The Reason I was Banned from McDonald's

     When my son, Paul, was eight years old, we had his birthday party at the farm.  Our rule was one guest for each year, so Paul invited eight friends, all boys.  Most of these boys were also in his Cub Scout troop and on his Little League team.  Charlotte and I were well acquainted with all the parents.

     The farm was called the Easy Three Ranch, located near Austonio, Texas, about twenty miles west of Crockett.  Being from West Texas, I called it a farm.  Two hundred acres to me is a small farm, but the other two-thirds of the EZ3 partnership, Ken Black and Hugh Ruggles, deemed it a ranch.  Because most everyone from Houston lived in a condo or on a 5,000 square foot residential lot, they considered it vast acreage.

     After work on Friday, the boys gathered at our home, with their bedrolls and overnight gear.  I loaded the gear into the trunk of my car and put the boys into Charlotte’s Buick Estate Wagon.  I drove the wagon and carried the boys.  Charlotte and our twelve-year-old daughter, Devon, followed in my car.  They were my support group, along to help with food prep and other chores.

     All the seats in the Buick folded down, which created a semi-level, carpeted platform from the back of the front seat to the rear window of the wagon.  Plenty of room for the nine little guys and they loved it.  Seat belts were not mandatory then, and would have impeded the natural flow of busy boys in the back of the car.  I only had three rules—don’t fight, don’t pester the driver, and don’t jump out the window.  Being safety conscious, I locked the doors and windows from the driver’s seat.  I turned on the A/C, tuned in some good country music, and zoned out for 112 miles.

     We got to the farm in time to build a wonderful fire in the pit behind the house.  The boys sang camp songs, roasted hot dogs, and did S’mores all around.  Everyone had a bath, brushed his teeth, and bedded down in the bunkroom before eleven.  They slept very well.

     I fixed scrambled eggs, German-fried potatoes, sausage, bacon, biscuits and gravy for breakfast, with orange juice and milk.  Some of the guys didn’t like some of the food, but most of them found something they would eat.  Josh Spikerman ate everything in sight, and Shane Rogers didn’t like anything.  I offered him oatmeal.  No way.  I finally told him, “Tough stuff, Shane.  Maybe we’ll have something you’ll like for lunch.”

     Paul led the guys on a nature hike, through the thicket, around the lake, and out into the hay meadow. He taught them how to herd cattle by waving his arms and yelling as he charged.  The cows hooked it into the next pasture. We spent the rest of the morning shooting arrows at targets I had set up on the ends of the round hay bales stored in the meadow. 

     Charlotte and Devon brought lunch out at about 1:30.  Cold drinks, deli sandwiches and potato chips. Shane Rogers drank a Coke, ate two thick bologna and cheese sandwiches and two bags of chips.   Charlotte worried that he would get terminal constipation. 

     We finished Saturday with Paul’s favorite dinner—brisket I’d smoked all day and Charlotte’s potato salad, followed by the mandatory birthday cake.   After a session in the hot tub in lieu of showers, everyone fell asleep without any trouble.  Sunday morning, I fixed oatmeal and orange juice, we cleaned up our trash, straightened the house, loaded our gear and left the farm at about 11:30, planning a stop for lunch on the way home.

     I pulled up to the McDonald’s in Huntsville with the after-church crowd at 12:45 and waited in line.  When it was my turn, I eased up to the window and ordered ten assorted drinks and ten Happy Meals, nine with everything and Shane Rogers’ plain, no pickles, no secret sauce.  I was worn out.  My ears hurt. My back hurt. I was bone tired. The girl at the window took my money and asked me to drive forward to the next window to pick up my order.

    The timid little girl at the service window passed our drinks to me and I distributed them.  Then she handed me ten sacks, one marked with a yellow tag for Shane.  I passed them out and prepared to get back on the road.

    “Mine has secret sauce on it!  And pickles.  I can’t eat secret sauce and I hate pickles.”  Shane yelled from the back seat. 

    I put the car in park and asked the girl to give me a second.  “Everyone check your burgers and find the one without sauce or pickles.”  No such luck—all had sauce.  I returned Shane’s to the girl, apologized and asked her to replace it. 

     She smiled and said, “No problem, sir.  We’ll fix another one.  Just pull forward and wait over there and we’ll bring it to you in a few minutes.”

     I put the wagon in drive, then had a thought.  I put it back in park.  “I’ll just wait right here, if It’s all right with you.”

       “Oh no, Sir.  You must move—you’re blocking the whole line.  Please drive forward.”

      “You don’t understand.  I want that burger to be as important to you all as it is to me.  I’ll just stay right here till I get it.” 

     The Plymouth immediately behind, knowing I had received my order, gave a polite little toot on his horn.  I put my foot on the brake to show him the size of my tail lights.

     “Oh, Sir!  You can’t do this.  Please move up to that parking space and I’ll get your burger right out.  Please don’t make me call the manager.”   The poor child was almost in tears. 

     A Chevy Blazer, three cars back, started honking.  I noticed Charlotte and Devon had pulled around the line, and were waiting at the edge of the parking lot.

     “It’s not my burger, Ma‘am.  It is for Shane Rogers.  He doesn’t like secret sauce and he cannot stand pickles.  Call your manager.  I’m not moving.”

     The young lady slammed the sliding glass shut and spoke into the microphone.  In a minute or so, a yuppie-looking fellow in his early thirties, with a McDonald’s baseball cap on backwards, a Golden Arches Polo shirt and slacks, came out of the store and motioned with a lot of authority for me to move forward into the parking space he designated.  His manner said I should do so immediately.

     I put my car in drive and moved forward about three feet, enough to clear the service window, but still block the drive.   I stopped, put it in park and killed the engine.  Clear of the service window, I could open the door and step out.  The Plymouth driver went crazy, standing on his horn.  He was six feet from his lunch.  He could see it getting cold in the window.  A jacked-up pickup pulled out of line six cars back and roared past me.  The driver was honking with one hand and shooting me the finger with the other.   A sweet-looking girl in the front seat was shooting me the finger with both hands.

     I stepped out of the manicured ivy bed and onto the sidewalk with the manager.

     “You’ve got to move that car.  No one can get through the line.  This is our busiest time.  We’ve got orders piling up inside.  I’ve been nice about this, but I want that car moved now!”  The young manager seemed to be under a lot of stress.

     “You would be making a lot better use of your time to get back inside and make Shane’s hamburger.  I waited in line to order it.  I waited in line to pay for it.  I waited in line to pick it up.  I’m not waiting in line anymore.  Let the line wait on me.  You have my money.  I want that burger.”  I was growing short of patience.

     “Look here, now!  We can’t be held responsible to instantly produce every special order some spoiled kid wants. These things take time.  I want that car moved.   You need to move it right now!”

     In the great scheme of things, I have to admit that I may have been a bit unreasonable.  I was tired and looked forward to nothing more than getting on my way with all the boys quietly sipping their drinks and munching their burgers.  I wanted to get them back to their parents and away from me as soon as possible.  It had been a great weekend, but enough was enough.   Besides, that yuppie irritated me.  I enjoyed pulling his chain.

     “I’ll move the car as soon as I have that burger.  It is not complicated. “   I held my left hand out, palm up, as I spoke.  My right arm rotated, windmill style, until my right hand slapped down on my left palm.  At the impact of the palms, I did a little hop, both feet coming off the ground. 

     “I want a piece of bread.”  Slap. Hop. “I want a piece of meat.” Slap. Hop. “I want a piece of cheese.” Slap. Hop. “I want a piece of bread.” Slap. Hop.  “That’s it. I’ve already paid for it. I don’t care if you make it yourself or if you get it from Jack-in-the-Box,  I’m not moving until I get it.”

     I turned and started back to the car.  Nine boys, all with eyes wide and mouths open, peered through the windows on that side of the car.  Several people in the line were standing outside their cars, trying to see what was happening.   The jacked-up pickup came around again, honking and shooting fingers from both windows.  I glanced at Charlotte and Devon, parked near the edge of the lot.  Charlotte wore a curious, exasperated look and Devon was laughing hysterically.  Both of them have reacted to my antics much the same way for the last forty-odd years.

     “Here’s your burger, Sir.”  The timid country girl held out the sack with Shane’s lunch.  “Please come back soon.”  I arched an eyebrow.  She realized what she’d said and flushed with embarrassment.

     I got into the car.  Shane checked his burger and found it satisfactory.  I adjusted the mirrors, fastened my seat belt, checked the blinkers, and drove to Houston.  

     Paul turned eight in 1982.  Those kids are in their forties now, and to this day, when I see any of them, they ask if I’ve been to McDonald’s lately.

Texas Independence Day March 2, 1836

     I wrote this a couple of days ago, hoping to get it ready to publish on the 2^nd, but I let it slide because I've discovered the joy of ignoring deadlines.  March 2, by the way, is not the day Houston beat Santa Anna at San Jacinto.  It is not the day the Alamo fell.  It is not the day the drunks at Gonzales fired the cannon shot through the pecan trees over the Guadalupe River.  It is none of those things.

     On this day in 1836, 179 years ago, fifty-nine elected representatives and an appointed secretary all signed the Texas Declaration of Independence.  The day was not unlike today, with the wind blowing cold and damp through the unchinked walls of a half-finished, wood-frame capitol building at Washington-on-the-Brazos, the newest designated capital city of Texas.   The delegates covered the window openings with sheets and huddled around a wood stove, attempting to keep warm as they made plans for the colony.

     Colonial conventions had been held in San Felipe in 1832 and 1833, and a “Consultation” took place there in 1835.  The chief purpose of these meetings had been to ask Mexico to honor a pledge to return to the liberal policies of the Constitution of 1824, which Santa Anna agreed to do, but then characteristically reneged on his promise.   A secondary purpose of the conventions was to convince Mexico to allow Texas affairs to be dealt with in Texas, and not govern the colony from far-off Saltillo. 
     The Texians discovered that a “hat in the hands” approach to the Mexican bureaucrats did not work.  Stephen Austin, who, hat in hand, delivered these requests, was promptly imprisoned for over two years.  The colonists decided to mail a letter next time.
      New delegates, mostly a rowdy bunch of lawyers and real estate promoters known as “War Dogs,” were elected for the convention of 1836. Many were new to Texas, trying to get in on the land grab.  Only ten members of the group had been in Texas for more than six years, and fifteen had been here less than one year.   The “War Dogs” were openly opposed to rule by Mexico and loud in their criticisms.  The stately Lorenzo De Zavala and the learned Jose Navarro represented the Tejano population, along with Francisco Ruis (spelled elsewhere as Ruiz).  All other delegates were white European males, including Thomas J. Rusk and Sam Houston.  William B. Travis did not attend the convention because of pressing business at the Alamo.
      The Convention of 1836 convened on March 1, and the president, Richard Ellis, from the Red River delegation, wasted no time.  He did away with all pretense and immediately appointed a five man committee to write a declaration of independence.  The committee was chaired by George Childress, and included Edward Conrad, James Gaines, Bailey Hardeman, and Collin McKinney.  Indications are that Childress did most of the work on the document, and probably came to the convention with a draft already prepared.  He was obviously primed for the task—the committee presented a complete draft of the declaration first thing the next morning and it was passed by a unanimous vote on the first reading, without discussion. 
       Stated in language borrowed freely from Thomas Jefferson’s American Declaration of Independence,  the Texas declaration contained a long list of real and imagined grievances.  Among examples of dire suppressions named in the Texas document are, “….our interests have been continually depressed…., carried on at a far distant seat of government, by a hostile majority, in an unknown tongue…” and, “It denies us the right of worshipping the Almighty according to the dictates of our own conscience, by the support of a national religion, calculated to promote the temporal interest of its human functionaries, rather than the glory of the true and living God.” 

     The document includes several examples of unwelcome intervention by the Catholic Church, corruption within the Mexican Government, and, as if the Indians needed encouragement, it accuses the Mexicans of inciting the Comanche to rape, scalp, and pillage the settlers. 

      The Mexican Government did not lie or trick these people into colonization.   Every man in the room had come to Texas knowing that it was a colony of Mexico and all official business would be conducted in Spanish.  Most of the delegates were landowners.  To own land in Texas, one had to swear allegiance to Mexico,  join the Catholic Church, and accept Spanish as the national language.

      After the list of grievances, the document continued, “We are, therefore, forced to the melancholy conclusion, that the Mexican people have acquiesced in the destruction of their liberty, and the substitution therfor of a military government; that they are unfit to be free and incapable of self-government.”

     Having introduced the idea that the Mexican people were incapable of governing themselves, and therefore unfit to be free, the Texians announced that they were not hampered by such limitations, and would no longer submit to Mexico’s laws, “unknown tongue,” or “national religion.”   Texas was declared a free and independent nation, open to the judgment and dealings of an “impartial” world.

     Logical questions arise from many quarters.  Was this simply a land grab by a bunch of shady real estate agents?  Did these promoters really have any patriotic intentions or were they just power and profit driven scum who stole Texas from Mexico?  Is this just another example of white European males taking advantage of poor, unsophisticated, simple people?  Are we not morally obligated to give this territory back?
 
      The Mexicans are a fun-loving, happy race.  They work incredibly hard and take good care of their families.  Most attend church and, as much as is possible, help the poor.  They are honest, warm-hearted, good-natured and resourceful.  The peons laugh, drink cervesa, gamble, and fiddle around with their neighbors' wives.  On the other hand, they don’t vote.  They don’t educate themselves. They don’t pay debts. They don’t own property.  They don‘t deserve Texas.    

     Back in 1836, many of the delegates wanted to adjourn and hurry to San Antonio to help Travis and his boys at the Alamo, but Sam Houston convinced them it was more important to stay and establish a government for the new republic.  Their efforts to relieve the Alamo would have been in vain—it fell within four days.  It is doubtful they could have made the journey in time to get slaughtered by the Mexican troops under Santa Anna, so, instead of a futile attempt to save the Alamo, the delegates, quietly encouraged and nudged forward by Sam Houston, settled for a futile attempt to write a constitution.

     Some of these delegates, including Thomas Rusk and Lorenzo De Zavala, were pure and noble in their intentions.  They wanted to establish a fair and democratic nation for the betterment of all the people.  On the other hand,  delegates such as Robert Potter were simply rotten to the core, and wanted nothing more than to line their own pockets.  Most of them were between the two poles.  Politicians are no different today.   They are motivated by self-interest, and every single one of them can find moral justification for taking someone else’s property. 
        I have reached my own melancholy conclusion and wish to answer from a purely intellectual standpoint.  Screw the fun loving Mexicans.  They could not govern themselves in 1836 and they cannot do it now. Look at the condition of their country. One dictator after another moves in and seduces the populace with promises of power to the people.  He says let us share the wealth, and offer equal reward for equal effort, and so on, and so on.  Immediately upon gaining office, he executes all known or suspected enemies, raids the treasury, confiscates private property, encourages and accepts bribes, and grinds the common people under his heel.

     Give Texas back?  Pay reparations?  Feel remorse?  I take a white, Anglo-Saxon, protestant view of the situation.  Ain't  gonna happen.

The Rabbit Hunt



If you
If you're gonna hunt Jack Rabbits, this is a good place to do it.  Did you know Mark Twain called them Jackass Rabbits, because of their big ears.  That was shortened to Jack Rabbits and came into general use.

     If you are a regular reader of mine, you know about Buck Campbell and Charlie Flowers.  They farmed in Muleshoe, and have been friends of mine for over sixty years.   Their sons, Scott Campbell and Eddie Flowers, grew up together.

     One night, during their senior year, Scott and Eddie decided to go rabbit hunting.  If you were a high school boy and lived in Muleshoe, that was a popular pastime, made more so because it provided an opportunity to drink beer with friends in the middle of the night.  The equipment needed was minimal—a pickup truck, a spotlight, a cooler chest, and a 22 rifle.  Some cheaters used shotguns, but right-thinking sportsmen considered shotguns unfair to the rabbits.

     The best time to hunt rabbits is between 1:00 and 3:00 AM, while they’re out feeding.  A foursome of teenage boys pile into a pickup truck and drive across the prairie, scanning the area with a high-powered, Q-Beam spotlight until a rabbit is spotted.  Each boy plays a specific role, one driving, one spotlighting, and two standing in the pickup bed, holding onto the headache rack and shooting over the cab.  Every so often, they rotate, so everyone gets to shoot.

     Muleshoe rabbits do not deliver Easter eggs.  They are not cute little Cottontails.  Muleshoe rabbits are long-legged, big-boned jack rabbits that are incredibly fast and very tasty.  They can be chicken-fried or cooked into a wonderful stew.  Sydna Flowers made a legendary rabbit pot pie.

     A rabbit hunt is pure excitement.  When the rabbit is spotted, all hell breaks loose.  The bright light temporarily blinds and confuses the rabbit, but it recovers and takes off like wild fire.  The shooters fire away with semi-automatic 22 long rifles.  It sounds like a Mexican revolution.   The rabbit pops up and down at top speed across the prairie, while the driver keeps his foot in it and the truck bounces over the pasture.  The spotlighter focuses the light on the critter as best he can. Panic-stricken rabbits do not run like other creatures.  They take long, erratic hops high into the air, incredibly quick and mostly in a zig-zag line.   The best hunters time their shots to catch their quarry in mid-hop, when it can’t change direction and seems to float above the landscape.

     The boys were not allowed to hunt rabbits on school nights, but one of their friends had scored a case of Coors, and all high school kids know that stuff will spoil if it ages too much.  Charles Flowers came in from the cattle auction after eleven that evening.  At 12:30, the boys pushed his pickup out of the driveway and down the street, so Sydna Flowers would not hear it start.  No danger of Charles hearing anything after the cattle auction.

I tried my best to get a picture of a Jack Rabbit in here, but it would not work, so I just put her in.  Ain't she cool?

 

     By 2:30, the boys had a half-dozen rabbits skinned and field dressed on ice in the cooler.  Eddie was driving and all four boys were in the front seat, drinking the last of the beer and singing “There were Ninety-Nine Beer Bottles, a hanging on the Wall.”

     The bar ditch came up suddenly and Eddie tried to turn left and miss it.  Too late.  The pickup slammed into the ditch.   The front passenger side tire smashed into the far wall and the wheel bent under the axle at a weird angle.  The boys managed to push the truck out and get it on solid ground.   It listed a bit toward the right front, but, after they changed the flat tire on the crooked wheel, the vehicle was drivable.  Only problem, it took two guys to hold the steering wheel and keep the truck going straight down the road.

    “My dad’s gonna kill me!"  Eddie groused.  "He’ll be mad as hell when he sees that wheel.  I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” 

     “Don’t panic, Eddie."  Scott had an analytical mind.  Let’s think about this for a minute.   Your dad went to the cattle auction tonight.  You know what he generally does at the cattle auction.  He sips Black Jack with my dad and Charlie Tom Isaacs, and they all get plastered.  Isn’t that right?”  

     “Yeah, but that won’t help.  He’ll have a headache and just get madder.  You know how he gets if someone messes with his truck.”

     “Well, we just might get lucky.  If we can get the truck back in the driveway without waking anybody up, he might come out in the morning and think he bent that wheel himself."  Scott said logically.  "It’s worth a try.  Beats hell out of waking everyone up and telling a made-up story.   We don’t dare resort to the truth, and they ain’t no lie we can tell that they’ll believe.”

     They killed the motor three houses down and the boys managed to push the pickup into the driveway without waking anyone.   All four walked home—it was not far.  After all, this was Muleshoe, not some big town like Lubbock or Odessa.

     Every Friday morning at 5:45, the twelve members of the Muleshoe Politically Correct Conservative Action Committee meet for breakfast at the Dinner Bell Café on Highway 84, just across the road from Leal’s Mexican Food.  They talk about manly things—politics, religion, crops, weather, government subsidies, and big-titted women.  They wonder if it will ever rain again.

     “Man, I’m damn lucky to be here this morning,” Flowers said.  “I mighta had a drink or two last night, but  I don’t rightly remember.  I musta hit a curb or something on the way home.  Bent the front wheel on my pickup over sideways and I can’t hardly herd the damn thing down the road.  Sydna’s gonna be pissed, too.”

     Bobby Dale Johnson grinned.  “As far as I can tell, Sydna has good reason to be P.O.’d at you most of the time.  She got somethin’ extra to be mad about now?” 

     “Well, when I got in the truck this morning, I didn’t feel too good, but I cranked it up anyway, put it in gear and went to back out.  It didn’t want to go, so I goosed it.  The damn thing jumped clean sideways and smashed into Sydna’s car.  Tore hell out of it.  She’ll be madder’n a wet hen.  Tommy Joe, I’ll come down to your office and fill out them claim forms soon as Willie James can get me some estimates.  You reckon they’ll cancel my insurance?”

     “Damn, Flowers, if they was gonna cancel it, they’d a done it last year after you run the cattle trailer over Buck’s yard and took out that motor home.  I’ll write a letter to submit with the claim, kinda explaining things from your point of view.  It’ll be all right.”  Tommy Joe turned toward the waitress.  “Hey, Ruthie!  Is they some law against us getting any more biscuits over here?”

     Almost twenty years later, during happy hour one evening at his Dad’s home, Scott told the true story of the rabbit hunt.   Nobody enjoyed it more or laughed harder than Charlie Flowers.

      Charles Flowers died three years ago with stomach cancer.  His friends and neighbors miss him a lot.  Flowers had his flaws, as we all do, and was little-known outside the high plains.  He lived his entire life in that harsh and beautiful environment, and became a legend.  Stories about his exploits live on and grow more elaborate with each telling.  Charles taught us all how to live.

Creature of Habit

     I have become a creature of habit.  That is not something I intended to do.  In fact, I have resisted the idea for most of my life.  I want to be young, spontaneous, unpredictable, and interesting.  I want to be the dashing young man with a careless curl and devil-may-care attitude.  I did not choose to be old, spectacled, plain, or boring.  I did not plan thinning white hair and skinny white legs.  As time passed, some habits seem to have eased into my daily life without permission and altered my persona.  Perhaps there is still time to change.

     I read somewhere that habits are, at first, strings—then they become cables.  I’d guess my habits right now are somewhere between the kite string and the nylon rope stage.  I may be able to change some of them, but I really don’t have the will, or desire, to change others.  I didn’t count on that.  I expected to always resist the urge to be predictable, but I find that I actually enjoy some repetitive behavior.

     For instance, at about six-thirty each morning, I pull the tea kettle off the shelf on my stove, fill it with cold water, put it on the front, right-hand burner, and set the burner on high.  I take the French press from the dishwasher, place it in its precise position on the counter, put 4 1/3 scoops of Eight O’clock Columbian coffee beans into the grinder and count to nine while it grinds.  The coffee gets too powdery if I let it go to ten or more and is full of chunks and half-beans if I cut it off too early. I put the properly ground beans into the press and wait for the water to boil.

     The tea pot whistles when the water is ready, but I don’t hear it.  When I brought the contraption home from Der Kutchen Laden and it didn’t whistle, I was furious.  I planned to take it back and give them a piece of my mind.  Charlotte suggested I settle down.

     Turns out I have a high frequency hearing loss and do not hear that particular sound.  Same for the alarm on my Wal-Mart wrist watch.  It goes off at odd times and my grandchildren say, “Mac, your watch is beeping.  You need to turn it off.” 

     I have no idea how to turn it off.  I didn’t turn the damn thing on.  I just ignore it and go about my business as if I’m not beeping like sonar on a World War Two submarine. The kids exchange knowing looks and roll their eyes.

     When I see the steam blowing out the top of the kettle, or when Charlotte yells from the bedroom to stop the whistling, I pour the boiling water into the glass beaker and stir the mixture with a long-handled spoon I keep for that purpose.  The spoon is always in a container on the drain board so I can find it.  Others around the house have learned not to fiddle with my coffee spoon.  A knife or a fork or even another spoon does not work the same.  I need to stir my coffee with THAT spoon or it won’t taste right.  If the spoon is misplaced, my coffee gets cold while I search for it.

     After I stir the coffee with my spoon, I let it steep for three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, or longer if I want it stronger.  When I push down the plunger, the kitchen fills with a heavenly aroma and the beaker fills with fresh, rich, flavorful coffee.  I pour the brew into one of my special mugs and sit down to watch television and work a crossword puzzle.  (For more on the special mugs, see “Coffee Cups” in this blog on 8-5-13)

     I say “watch” television because I set the sound low, just loud enough to hear the commercials.  At that level, it is impossible to hear or understand the programs.  That is fine with me, because the programs at that time of day are all morning news.  I watch the Fox bunch, not because of my political leanings, but because the news is delivered by good-looking women in short, tight dresses.  I don’t give a whit about the news, but I enjoy watching the girls squirm and jiggle while they talk.

     Fox likes to bring in a lot of “guest experts” and sit them down on a rounded sofa, facing the camera.  They are experts about different subjects--psychology, mathematics, economics, the stock market, or world peace, but you can bet they’ll have some things in common.  They will be nice-looking, long-legged, well-built women in short skirts, wiggling around on that couch, showing a little cleavage and trying to make their case without flashing the  TV camera.  If they bring on any of the arrogant know-it-alls—Geraldo, The Donald, or Pat Roberson, I just switch over to CNN and watch the liberal cuties over there.

     I “listen” to the commercials because I get a kick out of the disclaimers.  Most of the commercials are about medicine, which says something about who is watching at six am.  They say, “Ask your doctor about so-and-so.”  They want you to think the doctor appreciates your advice.  They also want to give him a little nudge in the direction of so-and-so, just in case he hasn’t already thought of it.  The announcer low-talks real fast and tells you to watch out for the side effects of so-and-so, which may include body parts dropping off, kidneys locking up, and livers exploding, to name the most common.

     There is always a Cialis commercial, which focuses on two consenting adults on a deserted beach, relaxing in separate footed bathtubs.  Oddly enough for this day and age, the consenting adults are of opposite sexes.  As the golden sun sets, music plays softly in the background, and a quiet-voiced announcer tells you to call your doctor if you have an erection lasting more than four hours.  If I take one of those pills and that problem arises at my house, there are several people I might call to help with it.  My doctor is not on that list.

      As I said at the outset, if I decide I want to, I may be able to change some of these habits.  I probably should, just to demonstrate that I’m on board with the spirit of hope and change.  All the same, I’m not about to quit watching good-looking women squirm around in tight skirts.  Maybe I’ll try instant coffee.

San Fernando Cathedral



The San Fernando Cathedral as seen from the Main Plaza in broad daylight.  Note the young pickpocket on the right, on his way into the chapel to confess his sins and, perhaps with some loose change in his pocket, promise to sin no more.

    In 1719, the Marques de San Miguel de Aquayo, governor and captain general of Coahuila and Texas, recommended to the king of Spain that 400 volunteer families be gathered from either Galicia, or the Canary Islands, or Havana, and transported to Texas to provide settlers for the colony.  In 1723, the king decided to send 200 families from the Canary Islands.

     The governor wanted these settlers to populate the area around his newest presidio, San Fernando de Bexar.  The mission Valero, later known as the Alamo, had been established there in 1720, and settlers were needed to farm and defend the land.  The Indians in Texas were not nearly as docile as those in Mexico, and the friars were having trouble recruiting slave labor.  Comanche didn't make good slaves.

     For the next several years, governmental delays kept the project on hold, but by midsummer of 1730, twenty-five families from the Canary Islands made it to Havana and ten more to Veracruz.  The king cancelled the project, but the ten families in Veracruz, fifty-six people altogether, decided to continue overland to the remote presidio at San Fernando de Bexar, and arrived there on March 9, 1731. 

     Due to marriages while en route, fifteen actual families arrived in Bexar.  The cagey islanders must have realized that single daughters, no matter how sweet, received no land, but young daughter-in-laws and their husbands were awarded a farm.  Four single men, ranging in age from 17 to 22, arrived with their families and were collectively designated the sixteenth family.  Each family was allotted a generous farm, and the single men each received one half a family share.

     In 1731, the Canary Islanders established the San Fernando Cathedral and started construction on the chapel, which was finished in 1750 or so.  To put this time frame in context, the population of New York City was around 9,000 loyal British subjects when San Fernando was started, and the famed San Juan Capistrano Mission in Southern California was not built until almost fifty years later, in 1776.   

     The San Fernando Cathedral has quietly existed in its spot in the exact center of the city of San Antonio for 282 years.  It is the mother church of the Archdiocese of San Antonio and the seat of its archbishop.  Pope John Paul II visited there in 1987, during the only trip to Texas by a sitting pope.

      In 1831, Jim Bowie married the beautiful Ursula de Verimendi in the San Fernando Chapel and his two children were, no doubt, christened there.  In 1836, William Barret Travis and Green Jameson watched from the church's bell tower, the highest structure in San Antonio, as General Sesma led the advance guard of Santa Anna’s army into town.  The Mexicans unfurled the famous blood red, “No-Quarter” flag from the belfry and it remained there during the siege and fall of the Alamo.

The cathedral during Richemont's presentation.

     Now, in addition to its other functions,  the building is used as a backdrop for a fantastic light and music show.   For the next ten years, four nights each week, the facade of San Fernando Cathedral will be used as a sort of movie screen to reflect the imagination of French artist Xavier de Richemont.   Visitors are urged to bring lawn chairs and find places in the main plaza to watch and listen as the free presentation unfolds three times nightly.

     The show is called “The Saga at San Fernando Cathedral” and consists of a series of psychedelic-like visions in intense full color that condense the three hundred year history of San Antonio into a twenty-four minute visual and auditory experience.  It is, in a word, incredible.

     I am not a fan of contemporary art.  I’ve seen too many slick talkers foist off absolute junk on unsuspecting patsies by calling it “art.”  We had an ole boy in Lubbock named Terry Allen that scratched out a living doing just that.  Oh, he also wrote some songs that pretty much rhymed, and picked a guitar around town, just about anything to make a living without working.  One time, at an art show in New Mexico, he put a used Airstream trailer house on display as a piece of art. If I remember correctly, he artistically leaned a broom up against the side of the trailer.  He was a lot better salesman than artist.

     This “video art installation” isn’t like that.  It is art on a level with any I've seen, but entirely different.  I watched the show on the Internet and was mesmerized.  In the beginning, the chapel was all darkness with hints of red in the background, as if the viewer is peering toward an early morning red sky through a dense black forest.  Thunder rolls.  It's raining.  The sound of the rain becomes music. I feel as if this represents the dawn of time—the instant of creation.

The church as it appears toward the end of the presentation.

     In continuous color, synchronized with fantastic music, the story of Texas unfolds on the face of the cathedral.  Geronimo, Sam Houston, Stephen Austin, LBJ, Abraham Lincoln and dozens of others are recognizable on the face of the chapel.  Tepees, horses, cattle and oil wells drift by.  The Alamo with Travis, Bowie, and Crockett, all in living color and all accompanied by appropriate music, fill the scene. 

     The music ranges from distant thunder to a lonesome flute or guitar.  A complicated pipe organ ensemble precedes the plaintive lyrics of simple folk music sung by a nasal hillbilly.  Accordions and mariachis follow symphonic sounds from a full blown orchestra and choir, all perfectly coordinated with the visual extravaganza taking place on the facade of the old church. 

     I watched in rapt attention as the saga played out.  I marveled at the talent of Xavier de Richemont, and the foresight of those who commissioned him for this piece, his first in the United States.  I watched the whole show on my computer and have yet to see the saga in person, but that will be remedied shortly.  If need be, I will go alone and sit in the cold rain.  I will see this work of art in person.

     For more information on The Saga of San Fernando Cathedral, and to view the work, go to www.mainplaza.org, read about the installation and see the show.

Some of the remains of the Texians slaughtered and burned by Santa Anna's troops at the Alamo were recovered by Juan Seguin and are interred here at San Fernando.

Luxury

A road like this in the moonlight becomes magic in a Jaguar

     When you see that title, your first thought may well be, “What does anyone from Lubbock know about luxury?”  I admit West Texas is not exactly chock full of luxury, but if you look past the surface, it is there.  

     As a young man, when I considered the word “luxury,” the first images that came to mind involved objects.  Automobiles, diamonds, mink, leather, and silk—that sort of thing.  After spending my life chasing all the above, I discovered that luxury has nothing to do with things.  Luxury is much more complicated—and simple.  It is a state of mind.

     In 1975, I made a decision.  I had been to the showroom three times the week before, looking, touching, admiring, and dreaming.  At two o’clock on Saturday afternoon,  a neighbor and I finished pouring his new concrete driveway.  He and I started at seven that morning, and worked in the heat and humidity of late-summer Houston.  We were hot and sweaty, dressed in tee shirts and cut-off jeans, splashed with concrete.

Remember, this was 1975

      “You want to take me down to Overseas Motors, Rudy?  I’m going to buy that car.”

     “Right now? Overseas Motors?  Dressed like that?”  Rudy was incredulous.

     “Right now.”  I said.  He grinned.  Rudy was a Rice professor, a PhD, and the idea appealed to his overdeveloped sense of irony.

     I wrote a check for a brand new, 1975 Jaguar XJ6L, a four-door sedan, midnight blue, with extended wheel base.  The seats were Corinthian leather and the dash gleamed with polished burled walnut.  The car had power everything, two gas tanks and a state-of-the-art sound system with eight speakers.  The speedometer was pegged at 140 mph. I drove it home that afternoon, dressed in concrete-splattered cut offs, with a day’s growth of beard and a lot of what I considered justifiable pride.

     The Jaguar was not just a car.  It was a statement.  I was thirty-nine years old, my company was thriving, my wife was lovely, my children were beautiful, and I was just getting started.  I well remembered the one room house on the dirt farm in Lubbock where I started first grade.  It would fit in my West University living room. I knew where I came from and I knew where I was going.  It was time everyone else did.

American version, with the controls on the left.

     Charlotte, Rudy, and Jola, his wife, loaded into the car for a demonstration ride.  Immersed in classical music from the unbelievable sound system, we eased onto the Southwest Freeway.  The powerful vehicle accelerated soundlessly while music and the smell of leather permeated the interior.  We were cruising at seventy in the far left lane as the independent suspension straightened the curves and buffered the road noise.  Luxury.  Pure automotive luxury.

     Tink.

     The small rock was evidently kicked up randomly by a junky ’63 Ford Galaxy going fifty miles an hour in the lane ahead of us.  The stone created a ding just under the rearview mirror in the exact center of what the English call the windscreen.  A dark circle, maybe three-eights of an inch in diameter marred my view of the world and shattered my sense of superiority.  I felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach.  I wanted to cry.  I turned the music down and drove home.

     One night, in February of the next year, Charlotte and I drove from Breckenridge to Copper Mountain to meet some friends for dinner.  On the way back, it was late and powdery white snow covered the black pine trees that dotted the mountains.  A bright moon lit the landscape; the curvy road was lonely and dry.  The Jaguar was in its element.  Dual heaters silently kept the interior cozy and Ferrante and Teicher filled the car with fantastic music as I effortlessly negotiated the sweeping curves.  To this day, I cannot forget the intense pleasure I felt that night.  It is easily the most memorable drive of my life.

     Back in Houston, about six months later, Charlotte called me from Wagner Hardware, on the corner of Kirby and Rice Boulevard.  “The Jaguar quit.  Just died in the middle of the intersection.  What should I do?”

     “Call Triple A and have it towed home.  I don’t have time to fart with it now.  I’m trying to work.”   

      When I got home, I raised the bonnet and inspected the motor.  I checked the wiring connections and wiped dust off the air cleaner.  Nothing amiss.  I tried the starter.  The car started immediately and ran beautifully.  

     The next day, Charlotte took the Jaguar to the dealership.  They could find nothing wrong, so naturally, they replaced the spark plugs, the spark plug wires, the distributer cap, all the filters, the oil, the coolant and the fan belts.  The amount of the invoice was obscene.  During the next two months, the car died in the middle of the street four more times.

     No matter how fantastic the sound system, it is little consolation when you’re stopped in the center of a busy intersection with the motor dead and half of Houston honking at you.  Just ask Charlotte.  We bought a Buick station wagon for her and I kept the Jaguar to play with.

     I talked with an architect friend of mine who loved Jaguars.  “John,” I said, “I’m thinking of buying another Jaguar, an XKE.  What do you think?”

     “Jim, if you had two Jaguars, what would you drive?”

      The logic of his comment was obvious.  I had no reply.

       Charlotte still loves silk, fur, leather and Joy perfume, but my idea if luxury has evolved.  Luxury is simple.  A faucet that doesn’t drip.  A spotless bathroom. An intelligent conversation.  Sharp kitchen knives.  Warm, thirsty towels.  A drink of cool water.  Homemade lasagna.  Ironed sheets.  Strong, black coffee.  Things that touch you and make you feel good.  That is luxury.

     A friend of mine put everything in perspective.  He said when we’re young, we want everything to be up to date and stylish.  Our clothing must be snappy and well-tailored, our cars need to be sleek and shiny, and our women trim and shapely.  As we grow older, we begin to place a lot more value on comfort.

     A new Jaguar, fresh off the showroom floor, is nice, but it is not luxury.  It is a machine.  If you’re lucky, one day you might drive it through snowy mountains at midnight, and remember the trip for a lifetime.  That is luxury.  Luxury makes us feel good, no matter what it costs.

Putting the Lid on the Churn--Final Episode of the Fishing Trip

The Conejos River, near Platoro.

 

     The wake-up aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted up the stairs.  I knew it was sometime after 4:30, and, as John Wayne said, we were burning daylight.  That whole idea confused me, but I climbed out of bed and made my way to the bath room.  I could hear Roy telling his story as I dressed and went downstairs.

      Coffee just tastes better out of a heavy mug.  We pulled on jackets and went outside to sit on the front porch and drink the steamy brew, watch for any hint of daylight, and listen to Roy weave his endless tale.  He was building the drama as he neared the climax.

    “Finally, she got this little gleam in her eye and said, Uh, er, uh—oh shit!  I forgot!” Roy said.

     “What do you mean, she said, ‘I forgot!’ That doesn’t make any sense,” Collins said.

     “She didn’t say 'I forgot.'  I did.  I’m the one who forgot.  I don’t remember what she said, but it was really cool,” Roy explained.

     “Dammit Roy, you mean we been listening to a story for two days and you can’t remember how it ends?  What the hell kind of deal is that?”  Wayne was stunned.  He never failed to properly finish a story, even if he had to make up the ending, which I suspect happened more often than not.   We let Roy off the hook because we all tend to let details drop through the cracks on occasion.  That may be a function of age.

     I fixed “Country Eggs Benedict” for breakfast.  Simply split one of Neil’s big scratch biscuits and top each half with a thick slab of fried ham and a poached egg.  Smother the whole thing with a ladle full of Tabasco-spiked cream gravy and serve with a side of German fried potatoes and onions--sophisticated, southern, and delicious—stick to your ribs food.  I know, I know—some of it will also stick to the inside of your arteries.

     On a fishing trip, I don’t do real Eggs Benedict for several reasons.  We don’t generally bring English Muffins and Hollandaise Sauce to camp.  I could do the sauce from scratch, but it is just not civilized to serve Eggs Benedict unless preceded by spicy Bloody Marys and accompanied by crisp, dry, fermented-in-the-bottle Champagne.  After a breakfast like that, it’s impossible to concentrate on fishing.

A mountain with the not unusual name, "Old Baldy," adjacent to the Alamosa Canyon, near Platoro.

     Time passed, as always, and our few days stolen from reality came to an end.  Someone may find it possible to leave those fellows and not miss them immediately, but not Wayne and not me.  We talked all the way to Kerrville, over 800 miles, about Roy’s wonderful stories, Neil’s quiet wisdom, and James’ quick wit.  We marveled at how little we all have changed, while the world kept turning and perhaps, passed us by. 

     No doubt, we have changed—we’re almost eighty years old.  For one thing, we drink better whiskey.  We also drive better cars and eat better than we once did.    All of us parlayed the lessons we learned in West Texas into a good life.  The work ethic we learned is taken for granted out there, but in the rest of the world it is much admired and sought after.

     I think the lack of change in our personalities is due to the fact that we were pretty well satisfied with who we were when we got out of high school. We chose not to change.  College and professional life taught us new ways to express our ideas and expanded our vocabularies, but short of superficial changes, we stayed true to the land of our youth and the rules of life we learned on the high plains.

     We all have made new friends.  Part of being from the Texas panhandle has to do with being open to friendship.  In the early days out there, neighbors lived on lonely farms, miles apart, and seldom saw each other.  When they did get a chance to visit, they took full advantage of the opportunity and regaled each other with stories, news, and gossip.  Friends were necessary, whether building a barn, rounding up cattle, fighting Indians, or chasing outlaws.  New friends were desirable, and old friends were indispensible.  We inherited these traits, refined them to suit the times, and live with them to this day.

Neil, James, Wayne, and Roy.  Four better fly fishermen may exist somewhere, but I doubt it.  About 280 years of experience is represented here.

     The guys on this fishing trip are some of my closest friends.  We’ve known and loved each other since we all had pimples.  We’ve shared each other’s highs and lows.  We know instinctively which buttons to push…. and which ones to leave alone.   We sometimes don’t visit for months, but that does not matter—we know where we stand.  We’re friends.

    James Collins called yesterday to wish me a happy birthday.  During our conversation, he mentioned that Neil and he were already planning next year’s event and it was going to be a regular stem-winder.  He intimated that if Wayne and I were nice to him for the rest of this year—very nice to him—we might be invited.  Ford nailed it—the little S.O.B. has been that way since he was five years old.