Texas Survival Rules

A full blown Norwegian Minnesotan friend of mine was making his first visit to Texas a while back (George W. was still in office).  Since I had lived in that glorious state twice in my lifetime, and had lived to tell about it, I decided to give my friend some advice on what to prepare for and how to behave.  Below are the contents of my "Texas Survival Rules" for him.

John,

Since you are about to embark on your first visit to Texas, there are a few things you should know.

1. Repellent. You will need it.

• Not only mosquita repellent (yes they do have them down there),

• Rattle snake repellent (also Copperhead and Cotton Mouth),

• Poisonous Spider repellent (Black Widow and Brown Recluse, they use gopher traps for the tarantulas),

• Scorpion repellent,

• Big Huge Ass wasp repellent (they have a hornet down there which is at least 2" in length and they affectionately call them "bird killers"),

• Red Ant repellent,

• Fire Ant repellent,

• Killer Bee repellent (they have made it that far north),

• Roach repellent (they call them sewer roaches and the AKC is considering naming them a new breed.),

• Bull repellent, lots of 'em and mean.

• RedNeck Repellent, lots of em and mean.

• And I know there's more, but it's been a while since I've been down there.

2. Oh, yes. Armodillos are known to carry leprosy so don't pick up any road kill no matter how well intact it may seem. I learned that one from a guy we called no nose lefty.

3. Leave any and all of your accordians at home. If it ain't a fiddle, guitar or piano, you can't make music on it!

4. Learn to say ya'll and intersperse it into every sentence. And it is only one syllable.

5. Chewing any tobacco product will get you in good with just about any Texan, especially if you don't spit. Real men only spit goobers. Learn to swallow. You should be able to control the vomitting in about a week.

6. Start now and learn to eat really spicey food without gagging, screaming, or whimpering.  You should be able to control the vomitting and/or diarrhea in about a week.  Also, after eating real Texan spicey food, try to control the screaming or whimpering while in the bathroom the next day.

6. Don't try to fake the cowboy dress thing. They can smell a drugstore cowboy a mile away. Pointy toed boots are only worn north of the red river or maybe in East Texas which isn't considered a real part of Texas anyway.

7. Remember our President is from Texas and Texas invented the concept of "home boy". Keep your opinions of him to yourself unless you want to be lumped in with the Dixie Chicks.

8. Liquor. It is not easy to find around there. Parts of towns, and counties are still dry down there. You will be looked down upon for having a drink. However, snake repellent is another matter. It is encouraged.

9. Last, but not least . . .. Don't mention you know me. It’s been thirty years. Boy, can those people carry a grudge.



Anyway, I hope this has helped and you truly enjoy your first trip to Texas.


Your Buddy, Stud Terrapin

Man Handling the Ice Dam

I live in Minnesota. It has its blessings and curses. We usually have beautiful summers. Rarely does it get over 90 in the summer. One of the curses is, summer only lasts for a few hours, and if summer comes on a Sunday, we usually have a picnic. The jokes abound about our weather. We really don’t have summer in Minnesota, just three weeks of bad snow skiing—or ice fishing— or snowmobiling—or whatever winter sport you desire. You may get from my drift (ha, get it?  drift?) that I am NOT writing this during our beautiful, though fleeting summertime. I am writing this in the Long Dark Tea Time of our Souls called winter in Minnesota. It is in this setting that anyone even slightly familiar with Shakespeare understands the term, “winter of our discontent.” And this winter has definitely brought its share of discontent.  As of today, January 30, 2011, we have had officially 55 ½ inches of snow in the Twin Cities, with 4 to 6 inches more promised by tomorrow night. This snow has also come with the attendant low temps which have reached an actual 16 degrees below zero in our area (we don’t worry about wind chill in our state because the actual temperature is bad enough). North of me, it has been much colder, but I think this has been cold enough. Of course there’s always some moron who will ask, “Cold enough for you?” to which I usually respond with a well placed punch to the face. I know I’m not the only one. Once I actually got arrested for this action. When I went to court, all I had to do was tell the judge why. He considered it justifiable physical assault and threw the case out. In fact, he sentenced the other guy to thirty days of shoveling my driveway. His reasoning was a legal term I hadn’t heard before. He called it criminal annoyance. Personally, I think it should be enforced more often.

As I said earlier, this winter has been one that memories, albeit bad ones, are made of. One thing that all Minnesotans are dealing with this year is ice dams--record setting ice dams. If you are not of the initiated, ice dams are ridges of ice that build up along the lowest edge of a snow covered roof. They form by snow melting on the upper parts of the roof and upon reaching the cold air at the edge of the roof it refreezes. This happens over and over until a large “dam” of ice has built up on the edge of the roof. The problem with ice dams is that they then “dam up” the flowing water made up of melted snow forcing it back under the shingles where it can leak through the roof and cause damage in the house. I’ve heard from a number of people this year who have suffered water damage in their houses from ice dams. I am lucky in the fact that I have long overhanging eves on my house, so the water doesn’t get in the house, but it does get into the eve portions and I get a lot of water in the soffits. This disturbs me since I just put new fascia and soffits on the back side of my house this year. I Do Not want to do it again. So I, like almost every other house owner in our area have been faced with how to get rid of the ice dams.

Earlier this winter I went to the hardware store and got a new big cold chisel (interesting name for how I planned to use it), a small pick axe type hammer, and a long handled special chisel used to chip big holes in the ice on frozen lakes for fishing through said ice holes in quite inclement weather. Another great winter sport partaken of in Minnesota. I wasn’t planning on any ice fishing expeditions in the near future. I was going after the ice dam. I then spent hours busting up part of the dam on the south side of the house where it was worst. I didn’t get far, and afterwards, due to the joys of arthritis, I was in some significant pain for a couple of days. I also had numerous small lacerations scattered all over my face, neck and ears from flying shards of ice. Who knew that frozen water could be so sharp? Anyway, my efforts were somewhat successful, and the forced back flow of melting snow was abated for a time. I knew it wouldn’t last, however. As I said earlier, we have had a lot of snow, and that snow has to melt and refreeze some time.

One of those sometimes—I’m sure others will come—came this weekend. We have had a few warmer days which are just made for melting snow on the roof, coupled with cold night temps which are quite effective in refreezing it on the edge again. Yes, all over the neighborhood, the tink tink tink, tap tap tap, and chip chip chip of home owners doing battle with the ice dams could be heard on Saturday as I looked up at my eves and cringed in trepidation. I knew I had to face it, but was putting it off. I wasn’t really procrastinating; I was trying to figure out a way I could tackle the daunting task with more efficiency and less pain. I had already spent $40 on specialty tools earlier. They had worked, but not to the efficiency I had hoped. So while I was mulling this over, I openly mused to my wife, Gayle, “I wish I could get hold of a small jack hammer to handle the ice dams.” While she voiced her concern at that concept, a light bulb lit up over my head. She didn’t see it but I knew it was there. I didn’t have a small jack hammer, but I did have its smaller, hand held, air operated cousin. I, being the tool monger and sometimes mechanic that I am, did have a pneumatic air hammer in my possession. I have used it on many occasions to noisily chisel through steel, so why not use it on ice? I believed I was on to something here. A quick stop at the hardware store for a new chisel to use with the air hammer and a protective face shield for reasons alluded to earlier, and I was ready to tackle the ice dams like the man that I am.

So, after running the air line from my compressor in the garage, I climbed the ladder and went to work. It was a beautiful thing! Ice was flying! Big chunks! Small chips! It didn’t matter. I was on a roll. I was master of my ice dam! I was having a ball, and the testosterone was runnin’ high. A man and his powerful tool—it doesn’t get any better than that. Air hammers, however are definitely not the quietest tool in the box. They are, in fact quite noisy, but that’s part of their appeal. That’s part of what’s cool about any power tool—noise! How can you tell that they are power tools unless they make noise? And that noise seems to have a strange pied piper sort of allure to men. Johnson from next door, his arm now in a sling from his non-powered ice dam removal, peeked over the fence in envy. Hammel from behind took a peek. I’m sure Fredrikson and Haynes took a look too, but they were a bit more stealthy than the others. I had, in a single moment, with my ingenious employment of an air hammer to blast away my ice dams, become the unrivaled hero of all men in our neighborhood. And I was liking it. Take that Johnson with that big new fancy truck of yours—and you Hammel, you and your swimming pool—and how about you Fredrikson, with your zero turn riding lawn mower—and finally you Haynes, you and your fancy power boat. None of you have the ultimate ice dam air hammer, do you? Arghh, Arghh, Arghh!

So, yes, its winter in Minnesota, and in the cities, they’re carrying on the annual winter celebration. One of the big draws of this celebration is the ice sculpture contest. I can’t believe some people do this stuff for fun. The rest of us do it because we have to, to save our homes. Mine may not win any prizes. What I had left did not resemble anything that someone would marvel at, but I did accomplish the task set before me in record setting time. I think, maybe this could be a competition for next year’s Winter Carnival—speed ice dam removal. Now that’s one competition I could get into. I may even try it, but only if I can use my monster air hammer.

So the ugly, daunting task is done, and I don’t ache too badly from it, though with 3500 blows per minute from the air hammer pounding the palm of my hand, I may soon be a candidate for carpal tunnel surgery.  Oh, well.  Sometimes glory comes with a price.  But, oh, the glory!

Oooop!  Did I Really Do/Say That?

Have you ever done or said something that you wished you hadn't?  I'm sure it's a universal condition.  I'm not talking about mean or vengeful stuff that you later wish you had not said or done.  I'm talking about real "foot in the mouth", hang your head in embarrassment, "I can't believe I actually said or did that" kind of stuff.  Two very glaring examples come to mind at this time.  I know there are more, but these two, to me, remain as priceless.

To preface these situations, I want everyone to know that though I fool around a lot presenting a curmudgeonly character, I truly try hard to treat everyone with respect and don't wish to hurt any feelings.  I know, it's hard to believe, but it is the honest truth.

The Boy Friend and the Pork Chop
The first happened some years back when my youngest sister-in-law was visiting home from out of town with her boy friend who would later become her husband.  We had heard a lot about this guy and we made plans to have them over for dinner.  I decided to make my latest and greatest version of pork chops for the meal.  They turned out great and everyone seemed to enjoy them.  After the dinner was over and our guests had left, I realized I only knew the "boyfriend" by his first name, Ben.  I felt bad about that.  I am a social clod at times and wished I had learned his full name.  I then asked my wife, Gayle, what Ben's last name was. 

(I will now spell his last name as given to me phonetically to highlight the humor and embarrassment of the situation.)

Gayle's response was, " I think it's "luh-vine" (as in grape vine).

"Really?" I responded.  How do you spell that?

She said, "L-E-V-I-N-E".

"Luh-vine."  Are you sure that's how he pronounces it?

"That's how Mom pronounces it," was her response.

Knowing my mother-in-law, I shook my head and said, "'Luh-veen.'  That's how you pronounce that spelling.  It's a common Jewish last name!"

"Are you sure? she asked."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure." I sarcastically confirmed.  I had just fed pork chops to a guy named Ben Levine!

It turns out that yes, he is of Jewish descent.  Luckily for me, he was not actively practicing the faith, but it took some time to figure this out, and there are those out there who may enjoy the internal turmoil I went through until this fact was confirmed.

But, you know, it would have been nice to have had a "heads up".

The Female Mechanic and the Local Florida Festival
This was one of my best "foot in the mouth" moments of my life.  I work as a Mechanical Design Engineer, which means I design manufacturing machines of all types.  I engineer and design the machines and then we have "Assembly Technicians" (mechanics) that assemble them on the assembly floor before we send them to the customer.  The assembly and what is involved in this job demands highly skilled technicians of widely varied abilities, and our company had many.  One of them was a woman.  You seldom see a woman in the technical fields I work in, but when you do, they are good.  As always, a woman has to be very good to succeed in what is strongly considered a man's field.  This woman, I will call her Randi, was good--very good.  She was good, but with a hard edge, which again wasn't out of place, because many of the men in this field have a hard edge.  They are especially cranky at the Design Engineers who don't always get every minute detail correct.

I can handle the hard edged men on the floor, but I wasn't sure about how to handle this woman, but through time I gained about as much respect from her as anyone would ever gain, and we developed an almost friendly relationship depending on what day of the week it was, of course.  Randi wasn't the most feminine of women, either.  I had wondered if, because of her looks and mannerisms, whether she was a Lesbian or not, though it really didn't matter to me, and somewhere along the line it was confirmed that she was.  Again, it doesn't matter except for the story that I will relate.

One day, Randi and I were talking about a vacation she was taking with her sister to visit her parents in an area of Florida that I was extremely familiar with.  We were talking about what she would do while there, and I popped up with the words, "Hey, you should go to the Mullet Festival!"  Before I could even realize how that sounded to her she barked back at me, "What the hell is that?!?"

Some serious back pedaling ensued as I tried to explain to her that a local fish of the area is the mullet, and as many a small communities all over the country do, that particular area had formed an all out festival around whatever they could single out as something, no matter how lame, that identified them as a community.  They had mullet feeds, the mullet ball, the crowning of Miss Mullet, and the highlight of the day was a mullet toss.

In my explanation, I said nothing of her sexual orientation, though we both knew it was at this very moment the big blue elephant in the room.  I, a heterosexual male had told a Lesbian woman she should attend a Mullet Festival.  It's hard to explain yourself with two size thirteens planted firmly in your mouth.

Earlier, I confessed that I am, at times, a social clod.  These two incidents don't go far in refuting this fact.

What Does That Mean?

Once in a while we all come across words of which we don’t know the meaning. It’s normal, but for a basically educated person, it shouldn’t be common. I am an educated man, but I try not to use big words just to prove it. I have known those who have done so as a regular practice, but I feel as with extreme body building and overblown attempts at beautification (working hard to make oneself look beautiful) this is an attempt to salve a low self esteem. I believe that communication is the highest goal of the use of words and using unnecessarily complex terminology can be a big road block to true and effective communication. Even now I am wondering whether I have employed reasonably understandable verbiage for that which I am trying to convey. Oh, well, I will continue.


I recently spent some time on the Gulf beach in southern Alabama. Alabama, as most Americans know is one of the southern states. In fact, being on the Gulf of Mexico, it honestly has to be one of the most southern states. The South has its own way of speaking … let’s face it; they have their own way of thinking, too. I once came across a northern college professor who said openly in a class that when he heard someone speak with a Southern accent, he immediately felt that their IQ was no higher than 60 (very low for those who don’t pay attention to these things). I took offense to that then as I do now. You see, I come from the South. I know southern people. I know that though they talk with a drawl that runs slower and sweeter than honey, they are as a rule fantastic people. So, getting back to that teacher, it’s a good bet that this particular Southerner has a higher IQ than him, and I know many more who would rival his Northern bred intellect as well as schooling. With all that said, to the rest of the world, the South doesn’t really come across as … lets’ just say it, “smart”, no matter how it grates on those of us who claim the heritage. This leads up to the story to be told.

I was on the aforementioned beach in Alabama. I was enjoying myself immensely. I was flying a kite. I love kites, and the beach with its breezes proves to be prime kite flying real estate. The kite I was flying only resembles the kites of childhood inasmuch as it sails in the air. This type of kite is called by more than one name. It is sometimes called a power kite, because when flown, it produces a very strong pull. This pull is used by some to propel themselves on karts, buggies, boards in the water and whatever else they can dream up. It is also called a parafoil due to its shape when inflated and flown being that of an air foil or wing. The “para” part comes from the most common use of this type of air foil which is in high performance parachutes. It is also called a stunt kite as it is flown with two control lines, which when manipulated, can cause the kite to climb, dive, and spin. This kite, however, when flown by a novice in a stiff breeze, say 25 mph, can also aggressively swoop very low to the ground at high speeds at the end of very taught, unbreakable control lines, and even violently crash.

Knowing the possible tendencies of the kite, especially in my inexperienced hands and the breeze being more undeniably a wind, I had scoped out a section of the beach that had no inhabitants and very low traffic. After first spotting this area, I watched it for a while to make sure that it was truly an unwanted part of the beach. It was perfect. It was here that I would fly my kite. So I did. It was comical at first. Not for me actually, but for anyone who may have been watching. Slowly I started to get a bit of a handle on the process and was truly enjoying myself. At my will, mostly, it would climb and swoop and loop and, of course, sometimes “violently crash”. It was still a good thing that I was in a deserted part of the beach. No one had bothered me and people had stayed clear until over my shoulder to the rear quite a way back, I heard a sound. The sound was quite; shall we say “Southern”? The sound was actually a word. Though the sound occupied at least three seconds of time, it was only one word.

It is at this time that I must thank, with all my heart, the team of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. They are, of course, Jeff Foxworthy, Bill Engvall, Larry the Cable Guy, and Ron White. If not for them, you as a reader could never even come close to imagining what the following conversation sounded like.

So, to get on with the story; by employing my Southern upbringing, I was able to determine that the sound/word I heard was a rendition of the word, hello. In this form, however it took on a near melodic form as it stumbled from her lips. The phonetic spelling of her utterance would be huh-loooOOOoooo. Sorry, that’s the best I can do, but understand that the lower case to upper case and back to lower case represent the pitch change as her very pronounced drawl strung out the syllable.

I ignored it the first time because I was intent on keeping the sucker in the air and figured, or at least hoped that she was talking to someone else, or maybe trying out a new bird call. Shortly thereafter, though, I heard it again. “Huh-loooOOOoooo.” It was now that I knew that I had to take notice. Multitasking was now in order. I would try to turn my head to see whoever it was, interact with them, and keep the kite under some semblance of control. As I turned my head, I noticed a woman in her forties and four teenagers walking right toward the “danger zone”. It seemed obvious that her aforementioned utterance was to let me know they were coming and that they didn’t intend to change their course. In hopes that I could encourage them to rethink their choice of routes, I yelled over my shoulder, “be careful, I’m a novice.”

Her response was, “whu-u-u-u-U-U-UT (what)?

I restated louder and with a little more affirmation, “I’m a novice!”

“Wuz zat meeEEEEEeeeen (What does that mean)?

It was here that a million possible answers ran through my mind, like:

“It means your IQ probably is 60.”

“It means I’m surprised you have as many teeth as you do.”

“It means you didn’t finish high school and if by some stretch of the imagination you did, you definitely did not deliver the valedictorian address.”

“It means you married your brother, or at least dated him a few times.”

“It means you are the epitome of what outsiders call the ‘stupid South’.”
I know, more words that she was probably unfamiliar with.

But, I refrained from denigrating her and said, “It means I don’t know what I’m doing.”

No response. Nothing. So I explained, “It means, this kite may crash at any moment and hit you.”

This got the response of, “oooooOOOOOOooooooh (oh)!”

So they came—walking right on through the “dangerous fly zone.” I would like to say I couldn’t believe it, but after my recent interaction, I honestly could believe it. What I can’t believe is that I didn’t expect it. This “novice” was able to keep the kite in the air, however; at least until they were past, but shortly thereafter, it “violently crashed”. It’s a good thing this kite is virtually indestructible. I know, “wuz zat meeEEEEeeeen?”

There’s Nothing Wrong with it … (with apologies and props to Jimmy Buffet)

I’m on vacation. It’s been a long time coming and very much needed, not only for me but even more so for my wife, Gayle. It’s been a long and rough year and a half. Family deaths, illnesses injuries and job struggles all piled on top of the regular zoo we call life has left us as Crosby, Stills and Nash put it, “wasted on the way.” So, we finally took the cues and opportunity and got the heck outa Dodge.

We headed south since we live in the north and wanted something called sunshine and warm. For those not familiar with winters in Minnesota, they are not only long and cold, but they are dark. When one talks of cloudy in Minnesota, they are referring not to broken billowy/puffy formations of cartoon like shapes, they are talking about a big heavy, dark blanket thrown over all of existence not only blocking any natural occurrence of light, but actually sucking light from the surrounding world and one’s soul. There is a little known field of scientific study known as Meteorolical Physics which is working to define a new state of matter called a “Grey Hole”. That field of study, of course, is centered in Minnesota.


All Minnesotans, at the first signs of spring exit their burrows resembling albino moles squinting at the light that has finally won the battle to shine forth. Don’t misunderstand; people of color actually turn a sickly pale for their own skin type, as well in Minnesota. The result is that we all look and feel sickly by the end of the annual “winter of our discontent.” But if one is lucky, or has the wherewithal, one sneaks a trip toward the more tropical latitudes for a brief taste of what may or may not come in the northern summer months ahead. Gayle and I did just that.

So here we are, inhabiting a rented cottage across the road from the beach on the beautiful Gulf of Mexico, just chillin’, sluggin’, and generally taking it easy. That’s what we wanted. That’s what we came here to do, and we have no misgivings concerning the matter … or at least we didn’t until we started sitting on our small patio, facing the ocean and just vegging out. You see, the problem is, a public walk way passes a few yards away from said patio. So as we sit and veg, we are constantly—OK, occasionally—confronted by people power walking, or cycling, or jogging past us and of course they do it with a very smug air of superiority. “Here we are, jogging and your lazy butt is stuck in that chair.”

It bugged me. Yes I am out of shape. I’m very over weight at the moment. I hate that fact. I have to admit that I need exercise, and this is a beautiful place. The weather is great and it wouldn’t hurt me—it wouldn’t hurt us to take the cue and get up and do something physical.

It’s amazing how shame can spur a person to action. I have been motivated by shame much of my life. You have to admit that shame is the great motivator. So, once again the vile beast of shame was rearing its ugly head, and I was beginning to feel its goading pricks as I rose from my leisure. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I was going to do something. I was going to get up and walk … no jog … maybe find a place to rent a bicycle and go pumping my little (actually large) legs into shape. I wasn’t going to be a lounging vegetable anymore. I was going to do something!
`
But as I poked my head into the living room of our cottage, I saw my lovely wife. She was comfortably resting on the couch. She had formed a symbiotic relationship with the couch. She had become one with the couch and the fact is, she needed it. She has been through a lot, and this vacation was almost too late for her. I nearly had to scoop up the puddle that was my wife and pour her onto the plane to get here. The TSA agents at the airport nearly confiscated her and scolded me for trying to bring a liquid of more than three ounces onto the plane when I explained that the puddle of liquid was my wife and showed them her boarding pass. And to be honest, I was only one step away from her condition. So, as I stood there in a complete quandary over what to do, an open topped car cruised by outside playing Jimmy Buffet. It was then that it hit me.

Sometimes there’s nothing wrong with just being a cheeseburger in paradise.

She aroused out of her half slumber to give me a foggy, inquisitive look. I smiled shook my head, motioned for her to go back to her rest and turned away to go back on the patio.

For the rest of the stay I spent as much time just vegging on the patio as I could. Sometimes we’d sit together and sometimes she would renew her relationship with the couch. And as the parade of aerobiphiles passed by, I would sit in my chair with my coffee, or iced tea, or beer, depending on the time of day, and nod and smile and take a puff on my cigar as they passed by thinking, “You go for it, but for me, right now, there truly is nothing wrong with just being a cheeseburger in paradise--a big double stacked cheeseburger with all the trimmings, and extra mustard.  Yeah."

PLAYING A SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS GOLF BALL AT A WATER HAZARD

This is a weird one. My Dad and I were playing a round of golf. He’s aging with poor eyesight and I’m mid-fifties, overweight, and prematurely arthritic, especially in my upper back affecting my golf swing, but we went anyway. We were going to have a good day out and just have a ball, so to speak. Speaking of balls, I stopped by the local Wall Mart and bought a bunch (emphasis on bunch) of balls so that we wouldn’t have to waste time, energy, and frustration looking for lost balls, of which we expected many.

We’ve played this course forever. It’s in the area I grew up and close to where Dad is retired. There is one specific water hazard which invariably sucks even the best hit balls out of the air swallowing them into oblivion. For our entire 50 year history of playing there, Dad has always used an old, ugly ball—one that he’s not afraid to lose—to play this hole. He says he has a friend that won’t do that. The friend says that if you use an old ball to play a water hole, you’re just expecting to lose it, which you probably will. He feels that you should use one of your best balls to play across water. That way, the player will be more conscious of making a good shot to save the expensive ball. Who knows if he’s right, but he may have a point.

My Dad, however, at this hole, this particular time pulled out a Sponge Bob Square Pants ball. Now I first have to ask, where does one get such a ball? And then I would ask, if one had such a ball, why would one show it in public? I don’t think Dad even knows who Sponge Bob is, or where the ball came from. He just looked at the ball and figured it’s one he could afford to lose. It being a Sponge Bob ball, I would have to agree.

Now for those who know the very least about Sponge Bob, which is what I know and would definitely like to keep it that way, they know he lives at the bottom of the sea, he being a sponge and all, I guess. Being a Sponge Bob ball, one would figure, and it turned out rightly so, that it would have an attraction to water, and it did. Dad teed it up, swung and, “bloop” Sponge Bob had returned to the bottom of the water where he belonged. Dad wasn’t going to try again, but I teed up one of the new balls and coerced him into trying again. So he swung, and once again it headed for the drink, but with a different spin, I suppose. Because this time when it hit the water, it skipped. We thought that was pretty miraculous but it still didn’t have the distance to clear the water. It then, skipped a second time and to our complete surprise, ended up on the far shore in a playable lie. Back slapping and high fives were shared and we headed to the cart path to continue play. Later on, he single skipped another ball across a small water hazard onto playable ground.

After the day was done, we ended up losing only two balls--one that I lost in the woods and the Sponge Bob ball into the water.

So I guess there is one solid lesson we took away from this day of golf. No, it’s not as Murphy knows, If you are running short on balls, you will lose a lot of them. It’s not even the converse of that which is if you have a bunch of extras; you will miraculously come home with most of them.

What we learned is, if you happen to mysteriously pull a Sponge Bob golf ball out of your bag, tee it up at a water hazard and it will find its way home. You won’t even have to try, it knows the way. So let it.

Waiting in a Hospital Again

Well, I'm sitting and waiting in a hospital again. I didn't realize it until a few minutes ago. Actuall I did know where I was, it just didn't hit home. Gayle, my wife is having an upper gastroscopy today. It is purely precautionary. No more. But while she's in there, I have to sit in the waiting rooms, and go to the cafeteria, and see the sights, hear the sounds, and smell the smells. It took a little bit, but the ugly feeling that was growing finally hit me. I've had enough of hospitals for a while. I know there are some of you who would feel the same.

Two exhausting weeks with my Dad last May, which slowly, but eventually turned out well, and 6 brutal weeks with my mother-in-law in October and November which turned out horribly sort of puts a different spin on it. I used to be able to go to hospitals--walk through them and keep mostly oblivious. Not any more. I hear the words of the health care professionals. I can read their body language. I overhear the conversations of those around me and hear their phone calls. I know the tones of their voices. I recognize those looks on their faces. This is not the same hospital as before, but honestly, they are all the same.

If you want to know where people are hurting and being slammed by what life can truly throw at them, come and spend some time in a hospital. Sit and really look around--really listen. But maybe you can't unless you've walked the path that they have walked before. I now can, because I have. I'm sure Jesus is here somewhere. I feel that I should want to try to find him--to stay and work with him, but all I want is for the test to be over so I can collect my lovely wife and in the immortal words of the Monty Python troupe, "run away, run away." Maybe later I can handle it. Maybe after more time has passed I can stay and care, but this is too soon.

They gave me a buzzer like they use at restaurants to let me know when she is out of her test. When that sucker goes off, we're outta here like birds heading south out of Minnesota in the fall.

Smart birds.