Come in here, right now!

 Getting up in the morning can be exciting. Take for example this morning when I heard an unknown racket coming from the kitchen area of the house.

“Come in here, right now!  I heard something explode and water is going everywhere?”

You might call that a motivational talk; but that would be an understatement.  I reached the kitchen area, more precisely, the washroom where we keep the washing machine and dryer. I don’t know about any explosion; however, there was a stream of water shooting out from behind the washing machine.  I located the shut off valves and solved that part of the problem.

I then located the source of the escaping water, the cold-water feed line to the washing machine had broken off where it attached to the washing machine.  A few old bath towels sopped up the water on the floor and I pulled the washing machine away from the wall to get a better idea of what I was up against as far as repairs.  It looked simple enough; purchase a replacement water feed line, better yet, purchase all three water feed lines.  Our dryer has a steam added function so there’s a cold-water feed that might as well be replaced at the same time.  I noticed the dryer vent hose was a bit mangled, might as well replace that too. 

Have you ever wondered where all the lint and dust goes, the stuff that falls off the side of the dryer after you scoop off the lint screen?  It attaches to the wall next to the dryer and along the floor molding at the base of that wall.  Then when the dryer and washing machine are pulled away from the wall there’s a thick film of dirt and lint attached to the floor, mixed with the water that escaped moments earlier.  Yes, we were having fun.

I drove to the local hardware store, purchased 3 water feed lines and a new dryer vent hose. The fellow had assumed I meant 2 water feed lines until I told him about the fancy dryer with steam function built in.  It’s all fixed now and the first load of wash to go in…drum roll please…all those sopping wet bath towels. 

It works, chalk this up to being grateful that water supply line didn’t break off while we were away; that would have been a really bad day.

Changing Seasons

 

This past week we noticed our Barn Swallows were gone, presumably for their trip south along a pathway which takes them to their alternate climate compatible home in Central or South America.  According to a chart found on the internet, Barn Swallows from various regions in North America have a predetermined route which they follow beginning in June and July.  They’ll return to our area beginning as early as January; but it seems our Barn Swallows come back much later, perhaps in March.

According to the flight paths shown on the chart, Barn Swallows leaving southern Texas must fly across the Gulf to reach winter quarters.  I can’t imagine the energy required to remain in the air all that distance; how do these small creatures make it all that way? Are they guided and supported by that same Spirit which guides and supports mortal beings through this life?  Just wondering…

We’ll miss observing their acrobatic flights, darting about as they pluck mosquitoes out of thin air while we sit on the porch taking in the evening performances.  Their nests will remain protected from the weather until they return next spring; our assuming the same Barn Swallows know which spot on this spinning planet is their home each time they return.

It’s been that kind of week, a roller coaster of emotions watching the natural order of things.

One of our friends passed away Monday after a prolonged battle with health issues.   Her spirit returned home on the other side of mortality after such a short season of knowing her.  I’m certain she was guided home by the same Spirit that helps Barn Swallows as they cross over such a great expanse. Scripture assures us that she will be welcomed home to a place that has been prepared for her along with those awaiting her return.

…Along with those awaiting her return. Maybe our time spent in mortality, living here with our trials and tribulations, experiences and memories, becoming more complete as our journey continues, isn’t this similar to the chance we have to observe Barn Swallows for the short time they are with us?  Just wondering…

Yesterday we got a call from our daughter letting us know one of her cats had reached the time when life was too painful for her kitty.  She knew her responsibility for loving that kitty included the dreaded trip to the veterinarian where an injection would permit life to end peacefully. All the emotions that accompany having to say goodbye take us down this path, a path which we start down the moment we permit these critters to enter our hearts, becoming members of our family.

Emotions run full circle as we say hello one day, while at the same time, acknowledging that seasons change, surely the day will come, and we will say goodbye.  Here’s the interesting part; as we say goodbye here in mortality and feel the loss, that loss is only temporary. We are eternal beings, and this was part of the experience along our journey, the Great Plan of Happiness.

 

 

Five-Years or Five-Miles Whichever Comes First

When dealing with old beaters, something I’m all too familiar with, there’s a catch phrase that’s applied to warranty work done on such a vehicle, “Five-Years or Five-Miles, whichever comes first”.  After having said that everyone laughs and hopes for the best knowing it was a joke.

That changed today when we took my 2003 Dodge Dakota into the local mechanic’s shop to figure out why the driver’s side window wouldn’t go up and down.  I’d gone to pick up our mail, pushed the button to let the window down and reached into our rural mailbox.  It was about to rain so I pushed the button to roll the window back up; nothing happened. 

This wasn’t the first time I’d had issues with the electric window function, so I slapped the door panel a couple of times to jiggle the connection as this had worked in the past, still nothing.  I opened and closed the door a couple of times, a bit harder and with enthusiasm, nothing.  Since it was about to rain, I got back home and took a handy-dandy kitchen trash bag, along with some tape, and did what I could to block the opening to keep the rain out.  It was the weekend so there was no sense trying to take the truck down to the local mechanic’s shop until after the weekend.

That brings us to this afternoon.  I got a call from the local mechanic’s counter representative saying the truck was ready to be picked up; but that they couldn’t find anything wrong with the window.  “The window works fine, Sir.  He took the door apart, checked all the connections, made it go up and down all day long without any problems. That will be Fifty-Two Dollars, Sir.”

I had Lucy drive me back to the mechanic’s shop where I made sure to test the window; it worked the way it’s supposed to work.  Lucy wrote them a check, and I joked that this repair came with the standard, “Five-Years or Five-Mile warranty, whichever comes first?”  There was a lighthearted laugh from all of us, knowing my truck was over twenty years old.

Lucy mentioned that it would be nice to go into Centerville and get a Blizzard at the Dairy Queen.  That sounded good so I agreed to follow her in the truck.  Looking at the time, it being close to dinner, I suggested we get burgers, and maybe a Blizzard afterwards. We enjoyed a quick meal, and it was time to head home.

Lucy walked over to my truck, “I want to see if it still works”, laughing while at the same time remembering we had just paid Fifty-Two Dollars to have the mechanic tell us there was nothing wrong with it.  I turned on the key, pressed the button and the window went down, pressed it again and the window came up; but only halfway and no more, then nothing.

We were only about a mile from the mechanic’s shop, so it was a no-brainer to drive back and show them the window wasn’t exactly working.  It was a few minutes after five o’clock and they were in the process of locking the place up when we drove in.  I saw the owner inside the shop and smiled while asking, “Is that Five-Mile or Five-Year warranty still good?”

He hadn’t been the one who’d worked on my truck; but he was familiar with the issue as he summoned a young mechanic to check it out.  I handed him the key, and the window worked perfectly for him; but only once.  It stopped halfway up and he couldn’t get it to move either way for a while.  He then was able to make the window go nearly to the top, enough to where I wasn’t concerned about the possibility of rain getting the seats soaked.  

We left the truck with them, and, for some reason, I don’t feel as dumb as I did earlier in the afternoon.  There really was something wrong.  Thank goodness for the Five-Mile or Five-Year, whichever comes first warranties; and we still have Three Miles left on that warranty.

 

A Little Wisdom from the Grave

 

My daughter gave me a book containing many of the, “Great American Speeches”, which I use as a reference book. I can read the transcript of Patrick Henry’s, “Give Me Liberty” speech in its entirety or George Washington’s Inaugural address. Today I was reading Washington’s Farewell Address to the nation. It struck me as particularly important that his thoughts be taken up in discussion as we approach yet another July 4th celebration of our independence.

After having made it clear that he would retire from public office he began with his concerns, much as a loving father would express to his children who are leaving his immediate care.

“Here, perhaps I ought to stop. But a solicitude for your welfare which cannot end but with my life, and the apprehension of danger, natural to that solicitude, urge me, on an occasion like the present, to offer to your solemn contemplation, and to recommend to your frequent review, some sentiments which are the result of much reflection, of no inconsiderable observation, and which appear to me all-important to the permanency of your felicity as a people. These will be offered to you with the more freedom, as you can only see in them the disinterested warnings of a parting friend, who can possibly have no personal motive to bias his counsel. Nor can I forget, as an encouragement to it, your indulgent reception of my sentiments on a former and not dissimilar occasion.”

Washington then presented the foundation of his solicitude:

“The unity of Government, which constitutes you one people, is also now dear to you. It is justly so; for it is a main pillar in the edifice of your real independence, the support of your tranquility at home, your peace abroad; of your safety; of your prosperity; of that very Liberty, which you so highly prize. But as it is easy to foresee, that, from different causes and from different quarters, much pains will be taken, many artifices employed, to weaken in your minds the conviction of this truth; as this is the point in your political fortress against which the batteries of internal and external enemies will be most constantly and actively (though often covertly and insidiously) directed, it is of infinite moment, that you should properly estimate the immense value of your national Union to your collective and individual happiness; that you should cherish a cordial, habitual, and immovable attachment to it; accustoming yourselves to think and speak of it as of the Palladium of your political safety and prosperity; watching for its preservation with jealous anxiety; discountenancing whatever may suggest even a suspicion, that it can in any event be abandoned; and indignantly frowning upon the first dawning of every attempt to alienate any portion of our country from the rest, or to enfeeble the sacred ties which now link together the various parts.”

A simple observation, George Washington expected those reading or hearing his words to be educated to a higher standard than much of our citizenry today.

This portion only will I draw from to make my point for the day. It was clear to Washington that “The unity of Government, which constitutes you one people, is also now dear to you. It is justly so; for it is a main pillar in the edifice of your real independence…” That being his foregone conclusion as to how the foundation of our nation must be set he went on to explain the means whereby such a foundation could be eroded and destroyed by, “every attempt to alienate any portion of our country from the rest, or to enfeeble the sacred ties which now link together the various parts.”

Let’s fast forward to the present day political scene. What kind of American intentionally attempts to undermine the righteous collective efforts of his country? Who is it that would turn class envy into such a division of countrymen as to entice its citizens to walk down a road where one man’s lawfully obtained property could ever be esteemed as “ripe for picking” and redistributed to one who has not earned it? What manner of men divides the public by the color of their skin as a means to cause contention and divert the energies necessary to building a country and instead provide a barrier of hatred to fester and reduce any chance of conciliatory growth?

Are these not the same concerns that Washington had on his mind when he provided us with his wisdom, that wisdom coming to us via the grave?

I would invite you to read the entire transcript of Washington’s Farewell Address as we approach Independence Day, our decision, while made many years ago, hopefully enough of us continue to stand firmly together in an excellent cause to truly be free. Let us listen with our ears open, our hearts and minds contemplating the intent of those who would divide us and to bring our nation into derision.

At the risk of causing some to faint, George Washington’s citizenry were staunch believers in the gospel of Jesus Christ and that His Divine intervention made possible the birth of our great nation.  May we likewise show gratitude to our Creator for extending His guiding hand in the preservation of this nation. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

What Did You Name Your Vehicle?

 

We recently purchased a new Subaru Outback, our first time owning or driving an SUV type of vehicle.  Upon posting a photograph of it parked in our driveway next to our older car and much older truck, a friend of ours on Facebook asked, “What did you name your car”? 

I’d forgotten all about giving cars a name as if they were family members like a dog or cat.  My folks used to name their cars; perhaps to avoid shouting other derogatory insults when those beaters didn’t perform properly; pure speculation on my part.  Mom and dad drove several beaters while I was young, cars that the junk yard wouldn’t accept until fully ripe.

Things began to improve when a French automaker started selling cars in America.  They were known as Renault, pronounced Wren-Ault back then.  In today’s lingo for the more worldly that same French auto manufacturer advertises with a more European sound, Ray-Know.  I don’t think much of either; but my folks bought into having a new car. 

Their first Wren-Ault was a putrid green thing that had trouble keeping water in the radiator.  Mom’s solution was to keep a sixpack of old Coke bottles filled with tap water.  When the moment presented itself, she’d pull off to the side of the road, grab a Coke bottle of water and pour it into the appropriate container under the hood.  Lots of folks believed that car ran on Coke and would pass a lie detector test, their having seen it with their own eyes. That car’s name was Francois. If you’re from Texas, that’s pronounced Fran-Swah.  In French it means the car is overheating and needs more water.

So, what’s this got to do with our new Outback SUV? 

Lucy and I were driving around, discovering how all the fancy electronic gizmos worked; and to be sure, this SUV is loaded with fancy gizmos.  If you’re casually driving down the road and happen to drift over the lane divider stripe there’s a yellow warning light that come on at the base of the windshield to alert you that you are either drifting or that you forgot to put on the turn signal indicators.

Mom would have said something like, “Hey, Pay Attention”, or maybe “Stay in your lane”, or perhaps she would have reminded me, “Use your blinker, you’re not sharing State Secrets”.

If you happen to be using Cruise Control and casually advance toward a vehicle that’s going slightly slower, a green light comes on at the base of the windshield while at the same time your SUV gently slows down so that you don’t accidentally tailgate the other vehicle.

(Image courtesy of Subaru)

Mom probably never used Cruise Control; but were she to be in our new Outback, she would caution against becoming too comfortable behind the wheel, that safe drivers wouldn’t consider turning that responsibility over to a mechanical machine.  “Slow down, no need in becoming an Organ Donor today.”

The last item I’ll share at this time, understanding that there are so many other fancy gizmos that could be listed; but the last one for today would be the Blind Spot Indicator located in the side view mirrors on either side of the Outback.  These Blind Spot Indicators light up anytime a vehicle is next to your vehicle or your presumed Blind Spot. 

Mom would have reminded me that driving is a serious responsibility, that it’s up to me to know where all the other vehicles are in relation to my own vehicle prior to making any lane change.

With all this information coming to our attention, Lucy and I looked at each other and agreed, our new Outlook SUV’s name must be…Mom.

Honoring My Father

 

The movie, Big Fish, caught my attention while looking for a DVD to watch.  We’ve watched this one several times, so I’ll skip to the part that relates to my thoughts today.

Near the end of the movie, where the son arrived at the hospital, finding his father was near death after he’d suffered a serious stroke.  The young man volunteered to sit by his bed all night and gave his mother a chance to go home.

If you’re familiar with the movie; his father woke up momentarily and sat up wild eyed saying something that sounds like, “the river”.   His son reached as if to hit the Call Nurse button but instead waited to find out his father’s request. 

“Tell me how it ends”.  The young man wasn’t prepared with a response because his father never told him what he’d seen in the old witch’s eye so many years earlier, a prophecy of how he was going to die.

The son, being familiar with the many fantastic yarns his father had shared, began to carefully create the vision his father never told him about, pausing as details sprang to mind in such a way as to fit with other stories his father conjured up throughout his life; all having to do with the river.

According to his son’s interpretation his father was no longer constrained by oxygen tubes, able to move about and pointed to a wheelchair and stressed the need to escape from the hospital in order to return to the river…

 

Interestingly, I found tears streaming down my cheeks, an uncontrollable transference of emotions as thoughts of my own father came crashing down on my consciousness.  

One of the earliest memories of my father is linked with a trip to Jones Beach out on Long Island, New York.  We’d gone to the huge Olympic pool and dad was standing in the water making sure I didn’t drown; but the memory had to do with how much hair covered his chest and back, more like a friendly bear than a human to my young eyes.

Dad’s physical strength and mental awareness were cause for concern as Alzheimer’s robbed the best of him.  When mom died dad was in the hospital and they were reluctant to tell him that his wife of 67 years had passed away, leaving that task to me when I arrived a couple of days later.  Dad was really upset, thinking she was avoiding him when she didn’t show up with his newspaper each morning. 

Dealing with these feelings, the movie progressed; but I was already lost in my own thoughts.

I can’t turn the clock back. My father passed away about eight years ago, complications from old age and a used-up body.

For a few moments I can visit an earlier time, like when I first saw him playing ball with other young fathers on a field of dreams, a battered old First Baseman’s ball glove on his hand.  From then on I wanted a First Baseman’s glove, to be just like dad.

One chilly winter day, my father attempted to get me off to meet the school bus and noticed I had no jacket.  He grabbed a brown jacket belonging to my brother; but my jacket was blue, certainly dad should have known my jacket was blue, so I refused to wear the brown one.  Getting chased around the house was going to make me miss the bus so I ran out the door before dad could catch me; I wasn’t wearing that brown jacket and he couldn’t make me.

Many years later I recall sitting down for lunch at Sharpstown Mall with dad and some of his friends from work to tell him I’d joined the Houston Police Department; now that was a day to remember.  Dad wanted me to be an accountant; he’d paid for the first two years of college and was totally blindsided by my decision.  It was the first, perhaps the only time dad was unable to speak a word.

These thoughts and a thousand more rushed through my mind as the movie played on. The young man carried his father, placing him in the magically restored factory new Charger’s passenger seat for a crazy drive to the river as everyone waved goodbye, the river where it all started, the river where it all must end.

So, this is how it is and as it should be…

Not too long before my father died, as his mind wandered into dementia more and more, I grew concerned that my father hadn’t shared his last wishes with me.  He’d mentioned that he wanted to be cremated but hadn’t indicated where he wanted his ashes to be spread.

That’s an awkward topic to bring up. I asked him straight out and watched his reaction, his shoulders rising in unison to match his eyebrows indicating he hadn’t really considered the thought.

“How about Lucy and I sneak your ashes out to Northgate Golf Course in the middle of the night and scatter your ashes there?” My dad’s eyes showed signs of excitement as he became part of an event we could get in trouble over. “Now, you realize…” I paused and then continued, “…we’ll have to scatter you in the rough since you hardly ever landed on the fairway.”  Dad actually smiled and enjoyed my making fun of his golfing abilities.

“I have a better idea.  We could scatter your ashes on the river in that same spot we placed mom’s ashes.”  Dad may have been aware of the special location on the river mom had picked, a secluded place among the Mangroves in a recess tucked away from the main portion of the river.

Dad took a deep breath, picturing in his mind the exact location.  I watched a few tears trickle down his cheek.  Yes, that would be a better place, there, on the river.

So, this is how it is and as it should be…

And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse.   Malachi 4:6  

In the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ.  Amen

 

The Power was Out on Memorial Day

 

We had some more thunderstorms bust on through knocking the power out, not just once, but twice in a twenty-four-hour period.  The first time was in the morning around eight o’clock on Memorial Day.  Lucy had started the crock pot getting her Cowboy Beans ready for the church social that was to begin around one o’clock.  Without a blink or a worry, we got out the emergency solar powered generator/battery unit, hooked the crock pot up and cooked the Cowboy Beans all morning using the power supply in that battery unit.

We’d looked at the KPRC weather radar forecast and could only hope that the line of thunderstorms would pass and permit the social to happen.  On that we were truly blessed as the sun came out and everyone had a great time.  When we got home around four in the afternoon the power had come back on; but for some reason the main air conditioning unit wasn’t working.

That evening, with our emergency window AC unit keeping the living room nice and cool, we were watching a movie on Amazon Prime about time travel, not a great movie; but I’m a sucker for that kind of movie.  Around ten o’clock, only half an hour or so into the movie, the next line of thunderstorms pushed over us and the power went out again. 

We have battery operated emergency candles scattered all over the house and so it was no big deal.  Lightning and thunder made the puppies nervous, so Shadow jumped into our bed while Max shook and trembled, hiding in our bathroom.  The power was out all night, and we started Tuesday off with the idea of cranking up the outside generator. 

I hooked up some extension cords that ran from the porch and into the kitchen area. Used a splitter so the refrigerator could be plugged in and ran a second line to the freezer unit.  I also took a small fan out onto the porch to keep the exhaust away from the house and the generator, making sure not to let the carbon monoxide accumulate. 

While this all worked as it should, I took the time to place the solar panels for the other generator out and recharge that storage unit.  We try to be prepared for emergencies, learning a little more each time we get caught short.  While the power was out, I ran another extension cord from the generator over to the window air conditioner unit, the emergency AC unit we use when the main AC unit for the house goes out.

While the refrigerator was pulled out from its regular place in the kitchen, I mopped that portion of tile floor.  When I went to scoop up some dirt that was in the corners, using only my index finger, that’s when I found a small piece of glass mixed in with the dirt; probably from a glass that fell long ago but a small piece disappeared under the refrigerator.  That sliced the tip of my finger, and I dripped blood all over the freshly mopped area of tile floor.  This was becoming a Hollywood movie script as I went to the bathroom to clean the cut, put triple antibiotic ointment on it and cover my finger with a small band aid. 

When the power to the house returned thirteen hours later, it was time to put all the emergency power stuff back where it belongs.  The extension cords were unhooked and the refrigerator and freezer plugged back into the wall outlets.  I pushed the generator back to its storage location on the porch. I then went to hook up the trickle charge unit to the generator’s battery.  I felt a stinging on my right hand and, at first thought it might be electrical in nature; but quickly realized that I was being attacked by several Yellow Jackets. 

I’d shot long-distance wasp spray at a nest on the porch earlier in the morning and assumed it had wiped them out; I was mistaken.  Apparently, several wasps had been off and away in the morning; but upon returning were upset to find their nest had been sprayed.

When I got close to their nest, not thinking of looking for any wasps, they took their anger out on my thumb and wrist.  They got me about seven or eight times before I could pull my hand back and exit the area. I returned to the bathroom, applied Bactine pain spray on my thumb and wrist, which now were bright red and swollen.  Later Lucy put some essential oils on the area, and took a Benadryl intended to reduce the swelling.  I slept for half the afternoon as a result.

We left a text message for our AC repair company to see about fitting us into their schedule, knowing that this company had invested several hours of time attempting to get our heat pump system to work.  The heat pump system was still under warranty, and they replaced almost every part of the system, some parts were replaced twice; but the heat pump system never did work the way it was supposed to.  The AC company are people of integrity and never charged us, not a penny even after they spent considerable time working on it. 

Today, Wednesday, we got a call from the AC serviceman telling us he was on his way and would see what’s going on with our unit.  I didn’t recognize him so I explained some of the history of our AC/Heat pump unit as best I could since I really have little understanding of what all didn’t work. 

The AC repairman was in the attic for a long time working on things while he was on the phone talking to someone at his office trying to figure things out.  He eventually got the unit to push cold air through the vents; but explained that it was a temporary fix for a problem that required replacing some electronic control panels in the main unit.

All the parts are still under warranty; but it sure makes us wonder about our decision to have an AC/Heat pump unit installed when we built our house in the country.  So, how’d your Memorial Day go?

Those Premonitions are Serious Stuff

 

I’d almost forgotten about the little old lady who had serious premonitions about evil going on outside the window of her bedroom; that is until someone posted a photo of a fellow in bed with his shotgun laid across his chest, just in case.

The little old Black lady lived in a rough neighborhood and didn’t want anyone to come in and take advantage of her frail body.  That’s why she kept her 22 cal. Saturday Night Special on her nightstand, just in case.

We’d gotten a dispatched call regarding a kid who’d been shot at while on his way to the local convenience store.  He cut through the breezeway that ran between two houses and the next thing he knew some lady was shooting at him through the screen that covered her bedroom window.

Sure enough there were several holes in the screen, many more than had been added that particular day.  We were glad the kid hadn’t been injured as we talked to the little old lady.

“I get these premonitions, you know, the ones where I’m being warned that evil is outside my window.  That’s when I had to grab my gun and started shooting to scare it away.”

“You almost shot a little boy who was walking by. Aren’t you glad you didn’t hit him while you were shooting out the window without looking?”

“He shouldn’t be cutting through like that, Scared me half to death.”

I’m guessing the word got around the neighborhood, don’t cut through that little old lady’s yard. Those premonitions can be deadly.

A Little Traveling Music

 

I used to visit the Abracadabra Magic Shop, which we were told was owned by several police officers. On Saturday mornings working in the downtown business district of Houston things were extremely slow.  My partner and I found ways to amuse ourselves; what better way than having amateur magicians practice their sleight of hand in preparation for their next show.

These young men let us practice a bit of sleight of hand if we purchased a silly magic trick suitable for fooling kids.  One trick they taught me was how to make a card disappear or seemingly disappear.  It was a dexterity challenge where the target card was held in place by your index finger and pinky.  The two middle fingers would be bent and act as a spring while you brought your hand down.  It was a neat trick; but harder to master than I’d anticipated.

The rest of the afternoon while walking around across the street from Foly’s I kept practicing and practicing trying to get all the functions coordinated.  Right as I was passing in front of the parking lot entrance for the Foley’s garage, it all came together.  I’d made the card look as if it had disappeared. I hadn’t considered the lady driving into the garage at that moment as she nearly lost control of her car.  I must have really done a good job with that trick; but in the future it was to be practiced out of the public’s eye.

One autumn day after a dry ‘Blue Norther’ had pushed through we happened to stop by for a visit with our young magicians. They were eagerly anticipating a visit from a prospective out of town magician, one who could make their cash register sing if they could show him enough stage props to make it worth his while. There were all manner of incendiary devices placed strategically on their display case’s glass top which were used as distractions while other sleight of hand tricks were going on; nothing like show business.

Unfortunately the lack of humidity had not been taken into consideration. An accidental static discharge from our friend’s fingertip set off a chain reaction of flash paper which happened to be next to an aerosol can of spray paint. The heat generated was sufficient to explode the can, breaking the glass display case top and so on down the line until all the incendiary items had ignited and filled the shop with smoke.

Our friend lost an eyebrow and small patch of hair as the momentary blast of flames shot past his forehead. All his hard work went up in smoke, literally. Adding insult to injury, some busy body called the fire department to report an explosion.

The arson team came out looking for violations of the city code; samples of residue were collected and marked for future criminal prosecution. My friend was eager to assist while trying to explain what each item had been prior to being set off; but the investigator was a hardnosed veteran and wanted to be left alone.

There was some sort of residue, a grayish-white blast pattern on the wall directly behind where the display case had blown up. The investigator scrapped off a small portion and placed it into a clear plastic envelope; my friend desperately tried to explain what it was, only to be told to be quiet. The fellow then placed the tip of his finger on the residue, took a sniff while lifting his brow to the unknown substance he’d been unable to identify. He placed the fingertip on his tongue hoping for a telltale trace of illegal evidence that could be used against the Abracadabra magicians.

It was at this moment I noticed my friend breaking out in uncontrollable laughter, holding his stomach as he bent over in a horse laugh. The arson investigator didn’t see what was so funny; this was a serious criminal investigation.

“That’s where the show doves were caged. When the stuff went off it scared them; I mean they were really scared.” The blast pattern was the natural elimination caused by scared doves sprayed on a wall.

(Image of Magician Dove  courtesy of School of Illusionism)

9 or 10 at Rush Hour

 

This is a partial reprint from long ago.

In the mid-1970s I was directing traffic at one of the busiest intersections in downtown Houston, Walker Street at Bagby. It is a major freeway entrance to I-45 North.  Traffic was heavy from both streets trying to exit downtown during evening rush hour. Bagby street had traffic moving North and South while Walker was Westbound only. There was always heavy pedestrian traffic as well, it being next to City Hall and some large parking facilities.

My approach to working traffic was to let Walker run wild and fast to clear out as many vehicles as possible. When the lights would change it was important to let the pedestrian traffic cross; but only until their “Wait” sign lighted, at which time I was quite forceful in halting anyone from crossing while at the same time directing those drivers in the turning lanes to begin the mad dash to the freeway. I stood in between, much as a matador directs a bull fight, intimidating drivers to turn the steering wheel to accommodate traffic from both directions at the same time. It was challenging, maybe that word covers how I managed to stay alive each time the lights cycled and the process was repeated.

One day, a light and breezy mild afternoon with clear blue skies, I was in full swing directing traffic when a drop dead gorgeous young woman began to cross the street. You may recall the movie with Dudley Moore, “10”; perhaps I should rephrase that, the movie with Bo Derek, a young woman of exquisite form, perhaps beyond belief. The point being that most men have never seen a perfect 10; a few 7’s or 8’s that made them forget their names and maybe a 9 but they were too blown away to remember any of the details.

The young woman crossing the street at Bagby and Walker that afternoon was somewhere between a 9 and a 10. How do I know this; because I was temporarily removed from my mortal body, not a good thing to do while standing in the middle of moving traffic. I remember directing two columns of opposing traffic into each other, one from Walker Street and the other from Bagby. The only thing that kept everyone from having a terrific accident was luck; either that or the fact that all the male drivers had stopped observing my orchestrations, their attention diverted to something quite a bit more appealing. I caught myself, forcing my arms down, a sheepish grin on my face for having proven once again that I was a victim of hormonal influences.

A Right Way and A Wrong Way

 

It’s interesting how the mind works as you review various events that took place long ago. For instance, this past week or so I’ve been remembering things that happened when I was a Rookie Police Officer for the Houston Police Department back in the early 1970s. The other day I wrote about purchasing my sidearm pistol while still in the Police Academy.

That brought up some other memories. The first place I worked as a Rookie was the Beechnut Substation out on the southwest side of Houston.  They had me ride with several different veteran officers, each lending aspects of the job that would be valuable during my time as an officer.

One of the first senior officers I rode with out of Beechnut was Ricky Rice, who eventually got promoted to Sgt and, for all I know, may have gone on to become a Lt or Capt.  Anyway, Officer Rice knew I was uncomfortable wearing the blue uniform and all, so he went out of his way to explain things and simply be a nice guy.

Instead of taking a break to have lunch at some burger stand, Officer Rice welcomed me to join him at his apartment, meet his wife and grab a sandwich there.  Upon arriving at his apartment complex, we walked up some stairs to get to his unit.  He opened the door and was about to introduce me to his wife when I recognized her from being in my home room back in high school, Sharon Thomas; make that, Sharon Thomas Rice.

(The photo was scanned from my high school yearbook.)

“Hey, Sharon,” The look on Officer Rice’s face was hard to explain. Here I was a Rookie about to be introduced to his wife; but I already knew this lady, well enough to call her by name. So much for the introduction; I couldn’t tell you what kind of sandwiches were for lunch.

Then there was a different experience that same week while riding with another veteran officer; I won’t include his name, a little like the opening remarks on the old television series, Dragnet. “The story you are about to see is true, only the names have been changed to protect…”  Let’s just call him Ray, as good a name as any.

When it came time for lunch he drove to a fancy restaurant on Westheimer, Christies. If you’re familiar with this location, it would fall under the listing, expensive and far beyond the average fast food place cops would go for lunch.

I checked my wallet before getting out of the patrol vehicle.  I had around eighteen dollars, maybe enough to get a hamburger if that was even on the menu. Ray assured me that this was a friendly place for cops and was always free, opening the door for me to enter the restaurant.

This early in my experience as a Police Officer, I had yet to learn about ‘Dragging the Sack”.

We were seated quickly and handed menus. I glanced at the prices and knew I couldn’t afford anything on the front page.  I found hamburger listed in the children’s section of the menu and ordered that since it came with fries, all for fifteen dollars.

Ray, on the other hand, ordered half a dozen oysters, a fancy specialty dish and didn’t blink as the waiter took the order.  I figured out in my head that Ray had just ordered about fifty dollars in fancy food.  I felt out of place and didn’t want to be sitting there.

We ate and when it came time to leave the manager quietly approached Ray, lightly touching Ray’s shoulder as he spoke, “Ray, I can’t continue to give you any more free meals. This is the last time.”  The manager stepped back as Ray got up and tossed his napkin in the middle of the empty plate.

I was not prepared to hear Ray’s reply, “I hope you M------F-----rs get Robbed!”, spoken loud enough for anyone within a few tables to hear.

I thought to myself how it would have been nice, being a police officer for more than a whole week, getting fired wasn’t something I wanted as we exited Christies and got back on patrol.  Nothing ever happened, nothing. I don’t remember much from that day’s patrol work; but I never had to explain up the chain of command why I witnessed the event from that day.

I guess you could sum it up by saying, there’s a right way and a wrong way of going about your business as a Police Officer.  May you always choose to do it the right way.

Becoming a Police Officer was Getting Expensive

 

This morning while enjoying some of the postings on Facebook I ran across an offering on eBay where someone was selling printouts of Smith and Wesson pistols.  A memory jumped into my mind, one from back in 1972 when I was about to graduate from the Houston Police Department’s Academy.  I was about to become a police officer.

There were still a few weeks of training to go when they explained that we needed to decide which pistol or pistols we would purchase.  I hadn’t thought about that, naively believing the City of Houston Police Department supplied each officer with all the tools required. 

I should give a little background at this point regarding my financial status.  I’d been employed by Montgomery Ward as a salesperson in their Hardware and Electric department making minimum wage just prior to being accepted into the police academy.  I saw this opportunity as a major improvement financially.  Think about that for a moment; the chance to make almost six hundred dollars a month was going to be a major improvement for me.

Back to being asked to purchase a new Smith and Wesson duty pistol with my own money had me wondering, “Will they be asking for a down payment on a patrol car next?”  I gulped a couple of times and decided, since this was a ‘one time offer to purchase these pistols at cost’, I decided to purchase a Smith and Wesson Model 19, 357/38 duty pistol along with a Smith and Wesson Model 36, 38 caliber off duty pistol. 

I can’t recall offhand how much the total came to; but each pistol was over a hundred dollars, or about half of what I would make in take home pay that month. There may have been a partial payment required along with a way to take care of the rest via payroll deductions; this happened so long ago. 

A few years went by and I found it impossible to resist having a silver and gold butt plate made by Nelson Silvia’s, a rather impressive piece of jewelry that had my name and badge number engraved on it. Think of that fancy butt plate as a symbol of having graduated from Rookie to Seasoned police officer, similar, I imagine, to a ring ceremony for those about to graduate from college.

My house got burglarized while I was at work and one of the few items taken was my Smith and Wesson Model 19 pistol.  I happened to be enjoying the use of a Colt Commander 1911 as an alternative duty weapon and so the loss of the other pistol, while painful, didn’t affect my ability to work. 

I did eventually purchase a replacement revolver, a used Smith and Wesson Model 586, blue steel 357/38 from a police officer who didn’t consider revolvers a serious police officer’s weapon.  No need to get into that conversation; I obtained it for exactly one hundred dollars, a steal since he didn’t see its monetary value either.

Several more years went by, imagine that… I got a call from the Harris County Sheriff’s Department asking if I had ever reported a Smith and Wesson Model 19 pistol stolen and if so, had it ever been recovered.  Wow, they’d actually found my stolen pistol by the serial number entered into the original burglary report.

Turns out a member of their department had gone to the pistol range to qualify using that pistol.  I have no idea how he obtained it, don’t want to know either.  I explained that my insurance company had settled with me which meant the pistol now belonged to them.  A few phone calls later and my insurance company said I could keep the pistol for a nominal fee of one hundred dollars; done!

The pistol was returned to me, without the fancy butt plate; only two small holes in the pistol grips where it had been removed.  Whoever had stolen the pistol, or whoever purchased the pistol had removed the butt plate.  That’s the only thing I really wanted back, a stupid chunk of silver and gold that had my name and badge number on it.

To bring an end to this memory, there was a night security guard working out in the Spring Branch area where I patrolled.  He’d been promoted and asked me where he should go to get a good deal on a duty pistol, one he could afford.  I sold him my old Smith and Wesson Model 19 for exactly one hundred dollars. 

  

Officer McDonald Liked Slurpees

 

In the mid to late 80s I was a Field Training Officer (FTO) on night shift for the Houston Police Department.  It was about the only time I had a partner assigned to ride with while working night shift, and then it was a rookie police officer who may or may not understand the duties associated with wearing a blue uniform.

(Image courtesy of nbclosangeles dot com)

I had a basic rule when working with these rookie police officers, their having had three weeks of riding on day shift prior to coming over to night shift for continued training.  The first week was a chance for me to see how much they’d adjusted to being a police officer and so they were passengers in the patrol car doing reports and other regular duties.  Then on their second week of training I’d go out on a limb and see if they could drive.

Enter my chance to meet Officer McDonald.  He loved that police officers were given a free soda or Slurpee at the local 7-Eleven store each night.  He had his Slurpee with him during most of the shift and didn’t think it would interfere with his duties.

During his second week riding with me I let him take the wheel as we set up to catch a red light violation at one of my favorite intersections, Long Point at Hollister.  There’s a modest incline as part of the parking lot for whatever business is located at the southwest corner.  This position relative to the intersection gave a good view of any traffic while at the same time was far enough from the intersection to allow a relaxed setting for us.

After a short while sitting atop our perch, sure enough, a vehicle driving westbound on Long Point ran the red light by a couple of car lengths, plenty enough to justify pulling the driver over and issuing a traffic ticket.

“Let’s go”, I motioned with my hand, letting McDonald know it was time to put his police driving skills to use.

“Here, hold my Slurpee”, as he pushed the drink cup in my direction.  I tossed his Slurpee out the passenger window.

“You threw my Slurpee out the window?!”  McDonald couldn’t believe I’d tossed a perfectly good Slurpee out the window.

“You’re supposed to be paying attention to the driver of the vehicle that just ran a red light, not worrying about the Slurpee and I’m supposed to be making sure you get it done safely.  You can get another Slurpee later.

I suppose there are plenty of police officers who can drive in pursuit of a traffic violator while holding a hot cup of coffee, soda or even munch on a burger; but letting a rookie develop those skills wasn’t on the list.

To be fair, Officer McDonald turned out to be a fine police officer and I’m pretty sure he made it to retirement, in spite of my having destroyed his favorite Slurpee that night.

Going for a Ride

 

When it’s time to take the trash out to the dumpster, the moment the puppies hear the plastic trash bag being removed from the canister in the kitchen, their ears perk up. Then, once I take the keys for the truck off the hook, they know it’s time, they’re going for a ride. 

The puppies have linked the idea of going to the dumpster or mailbox as a chance to have fun; but only if I go in the truck.  If we place the kitchen trash bag behind the front seat of the car then they know the game is over, no going for a ride this time.

On the other hand, if they see me with the keys to the truck it doesn’t matter whether or not there’s a bag of trash going to the dumpster, it’s time to go for a ride, at least that’s the mindset of our puppies, even the newcomer, Harold has joined this group.

Harold doesn’t want to actually get in the truck, just that he can tag along as the truck eases its way to the dumpster or mailbox.  Max and Shadow will sit in the passenger seat until the truck arrives at the dumpster, a tad over half a mile.  As soon as the truck stops, Max jumps out while I unload the trash from the back of the truck.  Then Max waits to see if I’m going the last bit of the way over to our mailbox or, if not, if I’m headed back to the house.

Shadow likes to ride the whole way while Harold, being a younger version of a puppy, runs the whole time, trying to prove he’s the lead puppy on this job.  As soon as the mailbox has been checked I tell Max, “Let’s go home!”  Max heads back down the road towards home and Harold figures he better do the same, trying to overtake Max for the lead.

This is how it’s done, most of the time.  There’s a glitch in this system, one that presents itself when I want to go into town in the truck.  The puppies automatically think the truck only goes to the dumpster and mailbox; why else would I take the truck?

When they follow me all the way to the dumpster and mailbox; but I’m actually going somewhere else, I have to tell Max to head on home and then goose the engine so the truck leaves in the opposite direction so quickly that the puppies can’t keep up.  I do this until I’m well down the road, around the bend and out of sight.  This works, most of the time.

Today wasn’t most of the time as I later found out.

I headed toward Crockett to visit some friends from church.  Their property is almost all the way to Crockett, a good thirty minutes or so drive.  We visited for almost an hour before I headed back home.

I knew something was wrong as the truck pulled into our driveway.  Max was the only puppy waiting for me to park the truck.  Shadow and Harold were nowhere to be found; that’s not normal.  I gave them a little while to turn up; perhaps they spotted a squirrel or a rabbit and went chasing it off to the other side of the fence line. 

After a while an empty feeling landed in the pit of my stomach, maybe these two puppies didn’t follow Max home, maybe they tried to follow the truck as I sped off down the road.  That’s when I got in the truck and started driving around the area looking for two really stupid puppies, puppies who got lost and couldn’t find their way back home.

I made a large circle, driving down each of the county roads that all are connected spanning several miles; nothing.  I drove back to our property and there was Max, all alone still.  I glanced at the time and knew it was time to drive over to the Thornley’s for Family Home Dinner.  I put Max in the house so he wouldn’t try to follow as I’d be in the truck again.

I drove really slow, going down the same county road; but asking a road crew if they’d seen two puppies, giving them a brief description of how they both had a white blaze mark on their chests. It might have been a waste of time since it appeared the workers only spoke Spanish as they waved to me.

A little further I spotted one of our neighbors driving one of those sport vehicles, camouflage paint on what could easily have been a golf cart sized vehicle.  Before I could ask, he must have read my mind as he asked, “Are you looking for two black dogs, look like Pits?”

I was already nodding that I was as he pointed down the road a way, “They’ve been on our property by the pond for a long time, looked like they were exhausted”.  I figured it to be about  two miles from our property since it was right near where CR 358 intersects with CR 314.  That’s a busy place for a stupid and confused puppy to be wandering around. 

As soon as I drove a bit further, I saw both coming towards the truck.  There was a school bus coming at the same time and I could only hope the puppies wouldn’t dart out in front of the school bus once they recognized my truck.  Their tongues were hanging out and both of them were drenched in sweat from having run so much. 

Shadow jumped inside the truck, but Harold was still not sure how to react as he backed away. I turned the truck around, calling out the whole time, “Let’s go home, Harold, let’s go home!”

Harold is a young puppy, guessing he’s less than two.  He had enough energy to keep up with the truck as I carefully and slowly inched back home.  Harold kept up the whole way while Shadow was totally winded sitting on the passenger seat.  All the puppies are home now, Harold had enough energy to go chasing a rabbit that ducked under the cargo container.

I called the Thornley’s and let them know I’d be a little late; but that I had some brownies, a sort of tradition for our family to take when we go for Family Home Evening.  I didn’t mention to anyone that Shadow had stepped on the plate of brownies.  They were well protected within a gallon freezer bag and I didn’t see any damage. 

So, how was your day?