Brainer

She was obviously a brainer.

I could see it from 300 feet away as easily as I could at 30.

She was down in the northwest corner of pen 3, laying on her left side.

Her head was cranked back at an awful, unnatural angle over her right shoulder and her eyes were rolled way up and was twitching and jerking spasmodically. 

I came near to her and tried to ease her head back around, even though I knew it was of no use. 

And it wasn’t.  Trying to twist her head back to where it should be was like trying to move the wall of our house I’m sitting beside right now with my bare hands.

She hollered when I tried to move it.  I wondered if from pain or agony of mind.

Brainers are caused from two things that I know of.  Both are feed related; one from a type of grass, the other from an unbalanced ration that has too much distiller’s grain in it.  Her problem was the latter.  In each scenario, the chemicals in a calf’s brain are altered to the point that they lose normal function, and it often involves balance. 

This was the case with her.  Her head twisted off to the side like that, even when laying down, was evidence that her mind was telling her that her body was in a different place than it actually was. 

In ten years, I think we’ve had 5 brainers.  I’ve managed to save one out of those five, and I knew the statistics weren’t in my favor as I walked back to the shed to get a heavy dose of Thiamine ready to inject.  At that point, I wasn’t aware of just which statistics weren’t in my favor. 

I was acutely conscious of several other things as I walked back to get the meds for her.  High on the list was the fact that I had dropped my eldest son off at the airport the day before and that he was going to be gone for 6 months.  I didn’t like that idea at all, but I wholeheartedly supported him in the volunteer service he was going to give.  Second on the list was how cold it must have gotten overnight; the manure patties were frozen completely solid, and I kept tripping over them because of that.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in dealing with cattle, it’s take the opportunity they give you, even if it means a split second decision.  More than likely they won’t give you the same opportunity again and the next one might not be as good as the one just given.

When I got back to my sick girl, she was up on some very unsteady feet and aimlessly moving in the general direction of some panels that were situated nearby in a ‘v’ shape.  I had been planning on working her up to the squeeze chute, but this opportunity looked better for her; she was so unstable I wasn’t sure I’d even get her as far as the chute.  So, I eased up against her and got her facing into the narrow part of those panels.

She was so weak; she could hardly stay upright.  I leaned up against her left hindquarter, just in front of her back leg and wedged her forward and against the opposite panel.  I got my syringe ready and quickly injected the meds. 

Part of them, anyway.

She screamed like it hurt something terrible, and the next thing I became conscious of, was that my right leg had experienced some extreme power exerted upon it, and I caught a glimpse of my knee splayed outwards to the right at a neat 45 degree angle.  The bend would have looked normal if it had been front to back; sideways like that came through dimly to me that something must have happened.

I say dimly, because it seemed like for a bit there my mind operated in very slow motion, and even though it was only 3 degrees Fahrenheit, I was sweating profusely for some reason. 

And it seemed that, as I tried to walk towards the nearby panel, my right leg wouldn’t cooperate at all.  Seemed sort of floppy.

It’s easy to see now what happened then.  As I leaned up against her, one of those frozen clumps locked my right foot on the outside of it from moving at all, which was good to brace against for the injection I needed to give.  But the poor girl was so distressed and evidently in so much pain that she reacted by getting her left hind leg just inside my right leg and her consequent kick backwards did the deed that splayed my knee out sideways.

I called my good wife from my hunched over position against the panel.  The calf wasn’t an issue anymore; she had given out and laying on the ground.  She came out there in the car and got me through the main fence, somehow or another, and into the car. 

I had her stop by the conduit rack, and I cut a piece of ¾ inch steel conduit down to size and took the bender to it, making a makeshift cane for myself and the time being, because something still didn’t feel right in my knee, even though it didn’t hurt nearly so badly anymore.

She, my good wife, thought we needed to get right in to see the Doctor.  Me, not so much.  I’d tough this one out, I told her.  It would just end up being a strained something or other and be fine in a day or two.

She prevailed, like a good woman ought to, and we were soon on our way to the Doctor.  Halfway there, I told her it was feeling so much better and had her stop so I could show I was fine and could walk normally. 

Except I couldn’t walk on that stupid leg.  It wouldn’t cooperate.

The Doctor took my limp little leg in his strong arms and did a few cursory assessments.  His brow was still furrowed as he was trying to decide what the problem was when he stopped, dead still, and said, “Whoa.”

Next, he called the nurse over and said, “I want you to feel this.”  He had her take my leg in her arms and do just as he had.  She said quite a bit more than ‘Whoa’ and it wasn’t very respectful to the One I normally pray to.

He asked her, “Did you feel how you could have kept on going right around his whole neck with his leg?”

Anyways, the MRI came back with a severed ACL and a torn MCL, among other things, and surgery was scheduled.

If you see me limp a bit or notice I don’t really run anymore, you might understand now that it all traces back to a brainer calf.

And if you see me taking an interest in anyone wearing a knee brace, you can bet that I know what they feel like, after having worn one for more than 8 weeks. 

I must say, though, I got pretty fast on the crutches.  Especially after I modified them to my liking.

Spotted King Snakes/Small Town Weatherman

I was on a parts run to Liberal the other day, and stopped in at Stanion to pick up some things on my list.  A rather young, but quite friendly dude whom I hadn’t seen in there before met me at the counter and asked what I needed. 

My first impression had me curious how we were going to communicate.  He had a chew in his lower left cheek and on around into his bottom lip that looked like it might have filled a Solo cup at least half full if he had spat it all out.  Coupled together with the pinched brim of his baseball cap, neck length hair, a 2 inch beard and glasses pushed tight up against the bridge of his nose, he made an appearance.  But like I say, he was friendly, which I could sense even before we started speaking to each other.  He must have had a part time career in disappearing acts; the chew was as mysteriously gone as it was large before once we started visiting.

He said he was from Oklahoma.  We talked weather for a bit, commenting on how dry everything was getting, and I mentioned the bad rattlesnake problem we have had this year.  He really came alive when we started talking snakes. 

He told me he was a snake hunter; he caught and delivered snakes, rattlers of course, to the snake round up festival some 60 miles east of where he lived.  I mentioned that snakes must not bother him much.

“Oh no,” he said, “I’d way rather sit down beside a snake than a spider any day.”

I squinted hard at his back as he led the way to get my parts.  Rather sit down by a snake than a spider, I mused.  Sort of went along with his appearance.   But he may have had a point.  One of my children told me later that more people are admitted for serious hospital stays stemming from spider bites than from snake bites.

I asked him how many times he had been bit. 

“Twice.  Once on my fingers of my left hand.  Went in and got them fixed up.  Just fight a little arthritis in them when it gets cold.  Other time was in my leg.  Thought I’d try to tough that one out without going in; it’s still givin’ me problems.”

I was about ready to leave when he got started on king snakes.  He said they kill rattlers.  I listened close, because we’ve killed seven rattlers already this year and they’ve all been nearby home.  He said king snakes kill by constriction, not by biting or poison.  Said he threw a king snake in with a 6-foot rattler and the rattler was squirming every which way trying to get out of the bucket they both were in.  Claimed he could have reached his hand right in there and never been bit, it was so alarmed. 

He told me he had a king snake there and I asked to see it.  And true enough, inside a kitty litter bucket I saw a completely black snake with yellow speckles mottled all over it.  If there’s any truth to what he says, I would venture to say someone could turn some handy cash by becoming a king snake dealer in these parts.   

The last thing he told me was that he had seen a mouse kill a rattler.

*****

I must have written the above last year sometime; but rereading it made me think of snakes and how dry it is here again.

I’ve been watching for snakes on the road.

And watching the sunsets.

And the pheasants.

Easter is coming up; I’ll be watching that weekend.

If we get any fogs, I’ll be counting days after them.

And, I’ll be listening for the first cicada. 

Now I’m definitely not a weather geek.  Or who knows what name my sis will try to attach to me about all this. 

If you spread a weather map in front of me, I couldn’t tell you what high and low pressure lines are.  Neither would I know how to interpret any other of the interesting looking symbols.

But I do have a fascination with weather predictions that nature itself gives.

And it all started years ago at the gas pumps here in our local town. 

I was gassing up and an old timer, named Curly, was on the other side the pumps.

I told him I had seen a snake on the road and thought maybe we’d soon be getting some rain. 

Curly’s gone now, but I wish I would have picked his lore of wisdom a few more times. 

He leaned in close and asked, “Which way was the snake headed?”

I said I didn’t have a clue.

He said, “Take note, it’ll tell you if your gonna get rain or not.  If they are headin’ west, they’re movin’ to higher ground and we’ll get rain.  If they are headin’ east, they aint concerned about the weather and we’re in for a dry spell.”

I almost snorted out load at what I thought was the height of ludicrousness.

I wanted to guffaw and say, “What about when they go north or south?”  But, it turns out, after a good 20 years, he has been right, 98% of the time.  The north and south snakes don’t count.

If I see the sun heading down behind a cloud on Wednesday, I take note to watch it all the way down, if I have time, that is.  Because if it makes it all the way down behind that cloud, we WILL have rain by Sunday.  If it peeks out at the last minute, like so often happens here in Kansas, forget it.  No rain.

It’s a rarity to see a pheasant roosting in a tree, they don’t do that.  But if you ever do, look for rain.

And like I said, I’ll be taking especial note this Easter weekend, just like I have other Easter weekends.  Because if we get rain on that weekend, as sure as taxes, we’ll have rain for seven weekends afterwards.

Okay, okay.  You’re getting weary of this aren’t you.

Fogs are interesting here in Kansas.  Seems like we don’t get them a lot, but then we don’t get a lot of rain either.  Both are tied to each other, with 90 days in between. 

They are tied to each other the same way the cicada and our first frost are.  Except it’s 100 days, give or take a couple, for the cicada and frost. 

Okay.  I’m done.  Except calves are sure interesting to watch before a storm.

And I’d be interested in what weather signs you go by in your locale. 

Leave Some Joy

I like my friend Loren.  Quite a lot actually.  I suppose if I call him a friend, I should like him.  He’s one of those folks who bring with them their own type of joy, spread it around while they stay with you, and then leave a little behind. 

You know what I’m talking about?  It’s like after they leave, their joy lingers on.

I haven’t known Loren for as many years as I’ve known some of you, but I’ve decided years don’t necessarily spell what friendship can or will be. 

Sometimes it’s more about what you share in common with the folks you call friends than the length of time spent together.

Some years ago, the thing was all about hostess gifts.  Maybe it still is, I don’t know.  But if you stayed at someone’s house, say overnight, or even as short as 6 hours, you needed to bring along a hostess gift.  These gifts ranged from lotions to lotions, I think.  Maybe a nice little cup or scarf came our way once or twice.  And as far as I know, I never got any hostess gifts; it seemed to be more of a female thing.

But Loren, on the other hand, is not shy concerning hostess gifts.

I suppose since we are talking men here, it would be good to switch over to calling it a host gift instead of a hostess.  I think what makes a stayover with Loren so enjoyable, is that you never know what his host gift is going to be.  That’s probably part of the pique of our friendship.  I’ve tried to return the favor, when I stay at his place, but I suspicion my efforts at leaving some joy, have fallen far short compared to his.

He told me once, that when he went on a trip years ago, which was obviously long before digital G.P.S. days, his route could easily have been traced just by the host gifts he left behind.

One place got a partially used bottle of shampoo, another probably got a tee shirt, clean or worn that day, we don’t know, and maybe another got a belt, etc., etc. 

He is truly generous and impartial in his giving. 

So, it was one day, that Loren was getting ready to depart from my place after a brief stay.  He and his wife stood by the front door, ready to load into the silver Malibu they had traveled out on.  We chit-chatted about having a safe trip and that we would miss them.  I paused in my thinking, then decided maybe a breach in protocol would be okay this time.

I mentioned to him the trip he had made years ago and wondered if, just perhaps, he had inadvertently left a host gift somewhere around our house.  He was quick to reply that both he and his wife had given special attention to that detail this time and they were sure they had retrieved anything that could possibly be conjectured later as a host gift.

It was some 20-30 minutes after they left that my phone rang.  My friend seemed to have a bit different inflection to his normally pleasant voice.  It almost seemed a bit more serious, per se.  In his call, he wondered if I could run downstairs to the bedroom they had used to check the headboard storage for his wallet.  I figured since I had harassed him on this subject earlier, he was getting his last laugh. 

But not so. 

He definitely wanted me to go check for his wallet. 

I found it much where he said I would and jumped in my truck to meet him halfway on his journey back to my place.  His comment upon meeting?

“I had a comment saved up to tell you when we met, but I must have left it somewhere along the way.”

The final chuckle to that deal was when I got home and saw his notebook lying on my desk.  He refrained my offer to run this out to him, saying he would pick it up at another meeting.

*****

I suppose in all fairness, Loren would like to tell you of a host gift I left for him once, but since he isn’t here to do so, I can relate it very briefly. 

It seems that once, after we left their place, having been treated so kindly and graciously by them, I had the audacity to leave a pair of my undershorts, to be discovered sometime later, as my host gift to them. 

Leave some joy.

Foodie #2

Okay.  I suspect if the sister of mine still reads these things, she would rise up in accusation with the above title, should I have not titled it that. 

At times I feel her presence very distinctly.

But let’s just say we scored the other evening with our supper.  (Or dinner, depending which generation you sprang from.)

I don’t read the news regularly.  I scan the headlines about every day, and if one of two of them look interesting, I’ll read what they have. 

There is a documentary that I have looked at occasionally. 

It’s a food documentary. 

Okay. Okay. OKAY.  Someone needs to read those things.

Anyway, the fellow they used did just that.  He traveled the world, sampled any and every kind of food placed in front of him, and almost always said, “Mmm, that’s good.”

Some of the stuff I’ve seen him eating couldn’t have been good.  I got sick looking at it.

So when I read a deal of his, promoting what he said, “Could possibly be the most delicious thing,” I bookmarked it.

I was pushing the very heavy grocery cart for my wife, trundling down the aisles of food, when I got the hunch that we needed to do this.

But I ran into problems immediately.

Who sells, or where can you find, Chinese rice wine?

Or, pray tell, what is black vinegar?

The soy sauce, sesame oil, and garlic were easily found.

And the boneless pork chops were quite available.

It was after we had left the store that I realized I hadn’t found Panko breadcrumbs, but my good wife thought the store in Montezuma might have them. 

We found some substitutes for the Chinese rice wine and black vinegar, but the final item looked to be a little harder to find.

Five spice powder.

Now I know some of you reading this probably have it on your shelf already, or if not, it’s just a hop and a skip away, due to higher population rates in your area and more diversified population at that.

I Googled Asian grocery stores with very little faith anything would show in Dodge City.  I knew of a couple in Garden City and figured this meal would have to wait until I could get myself over there. 

But surprisingly, one showed, on a street I hadn’t rolled down yet in my 30 plus years of driving that town. 

And I could see why I hadn’t driven down it yet as I started to. 

When I got to what Google proclaimed as Asian grocery, I found myself in front of an old mechanic shop, converted into grocery store.  Red spray paint had been slathered and misted, alternately over the garage door and front part of the building.  Iron bars were securely fastened to the windows and door.  (a bit of a rarity in these parts)

I stepped inside and was nearly pushed back out by the sound concussions of heavy disco music coming from somewhere midsection of the store. 

And just that quick, I was home, back in a little store in India.  The only thing it lacked was incense burning here and there.

I dabbled for quite some time in there, looking at their wares, and almost doing several impulse buys.  Eventually, I found the five-spice powder, and made my way to the cramped, little checkout counter where a young man could hardly make eye contact with me.  But I stayed just a bit after the sale, and his eyes met mine in a friendly glance before I left.  I want to go back to that store soon. 

We stopped in at the store in Montezuma, and sure enough, they had my breadcrumbs.

At this point, I was traveling blind on this meal.  The only thing I was hoping to prove, was whether it was ‘the most delicious thing ever.’

When it comes to working in the kitchen, I don’t do so well.  It generally takes me twice as long as the recipe says to get something done; I can’t get the hang of peeling an onion or a garlic clove, so my good wife was there alongside me, like she promised a while ago now, with helping hands.  If her heart wasn’t in it, she didn’t let it show.

I got the marinade made and the meat pounded, and both put together in a plastic bag and left it set for a couple of hours.

When I came back, the meat had definitely changed color, and had a rather good smell, if not entirely familiar. 

We, (again I needed help) coated the meat with flour first, then egg, then breadcrumbs and fried it.  I cut some of that good homemade loaf bread into slices, toasted and buttered it when it came out. 

It mated nicely with the fried meat, and we sat down to our meal.

And you know what?  It may just have been the most delicious thing ever. 

I suspicion that the big skillet the family gave me for my birthday a while back may house quite a number of those meats in the future, on some nice spring evening when folks tend to get together.

Wanna come over?

Macau-style pork chop sandwich

Makes 4 servings

Ingredients

4 boneless pork rib chops or cutlets (about 6 ounces each)

¼ cup soy sauce

¼ cup Chinese rice wine

¼ cup black vinegar

1 tablespoon sesame oil

4 cloves garlic, peeled and coarsely chopped

1 tablespoon five-spice powder

1 tablespoon dark brown sugar, packed

1 large egg

½ cup all-purpose flour

1½ cups panko bread crumbs

Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

2 cups peanut oil, for frying, plus more as needed

8 slices white sandwich bread

Chili paste, for garnish

Special equipment

Meat mallet or heavy-duty rolling pin

Sheet pan or platter lined with newspaper

Instructions

1. Pound the pork to ¼-inch thickness, using the meat mallet. If using a rolling pin, be sure to wrap the meat in plastic before whacking it (and consider getting yourself a meat mallet).

2. In a small mixing bowl, whisk together the soy sauce, rice wine, vinegar, sesame oil, garlic, five-spice powder and sugar. Place the pork in a zip-seal plastic bag or nonreactive container and pour the marinade mixture over, turning the chops to ensure they are evenly coated with liquid. Seal the bag and refrigerate for at least 1 hour and up to 12 hours.

3. Remove the chops from the marinade and brush off the garlic. Beat the egg in a shallow bowl. In a second shallow bowl, place the flour, and in a third shallow bowl, place the bread crumbs. Season the flour with salt and pepper. You may need to add a tablespoon of water to the beaten egg to loosen its texture so that it adheres evenly to the meat.

4. To a large, heavy-bottom frying pan, add the peanut oil and heat over medium-high. While the oil heats, dredge the chops in the flour, batting off any extra, then in the egg, then in the bread crumbs.

5. Test the oil with a pinch of bread crumbs. If they immediately sizzle, carefully slide the chops into the hot oil, working in batches if necessary to avoid overcrowding the pan and bringing down the temperature of the oil. Cook until golden brown, about 5 minutes per side. Remove the cooked chops from the oil and let drain on the lined sheet pan. Season lightly with salt.

6. Toast the bread until golden brown. Assemble the sandwiches and serve with the chili paste alongside.

Tube Socks

It might be a little bit early to go camping.

But it’s never too early to contemplate it.

Everyone should go camping at least twice, and, if after that, you become a fan, go as many times as you wish.

I am not such a huge camping addict; I used to enjoy it, but by now I much prefer a soft bed and a full night’s sleep.

I do have some powerful memories though, of times spent out in the wild, where everything degenerated into hysterical laughter, good times, and a few stomach aches.  The last not necessarily from laughing.

For starters, take plenty of starter fluid.

Especially if you plan on doing anything on a grill in Colorado.

A few of us guys were checking the slopes out.  We had purchased T-Bone steaks down in the foothills, and had the awesome idea to run up to, say, 10,000 feet and grill them while surveying life down below.

Unfortunately, our charcoal was resistant to producing heat.  We thought maybe it had gotten wet, but as a few years have passed by and experience has become more of my friend, I venture it was the elevation that gave us the stress.

But not to worry.  We had plenty of lighter fluid along, and one of the guys kept a steady stream of it feeding the feeble flames. 

We had flame kissed, lighter kissed, and finally, river kissed steaks that night. 

Because in the process of turning one, it flipped off to the ground; not a problem, said the guy with the lighter fluid.  He let up a bit on flame throwing, grabbed the lukewarm steak and marched off to the nearby river to swish it a few times through that frigid water and tossed it back on the grill, whereupon he reheated it with lighter fluid fumes.

*****

We live in an area where the nearest body of water is an hour’s drive.  We call them lakes, but upon doing a little traveling, I have since shied away from that term and now refer to them as mud puddles.

Most of them are manmade, and the fish laugh at us when we cast in our juicy fat worms for them.  They are so overfed because the ratio of people to fish is probably 9:1, and any attempt to catch one is much like trying to serve me cooked carrots after I have just finished a full course meal.  “I’ll pass,” I say, and so do they.

One sunny afternoon, when I was about 16, three of us guys rounded up the general necessities to go camping.  Ham steak, potatoes, water, eggs, bacon, and candy bars rounded out the meal side of things.

Borrowed canoe, tent, sleeping bags, mud boots, fishing poles, paddles, and firewood rounded out the rest of it.

The trusty ’74 Ford we often used as a conveyance launched us on our way with its 4-barrel Holley carb, headers, and short glasspacks. 

All went well for a while, until the lid on the Styrofoam icebox we had our food in set sail and left.  We skidded to a halt and retrieved it, but it soon left again.  We solved the problem by partially crushing the whole affair when we covered it with firewood to prevent it’s leaving again.

Lakeside and we soon had the tent up.  We cruised up and down the lake (about a mile in distance one way) several times and one guy did his best to snare a fish or two, before retiring for the evening.

A good-sized fire was built, and the ham steaks turned out perfect, even if the potatoes didn’t.

We sat around the fire and started swapping stories; our clothes were rather sodden from the wild canoeing, so we got started drying them out.

My socks were especially wet, and I was having a very difficult time of it with them.  I kept burning my hands when I tried to dry them over the fire.

Someone suggested I get a stick and hold them over the fire.

“But they’ll burn,” I said.

“No,” they said, “Not as long as they are wet, you can actually hold them right in the fire and they won’t burn.”

I took them at their word, and soon my socks were toasty warm and dry.

We were getting ready to turn in, and I thought I’d just pull those warm dry socks on, as the night was getting a bit chilly.

I pulled the first one on, but it didn’t stop when I got to the toes of it.  I was so intrigued, I pulled it easily up to my thighs. 

I had just discovered the true tube sock.

The other one was in the same shape.

Where the toe area had been was an open, black edged hole the width of the sock.

I spent the rest of my time there with the leading edges of them tucked under my toes and said toes curled tightly upon them to hold them in place.

The next morning, we found a creek that meandered back from the lake and decided to canoe it.  In places it was 2-3 inches deep and the poor guy who brought his muck boots was put to work dredging us along. 

We had no sooner cleared that area, than we hit good water and started paddling.  But something went wrong about then, and the canoe was divested of its human cargo in a most unseemly manner. 

I hit the water feet first, but my friend Gregg hit it flat.  He fully submerged, and when he surfaced, he bug-eyedly declared, “This water is deep!” and started stroking madly for shore.  I, on the other hand, stood nimbly in four feet of water, but I squatted down to chin level and thrashed a bit just to make him believe it was deep.

We slogged back to camp and stripped down to the bare essentials, or maybe even a bit less than.  We laid our clothes out on the truck hood and propped the legs open with twigs so the wind could blow through, and they could dry quicker. 

Two of us did.  The guy with the muck boots opted out of this and went for a hike to dry out.

He missed out.

Because the two of us, now liberated from the bulk of our clothes, started in on the Sun dance.  It was really going well, and we had almost lost ourselves in the beat and tempo of it all, when we noticed a school bus coming down the road towards our campsite. 

Self-preservation kicked in and we kited in level towards the tent.  We omphed in on our bellies and, looking out saw a new crisis had developed. 

The bus had stopped opposite our tent, and we saw, to our horror, it was filled with the female detail of a near junior high school. 

We hurriedly unstrapped the window covers and tied them in place.  With a final zip of the tent door, we were safe . . . until we realized that if they decided to stay, we were trapped, unless we decided to make streak for it.

Our friend, with his muck boots still on, viewed all events from afar and chuckled with glee.

The bus driver must have sensed our dilemma and in common decency to humanity pulled his crowing, screaming, pointing, giggling females away, much to our relief.

*****

It had rained between us and home during the night, but we weren’t aware of it as we sped homeward over a little traveled cowpath of a road.

Until we crested a hill, doing a sweet 70, and saw at it base a large pool of water.  We couldn’t go left or right, so with brakes locked we skidded across it. 

Since the truck we were traveling in didn’t have A/C, we had all the windows down and the wing windows open. 

Torrents of water gushed in and filled my friend Gregg’s lap right up. 

We like to wet ourselves laughing at him, especially when he realized, just then, that he had brought another change of clothes along and had completely forgotten about them the whole time. 

We didn’t let him change though.

Botox Smiles

(A mediocre collage of insights; not meant to demean any location or gender)

Come along about Thursday of last week, the premonition that had been lurking in my mind for the last several days became a full-blown realization.

I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

Sure, all the health foods available, and the fact that now I was walking and talking with folks who lived in a place where, as most product labels say, can cause cancer in the state of —- had something to do with that premonition.

And sure, the heavy music beat, anywhere and everywhere, had some to do with it also.

But it wasn’t until I was relaxing in a nice little coffee shop, right on the beach, that I started putting all the scattered pieces of what my subconscious had been saying, together.

It was her smile that did it.

She was seated across from a nicer looking young man who wore his cap like I wear them, bill sort of squenched down at the edges.  (he also wore it pulled low over his eyes, which, after listening in for a bit explained itself.)

She: “So do you like, always drink coffee?”

He: (murmured) “Yeah, I like the Americano’s best.”

She: “Does it like, do anything for you?  Because, I, like, used to drink coffee a lot and then I was like, what is this, like, really doing for me.  And I was like, it’s not really doing anything for me, so I’ll quit.”

(murmured comment from him)

She” “So do you have a cutoff time for, like, your coffee?”

He: “No, I can drink it whenever I want.”

She: “See I was like, I can’t drink this stuff any past 7 in the evening, so I’m like, if I can’t drink after seven, why drink it at all?”

(murmured comment)

She: “So have you, like, lived in Cauleefornya all your life?”

(murmured assent)

She: Yeah, I lived in Dallas for 3 years, and I was like, you know, I really like it here.  But it wasn’t until I moved away that I realized how, like, totally landlocked that place is.  I’m like, if I had realized that sooner, I’m sure I would have moved back here sooner.

(murmured assent)

She: “So can coffee actually be good for you?  I mean like, if it doesn’t do anything for you, can it be healthy?”

(murmured thoughts on benefits of coffee.)

*****

I had noticed her smile some, but not a lot, since she really wasn’t happy, even though she was super healthy and all. 

But I had taken note that it was a Botox smile. 

And that made me sad.

Because, have you ever noticed that Botox smiles aren’t happy smiles?  In fact, if you visually cut off the person’s face that is smiling in the middle and look only at their eyes when they smile, it looks like they are ready to cry.

There is no personality in a Botox smile.

And, a decided risk factor can be added to the already risky venture of guessing a woman’s age when they flash their Botox smile. 

You can’t do it by looking at their face.

But I’ll give you a hint.  Look at their hands.  They never Botox them and a person can usually get within 5 years by looking at their hands. 

I’ve risked it enough as a little experiment to know.

I paused and thought long on this; Here I was, in a State where extreme emphasis was put on health, beauty, and youth.  In a sense, you could say they have achieved their goal. 

But their inside health has deteriorated drastically.

And that thought directed me back to something I had written sometime back . . .

*****

I was walking a mall the other day and happened upon a shop named Forever Flawless.  I didn’t step inside, I figured they would take one glance at me and make that shuffle store owners make when they wish to become invisible.  Because I’m not flawless.  And to do a remake to get me there would cost more than I care to spend; I also suspicion the remake would be imperfect when it was all said and done anyway.

But it sure got me to thinking.  My mind went back to a book I had been reading where a certain thought was promoted.  The book said with the approach they recommended, “That we would be one step closer to making ourselves into that designer human being, by modifications to our gene pool, that we all wished to be.”

So let’s follow this through a little way and say we can attain a flawless human body. 

I see certain evidence around that progress is being made to that end.

You can, for a sum, have a surgery done to get hair implants and have a full head of hair. 

There are all types of skin lifts, fat reduction, eye lifts, etc. available. 

Your teeth can have that pearly white look given back to them. 

If you are willing, you can hire a professional eyebrow artist, who, with a string caught between their teeth and two hands will make quick lunges towards your face whilst plucking out unwanted eyebrow hair to give the perfect outline of your choice. 

If you think your lips are the wrong shape, that can be fixed also.  Although I recently saw one that hadn’t quite taken as it should have.  Her upper lip had three definite sections to it and the incision lines were quite discernable. 

Your toes can be straightened; your skin glow can be enhanced, on and anon. 

And finally, after all these fixes to the tired, jaded body some think we have, are made, we’ll have the perfect, flawless forever. 

I see some problems with the forever flawless approach. 

To me, the problems outweigh the benefits by far, but maybe I don’t see it correctly.

What happens to the inside problems?  Do they get fixed somehow in this flawless approach? 

Allow me to explain.

What would have happened, that evening some years ago, when, after a get together with friends, someone called me and said, “I noticed you were looking a little down.  Want to talk?”  If I had my wrinkles all frozen out earlier, those same wrinkles couldn’t have told my friend what I wasn’t saying out loud.  

What if my weight had been scientifically measured and kept in balance all these years?  Would my wife and daughter nudge that pudge I have in my midsection in the friendly way they do now?

Would I spend more time with my personal body trainer than my family?

If every surface of my body were toned to perfection, would I ever be vulnerable?  Could someone tell by my body language, how I was feeling?  Or would I have a sculpted stance ingrained to hold to at all times?

If all joints and bones were aligned perfectly, I would never need any help.  And as I got older, I still wouldn’t need any help because it would have become a habit.

In the end, being forever flawless will rob us of the greatest joy in life.

We won’t need help and we won’t be able to help others.

Red 113

He was an ornery cuss; I could see it glinting in his eyes and bulging out all over him.  But he was sick and a good quarter mile from home.  I eased the four-wheeler up behind him and his brother, 112, and started moving them back towards the corrals and squeeze chute where I could get some drugs into him and on the path to recovery. 

They both put the moves on me and tried to outwit me, although they didn’t have much energy since it was a very warm afternoon.  I used all the calf-savvy I had and actually managed to get them both home and into the holding pen without either of them splitting off.  That’s when he really turned up the smoke.  He seemed intent on demolishing everything around.  I kept a ready foot up on one rail just in case and sure enough, he came straight for me, head down and moving at what seemed a slick 40 m.p.h. 

“Okay, buster, if that’s how you move, I’ll show you what’s coming down the pipes,” I said.

I medicated him and he tore out of the chute, ready for the next Dodge City days rodeo.  Me, not so much.  I penned him with a bunch of new calves that were still moving slow from being shipped in and figured he could stay there a few days and settle out.

A few days turned into a couple of months, and it was time to clean out the home corrals and send everything to the pasture.  We were running everything through the chute for branding when I heard the gate down the alley getting a real working over. 

Yep, Red 113 again. 

I didn’t quite enjoy branding him, but I might have if I had let myself.  We got ready to load, and I told Bryce, “Watch Red 113.  He’s a bad one.”  Bryce said, “Yeah I saw him already.  I’ll keep clear.”

Everything went jostling up into the trailer in his group, so I went back to get another bunch.  I turned around and things had slowed down a bit up by the trailer; I saw Bryce leaning against the fence a little crooked like and upon a closer inspection, I saw his face wasn’t its usual tan.  He hobbled over to the other side of the alley and lay down in some weeds. 

I finished penning the ones I was working with and went to where Bryce was now up and leaning against the rail. 

“What’s going on,” I asked. 

“It’s that 113,” he said.  “Smashed my leg against the rail.

“Sit back down and let’s look at it.”

“No.”

“Why not?  Come on, let’s take a quick look.”

“No.” It’s not that bad, and besides, I was laying in an ant pile.”

It was worse than he thought.  I took him in and got an Xray.  They said it was a bruised bone.  I hadn’t heard of such before but judging from his hobbling around for the next couple of weeks and the kaleidoscope of colors that shot across his leg, I’m thinking it must have been rather painful and their prognosis probably right.

Every bunch has one or two like red 113.  And you know what?  I suspicion that while they may seem a bit onery or a little hard to get along with, most likely they are the unnoticed geniuses among us.

25 Years

30 years ago, she couldn’t have known much about a sleepy little ag town called Montezuma. 

Perhaps if she had, she would have changed her mind about accepting a teaching position nearby. 

30 years ago, she wouldn’t have known that her life would become forever intertwined with that same community.

30 years ago, she didn’t know of a guy who would watch her walk up to church for the first time, think for a few seconds on her light-yellow dress, and then think of other things, like most young men his age were wont to do.

A little over 25 years ago, she couldn’t have known, that ice cream and chocolate sauce would be a staple ingredient to a happy life, or that brown sugar on cereal is better than white.

Neither could she have known that rattlesnakes would compel the worst sense of panic in her, or that children would be one of her greatest joys. 

And, 25 years ago, she was spared in knowing of pain and heartache.  Of surgeries and the West Nile Virus.

She didn’t know then, but she does much better now, that a garden and yard greenery does not grow as easily in Kansas as it does in Mississippi.

She didn’t know that the phrase in one of the songs on her wedding would be lived out in truth over and over again.

Again, she couldn’t have predicted how each of her strapping sons would have her join them, one in L.A., and one in India, to see what kind of humanitarian work they were doing. Because after all, she was the one who taught them by example, of service to others.

Or she wouldn’t have guessed her sweet daughter had a voice so much like hers, that others couldn’t tell who it was that was singing with the family.

Or that the same daughter can practically outcook her mom these days.

Thousands and thousands of green beans snapped and canned.

Hundreds and hundreds of peaches, skinned, canned, or frozen, and put up for all the rest to enjoy.

Strawberries disappearing, as if by magic by her boys before she could get them processed.

Twisted, inside-out clothes, in a never-ending stream coming from hampers and then from the washer and dryer.

Or the hundreds of young folks who came to her house, and loved it there, because of her.

Or the beautiful daughters who found happiness in her sons.

She couldn’t have known, that a little over 25 years later, she would climb into a small Uber ride in the heart of San Diego and ask that same guy from way back to buckle her seat belt for her.

Because all of that and more, is what love is.

A Shocking Experience

There are times when what you know to be true turns out to be less than true.  But before that split second of what really is truth dawns on you, you are forced to react to what you think is true.  And how you react can sometimes set off a chain of events that are completely unpredictable.    

It all started out predictably enough.  My phone rang and I recognized the number right off.  It was a customer we had worked for before.  I knew his name and I was fairly certain I knew what the conversation would entail. 

“Hello?”

“Hello.  I have some receptacles that don’t work in my kitchen.  Can you come see what the matter is?”

“Yes, we can take a look at that for you.  Right now, our schedule is a bit full, so I’m thinking it will be 4 or 5 days before we can be there.”

“Oh.  I thought you would come to my place right away.”

“We’ll be there just as soon as we can.  Like I said, we are booked up a bit so it will be 4 or 5 days before we can be there.  If we happen to finish the work we have lined up sooner, then we will definitely get to your place sooner.  I’ll give you a call the day before we plan to be there.”

“Oh.  Well, I guess if you are going to make me wait that long I will just have to wait somehow.  I thought you would be able to get here sooner than that.  Don’t you think you could get here a little sooner?”

“No, if I get to your place sooner, then I will make someone else who I have promised already wait longer.  I’ll give you a call the day before we are ready to come to your place.  In the meantime, you are welcome to call around to any other electricians to see if they can accommodate you sooner.”

“Well, there is no one else close enough to call, so I guess if you think it’s going to take that long, then I guess I’ll just have to wait that long.”

So much was true as I had expected it to be.  This customer was known to us for his impatient manner.

***

I few days later, my phone rang with his number again.  I groaned.  I wasn’t quite sure I was ready for another go around of “when can you come to my place?”

But this was a little different than I expected.

“Hello?”

“Hello.  Say, I just got to thinking about how I sounded the other day and wanted to apologize.”

“Oh.  Sure.  Not a problem.  Actually, I’m glad you called.  We are moving along a little faster on our work than I expected and so we plan to be to your place tomorrow morning.”

***

My son and I arrived about 9 the following morning to investigate what the problem was with the receptacles that didn’t work in their kitchen. 

To say that it was a bit awkward, so soon after his apology would be speaking the truth.  But we carried on.  He seemed to feel indebted to us and was continually praising our work, or else apologizing about things that didn’t need apologizing, and trying to help along in any little way he could, which, for me, made it even more awkward and difficult to think about the problem at hand.

We had worked our way around one side of the kitchen, checking for power in the outlets and tracing the flow of it so we could work out were the problem was.  I had made it to the sink and was thinking that there was a good chance this problem could be in the recep (our slang for receptacle) under the sink that powered the garbage disposer.  I hunkered down and partially wedged myself into the tiny cabinet space under the sink. 

I had my voltmeter situated beside me and the probes out in front as I squeezed my elbows together to try to get the probes close enough together to insert on either side of the recep.  I had just inserted them and was trying to get a voltage reading on my meter when it happened.

My helpful, constantly at my side praising/apologetic companion did a number on me.  Unbeknownst to me, he had found a flashlight once I started burrowing under the sink, assuming it would be dark in there.  He was right.  I had blocked all the light off just by squeezing into and filling the opening with my small to mid-sized body.  The flashlight he had chosen to illuminate my work area with was a LED version with a rather bluish white light. 

My friend, see above description of him, had stabbed the flashlight, again unbeknownst to me, into position just beside my right ear.  When he turned it on, there was a sharp click, and a flood of bluish-white light blasted the small interior space that I occupied.

The sound was exactly the right sound, and the color of the light exactly the right color.  My mind told me, from past experience, that I had crossed the phase wire and the neutral wire somehow and had gotten shocked or if I hadn’t, then I had some molten metal that was currently suspended and was fixing to land on my person. 

I reacted to what I thought was true.

I exited backward out of that small space on my knees and elbows, sort of in stinkbug posture, in a blur of backward motion, doing the tata on the hard wooden floor I was on.  Of course, since my helpful friend was standing so close to me at the time of my exposure to his light and sound, my powerful exit strategy hurled me into his knees, almost bringing him to a sitting position beside me on the floor.  Many, many apologies followed from my helpful friend. 

After collecting myself and my wits on two separate expeditions, I retraced my route to try to find the fault in the circuit we were working on.  Somewhere in this time frame, my peripheral vision began to pick up an older woman, whom I knew by name as a local townsperson, walking through the room and into other rooms close by.  I wondered what she might be doing there, as she wasn’t any relation that I knew of, and it seemed her course of travel was rather aimless.  (I later learned that she helped clean their house on occasion.)  I soon dispatched her to the unknown, however, and completely forgot about her.

It seemed this circuit we were tracing was heading towards the basement.  “Yes,” my friend said, “there is a mechanical room right below us.”  We made our way downstairs to the mechanical room.  There was a recep up high on the wall in a rather strange place and I suspicioned I was zeroing in on my problem.  I probed that recep and it checked out okay.  I asked if there was a room adjacent and was told there was. 

I’ll just quick run over there to see if this circuit travels in that direction and be right back, I told them.  The door to the room next was about fifteen feet from the door to the mechanical room and as I approached, I could see it was slightly ajar and the light was switched on inside. 

Voltmeter in one hand, my other swung the door farther open and in a quick motion I was inside and striding towards the wall that had the suspect recep on, which was back the way I had come. 

My ears registered something amiss, but since I was so focused on that recep, I didn’t heed what they were telling me.  And since I figured this recep would be rather high up on the wall to match the placement of the other one, my eyes where elevated to that same level in this room.

I was now in a prime position to experience my second shocking experience of the morning.  My ears seemed to get through a bit to my addled brain and slowed my gait a bit.  They also caused me to lower my eyes from the recep to scan the room in particular.

It was too little and too late. 

My eyes told me that the room was a bathroom. 

They also told me there was an older lady, the local townsperson mentioned earlier, sitting on the commode. 

The next thing they told me was a blur of room and walls and finally, after what seemed a very long spin cycle, a door.  The door whence I had entered and which I was now making for in a most fastidious manner. 

My ears now registered with clarity the sound I had heard milliseconds before.  “Excuse me, excuse me,” from somewhere in the vicinity of the stool, although I didn’t try to verify this with my eyes at all. 

Why the dear lady left the door ajar remains a mystery.  But I know her quandary had to be real to her, as the commode was at least thirteen feet from the door, I was at least half that distance into the room and towards her in a most unseeing and yet seeing all manner, and she had no way whatsoever to hurriedly rise and slam the door shut like she might have been able to, had the room been smaller. 

And I’m thankful unto this day that she didn’t try to rise, in the state of dress that she was in, to try to hasten to the door and shut it, as my path and hers most assuredly would have crossed and there would have been a muffled, tangled collision.  Her only recourse, then, were the desperate excuse me’s I had heard, and those heard only faintly, and in retrospect, as it were.

I went on in faith that the recep in the bathroom checked out okay and told my son and my friend waiting for me back in the mechanical room that we would move back upstairs. 

And indeed, the bathroom recep downstairs must have been in good condition all along, having been there only to play its own little seemingly insignificant part in a string of events that left me, as my son told me later, sort of dazed and in a fog as to what the truth really was. 

But at least my apologetic friend never knew of the calamitous, tumultuous scene played out in the bathroom next door over.

Saturday

I did something Saturday that I have firmly promised myself not ever to do again.

I’m certain enough of it that I’m bringing my deed to the light, and public testimony, so you can help me if you ever see me falling into that trap once more.

One of the sweet daughters was suffering a severe toothache.  Her new hubby needed to get a few more hours in to pay the bills, so the good wife and I offered to find a dentist open on Saturday and take her there.

It so happened that the dentist office she was to visit was very near a disc golf course I hadn’t yet played.

And there was a reason I hadn’t played it.  It was situated squarely on a college campus, and even more squarely amidst the dormitories. 

I got myself over there with courage in my heart.

I chose, for starters, a very windy day to make this first attempt on the course.  That way, if I bombed out, I’d have the wind to blame for all my problems.

My scorecard says the wind was 16 m.p.h.  That might have been what it was blowing when it was the calmest.  I’d say it was closer to 25 m.p.h.

I walked into the first tee with great expectations.  I had this, I told myself.  Forget all the peeping toms.  Hey, even then I saw some window blinds being raised and, I’m sure, looks of incredulity slowly spreading across drool-stained faces that were just then getting out of bed at that late hour.

I grabbed “My Man,” gave him a few words of encouragement, and hucked him on his way straight into the wind.  He must have seen some pretty damsel looking out at him, up there so high in the sky, and decided to put on his best show.  He arced up and away, hit some major turbulence and floated up higher yet, threatening to come back at me.  But he found a hole in all that wind, dived through it and continued on for what seemed an amazing amount of distance against all odds.  I was two over on that hole, but seeing it was the first hole and I was dealing with jitters, not bad.

Hole 2 was across the corner of some horse pens.  I would be throwing sideways to the wind so I aimed generally into the wind with the intention that it would float back again. 

It landed in the horse pen.  I think I heard some titters from the damsel as my man dinged himself up on the railing when he landed.  But I effortlessly tossed from the husks and even more effortlessly sank a 15 foot putt in all of that wind. 

I had this.

Number 3 had me throwing directly into the wind, straight towards a fair-sized pond.  My Man and I counseled on it and decided to throw for all we had, figuring the wind would knock us back from any water related despair.  My heart began to throw a rod when I saw that a large tree was blocking most of the wind, and My Man had no choice but to continue with the plan set in motion.  Until he crested the top of the tree, and the snow plume of Mt Everest caught him and knocked him back and down with a vengeance. 

Things took a while in my ticker to settle down and I ended up scoring badly on that hole.  And I think the damsel gave up on watching.

The next hole was quite sheltered, and I made par on it.

Five was exactly sideways to the wind, and just a across a small corner of the pond.  As sheltered as it was, I was good to go.  My Man took to the skies again for me—and saw another damsel.  That’s all I can figure out.  He broke confidence and spun wildly in the direction of the dormitory. 

Alas for him, and me, his endurance ran out before he could complete whatever mission he on and he splashed very ingloriously into the pond.  The fisherman he landed by seemed a little nonplussed about it all; I wasn’t too worried.  He had landed within a foot of the edge of the pond.  It was only as I made my way around to get him that I became alarmed at what the wind was doing to him.  By the time I got to him, he was 6 feet out and in 2 feet of water. 

The fisherman didn’t know what to think of me jogging right on out, nor of my gasp at the icy cold water, nor of my hasty fling in a most unorthodox manner towards no point in particular. 

Let’s just say things sort of went downhill from there, even though it was uphill to the next basket. 

Because, it was about then I started noticing all the security cameras.  I can’t guarantee they swiveled and tracked my movements, but they sure seemed to be aimed directly at me when I looked at them.

And about then a huge party of college kids, in party mode, were migrating from one dormitory to the other.  I don’t think I could have blended into the scenery if I had tried. Something about my white beard and pudgy belly seems to flaunt themselves in such situations.

Regardless, I told myself I still had a chance at this.  I was in a sheltered area and got ready to set up for my next throw.  Then I saw the party goers peering out at me from the dormitory they had just entered, and my confidence waned decidedly. 

By then, I had switched over to My Sweetie.  She hadn’t done too badly, but after the confidence buster she plowed the dirt directly in front of me. 

As I approached hole 18, I couldn’t help but be honest with myself.  I could tell my throws weren’t reaching very far anymore, and I was pretty sure it was because my morale had slipped.

So, looking over the prospects of 18, it appeared to be a simple save face operation.  A straight shot, with wind, and no obstacles. 

I got started with my x step and as I arced back around, saw the camera peering, or leering, directly at me.  And it was a HUGE camera.

My Sweetie torqued off at a right angle to the wind and direction of 18.  I consoled myself that the wind, which was now gusting ferociously, would bring her back. 

But now it was her time to turn traitor on me, having crushed out desperately on a black Mustang far away in the parking lot.  She landed, and flirtatiously sashayed towards him.  He was having nothing of it and bumped her off the instant she got close. 

She did the typical woman thing and pirouetted to the black Optima just beside to try the jealousy trick.  Her trick wasn’t so well thought out with all the momentum she carried, and I lost sight of her entirely for a while as she rolled under, and out the other side. 

My self-worth hit zero when I saw how far she had rolled out.  I picked her up and turned around to the daunting task of getting her back up and over not only two rows of cars, but the several hundred feet over to the basket.

I slouched off the course, away from all the cameras and hunkered down into my car with a sigh of never again. 

Like I said at the start of this, “Never again.”  I’ve had scores before, the shades of which I dared not share.  This one topped them all.

Written for the other sweet daughter, at whom we drowned ourselves laughing over, when she plastered the tree right in front of her. She can laugh at me now.