, in coming. It's GOOD! making someone else's dream come true!

This guy here, Mr. Don Cowan, claims to be 79 years old, officially, as of tomorrow. I sincerely believe he is fudging low, because he had to be at least late middle age when I first walked into his choir room back in 1964. Yet, by his math, he only has 17 years on me!

How many here remember being an outsider, entering into sophomorehood, the no man's land of high school? Second week in I heard an S.H. Rider High School A Capella Choir for the first time; and when I say, heard, I'm talking heart and soul grab hold and don't let go gut wrenching kinda heard that borders on a spiritual experience. I heard the Voice of God, children.

Looking back on it now, that 1965 choir wasn't all that good. I mean, really, these guys had only two weeks together! Sure, there were some great, experienced senior voices in there, but you also had all those rookie juniors who may have had a mixed choir with Old Honker Face, the Father of Our Alma Mater, at best. Before the school year ended, of course, the 1965 choir would take its rightful place on the roll of 32 Greatest Choir Evers.

Before the performance ended I had learned you had to be at least a junior and pass an audition/screening with Mr. Cowan himself to even be considered for membership in this choir. Membership? Making it into the a capella choir was nearer an adoption into a whole 'nother family, but it would be a good year or better before I would find out firsthand. Before that day ended, I dropped out of French class to join the fiery furnace that was mixed choir!

Those years with Cowan may not have been the best three of my life--so far--but I guaran-damn-tee the last two as a tenor with the 1966 and '67 Rider A Capella Choirs are solidly in the top five. 

The Ride: Day 10 -- Looking along the edges....

On the trail this morning under an hour. No matter the direction I took, the wind pushed against me; as if to say, "Go back, the other way!" So I followed the wind until it turned on me again beneath the Holliday Street bridge...

The shadowy underside of bridges can be scary, right? We all remember that nasty business with the three goats and a troll!

Several bridges cross over the Holliday Creek stretch of the H&B Trail, and beneath those bridges are some of the edgiest places of the entire trail system.

Both my Naturalist side and my little kid self find edgy places fascinating and well worth exploring. A word of fair warning; there is a price for playing down here!

Edges are where two or more communities meet. They can be as small and seemingly insignificant as a trickle of water through a lawn or as breathtaking as the Rock Mountains tumbling to greet the Great Plains. Naturalists have prized edges since early hunter-gatherer days, because along the edges is where the action is. It's along the edges that treasure may be found....

...as well as the trash.

A significant share of River City's storm drainage system empties into Holliday Creek. During periods of drought like the one we're in now, water runoff from city streets is the only water feeding the creek making even trace amounts of rain on the city important. Of course, with the runoff comes chemical wastes (oil-based products) and all manner of man-made debris.

The real troll lurking beneath the bridge is trash, human waste. The price for exploring here is picking up, bagging and hauling out the junk to maintain Holliday Creek and the trail system that follows it River City's finest jewels.

And some of the graffiti artwork could stand some upgrading as well. This guy here isn't too bad; kinda cute, really, in a trollish sort of sense. And while The Cave would never advocate any illegal activity like tagging city property, if you must tag, please use some creativity and class!

See ya on the trail!

The Ride: Day 9 -- Feeling the burn

Took some sun this morning at the top of spillway at Lake Wichita. This is about an hour from The Cave, pedaling a geezerly pace in granny gear and provided we're not getting that stiff southern wind.

Not much of interest going on in the shot above taken from the rest area at the top of the spillway. What appears to be dry ground, however, is actually mud and a few pools of standing water from last night's rain teaser. The showers amounted to less than a tenth of an inch as far as keeping records, yet it was mildly amazing how much the trail responded to that little dab of rain. I took this pic primarily as a marker for future reference of what the lake level was like on this date, because it is only gonna get worse, children.

Cliff swallows, scores of 'em, were making the most of this fleeting windfall to scoop mud for their digs on the underside of bridges down creek and no doubt across the lake and into Archer County. Clouds of them seemed to arrive from all directions, descend on the mud and then disperse as quickly and as noisily as they had come. Meanwhile, an entire daycare of juvenile swallows lined the top strand of fence, waiting for their keepers to bring them snacks.

This puddling of mallards seemed to be relishing the pickings just below the main body of the lake. A solitary snowy egret likewise searched these shallows just out of this shot to the right.

All told this rest area netted something over 100 swallows, a dozen ducks, a couple of scissor-tailed flycatchers, some red-winged blackbirds and a snowy egret for my eBird list. Yes, Virginia, I'm that kind of nerd, too; more kinds of nerd than are dreamt of in your philosophies. May have to add the spillway to my 'Hot List' of birding spots.

LOOK what I can DO!

Day 8: A bird in the bush.....

AnniePie's taking a sick day at home with the flu or something like it, which allowed me to get out on the trail for Day Eight a good hour earlier than normal for a week day. With this heat continuing like it is and no change for the cooler in sight, this old rider needs all the early I can get!

Discovered the little guy pictured above upon returning to The Cave. He was on the ground, begging sunflower seed kernels from mom. With my arrival, mom and the other birds took to the trees. This guy did the fledgling ground shuffle some six feet to the woodpile I keep at the very back of the yard, and within mere moments was all but invisible.

A word of caution here, dear readers. 'Tis the season for fledglings to be leaving the nest, so it is not uncommon for young birds who have not yet learned their wings to be grounded. Trust me, it is part of the natural order of things, and a parent bird undoubtedly is within pecking distance, keeping an eye on the trainees. As soon as junior here was safely in the woodpile, Mama Jay immediately lit on the old lamp post beside me and proceeded to explain why my presence was neither required nor appreciated.

Of course, no way I was leaving without pictures!

So if you should happen upon a young bird on the ground and looking sadly in need of a feather makeover, please leave him be unless the bird is obviously injured or otherwise exhibiting signs of physical injury. Nine times out of ten the little guy is fine and going through that adolescent awkward phase. If something about the bird does strike you as wrong, however, leave him alone and call Wild Bird Rescue at 940-691-0828. You and the bird will be glad you did.

Sunday Morning

The last thing my butt wanted to do at 7a this morning was straddle the saddle, so we--my butt and I--settled on a short ride not venturing too far from The Cave.

Beneath the Hampstead Bridge offers ready access to the Holliday Creek native communities, not to mention ample opportunity for voluntary maintenance along the H&B Trail.

Freshwater mussels and crayfish are two of the delicacies that attract raccoons and other mammals to the Holliday Creek buffet. Mallard ducks and cliff swallows have set up housekeeping under the bridge, while scissor-tailed flycatchers and kingbirds compete for airborne insects.

 

These Asian clam shells are fairly abundant at the water's edge. My thanks to Texas Master Naturalist Penny Miller (no relation) at Wild Bird Rescue for making the I.D. on these.

Life along the creek is challenging at best, as this eggshell attests. Prolonged, chronic drought isn't helping. How much longer will water continue to run through the creek bed if significant rain does not come soon?

After exploring a short stretch of creek and taking these pictures, two wallyworld bags (wwb) of liter were collected for removal. City Parks & Rec is tasked with H&B Trail upkeep, but their extremely limited dollars would stretch much farther and accomplish greater improvements if all of us helped keep the trail system clean and looking presentable. It is our city and our parks, right?

Dumping two wwbs before heading back to The Cave.

The Ride: Day 4/5

We did not ride yesterday, Day 4, as we spent the better part of the morning helping a choir sister patch a gaping hole the plumbers had left under her kitchen sink. For those gentle readers not familiar with River City and her climate/weather, biking after 11a is not something a 62-year-old out of shape journalist does unless said journalist is ready to meet his Maker. To make up for the lapse today, Day 5, we headed out about 6:30a, intending to ride the nearly six miles from Jacksboro Hwy construction site to Lake Wichita Park.

Dr. Maxwell Maltz, author of Psycho-Cybernetics, gets credit for the 21-Day Habit Theory, which suggests that it takes 21 straight days to establish and/or alter habits. So it goes that riding River City's Hiking & Biking (H&B) Trail should become an addiction right around the last week in June. With this month challenging June of 1980 for the most consecutive days with high temperatures over 100F, clearly this trail rider will need to get that daily fix starting at first light.

Good thing I am early to rise, even if I am lacking the wealth and health to show for it!

Yes, Virginia, there is a trail in the foreground of this establishing shot from the head of the Holliday Creek Trail just west of the construction at Jacksboro Hwy. The temperature is 78F, and at this hour the morning songs of red-winged blackbirds, mockingbirds, doves and other city-dwelling song birds are not drown out by traffic noise.

The Ride: Something goofy.......

"You're never too old to do something goofy." Ward Cleaver

Now in its third day, a better title for The Ride might be We're Three Days Behind and Burnin' Daylight!, but that struck me as a tad lengthy.

As a non-event attraction...or distraction...The Ride is damned near perfect; ineffective organization and failure to communicate among Staff, Mickey Mouse technical glitches, water bottle water not cold enough and on-going lack of funding. Please, children, can't we just all go ride a bike!?!

At this point I MUST insert a disclaimer. I am well aware that River City's own annual bicycling extravaganza, The Hotter'N Hell Hundred, is familiarly known as "The Ride." So is the Ann Arbor (MI) Transportation Authority, Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority better known as the MBTA, at least one rodeo buddy flick, a documentary film about cycling cross country and a country music hit for David Allen Coe. I'm not writing about any of them here until the product placement and sponsorship deals are signed!

The Ride: White, unemployed, uninsured male in his 63rd year takes up touring River City's Hiking and Biking Trails, looking to capitalize his blog leading into that other big bike ride later this summer. What started as a whim three days ago because a bike was left outside is mushrooming into a one man, social and multimedia non-event the likes of which has not been seen since that Alaskan woman's I'm-Not-Running Hysterical Tour.

On the standard grade-school scale I went to school with, I'd give River City a D- for bicycling friendliness. The primary "challenge" to raising that grade would be motor vehicle driver--and I sometimes are one--attitude. Drivers of cars and trucks in this town do not play well with others! Ah, but there is a bright and shining alternate route for those who do not wish to play in hostile traffic; nearly 15 miles of 8 - 10 feet wide paved trail from Lake Wichita Park to Lucy Park that does not cross one single street nor highway.

Day One of The Ride actually was Tuesday, a short check ride from the old flea market on Holliday Road to the last link of trail construction at Jacksboro Hwy. As noted earlier in Where the sidewalk ends...., this final few hundred feet will finish the connection from Lucy to Lake Wichita that is the Holliday Creek Trail, a major stretch of the total proposed loop that ultimately will circumnavigate River City.

Day Two, yesterday, we all but completed the aptly named Holliday Creek Trail from the backdoor of the Country Club (nearest access point to the trail from The Cave) to the top of the spillway at Lake Wichita. Aptly named, I say, because the trail follows Holliday Creek as both creek and trail wind their ways through some of River City's most prime real estate, a green, living corridor that would be the pride of any city whose residents give a good tinker's dam about quality of life.

Today, Day Three, we left the Mongoose in granny gear (partly in difference to the stiff breeze hammering in from the south) to begin to get to know the Holliday Creek portion of the trail. Our ride, therefore, was relatively short from the backdoor of the Country Club to the Native Plant Landscape demonstration plot on Midwestern Parkway.

In the days ahead we will be exploring Holliday Creek in depth and watching for the completion of the final construction.

So break out a bike, and let's hit the trail!

Where the sidewalk ends....

The Mongoose, my late-life-crisis two wheeler, was left out of the shed last night which seemed like an omen: Ride! Ride like the wind!

Right. With Our Sun near her highest and the air temperature creeping past 90F, and when, exactly, did you say was the last time you were on a bicycle?

Not like we were thinkin' road trip. Not anytime soon...anyway. More like a simple shakedown pedal, just down to the construction on the River City Parks Loop and back, to check out the bike, a Wallyworld special Mongoose paver. Not exactly the 20" Western Flyer I started out on way back when, but a serviceable ride for a sexagenarian with enough sense to stay off the main drags. I just don't own the wardrobe to pull off riding that publicly!

Nearest access to the trail from The Cave is behind the flea market on Holliday Rd. Back when I first came to River City, the flea market site was Haven Amusement Park where I learned to cuss over miniature golf (18 holes for a quarter) and learned that cotton candy is an icky, sweet, cheap high! At the very back of the park, beyond the handful of carnie games, was this HUGE! public swimming pool that would not figure in this four-year-old's life for several more years.

I cannot tell you how drastically this neighborhood has changed in the five decades since I first knew it! Most obviously, an entirely different channel has been dug for the creek and freeways channel traffic flow overhead. On a skateboard I made myself with a 2X4 and one of my sister's sidewalk skates, I was one of the first to actually put wheels to pavement before those overhead lanes were opened to the public. Nearly all the old car lots of the fifties are long gone now from what remains of old Jacksboro Highway, back then the main highway in from Fort Worth and points south.

This section of the hike 'n' bike trail east from the flea market is one of the newer stretches. The trail gives out to construction right about where it ducks under Jacksboro Hwy. It picks up again beyond the heavy earth movers to skirt River City's Eastside and follow the river back to the west to Lucy Park. Once these final few hundred feet are finished later this summer the trail will link Lucy and Lake Wichita Parks.

But for today this is where the sidewalk ends. That old sun isn't getting any less intense, and my cell phone is spittin' out text message alerts as if the Mayan end of the world was ahead of schedule. We'll come back this way every now and again, just to make the workers wonder what the old geezer with the digital camera is up to. Right now there's a pitcher of tea on the top shelf of the fridge with my name on it.

Last one back is a rotten egg!

I hear tell.....

The former Motherland is experiencing the warmest spring since Samuel Pepys begins his diary. Just how warm it is over there right now, my source did not say; only that it is warm enough to bring out British butterflies, foreign and domestic, up to a month early.

That might seem pretty cool at first blush, having some 90 percent of your butterflies arrive way early. But think about it. They are early while their food resources and other essential host plants are not.

"Some of these species are coming out before their nectar sources are present, so will the food available be suitable and will there be anything for the caterpillars to eat?" ~ Matthew Oates, naturalist for the (British) National Trust

Martin Warren, chief executive of Britain's Butterfly Conservation, and others attribute the butterfly pattern shift to climate shift. Insects are responding to trending temperature increases, even if the plants they rely on are not; or, are responding, but at a slower pace.


NEWTON LEROY GINGRICH, who would be your President if he gets his way, also would do away with the Environmental Protection Agency on the grounds that curbing greenhouse gas emissions is bad for Business in general and the Energy Industry in particular. Gingrich, like most other newts, must be living under a rock!

Farm kid wannabes

Someone told my Uncle Tandy that drinking goat's milk would help with his gastrointestinal issues, so he up and builds a goat pen and a goat house and a milking bench and he gets himself a billy and a couple or three nannies. Now, I suspect he also thought he might make a buck or two moonlighting in the goat business, because (1) does one guy really need three goats to keep him in milk? and (2) my uncle was--how shall I say?--frugal. It once took him and John David three weekends to take down an old shed because every scrap of reusable lumber and every single nail, no matter how bent--had to be saved and neatly laid by. Lord, I've no idea how long it took John David and my Aunt Emma to pound out straight some six coffee cans of crooked nails!

The Jackson place there at Kadane Corner wasn't a farm, but it was the closest this seven-year-old city kid was likely to get. Between running leases in the bed of my uncle's pickup truck, helping Aunt Emma with her kitchen garden, tending to chinchillas (another moneymaker that didn't make) and trying to ride Old Billy on a dare, it was as close as I needed to be at the time.

Every kid deserves at least an occasional taste of country life. I know I wouldn't take for the summer weekends I spent with my aunts, uncles and cousins at Kadane Corner and out near Rule, Texas. IF you are a parent or know of a parent looking for a place where a kid can get back to some of the basics of life, check out Restless Prairie Farm's Farm Kid Apprentice Day Camp.

You ain't lived until you've come home smelling like a goat!

Wednesday and my yard waste roll off is full. River City charges me $36 annually to pick up my organic debris and truck it off to be turned into compost. Save any week that has a holiday in it, that is. Like this week.

Collecting from the green bins gets dumped from the schedule on holiday weeks.

Once upon a time green bins were collected at no cost to residents. The combined refuse went to the big composting facility west of town, and a couple of times each year residents could drive out and cart off all the free compost they could haul away. More often than not, demand far exceeded supply. If you didn't go early, you stood a good chance of sitting in line in your pickup truck all Saturday morning for nada, zip, nothing.

Now the green bin is $3 each month on your water bill, and you still can go get the compost for free with a recent water bill stub. Quite a few River City residents turned in their bins when the city went to charging to play in the program.

Overall, I think the program merits participation. This part of the city's sanitation operation diverts a significant stream of refuse away from the landfill, recycling it into compost for use in city parks as well as by participating residents. But is it fair for the city to charge me to provide the raw materials to make its compost, particularly when I do not have a pickup truck to collect my "share" of the product?

On Moral Ground

"Assuring our own comfort at a terrible price to the future is not worthy of us as moral beings." ~ Moral Ground

I posted the above as my Facebook Status a couple hours ago and received this...

An interesting quote. However, if one loses a football game by one point because time ran out with an unused time out available is also unacceptable, no? Please do me the favor of extrapolating the analogy before answering.

...in response almost immediately from my good buddy Brad down at the radio station.

Now, I haven't known Brad all that long, and the first time we met (over the airwaves; him in his booth, me in my car) we immediately locked horns over his global warming and my climate shift. But Brad and I are brothers by high school and Don Cowan's choirs, and both of us are old enough--he's still The Kid!--and wise enough NOT to talk politics at one another. Moreover, we've done a couple shows together down at the theatre, and I can't help but like the guy, even if I didn't want to!

Clearly, the boy was at the radio station on the Saturday morning of Memorial Day weekend and not all that thrilled about it. "Extrapolating the analogy..."??? Well, there was nothing for it but to retreat to the yard and watch the birds and squirrels shower in the sprinkler. So I parried from my cell phone and got back this....

Is not using one's resources for the present (which is the ONLY reality) to protect the possibility of a future (which is at best, fiction) more or less "moral"?

Right away I sensed a problem or two. First, I'm not buying the today-is-the-only-reality construct. If that's the case, why do squirrels bury their nuts? Second, who said anything about not using resources?

Moral Ground simply holds that our species is responsible for the condition our world is in and that we as humans have a moral obligation to make it better for ourselves, our kids and their kids' kids. We have made a mess, and it's on us to clean it up.

Memorial Day Weekend no time for games?

Someone on Facebook said Memorial Day is NOT "about" games, and I let the remark pass without comment. Can't rightly figure why this young woman's statement stuck with me. But it did. So I tucked it away for further study and went on with my Looney Old Man (LOM)chores.

Seems to me Memorial Day is about remembering. The root memorial reaches back to the 14th century, meaning "preserving the memory of a person or thing." The Old Testament takes the concept all the way back to ancient Egypt and the first Passover. Twelfth chapter of Exodus. Look it up, children.

The toughest challenge a man can face is burying his child. The Good Lord bless and keep Don Lansaw for giving his life to save his wife's during the Joplin tornado, but I submit any man with a heart and soul would do the same. Failing to protect your little girl, laying her in her grave.... Friends, burdens don't come heavier than that.

Melissa Kaye Miller is my oldest of two. I was in a classroom in Washington, D.C., on that hot August afternoon in 1969 when she was delivered at the old Wichita General Hospital. Since I was a Seaman Deuce fresh out of the Naval Recruit Training Center, Orlando, FL, her birth set me back a whole $3.50--so Mom could have a box of Kleenex in their room. Sixteen rounds were bought that night at the NCO club in Arlington. I know, 'cause I paid for eighteen of 'em myself!

In those last few years before Melissa was taken from us, we generally celebrated Memorial Day weekend with a big camp out. Our hardcore group only consisted of bits and remains of three families, a Miller and two Porters. Dean Porter and I met in Don Cowan's mixed choir at Rider High School. His big sister, Betty, was in Don's elite A Capella Choir, and all the guys who knew Dean were in lust with Betty! Dean had a surprisingly large following for a short, dumpy Boy Scout, but before he and I made it into A Cap ourselves, we had become like one, "Jim 'n' I" twins.

Older still than Dean and Betty was Big Brother Paul whom I did not get to know very well in those early days at Rider. Paul, you see, already had a wife and kids by then and was always handy to make those Friday night runs to the liquor store for us.

The first Memorial Day Weekend Campout back about, oh, 1974-75 was us--First Ex-wife, Melissa, Brian, myself--Dean, his wife Laverne and their son Joey. A few others may have passed through our camp at Lake Arrowhead, but those were the primary cast of characters for the beginning years. Paul joined up sometime during his second marriage.

I don't recall many games being played, except by the kids when they were younger. Oh, there was the occasional hide-n-seek-in-the-dark which fizzled after Dean slid head first through the campfire in a mad attempt to beat IT, Paul, to base. I was dead on Dean's heels, too, until that tree came out of nowhere! Generally a heap of steam got blown off, guitars got picked poorly and songs sung loudly between sessions of burning meat on the fire and passing out somewhere near a tent and out of traffic.

I got a telephone call early on a cold April morning in 1989. Melissa had been stabbed to death in her own apartment in front of her son Michael, 2, and daughter Diana, not yet a year old. Talk about the day the music died. I all but died inside.

The case remains open, Melissa's killer not yet positively identified. For that reason her case will not be discussed in these pages.

Michael and Diana came calling last weekend, first I'd seen them since days after their mother's memorial services. Childishly young adults now, we spent a fair part of last weekend around The Cave, and from that arose this Memorial Day Weekend Campout revival, being observed concurrently in River City, Estes Park, CO and on line and dedicated to all the priceless memories of Melissa Kaye Miller Sodeman and Paul Davis Porter.

It's Friday afternoon, children. Let the games begin!

Let's stop this Westboro Cult NOW!

Someone probably smarter than me once said my right to swing my fist ends just short of your face. I defy anyone to find a more staunch defender of First Amendment rights than this writer, but when abuse of said rights becomes a bloody club against the anguish and suffering of others, it's time to terminate the abuse by whatever means necessary.

That said ~ and Yours Truly not being able to make it to Joplin, MO, this Sunday ~ thought I'd pass along a few good tips for the good people of Joplin from the folks in Brandon, MS.

Hello, Operator! I've been cut off....!!

Seems that tiny island cultures and polar bears aren't the only folks facing dispossession as our Earth's climate continues to shift. We may be waving bye-bye to WI-FI.

Scientists have been warning of more extreme storms as a result of climate change,

PlanetGreen.com reported this morning.

The events of 2011 could be an example, or at least a harbinger of threats to come.

This ability to reach out and touch someone far distant has come a ways since Aunt Era & Uncle Tandy's party line. Best I can recollect, their "ring" was two shorts and a long. And Lord help us if a long-distance call came in as that usually meant somebody just died!

Betty? Bob? Betty Bob!

Cousin Frank Ed's entry, Betty Bob, wins the alternatively-gendered cockatiel name game. Frank Ed and I would have been twins had we not been born

three months apart and to different mothers. Technically speaking, my Mom and Frank Ed's Mom were sisters-in-law, but blood could not have knitted together two women any more closely. Frank Ed and I had the two greatest Moms in the world and shared them amongst ourselves every chance we could get.

Betty Bob is a queer duck. S/he sits in a cage in the north-facing back room window, issuing staccato, monosyllabic squawks at what must be max volume for a bird that size. Attempting to squawk back does not help without a firm grasp on his/her lingo. More often than not, trying to communicate with Betty Bob pisses him/her off more than anything else.

The sum total of my knowledge of cockatiels equals bigger, louder, nastier than a parakeet. The folks at Cockatiel.com say the guys have greater vocals than the gals and tend to whistle a lot, which tends to make Betty Bob a Bob. On the other hand, same folk say females hiss and attempt to bite much more frequently and with determination to bring home meat. That says Betty decidedly is Betty!

Grands & Greats meet....

Two generations of the Miller Clan reunited Saturday when (from left) Gracie Hilbus finally caught up with her great grandchildren Michael and Diana Sodeman after 21 years.

Here's the thing, Lord.....

I've had a good run. I came in with the thirty-three and a third, long-playing phonograph record, and if it should all end today, I'm going out with my lifetime music library on a thumb drive in my pocket.

How many people woke up today disappointed over still being here after this rapture buzz? Thought that by now they would at least be up to security screening on the Stairway to Heaven, right? Well, I wasn't one of them, Lord, and yes, I'm smiling.

My two eldest grandkids, Michael and Diana, came to see us yesterday. They'll be staying until Monday before continuing their road trip across America. Twenty-one years since last I saw and touched these two cubs. Damn near a generation, Lord, and I lived in fear Diana would bring on the next generation before...if ever...I saw her again! The image of Michael I've carried in my mind is a snapshot: two-year-old boy caught from behind, buck naked, holding a garden hose in a suggestive pose, watering his Granny Smith apple tree.

For some time now, Lord, I've been feeling what I imagine Moses felt; standing on that mountain top after a 40-year road trip, looking into that promised land of milk and honey and knowing he didn't make the cut. Oh, I brought it on myself, same as he. If only I had worked harder on memorizing the music....

We formed the Donald B. Cowan Legacy Choir January of last year, 30-something of us from all the Rider A Capella Choirs Don had nurtured, given voice to and directed for 32 years. His last hurrah, as it were, would be a grand reunion concert by a choir composed of all his a-cap alumni, a choir nearly 200 voices strong spanning the years 1961 to 1993 and all coming back to River City from all across the country.

The first of two concerts is June 25 at Memorial Auditorium, the same venue where I last sang with the Rider 1967 choir. Lord, I can never forget that last note of You'll Never Walk Alone dying in that hall, Don smiling as he mouthed "Good bye" and just waving his finger tips to us before turning to acknowledge the audience.

Now, today, begins the final weekend rehearsals before concert week, and I do NOT know the music! It's been praying on my mind since last month's rehearsals. I play the MP3 recordings through my head as I go about my days, but, Lord, these few remaining brain cells must not be as tacky as they once were. Nothing seems to stick. I told myself, "Self, shape up by May or ship out."

But here's the thing, Lord. If I don't make the cut, I'm okay with that. No, I'm good with that. I've had a great ride, helping to form this choir and bonding with a family that transcends blood. Tomorrow is our first dress rehearsal at Aiken Auditorium, and all our family and friends are invited. I'll get to sing with them one more weekend, and my grandkids will be in the house to experience The Greatest Choir Ever!

Lord, it truly is a God thing.

Thank you, Lord!

Being of The Earth

And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed.

That's me on the left and my Dad, Buddy Miller, on the right. His full given name was Francis James, whereby I acquired James and why he took to Buddy or Shorty quick as he could. Offered here in evidence, we were not big planters nor were we tied to the oil patch in spite of what you see in the background. This was shot with a Brownie box camera, I'm guessing 1952 or '53, in the backyard of the second house I remember, over on Elm Street.

I can't recall what we planted. Beans, no doubt; probably tomatoes. Gardening was simply planted in us. Both Mom and Dad were born to the farm, Dad up in Michigan and Mom here on Texas' Rolling Plains. They were of Tom Brokaw's Greatest Generation, making-do through the depression and enduring through wars and rumors of wars.

Mom is still with us, living on her own for the most part. Lord, she'll be 81 this month, my last living link to John Sanford Saunders, my CSA veteran great granddad. Dad died in 1996 after chasing his elusive dreams around the world. World War II and the U.S. Army Air Corp plucked him from the family farm in Michigan and deposited his skinny butt in a barracks at Sheppard Field, Texas.

Thankfully for me, beans weren't the only seeds he planted!

First zucchini coming in yellow?

First zucchini of the spring '11 crop. What's with the yellow?

Got a bet going with Mike Allen, the oldest living dude in the Donald B. Cowan Legacy Choir, that my zucchini can whoop his yellow squash.  I would not want Mike to know, but I'm a touch concerned about how my fingerlings are looking.  This first one off the vine seems to me a bit yellow.

They say that just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone isn't out to get you.  Maybe I am concerned about this color thing simply because it has been years since I've had space to play in the dirt.  Been so long since I last saw a baby zucch, I've forgotten how to read sign!

Playing in the dirt!

"Are you sure Trump started this a way?"

 

My first lessons in the natural history of the Rolling Plains came bouncing around in the bed of Tandy Jackson's old pickup truck.  I couldn't have been more than three or four years old the first time he took me and my cousin, John David, out checking oil leases south of Electra, Texas.  There were two kinds of people in the oil patch of western Wichita County back then.  There were the Kadanes who owned the land and the mineral rights, and then there were the Jacksons who sucked the crude from the underground deposits.  I was neither.  Heck, I was just the city kid along for the ride.  Guess in a lot of ways, maybe I still am.

 Many empires were built by John David and I under an old mesquite tree.  Every time I'd go up to Kadane Corner for a day or two, we'd spend them digging in the dirt, grading roads, building corrals and little lean-to shacks. He had an old replica pickup truck that I would have swapped for my Roy Rodgers Ranch Set...almost.  Almost...but not hardly.  Uncle Tandy didn't much approve of our foolishness, frittering away good daylight when there were plenty of chores two boys could be tending to.

I guess after my Mamaw and Granddad Saunders, Tandy Jackson was the third old person I met.  Yes, he was hardshell baptist, too, and a deacon to boot as well.  I'll always be obliged to him for teaching me how to blend peanut butter and Karo syrup!

Is that the time?  I'd love to sit her visiting, but Annie will be wanting to come home soon, and fool that I am, I kept the Blazer!  Y'all come back when you can stay longer. 

Roots revisited

Miller's Cave is an 8x12, two-bit shed deep in Brook Village, the very heart of River City's historic old country club.  Not The Country Club colony just up the road by the old Burns Mansion, mind you.  We're nearer Gene's on Holliday, around the corner from where Haven Park used to be and smack in the middle of where River City's Country Club began.  That's Ben Franklin Elementary a short hike west.  Started First Grade there, back in '55.  We lived on the other side of Mr. Kemp's & Mr. Kell's railroad tracks on Avenue Q long before someone turned it into a muppet musical.  Two blocks east is Carrigan where I unceremoniously ended my elementary school career, thrilled to be moving on to Barwise Junior High!

Brook Village field office, a.k.a. Miller's Man Cave

We could visit for years over how a 62-year-old son of a sea dog came to be retired in this neighborhood. I won't keep you engaged here quite that long. Not at one sitting at any rate.  This journal, you see, is a lot like a road trip but different.  Getting there doesn't mean a damn thing; it's the trip that counts.

Hear that?  The bells of First United Methodist Church (FUMC) chime out "Praise Him! Praise Him! Jesus our blessed redeemer."  Sitting out here of a Sunday morning, you can hear those bells if the neighbor birds aren't too chatty.

That was the first Methodist church in River City, I believe.  Goes back to 1881.  A mile northeast is the foundation print of our original home church, First Primitive Baptist Church, that stood on the corner of Seventeenth & Burnett Streets until TXDOT decided it needed that piece of real estate more than we did.  Ours was not the first Primitive Baptist church in River City.  At least one other predated it and was located over on Northside.

Ours was, however, the first progressive hardshell baptist church here; progressive in that it allowed piano accompaniment for song services and Sunday school, neither of which was allowed in "old line" churches.  Some of the brethren were shocked, or so I've heard, that W.P. & Cordie Saunders--my Mom's folks--would leave the old church and help charter a new one.  History records no other particular, peculiar people excel at feuding, breaking up, splitting off, making up and starting all over again like hardshell baptists.  And they've got the late, great Speaker of The House Mister Sam Rayburn to prove it.

The split between the two local churches came before my time, but I'd like to think that metamorphosis was to prepare the ground for my arrival.  Not too likely, I'll admit, but it could have had something to do with Granddad Saunders being a deacon and Mom learning to play piano.

DRAT! There's the phone!  Excuse me, I have to take this.....