I'm Done

It is August here in Dallas and it is pretty much how you would expect Dallas to be in August. It is hot. And when I say "hot", I don't mean the ordinary hot that one reads about in books where the hero rolls up his sleeves and mops his brown with a handkerchief and the herione fans herself with whatever is handy in the way of coquettish devices. No, I mean the kind of hot that is usually accompanied by showers of sparks from giant crucibles of molten steel, tended to by men suited up as if to slay a fire-breathing dragon. For much of the summer, the thermometer has routinely read 105 or above. Though I don't think we'll break the record of that hellish summer of 1980, we're coming damn close to it.

As you might imagine, this has rendered almost the entire population of Texas housebound. No one even wants to venture out in this stuff. This is the Texas equivalent of winter in International Falls, Minnesota. No one gets outside unless they have to. Whereas a Minnesotan might suffer from a tongue frozen to a flagpole, we suffer from leaving our fingerprints on the steering wheels of our cars. All in all, its probably a toss-up as to which is more unpleasant.

All of this has led me to make a decision I never thought I'd make. I'm thinking about leaving Texas. I love Texas. I love its pioneer spirit and its "don't tread on me" attitude. I love its republicanism (as in "The Republic of Texas") and its can-do spirit. I love the friendliness and down-to-earthiness of its people. I love its opportunity and spirit of optimism. But this heat has broken me. I long for four seasons. I long to be able to go outside in the summer and actually sit in a chaise lounge without being cooked in place or being carried off by mosquitos (or both). I long to drive without having to hold the steering wheel with oven mitts. I want to live where pretty flowers grow without constant watering and shielding from the sun. I want to live where I can spend an hour outside working in the yard without having to be rushed to the hospital to be treated for heat stroke.

So, once the daughter has graduated from college and has settled down somewhere, me and the Missus are packing up the covered wagon and heading either nor' by nor'-east or up to the Pacific northwest. Both of these places have their drawbacks, of course. The Pacific Northwest is stacked to the rafters with bead-wearing, bong-toking, bath-avoiding hippies. The northeast is populated with people named Biff and Muffy who speak without unclenching their jaws or separating their teeth and who look at people with disdain so pure that it could be bottled without any further distillation and sold as either hard liquor or an alternative fuel. But I am beginning to think that I could tolerate all of those things if mollified by the presence of four seasons.

Ask me again in four years. My tune may have changed.

Idle Hands

I'm not sure why it always seems to be on a Thursday when I finally sit down at the keyboard and grind out another entry for my largely unread blog. I suppose because it's far enough along in the week that I can finally unclench enough to be able to type. For the first three days of the week I'm wound up like the unfortunate watch of an obsessive compulsive savant on speed. By Thursday, my soul's mainspring has unwound enough to allow my hands to do something other than point stiffly at the passing hours as if to say, “Hey, stop that!"

Unfortunately, having spent so much of the week under about six feet of a loamy mix of gainful employment and domestic responsibility, I don't have much to write about. That is my fault. I should have been born rich, but I lacked gumption as a zygote.

Earlier this evening I toyed with the idea of pulling the sheet back from my novel, giving it a few jolts with the defibrillator, and pressing a fingertip firmly against its neck in order to ascertain if resuscitation was possible. The prognosis was not good and in the end I decided it was more humane to toe tag it and allow it the dignity of mouldering peacefully in the morgue (for there was no plot). I decided it would be better if I just started anew. It has been so long since I wrote anything on my last attempt that it would no doubt turn out to be something of a franken-novel.

But for now I'm not going to think about it. It is only Thursday. Inspiration rarely visits on Thursday. My muse generally only comes in once or twice a week to vacuum and to make the beds.

Thursday, June 2, 2011
Somewhere in Texas

Another Pleasant Valley Thursday

Here I sit on this quiet Thursday evening sipping coffee and tapping into this laptop of mine, letting insipid thoughts drift aimlessly like dander to settle pointlessly on the beige pile carpet of my life. I'm not even sure it rises to the level of quiet desperation anymore. It is just quiet respiration.

Earlier was dinner at the Chinese buffet followed a quick walk around Hobby Lobby. I wasn't particularly interested in buying anything in support of a hobby (real or imagined). I just wanted to walk off dinner, and Hobby Lobby is always a quiet, clean, well-lit place that seems to emit a good vibe. Why not walk around Hobby Lobby? It is one of those pseudo-inspirational places that make one think, “I could do that.” It is a good feeling. It is almost exactly opposite of the feeling of frustration and anguish one would get if actually attempting that hobby. No, it is better to just imagine being successful at that particular hobby rather than attempting it and finding out one is all thumbs or abysmally untalented.

After that, we returned home where I took some recycling out to the recycling dumpster in the alleyway. This gave me a sense of having done something useful without actually having to exert much in the way of energy or time. This went a long way towards alleviating the guilt I would normally feel at putting on my pajamas at 8:30 in the evening.

So here it is 8:41 on a Thursday evening and I am in my pajamas and sipping on a cup of coffee and typing into this infernal machine. And 99% of the people in the world would gladly change places with me right now if they had the opportunity. How can one not feel blessed with numbers like that? Of all the realities I could have been born into on that cold winter day in 1962, I won the lottery. It may not have been the power-ball lottery, but I still won the equivalent of a pick-six and my life has been good.

Thursday, May 19, 2011
Somewhere in Texas

Discovering Our World, Part 3

Look what I found today while browsing around in Half Price Books!

If I have anything that approaches the category of "strange fascination", it is my fondness for old school textbooks. There's no rhyme or reason to the ones that I like. I don't like all textbooks; just some. And I never really know which ones I will like until I hold it in my hands and examine it. I like books that have some heft to them, that are printed on heavy, high-quality paper, that have good pictures or drawings (preferably in the art deco style), that are in great condition, and that also have a certain je ne sais quoi quality about them. I lean towards science textbooks, but I also have a few health, math, geography, and history textbooks. I also like them to be from the 1940s or earlier.

This particular book I discovered after wondering around the store for almost an hour and just as I was about to give up and leave empty-handed. What's more, it was a mere three dollars! It weighs a whopping 1.5 pounds but is only 5.5" x 7.5", so it's pretty dense. And, as you can see, it is about 72 years old. I wish I could hold up so good after 72 years!

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It has some pretty spiffy looking pictures in it. Just get a load of this one.


Even in 1939 girls were being encouraged to participate in science. And just dig those crazy threads, man! Just imagine the poor boy that sat behind her in science class. After about 20 minutes, he was probably feeling dizzy and slightly nauseous from motion sickness.

And how about that battery? It looks like a Pringle's can. Imagine if you had to power your iPhone with one of those suckers?

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And here's a disturbing picture.

I think it's some sort of early Mardi Gras celebration. Or perhaps the International Brotherhood (and Sisterhood) of Sanitation Workers #413 are going out on strike. Or perhaps they are angry villagers who could not find pitchforks. Who knows?

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Are are these not the two shiniest piano players you've ever seen? I'm not sure they're not automatons. Don't look directly at his hair or it will blind you. I think they're playing one of the earliest known prototypes of a Moog synthesizer. Could this be an early photo of Rick Wakeman and Wendy Carlos?

Anyway, I love my new book and will be adding it to my collection of old grade-school textbooks.

Spring Cleaning in February

There's something disturbing about having to get out in February and do spring cleaning around the ol' homestead. Granted, this is Texas and so one never knows exactly what the weather is going to be doing from one day to the next. But still . . . it would be nice to be able to do traditional winter things (like laying on the couch under a blanket while reading a good P.G. Wodehouse).

However, when I woke up this morning, the sound of singing birds greeted my ears. My ears were also greeted with the sound of jackhammers from across the street. Turns out my neighbor is having his foundation repaired. That is also something unique to Texas, I think. We have no basements and 0ur houses are built on concrete slabs which are poured on top of shifting floes of Texas “black gumbo” clay.

But getting back to those singing birds, I knew the moment I heard them that it was going to be a springlike day here in North Texas. Never mind that two weeks ago we were encased in two solid inches of black ice, with six inches of snow on top of that. Never mind that we were having the coldest weather on record for decades. I'm talking Fargo cold and International Falls cold. I'm talking single digits. It was almost as if the International Commission on Global Warming had decided to hold its annual summit here.

So why should I be surprised when, a mere week later, we were having temperatures in the upper 70s? As an added bonus, the sky was a nice earthy brown from all of the blowing sand, sodium chloride, calcium chloride, and calcium magnesium acetate, which now had the nice, dry, powdery consistency of a good steak rub. But as an eye rub, it left a lot to be desired.

And now, two weeks later, the sky is blue, the birds are singing, and (against all odds), things are starting to bud out and grow as if it were April. Of course, I was not happy to see the things that were starting to bloom and bud. Roses would have made me happy. Daffodils would have been welcome. Crocus would have been quite pleasant. But none of those things are popping up. No, the only things popping up are dandelions, crab grass, and a host of other native Texas fauna which may be hardy, but which is not the sort of thing that one wants growing in their yard.

So, I got up, fortified myself with a cup of coffee, a bagel, a small bowl of Honey Comb, and got out into the yard. I raked up leaves that had fallen some time last fall. I trimmed back things that I wanted to discourage from growing (I believe the experts call it negative reinforcement). And I just generally spruced up.

Last spring, a strong wind came along and blew a huge limb out of my Bradford pear tree. Okay, it wasn't so much a limb as it was about a third of the tree. I got rid of most of it last spring, but I saved a few limbs and cut them into fireplace-sized pieces to use as firewood this winter. And I actually did use some of it as firewood. But I think winter is now over and there is still quite a bit of it left over, so I hauled it out into the back alley to be picked up by the city. They will turn it into mulch and sell it back to the public at a nominal fee.

So in the picture above, you can see the results of my spring cleaning efforts. I can't believe I had to do this in February, but there it is.

It could be worse. I could be having to shovel 36 inches of snow like some people up north are having to do.

I'd rather rake leaves than shovel snow any day.

February 26, 2011

Somewhere in Texas

Okay ... Break's Over!

You might have noticed a large gap in time between this blog entry and the last one I made. Or you might not have. Based on the lack of movement of my visitor counter in the metrics section, I think I may actually be alone in noticing the gap. But no matter. I am back. I have decided to revive this blog, not because I have anything new or exciting to say, but because . . . well . . . gosh darn-it, everyone else is blogging, so I am. too.

Thanksgiving came and went so quickly that I can hardly remember it. I loaded up the family into the covered wagon and we began our wilderness trek to grandma’s house. Well, okay, it wasn’t really that dramatic. I loaded the family into the car and we drove nearly ten hours on the interstate through some dubious parts of the country to get to Mom’s house. Grandma’s trailer is out back, out of sight of the road. We spent four days there and had a wonderful time. We did all the usual Thanksgiving rituals: eating 7,500-calorie meals three times a day, wandering around the tiny town Mom lives in (mostly looking for something that was open), and driving along pretty backroads (again, mostly looking for something that was open).

But all too soon it was time to return to the big city and to resume the life of quiet desperation that I was allocated upon hitting middle age. Life since Thanksgiving has been just a blur of everything James Thurber had tried to warn me about when I was young, only I was too young to believe such things. And now, here I am.

“Here”, by the way, is just a stone’s throw away from Christmas. That analogy would work if one could throw a stone forward through time about two weeks. All I have managed to accomplish in preparation for the Christmas season is to lug down from the attic the one or two metric tons of holiday paraphernalia that we have accumulated over the past 15 or 20 years. I did that about a week and a half ago. It is all still packed neatly in the boxes and bins which are still stacked in the formal dining room. Hopefully, we will get some time this weekend in which we can actually unpack everything and get the house looking like it is the Christmas season.

I find it hard to get into the Christmas spirit when it is so warm and sunny outside. We have been having temperatures during the daytime in the mid 60’s. And the skies are not cloudy all day. Indeed, they are quite the opposite. The skies are blue, the sun is shining, and birds flit hither and yon, having decided that there was no need to jet south for the winter. It’s hard to put any real enthusiasm to singing “White Christmas” when the chances of actually having one are zero.

Last year, in contrast, was perfect for Christmas. It snowed all day long on Christmas eve. The snow was big and fluffy and was beautiful to watch as it fell lazily from the skies. It made it a real joy to look out the windows. However, the temperature was only in the upper 30s, so it didn’t stick to the streets (which was a good thing). We awoke Sunday to an honest-to-goodness white Christmas. There was about 3 or 4 inches of snow on the ground and it was still snowing slightly. However, the temperatures immediately climbed into the 40s and the snow went away soon enough. But it was sure beautiful and it really put all of us into a Christmas mood.

I am praying for a cold snap this year, but I don’t think we’re going to get it. We couldn’t be THAT lucky two years in a row.



December 9, 2010
Somewhere in Texas

Journal of Journals

At some point in my life I became an inadvertent collector of journals.

I have a bookshelf full of journals that are a joy to look at. Some of them are leather-bound with gilt pages. Some are soft cover ones with what appears to be art-deco travel posters on them from a more glorious age. Some of them are hard-cover, spiral-bound journals that are really easy to write in because they lay flat on a table or desk. Some are small pocket journals. Some are large table-top journals that look like they might have been designed to be engineering notebooks or accounting ledgers. Some of them were a dollar. Some of them were thirty dollars. Some of them have grid-printed graph paper for pages. Some of them have simple lines.

But they all share one thing in common. That is: they are completely blank.

There are a multitude of reasons why these journals have never been used. After all, it wasn’t my intent when I bought them for them to remain blank. I had dreams of filling them up with my adventures and my pithy, insightful observations which future generations would read and go, “Wow! What an interesting man he was!” It was my dream that my grandchildren and great-grandchildren would read them and so come to know me, though I never met them.

Unfortunately, the adventures never happened and as for my observations . . . well, let’s just say that they’re not the sort of thing that would hold anyone’s attention, let alone make them go “Wow!”

There is another reason I never wrote in them. I think it was because I didn’t want to sully them with my horrible-looking handwriting. It is similar to the excitement that a school child feels when buying his school supplies. He loves the packs of neat, bright white notebook paper. He flips joyfully through the blank, brightly covered spiral notebooks. He is filled with dreams of the wonderful reports he will be writing in them and the beautiful complex math problems he will be solving. But by the second week of school, as his sloppy handwriting, poorly phrased thoughts, and incorrect math begin to fill up the pages, the beauty and the charm of the notebook wears off.

It is the same with journals. What is more exciting than holding a well-bound leather journal in one’s hands with its thick acid-free paper and its little artistic printed flourishes at the bottom of each page? One is filled with romantic thoughts of filling the pages with profound thoughts and thrilling adventures written in a flowing, calligraphic script. But, after a week of blotching the pages with grumblings of yardwork and house repairs and savant-like observations about the weather, the thrill is gone. What is worse, the journal has now been tainted and far from thinking the journal should be displayed proudly on a bookshelf, the owner seriously considers tossing it into the recycling bin out back in the alleyway along with last week’s newspapers and the empty vinegar bottle.

I still occasionally buy a new journal, but I have stopped deluding myself. Now I just buy it because I like the way it looks. It is no more than a knick-knack or an object d’art or an example of fine craftsmanship. And just like I wouldn’t use a Tiffany vase to hold loose change or odd nuts and bolts, I’m not going to ruin those journals by writing in them.


August 7, 2010

Somewhere in Texas