Show Me Tour - Literary Lights

Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn
On the bluff overlooking Hannibal, Missouri

Ninety miles from our HQ in Columbia is Hannibal, MO; boyhood home of Samuel Clements aka Mark Twain.  We had planned to pay our respects to this hamlet and the raft of beloved characters who dwelt there on the west bank of the Big Muddy Mississippi before our son graduated from The University of Missouri - who knows when we'll ever be back in this neck of the woods again.

Just behind the levee sits some of the old building that were the haunts of Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Becky Thatcher, Aunt Polly, Injun Joe and the others that populate the pages.  The building have been preserved and a museum dedicated to Mark Twain's life and work was our re-introduction the author, his family and the history and events that shaped Mr. Twain.  We toured the original home of Samuel Clements and his family, the Justice of the Peace office where his father held court until his death at Samuel's age of 10, the reconstructed crude dwelling of the Blankenship home (Tom Blankenship was the model for Huck Finn) and Grant's Drug Store where the Clements family shared the upstair's residence upon the death of Mr. Clements.

Boyhood Home of Mark Twain (right)
Hill Street
Hannibal, MO

 A worthwhile excursion, again reinforcing the facts as to how 19th Century life was rough, tenuous and often unexpectedly marred by tragedy.  The Clements family by all accounts was respected, came from land-owning (and slave-holding) background, reasonably educated, yet could not find economic success in a series of business ventures.  Finally being impoverished upon the death of the head of the household.

Mark Twain himself being broke on several occasions and literally down to his last silver dime once in San Francisco before finding great success as a writer and lecturer - only to lose his fortune again.

Mark Twain seated at the table
in his boyhood home

*******

On our way out of the "Show Me" State, we headed once again for a return visit to Mansfield, Missouri; home to Laura Ingalls Wilder, author of the Little House on the Prairie series of books.  Sue is a big fan and as of her latest wedding anniversary, now has I believe every single book on Laura Ingalls Wilder.  This includes the latest, Pioneer Girl, an annotated history of the original manuscript composed at the kitchen table in "the Rock House" on there MIssouri apple farm.

The Rock House
Built for Laura and her husband by their daughter Rose

The old farm house that Laura's husband built from the ground up was then taken over by their daughter Rose, who had dreams of turning this Ozark apple farm into a writer's colony.  The dream never materialized during the Great Depression and Rose moved to Connecticut.  Laura and her husband quickly moved back into their familiar home to live out the rest of their lives among the memories of their own house.

Laura Ingalls Wilder
Old Farm House
Mansfield, Missouri

 Having seen the homes of two of Missouri's best known writers, it was time to return to Texas and write a blog.

"Show Me" Tour - Rock Bridge State Park

Breakfast at 9 in the morning is quite a civilized meal, so that is how we began our Friday mid-morning. Grant picked us up and took us to Cafe Berlin.  Sue ordered the pancake tacos, I had to chose between the Rebel and the Union, and I am a Union-man, so I got browned potatoes along with my bacon and eggs.  I drew a 'dillo cartoon with the caption "Dillo-licous vittles" on the blank spaces inside the book that came with the tab.  Our waiter picked up the tab, complimented me on the drawing, saying it was very good, thus earning a fatter tip.

Grant had class project obligations from late morning through mid-day, so we geological-nerd parents were naturally attracted to anything that had the name "Rock" in it.  We found ourselves at Rock Bridge Memorial State park just a few miles south of Columbia.  We hiked the 'Sinkhole Trail', wound down the hillside to the 'Devil's Icebox' and then up and over the 'Rock Bridge' and back to the car.  A pleasant Spring time jaunt through the woods, soon to be leafed out.

One of the characters we met along
the Sinkhole Trail

We were serandaded along the trail

The Devils Icebox
A stream that flows from a cave under a limestone outcrop

The stream flows out from under on side of the Devil's Icebox
and then flows into the other side.
We are peering into what was once a subterranean stream 
coursing through a cavern system, but this portion of the 
cave roof collapsed, creating "The Devil's Icebox"

A few Red Bud blossoms
at mouth of "The Devil's Icebox" cave

We cross over the Rock Bridge
returning to our carriage

The "Show Me" Tour - Mizzou & Como Environs

The garage smells of new rubber wanting to meet the road.  I just put a new set of Pirelli All-Season Touring tires on the wife's car.  They're Italian and the auto is Korean.    And with this European and Asian world-mix sitting in the garage it didn't seem right to hold them in down here on the farm when adventure and touring were calling.  We all could be out on a road trip by merely backing out into the alley and pointing the touring tires somewhere away from here.  We had been wanting to visit Grant at the University of Missouri in Columbia (CoMO as it is known by the local slang); so, we two said how about next weekend we 'go Como'?  

Grant will be graduating in mid-May, and we will be there then in the thick of all the confusion and locust swarm of parents to celebrate at the appropriate time. But, if we showed up a month early, we figured we could pretty much have the run of the place to ourselves, and Grant could provide a tour of his haunts on and off campus relatively free from the madding crowds to come.  We also planned to work in a Missouri literary tour; visiting Hannibal, MO, boyhood home of Mark Twain (Samuel Clements) on the Northeast quadrant of the state along the muddy Mississippi.  Then make a second pilgrimage to Mansfield, MO to visit the home of Laura Ingalls Wilder, author of the "Little House on the Prairie" series of books, an oft referenced source of 19th Century American pioneer life and favorite read of Sue's going way back. 

We put in 1551 miles (RT) with pleasant spring time weather all along the way - other than the drainage ditch drencher driving dime-sized hail stones upon us on I-44 in Rolla. The boldly color profuse blooms of the red bud and dogwood trees were blooming in the wooded understory beside interstate and rural highway all through Missouri.  The lurid colors of the red bud are nature's "red carpet" rolled out for the entrance of Spring.

Our four-day round trip begins with a series of photos from Grant's environs as a radio journalism student at Mizzou.

Grant's house is several blocks from campus, and he shares it with three other roommates.  

Certainly no room for parents to crash, so we booked a room at Como HoJo not too far from the action.  Our first night we shared the motel  parking lot with a Severe Storm/Tornado chasing vehicle.  The tornadoes that ripped the St Louis area the day before had moved further east and left us with pleasant weather for our stay in Missouri.

Armored severe storm chase vehicle is a chick magnet

Storm chaser equipped with hydraulic 6-inch spikes to anchor in-place
1-inch steel debris shields and wielded plating.
The 3-man crew says it is mostly boring driving around all spring and summer
with a small percentage of excitement and a bit of terror thrown in at 135 mph.

Fine Print on license frame
"Do Not Follow During Adverse Weather"

The University of Missouri (1839) the oldest public university west of the Mississippi.  Grant quickly grew to appreciate the marble and brick buildings that give the place a solid and stately character and the well appointed grounds that he believes makes it one of the more beautiful universities to be found.

Jesse Hall (Administration) is set behind the famed pillars of a former building that
long ago burned - leaving just the stone columns 

The Mizzou journalism school has a long and honored relationship with China,  And as a gift the J-School was presented a pair of marble lions that sit guarding the integrity of The School of Journalism in an archway were the spoken word is magnified and and the echo projected.  The story goes: Once there were two students who as they walked under the lion-guarded archway were boasting between themselves about how clever they were to have just cheated on an exam without arousing the suspicion of the professor.
   The professor who had just given these students the exam was some distance away, but from the acoustics of the archway, he was able to hear their boastful conversation.  
   When these two students had their exams returned, they were dismayed to discover that their professor had given them both failing grades.  When they asked why they had flunked after giving the correct answers, the professor told them that their cheating was the reason for their grade of zero.
  With dropped jaws, they asked how he had uncovered what they believed to be an air-tight scheme?  The professor's only explanation was, "The lions told me".

One of the pair of lions
guarding the integrity of the Missouri School of Journalism

Grant has worked as the Associate Director of Programming for KCOU, the campus radio station.  In past years he has co-hosted a talk show with his roommate Carson and done sports broadcasting as production work also at KCOU.

Grant in his domain
KCOU sound board and controls

Beside his volunteer work at the campus radio station, he has a part-time paying job at a commercial station where he monitors the equipment and does production work for some of the sports programming,  We visited his workplace on a quiet Saturday morning, bringing him donuts.

Grant explains to his mother, what knobs do what and 
when he has to push the right buttons  as we tour Zimmer Radio Group

Of course a parents job is to buy food while visiting the college kids.  We had a late dinner at The Heidelberg followed by a visit to Hot Box Cookies [a name that carries the connotation of "munchies" after pot smoking].  Breakfast at cafe Berlin (twice).  We were pleased to have Kaileen, Grant's girlfriend, join us on several dining occasions.

Holy Saturday Red Bud

We took a walk through the Blackland Praire Preserve a few miles from home on Good Friday Eve.  Red Bud and some wildflowers were on display in the twilight as a full Easter Moon rose above the vibrant green hardwood leaves.  It was a sight that filled my soul as a sip of cool water fill a parched mouth.  I purposed to come back the following evening and see if I could capture images similar to what I had just witnessed with my camera.

My weather app on the phone indicated that Saturday's moonrise was to be at 8:13 PM.  I waited in the dusk, looking and testing angles for a good shot of the brightly lit moon beaming through the red bud blossoms.  Clouds as harbingers of the coming Easter-morning rains drifted across the open sky at sunset, and as I waited and checked the time, the moon was not at all visible at 8:13.  We waited in a meadow as the darkness grew, listening to distant coyotes and a brief hoot of an owl.  No moon rise by a darkened 8:25 (so much for phone apps).  We trudged back to the car feeling the dews and damps rising from the Spring vegetation beside the white limestone trail that blazed through the dark ground cover.

Red Bud Blossoms
At the edge of a Blackland Praire meadow

Susan inhales a blossoming sprig

Red Bud before incoming clouds and weather
Holy Saturday

Beauty and Glory
Easter-tide

As we pulled onto our home street (8:31 PM), I could see the moon light shining through a bank of clouds on the eastern horizon.  My idea of a great photograph never materialized, but it was splendid spring evening.

In Memory of Muddy Paw-Prints

There is a mystic bond between man and dog as exist between no other species.

Strider ol' Friend
9/11/2001 to 3/30/2015

Strider was a mix.  
A mix of black Labrador Retriever and Chow.
A mix of nobility and at times raw fear turned sharp.

Dogs easily weave themselves into the warp and woof of a family's life fabric; or in deference to the canine-american perspective, the fabric of the pack (as we believe he saw it).  Strider was different than many, if not most all dogs, but when it comes to mixing with the family life and weaving into it with all of his furriness, Strider was no exception.  That mystic bond was tight between the two of us.

Strider was of noble appearance and countenance and this was the outward Lab on display.  As a noble, he had well established lines of decorum and which made him a pleasure in so many ways; he never raided the trash, no matter what manner of tempting odoriferous scraps where thrown in.  We always left the house confident he would not cause any trouble when left alone.  He had nearly impeccable manners, he would wait at the door until given the command to enter, he would sit, stay, lay down, shake or leap on his hind legs ("Be Shamu!" was his command to leap into the air).  He was not to get up on the furniture, nor was he to eat from plates of food or snack left at his nose level on the coffee table. These bounds were never broken. He was a gentleman.  His boundaries were solid and unwavering.  He was a noble beast.  He was a beast, yet a beast that was part of the Suneson family fabric.

He asked not for much, but he cherished those special opportunities when made available.  When the kids where underclassmen in high school, the morning invitation was at first; "Strider, do you want to go see some Mustangs?"  Yes he did. For that was an invitation to jump in the back of my 4Runner and ride to Inga's High School where I would roll down the back window and he would stick his big black wet nose out the window crack (his "smell hole" as we called it) and take in the sights, sounds and smells of kids getting ready to go to class.  When Grant entered a different High School, the invitation to Strider was; "Strider, do you want to go see some Owls?"  For him, the answer and tradition was the same, though the route was different.

Strider was of noble countenance, and spoke only when he had something to say.  Always thankful that he was never a 'little yapper', constantly making noise for little or no reason.  He was quiet and dignified, a small woof or even a punch at the back door when he wanted to be let in.  No need to press the issue.  However, if there was an unknown on the door step or a stranger traveling down the alley, he was pleased to announce his presence.  I encouraged such behavior from my 72 pounder hounder.  When younger and spry, he would hurdle himself at the front door when a stranger approached.  The cable guy admitted he almost wet his pants one day.  Back a few years, when the trains traveling on the tracks at the end of our subdivision were allowed to blow their horns, he would sometimes sing the "The Sad Doggy Song".  A mix of howl and whine that was a primal response from his wolf ancestors to the harmonic resonance of certain engineers and how they sounded the train horn.  We delighted in his singing.

Strider as a mix, was a mixed blessing as well.  His well established boundaries included his clear warning to never cross his lines; he would not tolerate being handled when he was frightened or scared and did not like anyone coming close to his head with binding devices such as muzzles or harnesses - we called this his "Chow brain".  We learned to respect his wishes as dictated by his Chow brain.

His nobility may have been interpreted as aloofness by some, but I understood Strider and he understood me.  It was a mystic bond.  His peculiar personality precluded him from being the kind of dog who ran to greet the master with kisses and a furiously wagging, curled and feathery tail.  No, that just was not who Strider was.  But, when I would go upstairs to work in my office there, he would soon follow me and come lay at the top of the stairs or curl up next to my chair in front of the computer. Strider's affection was quiet and subtle and constant.  I would extend my hand and scratch behind his ears, and then he would re-position himself to make sure I also scratched his ever-itchy tail joint.  Always his favorite form of petting interaction.  When down stairs in the living room, he would come by and stand over my extended toes as my heels rested on the foot stool, this way I would be encouraged to scratch his belly with my toe knuckles.  His communications were clear.  He was cool, and that was cool with me.  I understood.

Inside Strider there was a precise "dog clock", and inevitably, when he asked to go out for the last time at night, it was 10:20 PM plus-or-minus 2 minutes.  Early on, he put his metal tags hanging from his collar to good use.  If me and the wife spent too long in bed on a weekend morning, he would rise from his bed at the foot of our bed, stand staring with tensed lips and an expression of definite disapproval, and jangle his tags as a scolding reminder that we were burning day light and he wanted us up and out of bed.  Now.  The irony is that once he got me to rise, he would go back to bed himself.

Indeed, Strider was a mix.  He was a noble beast.  At times he could be a sharp and fearful beast.  But he was my beast.  I miss him.  For all the mix of personality, daily interactions and routines with him, he left his mark on me and the Suneson Family like a track of muddy paw-prints that walked all through our life for the last 13 years.  Those muddy paw-prints may fade with time, but they are indelible markings and they do not seem to be washed out by my tears over the past few days.  

Good-bye my old and faithful friend.  That mystic bond of ours now severed has left me me grieving - not for you ol' hound, for it was time to go.  Your dog clock knew it, as did I.  
But I grieve for the ceasing of the familiar wet nose against my forearm, your humble expression of the Creator's purest form of joy seen when merely offered the opportunity to take a walk beside your master.  
I grieve for all that is and all that was, wrapped in the great life-affirming mess of a beloved dog's muddy paw prints tracked across my life, that shall now be no more. 

****

When I took rhetoric in college, I came a cross this tribute to a dog given by George Vest, US Senator from Missouri (1879-1903).  Earlier in his law career, a friend was trying a case where his client was asking for compensation for the death of his dog.  The attorney, knowing of his friend's polished oratory skills, asked George Vest to give the closing arguments to the jury.  This is the moving tribute to a dog that clinched the case for his friend:

Gentlemen of the Jury: 
The best friend a man has in the world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has, he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it most. A man's reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us, may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads.

The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous is his dog. A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer. He will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounters with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings, and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens.
If fortune drives the master forth, an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him, to guard him against danger, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all comes, and death takes his master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even in death.

George Graham Vest - c. 1855

Strider and Me, December 22, 2004
Strider was a lover of the rare Dallas snowfall.
The kids built a snowman & Strider would rush it and knock it down and
 then chew on the snowman's stick arms.

Backyard Spring

Our two Desert Tortoises, Isaac and Chomper, tucked themselves in under the secretary in the kitchen nook back in October for their winter's hibernation.  On the 10th of March, Isaac had his internal hibernation alarm clock go off, and he propelled himself into the center of the kitchen where I found him blinking his sleepy eyes when I came in to make my breakfast.  I carried him outside into the morning sunshine and plopped him down in front of a patch of bright yellow and tasty dandelions.  His brother Chomper, followed him out from under the secretary 3 days later.

It was The First Day of Spring.

I was enjoying sitting in the backyard and taking in the Texas sun before it got too dang hot and miserable - which it will sooner than later.  I saw that an American Anole had also come out to catch some rays and perhaps some bugs.  I got my camera and snapped a photo of these backyard spring day denizens.

Green Anole (Anolis carolinensis) suns himself in the backyard wisteria
The First Day of Spring

Chomper one of the Desert Tortoises
Comes out for a Dandelion Feast
on the First Day of Spring

Then old Strider with his creaky joints decided to come out and lay on the lawn with his master, so I got a photo of him as another one of the Backyard Critters on the First Day of Spring.

Pi Day

March 14, 2015
3-14-15
3.1415
Pi = 3.1415926
π

And also a pastry.

Pi Day
Pie Day
Make mine rhubarb!

It was all over the papers, and radio and TV and everywhere.
March 14, the numeric calendar date coincides with the constant value derived from the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter: 3.14.  A mathematical/calendar and pastry pun!  It works on so many levels.

This year was all the more special because the representation of the date when you include the year ran the value of pi out to 4 decimal places. 3.1415

Kind of nerdy and kind of tasty.  Sue asked, "What kind of pie for pi day?"  I suggested using the jar of rhubarb in the pantry.  Baked at 350 degrees and done! Umm, Ummm.

Out of the oven and served at 9:26; all the better because this runs the pi decimals all the way out to 7 places - how cool is that? 3.1415926.

Make it Stop

It was a dark and stormy night.  
I cleaned up the kitchen and pressed the button to started the dishwasher into action.  Now, Sue is inspired to do something fancy-special in the kitchen.  So she goes about messing up the newly cleaned up kitchen work space.  

She selects a recipe for a rich chocolate on chocolate tort.  The basal layer of a crunchy chocolate scone, piled with chocolate mousse and covered with marionberry & chocolate cake.  Set the timer and wait.

The chocolate tort comes out of the oven.  The layers are assembled and she carves me a piece to indulge my sweet tooth.  It is rich and oh so good.  Eat too much at once and die - but what a way to go!

While in the process of baking one of the layers, she yellers upstairs to where I am slaving on taxes; "Hey, remember awhile back when we couldn't get the timer on the microwave to stop beeping?  Well, it is doing it again.  Do you remember how to make it stop?"

Truth is, we did have this issue maybe 2 years ago.  And as I recall, I logically figured out how to make the beeping stop.  I was a hero.  But, this time, I stare at the control panel of the micro wave - and nothing I try makes the beeping stop.  

24 Hours a Day.  Every bleeping minute. There it goes again, every 60 seconds; a piercing "beeep".  I look, I think, I try everything.  I unplug the microwave oven and yet it continues it relentless attack like a beheaded serpent.  Beeep. Beeep.  Beeep.

After a couple of days, Sue returns to the internet.  Google: "Incessant beeping, microwave."  Google fails us.  
Fall back position; Whirlpool Appliance Helpline, "Can I help you?"
No mam, I've never heard of that before. 
Have you tried unplugging the appliance?  
Let me ask around. [pause for several minutes to mix 'on-hold muzak' with background beeping]  
Sorry mam, nobody around here has ever hear of that problem, sorry and good luck.  

We discuss our dilemma after dinner.  I figured this out before - why can't I make it stop this time.  What did I do last time?  This is driving me loco.

We discuss our failure to make it stop out loud while I head to the microwave panel one more time.  I say while en-route,  "What if it ISN'T the microwave?!"
The wife yells, "It's the damn dishwasher!!!  Get it!"

Sue had opened the dishwasher to retrieve a needed implement while baking the tort, prior to the appliance finishing its cycle.  There it sat with a malicious 'one-eyed green light' glowing at the end of the counter; beep, beep, beep...

We reset the dishwasher panel and collapsed in peace. 

Always check your assumptions.  As it it said, to assume is to make an ass of u & me.  Now, how about another piece of that triple chocolate tort.  I can eat it and die in peace.

February Quite Contrary

February can be oh so contrary:

February 2, Ground Hogs Day.  Sue came to downtown Garland and met me at my office at 11:30.  We walked to the downtown square and waited for Gretchen, a Georgia ground hog (Marmota monax) to make her noon appearance.  It was a brisk cold and sunny day.  His Honor the Mayor, read out the proclamation that Gretchen had seen her shadow and thus the prognosticator had promised six more weeks of winter.  There was a food truck that served sandwiches and barbecued sausage.  So we had lunch downtown al fresco as well.
   That evening we stepped into the Plaza Theater off of Garland's Square to attend a free cinematic showing of Bill Murray's, Ground Hogs Day.  We sang, Sonny & Cher's hit; "I got you babe" on the drive home.

February 11, our first daffodil blooms in mild 60 degree day - about average for these parts.

February 14, Valentine's Day.
We have a picnic lunch and do some hiking around Collin County Prairie Hill Preserve in near 80 degree sunny weather.

February 22. Washington's Birthday.
I fly the Stars and Stripes from the front porch.  The following day brings a half-inch of sleet and freezing rain to glaze the roads and frost our budding saucer magnolia and cover our daffodils.













February, a short month.  But a huge variety of weather has been packed into a short span.  Everything from sunshine in 80 degrees to rain, sleet, ice and snow with wind chill factors dropping the February air into the low 20's. 
Oh so contrary is February.

Like A Day in the Park. Like at Night in the near East.

My wife's birthday is in January.  I've found this a convenient coincidence, because the gift ideas I come up with for Christmas are sometimes out of stock, so when I inevitably order them too late to get here for Sue's Christmas stocking - I find they usually arrive in plenty of time for her birthday, about 4 weeks hence.  It is a beautiful scheme.

This year, the particular belated gift that I order was supposed to ship and be here by December 30.  No dice.  It looks like it will be a lot longer in coming.  In fact way too long to make it in time for her birthday.  I need a Plan B.

Plan B: Take the day off, take her to a nice brunch.  Then enjoy a day at the Dallas Arboretum (Winter pricing with no flowers blooming is $5), and then pick up a cheese cake and top off the evening with a dinning experience at a local Afghan restaurant.  

We had brunch at a cafe across the street from Dallas' Ebola ground-zero.  Not sure, but I bet CNN's Anderson Cooper, major network reporters and Jesse Jackson probably ate there last September when the intersection of Walnut Hill Road and Greenville Avenue was the backdrop that led the top of the national news.  Eggs over easy on my brochette with a short stack on the side.  No disagreeable symptoms at all.     

We zigged and zagged our way southeastward and pulled into the arboretum in the sunny 64 degree late morning.  We strolled the grounds. lounged a bit and watched the sky cloud up in the afternoon as the weather front moved into town, bringing the promised rain at sunset.

I usually make the birthday cheesecake, but since we were going to be at the arboretum, the Royale Cheesecake Factory is just a quarter mile up the road, so we just dropped in and the birthday girl selected an amaretto cheesecake.  Done.

A check of the Afghan restaurant's website said open everyday from 11 to 10.  We double checked just make sure.  We arrived at 7 PM, they were turning off the lights.  I found somebody who spoke mostly spanish, and they indicated cerrado, closed.  Close at quatro, 4 PM.  Well, first the British, then the Soviets, and then the Americans always found Afghanistan to be a tough place to do business, I said.  Sue was in high dungeon, but we agreed upon a nice Persian place not too far up the road.  If we can't get satisfaction in Afghanistan, lets go try Iran. They're all in the same neighborhood you know.

It was a Happy Birthday.

Why didn't I do this before?

Under the category: Why didn't I do this before?

Crossword Puzzle: 5 Down: "Hard water" (3 letters)

A wise guy told me, "Make hay while the sun shines", a corollary is, "Put up rain gutters in dry weather".

Some times here in North Texas we go a whole winter without getting snow or ice.  But some times we do get snow and or ice.  When we get rain in freezing weather it should be no mystery as to what happens to the water on the ground.  Yeah it gets hard.  What is a 3-letter word for "hard water", it is "i-c-e".  Due to a very poor design by the home builder, when it rains during freezing weather, the water that runs off of my garage roof and drains right onto the fan unit of my HVAC system.  The ice that forms sometimes around the fan, either freezes it solid (which means I have de-ice it with hot water from a tea kettle), or it builds up on the fan blades, so that when the thermostat tells the unit to start up, the built up ice is flung off the blades with a violent sound of crashing. A crushing rattle that jolts me from my sleep inside my bedroom on the other side of the wall.  At this point my options are limited; my white-trash fix-it solution is to cover the top of the fan with a piece of plywood and then place a segment of a rain gutter on top of the wood to keep the water from pouring into the unit and freezing up again.  I always say, "Mark, once it warms up. you got to get a permanent solution to this redneck rigging."  Ah, but when it is a warm Texas spring day, the need to put up a rain gutter does not seem to be the most pressing need.

So it is a new year.  But like so many Januaries before; it rains, it freezes and I find myself storming out of my warm bed, thinly clad in my skivvies, sloshing barefooted through the sodden sod and around the woodpile to throw a piece of plywood to cover the top of the HVAC fan unit while the rain comes down.

Mid-January, 2015 we had a mild spell.  I had an inspiration.  Do the damned gutter and drain - NOW!  I already had a few rain gutter piece from an earlier inspiration, so I measured the eaves, calculated the length of additional gutter plus hangers, seam sealant etc.  I fit all the pieces together on a balmy weekend afternoon, then I climbed off the roof and stood looking up at the eaves like a bedazzled fool.  Why didn't I do this before?

Rain was in the forecast for the coming days.  I took the wife out for dinner, the windshield wipers were pounding out a satisfying rhythm as we pulled into the neighborhood.  The automatic garage door opener did its job, and we pulled up the driveway and into a dry garage.  I parked as my sweetheart retired to the house.  But instead of going inside, I just had to go stand out in the rain and watch and listen as the water trickled down the gutter and out the drain pipe.  I stood in the rainy darkness, watching and listening for a long time.  I must have looked like a fool, but I wasn't concerned, because I felt real good as the water flowed out around my feet - and not on my HVAC fan. 

As 'Coolhand Luke" would sing, "I don't care if rains or freezes..."

*******************

Knock, Knock
Who's there?
Dwayne.
Dwayne who?
Dwayne the water off the roof, the HVAC is dwowning!

In With The New - An Honored Tradition

"New" juxtapose with "Tradition".  Perhaps a bit oxymoronic,  but that is how I like it.

One of my sincerest loved traditions has been the gathering of family friends out in East Texas at the McCord's Blue House for New Years.  For some years now, usually four couples who raised our kids together would gather at the McCord's country estate for a few days and nights around New Year's Eve.  The place has a bunkhouse where the adults would sleep, while the youngins would pile into the kid bedrooms in the main house.  We would share cooking, wine, stories and update events, good and bad from the recent past. Play some parlor games, do a few jigsaw puzzles, watch DVD movies. A good time.

The last 3 or 4 years, the "kids" have grown and moved off to college and such, leaving us empty-nester adults to carry on.  An we have in fine tradition.  Occasionally, one of the young adults will join their parents for a brief time at the Blue House, before dropping back into their own social obligations and orbit of friends.  But the New Years tradition continues, and is there if anyone chooses to join in.  

This year again we made plans to head the 104 miles southeast to the McCord's.  Grant was still home from the University of Missouri on Christmas Break, and in my mind it was a question as to whether he wanted to join his parents for the traditional gathering.  With most his his peers not going to be there, the option to not hang out with the old parents seemed like a strong possibility to me.  I was surprised and then pleased when he asked if he could invite Kaileen to join us.  Including Kaileen in one of our family's better traditions, seemed like a magnanimous and solid idea.  Mom said, "We'll have to check with the McCords first - but I think this would be great."

This is good; something new to the tradition.

Kirby & Donna McCord get the bubbly ready:
3-2-1! Happy New Year!

Donna struggles mightily to pop the champagne cork

Kaileen drove up I-45 to our house from the Houston area and met Grant and Sue.  And then the three of them traveled out to the McCords.  I remained behind to care for the dog.  My plan was to arrive on New Year's Eve, while Grant and Kaileen would come back to our house on New Year's Day to take over caring for the dog and catch the Mizzou v. Minnesota bowl game on our TV.  However, once I arrive in the afternoon, Kaileen was not feeling well; so Grant drove her back to Garland from all the bustle at the McCords.

Grant and Kaileen interact on an easy, well-matched level of conversation and interests.  We enjoyed having her around, as she is positive and interesting and immediately fit well into the household scene around here.

After about a week into 2015, itr was time for the two them to get back to Columbia, MO.  Grant had work scheduled Zimmer Radio and Kaileen too had some things to attend to.  Grant planned on meeting Kaileen about half way between Dallas and Houston at a cafe/pie shop in Fairfield.  Kaileen's mother and "Nana" would escort her up and make the exchange so Grant could drive the both of them back the next day to Missouri.  I was apparently a good deal for Grant, he not only got his girlfriend back, but got a Christmas gift hoodie sweatshirt and then Nana slipped some folding green into his pocket and whispered some instructions into his ear, "Treat yourselves to something nice."  Kaileen comes from good people.

Kaileen and Grant
Prior to departure for Columbia. MO