Tuesday, June 4, 2019

June 4, 2019

I tried to Haiku 
but all was frogs and cool ponds.
Summer vacation.

Wednesday, August 29, 2018

And the world moves on

I’m not really sure what’s going on over there next to the Verizon store on South Jefferson. I drove by the other day and there’s just a slab of concrete where there used to be something, but for the life of me I can’t remember what.

The Verizon store used to be a gas station; gas used to come in more than just one flavor; the drive-in is now a trailer manufacturer; drive-thrus are a dime a dozen; and a dime will never again buy you a cup of coffee.

That’s life. Eso es vida. C’est la vie.

The Martin theater is now a church; the old First Baptist Church building is now the place to go for revivals on financial management; the library used to be in the old post office; and let’s not talk about the courthouse – a once handsome old building covered up by years of “let’s get with the times” until it became what it is today, which isn’t all that bad depending on your point of view.

I walked around the courthouse a while back, sat on a bench, drank a tall latte and thought to myself, “This life could be a whole lot worse.”

There used to be a train depot just off the square. Now there’s just an empty plot of dirt and sand that doesn’t know what to do with itself. Last Friday I stood in the middle of what once was the depot’s loading platform, trying to hear the voices of the men who waited for the Cotton Belt steam engine to take them to World War II, but I was 70 years too late. The train and men had long left the station.

Turning south you can still see the old smoke stack for Borden’s. Men and boys would collect milk from local dairy farms and bring it back to the factory to be pasteurized. Milkmen would deliver cold bottles of truly fresh milk right to your doorstep, and nobody was lactose intolerant. Today I put Almond milk in my morning coffee. It’s just not the same.

The ghost of Bull Durham continues to look down on the square, but Rogers Hardware Store is now a pizza parlor; a parking lot displaced The Stephens Hotel years ago; The Texan movie theater stands empty, looking for a lessor; and if I told you where the old Titus County Jail once stood, you would never again believe a word I say.

Thing is, things change. Things come and go. New things replace old things. Old thingamajigs get replaced by new doohickeys. Groovy ain’t cool anymore, and bad got replaced with da bomb long before being dope was litty.

The world moves on, and that’s a good thing.

Bess Caldwell owned a beautiful house that was across the street from Harold Richardson Grocery and Feed Store to the north, and Butternut Bakery to the west. When she died, she willed the property to the city, stipulating that it be turned into a downtown park. Today, Caldwell Park sports a splash pad, a gazebo and is a great place to walk your dog, or visit the Farmer’s Market when it’s in season.

I doubt the change would have bothered dear old Bess one iota.

Dawg Fest Rally

We had a charity car and motorcycle rally this past weekend. This is one of the photos I took.

Friday, August 10, 2018

Another school year begins...

... but without me!

I've been a newspaper reporter / photographer / columnist going on four months now -- and it suits me fine.

I've got more deadlines to meet than ever before, but I can go pee whenever I want to.

I haven't had a single day that was just like any other. And if I want to have a beer for lunch, I order a beer.

Screaming kids? Haven't heard a single one.

Papers to grade? Nada.

Cafeteria or hallway duty? Are you kidding me?

Sure, not everything is rosy. But that's life. C'est la vie.

The other morning I went out to the football field to take photos of the marching band participating in their annual summer band camp. I got kind of hot and sweaty. So....

I headed to the gym and went for a swim.

And today, I took my daughter to lunch. Afterward, she bought us snow cones for desert.

Life is good.

Saturday, August 4, 2018

It's just your point of view

I didn't mow the yard last Saturday. I didn't even think about it. Trim the hedges, water the fescue? They weren't on my list to do. And I didn’t watch “the game” either. I don't know which game I didn't watch, but I'm sure it was a doozy on someone's television, just not on mine. It wasn't even on in the back of my mind.

Iwent to Dallas with my wife; everything else I declined.

I could have gone to the hardware store just to piddle around, I guess. Pick up this or that; lug it home, find out that it's two inches too small, and return it. But I didn't. I would have though, because it's a shame to waste money, even if it costs just a dime or two. But all my pennies were in their proper places.

We took a tour bus with friends all wearing smiles on their faces.

I was the only guy on board, if you don't count Terry the bus driver and Dan who was in charge of the trip. Me and lots of women dressed to the nines, but do you think I cared? Not one little bit of Saturday chores undone could ruin my day. Grocery shopping? I'll take care of that tomorrow. Wash and wax the car? I'll take care of that next week.

We were all eager to see "Love Never Dies," a summer musical sung in English.

"Well, it's Greek to me," I hear you say under your ball cap while you're sweating in the front yard, pulling weeds in the summer sun. "And it's probably all about 'Love' and only a bit about 'Dying,' and I'd much rather step on a nail than go, or spend a night in jail. You know?"

"And it's got that opera singing I just can't stand," someone pipes up to be heard over the cacophony of the third beer commercial in a row. "And if you can't understand a word they're singing, what's the point of going in the first place? Hey, the game's back on. Move your face."

I see your point. Yes I do. But isn't it necessary to sometimes alter your view?

You go watch a musical. She joins you at a monster truck rally. Together you agree: avant-garde belly dancing just ain't your cup of tea. Maybe you take up knitting. Maybe she volunteers to skin a squirrel. It's possible, you have to allow. Don't roll your eyes like that. I ain't talking highbrow. There's nothing wrong with baseball, crocheting, soccer, fine art or ballet; reading a book or listening to Mozart. Watching "Sons of Anarchy" or "Places in the Heart."

So yes, you could change your oil today, fix a faucet or chop up some wood. But instead, why not just change your perspective. Who knows? It might do you some good.

Saturday, July 21, 2018

Sock it to me, baby!

Oh, the years we’ve wasted donning white socks and black, sometimes brown if the ensemble screams for it, but never bright orange, or psychedelic candy stripes like the ones I’m wearing today.

“How gauche,” I hear. “How unprofessional,” you say.

Well yes, maybe if you’re a banker or the chief of police, but wouldn’t you trust the mayor just a wee bit more if he went around wearing knee-high rubber ducky socks on purple, or pink stars on fluorescent orange? I know I would.

Just think of the mindless hours we spent separating those “boring” socks – darks in this pile, whites over there – when bright reds covered with pizza slices would’ve given us at least a hiccup, something to ponder, a respite from the endless tedium.

“You can’t wash those with your white shirts. They’ll turn everything into a faded bad acid trip.”

Yes, but we’d be awash in exotic colors the likes of which the world has never seen. Let’s do away with the white oxford. Let the business blue fade from memory. Give me something boldly muted that makes people wonder, “What the heck was he thinking?”

Navy blue socks with palm trees; gray socks bearing pineapples; tropical fish swimming in black; blue hibiscus on white; polka dots for the left foot, stripes for the right. These are not the socks of children anymore. I say they are the socks of men.

“He must be suffering from heat stroke. Somebody call an ambulance.”

No, I’ve just seen the light, thanks to my loving wife who bought me a pair of bright red socks for Father’s Day – bright red socks that remind me of a time when life was simpler, more adventurous, a playground expedition followed by snow cones in the park. But then life crept up one day and declared, “Become a man. Throw away your childish things. Cleave unto all things adult like mortgages and insurance payments. Embrace navy blue, a good all-around color that’s befitting for every occasion. And by all means shun the Star Wars Chewbacca socks like the plague, for they will be your undoing.”

Ah, too late. For my sock collection will remain undone until every last tiresome pair goes extinct through natural selection, leaving behind a drawer full of adventurous foot attire that only the brave would dare to don.

“It might be too late, but does anybody know CPR?”

No need. My heart is so much lighter, now that my feet are so much brighter. I’d recommend it to one and all (buy yourself a cheap pair of silly socks to improve the quality of your life) but most people would never fall for the idea that happiness can be bought for mere pennies on the foot.

There will come a day when I will breathe my last breath, cry my last tear, sing my last song. Is it so appalling to want to live those final days with a smile on my face and Super Mario socks on my feet?

I think not.

Saturday, July 7, 2018

A night hike through the woods

It was close to 10 p.m. on a Friday night and there was a baby 'possum standing in the middle of the trail. Someone was shining a flashlight on him, but he just stood there in the spotlight, frozen, like an amateur Shakespearean actor who has forgotten his lines in mid soliloquy.

I felt like helping out the poor thing by whispering the next line: "'What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how…" but who does that sort of thing -- giving lines to a creature that's too young to have even heard of Shakespeare?

Me, it seems.

I asked Chris Caswell why the possum wasn't running away, and he said it was too young to be scared of humans. And I thought, "And too young to have learned to look both ways while crossing a road; to have learned not to open suspicious emails; to play possum, I reckon."

Someone doused the light, leaving the possum to find its own way off stage, and we moved on.

We? Yes, an adventurous band of humans out on a night hike through Lake Bob Sandlin State Park, eager to see what could be seen, hear what there was to hear. We were two park rangers, Chris and Clifford Daily; Chris’ wife Sarah and their two youngsters, Carter and Luke; Kristi from Abilene who was camping in the park; and me, a cub reporter looking for a story and trying to overcome the human instinct of fearing all things that creep, crawl and shriek like a fox in the middle of the night.

Oh, yes. The fox. Of course at the time I didn’t know it was a fox. I just heard it scream out in the woods one night many years ago as I was heading out the door to pull the trash dumpster to the end of the driveway. Needless to say (but I will anyway), the trash didn’t make it, and I cowered inside wondering, “What the heck was that?”

“That’s a bobcat,” said Chris, bringing me out of the memory. And as if on cue, a coyote started howling. The seven of us stood still on the trail listening to the beast sing his song, while the moon and Jupiter danced above the treetops, not paying us any mind.

When the concert was over, Chris said, “Sounded like a male,” and we continued down the pathway, not doubting him one iota.

And those two youngsters? Nary a peep could be heard from them. It was as if walking down a path surrounded by poison ivy, snakes and scorpions was just part of their bedtime routine – put on your pajamas, go brush your teeth, don’t forget your half-a-mile hike through the spooky woods, and then daddy will read you a bedtime story.

During our trek, we thought we saw a snake, but it was only a stick; we saw some poison ivy, and we stayed far away from it; Kristi from Abilene noticed a box turtle laying eggs, and Carter hunkered down next to it to get a better look; and Chris said scorpions illuminated by UV light really glowed in the dark, and he dashed off ahead to look for some.

Who does that sort of thing?

Not me, it seems.