Paper boys...

It's a cold and rainy Sunday afternoon. A good day for being lazy. Debbie is reading and I'm trying to think of something to do to ward off boredom. I would like to get a good fire going but I can't talk Debbie into bringing in any firewood. While looking at Christmas cards received from family, friends, and others who remember to buy cards early enough to get them mailed, I read one from an old friend. Its handwritten note at the bottom wished Debbie and I a merry Christmas and "hey Russ, we sure enjoy reading your blog!" He didn't add, "If you would write in it once in a while" but I know what he was thinking. There I was already feeling guilty for never remembering to send out cards and old Kris had to add to the guilt. I decided right then and there to get up, walk down the hall to my study, and take a nap in my favorite rocker. After I woke up from my nap I had kind of lost all that zeal for writing. I walked into the den and mentioned to Debbie that I couldn't decide whether to write a story or play my banjo. She immediately replied, "Oh, please, please write a story!" I guess Debbie is missing my stories too.

I know it's hard to believe but everyday of my growing up years wasn't action packed and newsworthy. I'm afraid if I just write any old thing you will say, 1) that's not particularly interesting, or 2) he's told us that story a hundred times. When I started this blog I had so many memories tucked away I could write all day and never say the same thing twice. Now I worry about those two items above. I did make an index of my stories which would have been very helpful to me if I hadn't lost it. I don't think I've told this before and if I have I'm sorry and I'll be happy to refund your money.

In 1963 I decided I was old enough and mature enough to get a job. I found out though that most places wouldn't hire a twelve year old. However, the Fort Worth Press newspaper was just tickled to take me on and give me my own route. I was in business and sure to grow rich in no time. The route was long and meandering through south Hurst. It took my manager a long time to train me and help me memorize my route. If I remember right he spent a whole afternoon teaching me before telling me my papers would be delivered to my house the next day. After getting lost a couple of times and having way too many papers left over I learned the route and the addresses. I loved throwing the paper! I saw lots of friends on the route, the little old ladies loved me, and very few dogs chased me after they got to know me.

One of the fun things those of us in the business liked to do was tease each other as we worked our routes. I threw for the Fort Worth Press and others threw for the Fort Worth Star Telegram. Some of our routes overlapped and when we happened to show up on the route at the same time we had to do something to rile the other guy. Since I was twelve and most of the boys were fourteen or older I possibly lost most of these encounters. I would throw my paper on the porch and when the ST guy showed up he might toss my paper in a mud puddle or fling it out in the street. It was a fun time. Sunday mornings were a real hoot because we had the same camaraderie going on and it was DARK! Sunday was also the only day we could toss the paper in the yard rather than carefully lay it on the front porch. The Sunday paper was always too big because of all the ads and exceptions had to be made. The ST boys always borrowed their dads' old 1953 Chevy to throw the papers on Sunday and I would ride my Western Flyer cherry red bicycle. They would come up behind me and honk their horn or drive by real fast hitting a fist against the outside of the door to see if I would lose control of my bike and spill my papers all over the street. They were rarely disappointed. It was great fun. Eventually my Dad found out about the fun we were having and started getting up early on Sundays and slowly driving the old 1950 Chevy pickup around my route while I stood on the running board and threw the papers from there. Luckily, it wasn't yet dangerous or illegal to do things like that.

The most fun I had was collecting for the paper at the end of each month. The ST boys would always look me up in the school lunchroom just to say "hello, how's it goin" and "what nights are you going to be collecting for the paper?". Mama didn't raise no fool. After about three months of our kidding around and me losing all my money I learned to lie about the nights I would be out collecting. One night my cousin, Mike, was spending the night and I asked him if he wanted to go out with me while I collected for the paper. He was all for it until we actually went. It was a cool fall night with a full moon and we got to talking about vampires and werewolves....you know, regular stuff. We both got a little shaky and after we had walked past the woods along our neighborhood and greeted by a screech owl we were both wishing we had stayed home. We took a shortcut across an open lot because the road curved there and we could save a few steps by cutting across. I told Mike the owner of lot was crazy and hated kids. We were just about through the lot when an old 1953 light blue Chevy came around that curve. While the oldest insane ST kid drove, the younger one hung out his window with a blood curdling scream and hit the side of the passenger door. Mike and I both screamed like little girls and I came real close to wetting my pants. The ST boys waved as they drove away with an unspoken promise to have more fun next time we met. We turned around and went home....really fast.

I kept that route and improved it with new subscriptions until it was just too big to work from walking or a bicycle. When my manager offered to split my papers into two bundles, one to be delivered to my house, and one left about halfway along the route I declined and gave it up. A couple of years later Glenn got himself a Star Telegram route. I helped him with it and begged our Dad to loan us that old Chevy pickup to use on Sundays. He told us grandma didn't raise no fool but he did drive us around the route on Sundays. By then the other ST boys were probably in prison and we never saw them again.

Indian Summer

 Ah....fall. It's finally fall in Texas. It's the time of year when the leaves stop falling because they have dried up from the heat to where they fall because nature's internal clock tells them it's time. It's when it is refreshing to go outside and enjoy the cool breeze and realize that life is good and we have much to be thankful for. 

Fall in Texas lasts from about the first Tuesday in October until the first Friday in October. Oh sure, we have had extremely long fall seasons, lasting for nearly a full week, but those times are rare. After our fall is over we experience what has been referred to as "Indian Summer".

The phrase "Indian Summer" is defined as 'any spell of warm, quiet, hazy weather that may occur in October or November'. Down here in Texas we just call it, "more hell". I know that isn't as poetic as Indian Summer but it describes things perfectly. 

It's Saturday and Indian Summer has returned. The cool days of fall are just a pleasant memory. Today's high is in the upper 90's. Tomorrow is expected to reach 100...again. I had to get out a light jacket the other day and I almost had to wear it for a few minutes. Now it's back in the "coat closet". Items in the coat closet have been known to not only go out of style but actually dry rot from lack of use. I hate Indian Summer.

When we were kids the word "summer" equated to freedom, baseball, fishing, and having more fun than the law should allow. We hated it when September got here because our parents told us it was "fall" and time to get serious about school again. It sure didn't feel like fall but we were just kids and trusted our parents. They learned early in parenthood to never use the phrase "Indian Summer" around us, i.e. "Oh look, it must be our Indian Summer". All we heard was "SUMMER" and we reveled in the knowledge that summer hadn't left us yet. Yep, we had to go to school but afterwards we had a whole afternoon to frolic with abandon. My dad called this "acting like a bunch of wild banchees". We had no idea what he was talking about so we gleefully left the indoors to play wild banchee on every occasion. The heat of summer didn't bother us so the heat of Indian Summer sure wasn't going to get us down.

On one occasion my brother Glenn and I were outside on a Saturday afternoon playing our version of football. It was a hot Indian summer day. Although it was fall in our minds (we were playing football after all) it was hot. All of a sudden I got dizzy and fell over. Glenn thought he had hit me too hard, and he probably had, but actually I was just too hot. I lay there for a minute or two while Glenn continued the game and scored three touchdowns. I finally got up and headed for the house. Glenn asked where I was going and I told him I was going in to take a nap. "A NAP?!" he asked with big eyes and worry all over his face. "Why do you want to take a nap for crying out loud? It's Indian summer!" I didn't know it but I was entering a new threshold of my life. I was entering....well, I don't know what I was entering but I knew I didn't want to play football in 100 degree weather any more. A nap sounded really nice. I have stayed in that frame of mind and body up to and including today.

You would think at seventy I would be old enough and smart enough to not be fooled by our three or four days of fall but I'm not. I have several projects outside that I started with joy on those beautiful days. I can guarantee you those projects will not be touched again until we have another few "fall" days in late November. I will have to work fast though because Indian summer has a tendency to sneak in a few kicks in the gut during this time right before we enter winter. Winter is just too cold to work outside. Sometimes it gets down to the low 40's. 

Just a Short Little Something...

I have so many great memories I sometimes have a hard time sorting them all out in my head. I started writing them down once but I lost my notebook. I've sat down several times in the last few days thinking I would write another story. Like a barber barking out "Next" to the guys waiting for a clipping I yelled out "Next" into my memory bank for a story to tell. Each time I yelled one story kept coming up so I guess it must be next. It's a really short story so I originally thought I wouldn't bother with it. Maybe it's time to tell it since the bank is getting low on memories anyway.

When our boys were little, like when Cody was still basically a toddler, Debbie and I took them on a vacation to Colorado. They both fell in love and wanted to stay but I had a great job (snicker snicker) back in Texas so we came on back home.

We left on our trip during a particularly hot part of the Texas summer. 'Sweltering' was the word we would use to describe it, but only before noon. After noon 'sweltering' would have been welcomed. We left early  one morning before the sun came up. It was already hot and after loading the car I was soaked with sweat. If you've never driven sixteen hours after working up a lather I don't recommend you start now. That's why we learn as we age. By the time we reach seventy we're so stinking smart from making mistakes we have a wise and valid opinion about everything. 

By the time we reached Childress the sun was just beginning to peek out from the horizon. It was a beautiful experience. Naturally its more arid out around Childress and when I stopped to fill up the morning breeze felt great. I decided to drive with a window open for a bit and enjoy the fresh air. Everyone was asleep in the car except me so I figured I didn't need to ask for a majority vote. I should have asked for that vote because within five minutes of getting back on the road everyone in the car was awake complaining about "all that wind" and asking for breakfast. I stopped before we got out of Childress, and that isn't something you have very many minutes to think about, so we could get a bite to eat. Back on the road the family was happy, the AC was churning away, and I was vowing there would be no more stops till we got to Raton Pass at the north end of downtown New Mexico.

It wasn't a real long drive to Raton Pass. Oh sure, we did have to drive for days before getting out of Texas from Childress but from the state line (which is a little town called Texline) to Raton Pass was only about two hours drive...much less if Debbie is driving. By this time, everyone except me needed a restroom break. I prided myself on not stopping for potty breaks. I pulled into a station right before heading up the pass and walked around for a few minutes while everyone else "borrowed the facilities". I hate to stop for restroom breaks without buying something so I chose a cup of coffee. The guy gave it to me because it had been sitting there all day. Back in the car and presto change-o I had to stop for a restroom break. During all these stops we realized there was no need for the air conditioning because the temps had really cooled off. It felt great so we drove the rest of the trip with only open vents. Those who don't know what I'm talking about should take a trip sometime in a 1969 Ford Ltd. That old beauty had great vents. 

Our stay in Colorado was awesome. We stayed with my sister and brother-in-law who lived in Colorado Springs. I'm sure our two weeks coincided with two of their more memorable two weeks. On our drive home the old Ford decided it had had enough and died as we were descending Raton Pass. It was a moment of excitement for the boys and sheer terror for Debbie and I. The power steering went out, I had no brakes, and I admit I had been going pretty fast. I finally wrestled the old beast to the side of the road and sat there wondering what I was going to do. I patted it on the dashboard and promised if it would just get us back home, I would never take it out of town again. It fired back up and we got on our way. I stopped at the little station at the bottom of the pass and the guy told me it was normal for these "older cars" to vapor lock while descending the high altitude of Colorado. He assured me we would make it home okay and he was right. 

If you've ever made the trip to Colorado from central Texas in the middle of the summer you know what I'm saying when I say it is the worst possible thing a person can do. It is way past miserable for about a week after getting back home. The next morning after we arrived home I went out to check on my old Ford. It was sitting in the driveway looking like....well, I don't know what it looked like but it was sad. I didn't keep it long after that but I did need to make a run to the store in it that day. The boys loaded up with me, Jamie in front, Cody in back and hanging over the seat so as to not miss any possible conversation. On our way to the store we had the following conversation:

Jamie: Dad, why do we live in Texas rather than Colorado?

Me: Because Texas is our home.

Jamie: But couldn't Colorado be our home? It's a lot nicer there.

Me: Oh silly. What makes Colorado nicer than Texas?

Jamie: Colorado has mountains.

Me: Texas has mountains. (Note: Cody is listening very carefully and quietly to the conversation.)

Jamie: Colorado has rivers.

Me: Texas has rivers.

Jamie: Colorado has trees.

Me: Texas has trees.

Cody: China has plates.

That pretty much ended our discussion on the pros and cons of the two states. I think it hurt Cody's feelings that I didn't have a response to his statement. We did make many more trips to Colorado before the boys were grown. We enjoyed them all. I told the boys when they were getting ready to graduate from college it was their one chance to pick anywhere in the world to call home. They did. Jamie lives in Arlington with his family. Cody and his family live in Colleyville.

"Let it Go" he said....

Back when the earth was new and dinosaurs roamed the steaming landscape I worked for a large international corporation. This corporation was headquartered in Chicago but I worked at the Texas facility. I had to go to Chicago every few months to receive an honorable award or be threatened with unemployment....depending on the then current construction market in my area. I was an operations manager and had no control over the construction status in Texas or the surrounding states but I still got blamed if it was bad. It was a good career but it wasn't a great career.

On one of my treks to Chicago I was told I was to play in a golf tournament after a planned conference. I was already assigned a slot in the tournament and was instructed to bring my clubs on the trip. Some people might get excited about this. Some people might beam with pride for being invited to the annual managers' gold tournament. None of those people would be me. I had never played a game of golf in my life. I told the CEO and the CFO they had made a mistake. They told me corporate officers never make mistakes. I would be there for the conference and then stay over the weekend for the tournament. Actually, since the CFO was a recently transported German, I was told, "Roos, you vill play golf and you vill like it!" I have dreaded my trips to Chicago many times over the years for various reasons. I dreaded it because I knew it would be boring. I dreaded it because I might have to make a presentation. But I had never dreaded a trip because of a game of golf.

The conference was held very early in March at a beautiful country club outside the city. The week went by in a blur and on Friday afternoon all my lucky coworkers got to head to O'Hare for their flights home. I had to hang around for a stinking golf tournament. I whined to anyone who would listen that night. I begged to be replaced with someone who knew how to hold a golf club. I got no mercy from anyone left at the country club because they all loved golf. I went to my room that night dreading the next day.

I woke early that Saturday morning and left my room for breakfast. As I walked into the reception area and looked out those massive windows all I could see was snow. An early spring storm had dumped several inches of snow on the city.....and the golf course. Those who discovered it with me were so disappointed. I was thrilled by it all. I ate a huge breakfast that morning...with great gusto! The CFO came in, sat down beside me, and asked if I had prayed for snow. I told him I hadn't and I tried to act disappointed. He saw right though me. He sipped his coffee and sighed. Then he said, "Roos, you MUST learn to play golf. It is a gentleman's sport and you vill be expected to play in the future. Go home now and learn to play golf! Yah?"

And now, the rest of the story....

I told my son Cody about my experience and he agreed. I needed to learn to play golf. He volunteered to teach me. He told me to buy an inexpensive set of clubs and we would hit the local driving range. My old pal Scott Brown fixed me up with a used set of clubs he had found at a garage sale. A big $35 investment kind of riled me but it was for my career after all. Cody and I went to the driving range that next afternoon. After showing me how to tee up and hold the club he suggested I hit a few balls to get the feel. I was a natural. I hit that ball at least thirty feet on my first swing. Unfortunately I missed the ball on my second swing and whacked the rubber with all my strength. I heard a small crack but figured it must have been my spine. On the third swing I got a solid hit and watched the ball as it arched into the sky. I also watched the head of my club arch off beautifully to the right of us. It landed with a whack right in the middle of a group of seasoned golfers. I started to go after it when Cody grabbed my arm and said, "Dad, just let it go." He also said something about my choice of golf clubs but we won't go there.  After a couple of nights at the range, Cody said I was doing well enough to actually play a real game at a real golf course. We scheduled the following Saturday morning for my debut.

Cody chose a little 3-par, nine hole course close to our house. He picked me up at 6:30 that morning. I didn't understand going out that early but it soon became evident. When we teed up at seven a.m. we were the only players on the course. I guess Cody was a little worried for other golfers. I had a great time and was wishing I had learned to play years earlier. I told Cody I was excited about becoming a serious golfer. It was about this time that I sliced a drive off to the right and watched in horror as the ball streaked over into a resident's patio, knocking items off the table and bouncing off walls. I started to go after it when Cody said, "Dad, just let it go!" I tried to explain to him that I needed to go after it because it was the only ball I had. He insisted I leave it. He gave me another ball and on the next green I over-compensated and sliced the ball hard to the left. Cody started yelling, "FORE! FORE!" to the ground crew who were about to receive that ball but they didn't listen. Finally he yelled "QUATRO! QUATRO!"....and they looked up in time to dodge the little white missle coming their way. Cody decided we had played enough golf. As we walked out to the car with Cody's clubs and the only club of mine he allowed me to bring he said, "Dad, about your dream to become a serious golfer....I suggest you let it go." So I did....

Ah, the "Good Old Days"...

This time of isolation has been trying on the best of us...meaning me. This time of isolation has been tough on me. When it was first announced I thought to myself, "Cool! I now have an excuse for not going anywhere or talking to anybody!" How was I to know how old it would get? Now I know...

I've tried to come up with constructive activities and for a while Debbie and I used our time wisely catching up on projects in our yard. You know, like removing the massive back flowerbed, bringing in dirt and sod to place. Things like building retaining walls and raising the drop off at the back of our property so I don't fall anymore. Typical stuff any healthy thirty-something could easily handle. It's a bit harder for us sixty, soon to be seventy-somethings. We weren't able to finish before the hot weather set in so now we can look out every day and be reminded of our failures and procrastinations. Oh well.

I also thought this would be a great time to spend working on unfinished projects in my wood shop. This reminded me of another procrastination of mine. Every summer I promise myself I will add air-conditioning to my shop before the next summer. Yeah right, however I did make sure I got the heater bought before next winter. I got it in June. It's really in the way now. I can't work out there. It's too hot. I tried to go out early one morning to work and had to come back in. It's about this time every year I begin to hate Texas.

Every dedicated writer I know is thrilled to have this uninterrupted time to spend churning out great stories, poems, articles....I had to make myself come in here this morning to write. I don't know why. I love to write. I just don't have anything to say. The "pandemic" we're enduring now did make me think of the old days and how easy it was to live and how hard it was to catch each others' germs. As soon as I thought about this a flood of memories came to me. Acting fast, I grabbed my laptop, opened it, uh...checked e-mail, looked at Facebook for a few minutes, ran through the few scales I can remember on my trumpet, strummed my guitar til my fingers hurt and tried once again to play Dueling Banjos on my banjo. I realized I hadn't played my blues harmonica for a while because it makes me sad so I looked around for it, remembered I had hidden it from my grandson, Carter, and after searching realized I hid it from myself as well. I guess I should write.

Actually, this particular memory came to me the other day as I passed the beautiful Colleyville sports complex a mile or so from our house. We've gone there over the years to watch our grandkids make us proud but now they sit empty. It's a sad thing to see. I thought back on the city ball parks we had down the street from us while growing up in Hurst. They were never empty. If an organized game wasn't going on, there would be a pick up game in process, or maybe a golfer or two would be practicing their drive in one of the outfields. During little league season all of us five kids would follow mama down to the ball park in the evenings to watch a game or two. It is a wonderful memory. Just about everyone knew the person sitting next to them and most of the kids playing were friends from school, church, or the neighborhood. The ball parks ran along the creek that held so many memories for Glenn and me. If a game was boring we could wander down to the creek and catch crawdads or fish out coke bottles to turn in for two cents. This turned into a regular routine for us when we figured out some of our citizens were litter slobs and empty coke bottles were always plentiful. We would find enough for each of us to earn a nickle and carry them up to the snow cone stand / snack bar at the park. Five empty bottles would earn us each a snow cone, soft drink, or package of peanuts. Life was good.

I think back on those days. We never washed our hands after fishing around in the pond. We never washed our hands period from late May until early September. We were quick to share our goodies with our friends. No one was denied a bite or two of the snow cone. The soft drinks were passed to anyone needing a swig, and the peanuts were meant for everyone. I remember one day, the little brother of one of my friends had talked his mother into giving him a nickle for a snow cone. He had to have someone hold him up to the window to buy it and as he walked back down to the bleachers he grinned from ear to ear over his giant lime snow cone....until he tripped. It was heartbreaking to watch his face go from pure joy to surprise to horror as his big old snow cone hit the dirt. I couldn't stand it. My bottle fishing had been especially successful that night so I was flush. I jumped up with the plan of buying that little fella a new cone but as I got closer I realized his cone was still pretty much intact on the ground. I scooped up all I could with my pond encrusted fingers and patted the snow back into the paper cone for him. I wasn't able to wipe away the dirt clinging to it but I told him he could easily lick it clean. He was a happy boy and I felt like a saint. I get slightly nauseous now thinking back on the germs I handed him but as far as I know he survived.

I realize my good old days weren't everyones' good old day. History tells us there were some pretty grim things going on back then, but I truly hope everyone has their own bank of memories of "the good old days".

Lunch break....

I worked for more years than I like to admit. I started working full time when I was nineteen. I converted over from a full time student and part time worker to a full time employee...and full time student. It took a loooonnnng time to complete a four year degree plan but I eventually made it. I like to joke that it took me seven years to get a two year degree from the junior college but that's not true. I went to junior college for four years before my counselor told me there were no classes left to take. It was time for me to be a big boy and transfer to the university. It was at this time I made the transformation over to full time employee and part time, on and off again student.

All of this is to drive home the fact I have worked like, forever. All through my career I was very selfish about my lunch break. I didn't want to talk business...in fact, I didn't want to talk at all. I wanted to eat my sandwich and read for an hour. For years vendors thought taking me out to eat was a treat. I hated it and only obliged because it was part of my job. After I retired I told Deb I wanted to continue my tradition of taking an hour every day for a sandwich and reading. A quiet time. It wasn't asking too much. Over the years Deb has been good about letting me do that. It's only been the last two or three days that she seems to forget that I need my hour lunch break/reading/quiet time.

Deb has discovered the joy of buying stuff for the house and yard. She's a selective buyer though and spends a lot of time in "research" before making her purchase. If the item she wants is kind of expensive she likes to get an okay from me. I have never said 'no' so I don't know why she keeps asking. The other day she made the discovery that she had always wanted an area rug for the patio. Once the thought came, it immediately grew into a vision, then a project, and on to a need in short order. She talked about it all morning as we were going about our various errands and I really did try to pay attention but to me it's a simple thing requiring very little thought and no conversation: You want a rug? Buy a rug.

As noon approached on the day of Deb's awakening to area patio rugs, I went to the kitchen and made my sandwich. I sat down in my favorite chair with lunch and book in hand. Deb sat down across from me and opened up her laptop. The scene unfolded like this:

A sunny and comfortable den with a beautiful heroine shopping for an area rug while her sage and aged husband sits quietly with a book opened to chapter nine in one hand and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the other. As the scene opens the heroine starts the conversation:
She: Do you like this one?
He: Whut?
She: Do you like this rug?
He: Yeah, very nice.
She: How about this one? Do you like it better?
He: Hmm
She: Oh look! This one is beautiful. I wonder if it would fit the area where we need a rug.
He: Maybe you should measure the area.
She: That's a wonderful idea. Will you measure it for me?
He: Uh, I'm kinda eating lunch right now.
She: It will only take a minute then I'll leave you alone.
He: SIGH.....okay. He goes outside, measures the area and comes back with all the facts she needs. The rug can be as small as 6x9 and as large as 8x10. Anything smaller is too small. Anything larger is too large
She: Great! This is a nice one. It's 5x7. How about that?
He: Uh, 5x7 is smaller than 6x9, I'm going to read now.
She: Amazon has a really pretty one thats 8x10. Do you think that would fit okay?
He: Stares in amazement and returns to his book.
She: Okay, I'm going to buy this one.
He: That's nice.
She: How do you like this one? 
He: I thought you just bought one?
She: I changed my mind. Would a 6x9 fit okay? Do you like giant red flowers on your rugs?

This went on until I gave up and tossed my book aside. Deb said, "Oh good! You're through with lunch. Come over and sit next to me and help me pick out a rug." Now, I don't want to be persnickety but the standing tradition for my daily routine is to eat a sandwich and read for an hour followed immediately with a nap! What is this woman thinking? Being the kind and thoughtful guy I am, I say nothing and sit down with her to look at area rugs. Suffice to say our patio is now sporting a new area rug. It's very nice......I need a nap.

Let's Dance...

Here we are....stuck inside our own homes with no place to go and nothing of real interest to do. What I would like to do is turn on some George Strait and dance around the kitchen with my favorite wife, Debbie. "Well why don't you?" you ask. As I grow older and the joints are beginning to be rebellious I could blame it on that but you all know it isn't true. I'm not dancing around the kitchen for one reason only.....I can't dance. I can't dance for lots of reasons but the root problem with my not dancing goes back to August 1950 when I was born to Ora Blanche Mihills, also known to me as "Mama".

I've never talked about this to any of my four siblings so I don't know if Mama treated us all the same or if she picked me out of the crowd to harass. We went to, and still do, go to the Church of Christ. I even served as an elder at one point so you know I am a faithful member of the Church. Back in the 50's when I was born and spent my development years, dancing was absolutely forbidden. You think Baptists were tough on dancing but let me tell you, if you so much as tapped your foot to music in the Church you were destined to eternal damnation....according to Mama.

Mama took her faith seriously and I'm grateful for that. Had it not been for her teaching and example there is no telling how I might have turned out. I might have even turned out as a Democrat. The thought gives me chills. Thank you Mama for raising all five of us so well. My only complaint is the dancing issue. I really loved to dance.

In elementary school we had music class every year. We were supposed to develop an appreciation for music. I did. I loved music. I loved the beat of it, the lyrics, the harmony. I loved it all. Now, after a while good old Miss Lardeaux wanted us to learn to use the music we appreciated to dance. I was all up for that and told Mama we were going to start dancing in our next music class. The first thing we were going to learn was square-dancing. I had no idea what that was but was eager to try it out. Mama said I couldn't participate. She told me to tell the teacher dancing was against our religion so I could "sit it out".

The next music class found me sitting in a straight back chair watching the entire class whoop it up while learning to square-dance. I saw nothing in the movements to suggest "square" because they all kept going in big circles, then little circles, and finally couples. Oh my goodness! I wanted to be a part of that so much. When my girlfriend, Judy, got paired up with Frank...Frank of all people, I almost cried. I promised myself I was going to learn to square-dance regardless of the circumstances.

When the next music class came around I lined up with all the others to dance. The teacher told me to sit down because dancing was against my religion. I told her I had been mistaken at first. Dancing was only forbidden in the church building so I was good for the classroom. I'm sorry Mama! Dancing and lying got easier as time went on and I sure enjoyed music class the rest of that school year.

When the next school year came along, we went through the same music appreciation classes and finally got around to the dancing. I jumped up there with everyone to "cut a rug" as any good nerd would say. There was a change though. There was another person sitting it out because it was against her religion. She was Sandy. She lived next door and she went to the same church I attended. I tried to not make eye contact with Sandy as I swung my partner do si do but she was glaring at me the whole time. When the dancing was over Sandy came over and sat down next to me. She whispered these simple little words, "You're going straight to hell". These simple little words brought about the end of my dancing. I didn't want to go to hell. My dancing was over! Sandy didn't think that was enough of a conversion though and told my Mama what I had been doing. I don't even want to tell that story but to say Mama cried. That broke my heart. I would never dance again.

I kept that promise to Mama all through the rest of elementary and junior high school. I wasn't allowed to go to school dances even if I promised I wouldn't dance. I couldn't go to parties because there might be dancing going on. I taught myself to almost play the guitar and couldn't go with my other non-talented buddies to play at parties because there might be dancing going on. Even if I didn't dance but played the same three chords I knew over and over, my music might cause someone else to dance...Mama evidently never listened to my guitar playing. Nobody could dance to my guitar playing...but I digress. High school was next for me and I expected it to be the highlight of my otherwise simple and predictable life. Thankfully high school wasn't the highlight of my life. I would hate to think the apex of my life was over by the time I graduated at seventeen.

It seems like every activity in high school involved dancing. "Hey Mihills, who you gonna take to the sophomore dance?" "Nobody. I can't go because dancing is a sin." "Yo white legs, you taking anyone to the prom?" "I'm not going to the prom. I don't dance." It went on and on like this. I missed out on everything it seemed. In my junior year I fell madly in love with a girl named....well, I'll just call her 'Rose'. I would do just about anything for Rose. The University of Texas at Arlington band invited the LD Bell band to a party for some reason. I was allowed to go to this because it was an official band function and Mama let me go. While standing around holding Rose's hand in my sweaty palm she said she wanted to dance. I told her I didn't know how to dance. She said that was crazy. Everyone knew how to dance. She dragged me out on the dance floor and we started "dancing". I don't know why dancing was a sin because this dancing didn't involve touching the dance partner at all. There was no "swing your partner anywhere". I felt like I was doing an acceptable job of keeping up with Rose despite the knowledge that I would spend eternity in the flaming lake of fire for participating. I felt pretty good about it until I saw myself reflected in a plate glass window nearby. I was so embarrassed I got off that dance floor fast, leaving Rose out there by herself. She broke up with me soon afterward and I eventually got over the hurt. I spent a lot of time asking the Lord to forgive me for dancing even if I couldn't see a thing wrong with it myself.

I was asked to take a girl to the Sadie Hawkins dance one year. If you don't know what that is I'll give a brief explanation. The Sadie Hawkins dance was an annual affair when the girls invited the guys to go out. I had been warned that this girl was going to ask me out by the girl's older sister. She warned me so I would be sure to say "yes".  The girl was very shy and didn't need the embarrassment of being turned down. The hint of personal injury was involved in the older sister's warning. I avoided both sisters as much as I could but finally got cornered in one of the hallways at school. She asked me and I said "no". I said no because I knew I couldn't go to a dance. One mistake had been enough. I have always felt bad I didn't explain my reason to the girl. She probably thought I just didn't want to go out with her.

The years passed and life got a little bit simpler for me. One thing that helped was my promise to Mama I would only date Church of Christ girls. They all seemed to understand about the dancing issue even if they didn't agree with it. I eventually married Debbie. Her dad had been the legal force during her raising. Dancing was absolutely forbidden by him so she and I were a good fit. Dancing never came up in conversation until my cousin, Mike, told us his daughter was going to have dancing at her wedding. Mike had been raised by my Mama's sister so he had similar problems with dancing but he wasn't about to tell his beautiful daughter there would be no dancing allowed. Instead, Mike and his wife, Nancy, along with Debbie and I, took some dance lessons. The instructor (another cousin,  Mary Wayne, not as righteous as us) knew we had no idea how to dance so she was easy on us. We learned how to do a few simple dance steps and had a great time learning. Then the wedding came along. Mike had danced with his daughter and it was beautiful. Everyone was on the dance floor...everyone except Debbie and me. Debbie froze. She just couldn't make herself dance in front of anyone else. She was only comfortable dancing with me in the kitchen. I was disappointed but sat with her until my cousin, Mary Wayne the dance instructor, grabbed me and dragged me out on the dance floor. I never had so much fun. I was at a dance, actually dancing, and had no guilt hanging over me...and then I saw Mama watching. I finished the dance and walked over to the table where Mama was sitting. Before I could confess my sins she said, "I am so glad you and Mike learned to dance. It looks like so much fun I wish I could do it". I offered to teach her and she just laughed. I spent the rest of the evening dancing with anyone who agreed. The only one to turn me down was my cousin Roy Lynn and I was just kidding anyway.

Debbie got tired of dancing in our kitchen after a while. It's not a large kitchen but has a good dance floor. We're talking about having all our carpet ripped up and replaced with hardwood floors in our den. We have both forgotten all the dance moves we learned so as soon as that new floor is down, I'm inviting Mary Wayne over for dinner and dance lessons!

I just remembered this and thought I should add it. When my Dad was in his last days, he and I talked better than we ever had. We talked about family, memories, regrets...it was a wonderful time I will always cherish. In one of those talks he asked my why none of us kids ever danced. I just answered that we never learned how. He said, "I wish you had said something. I was a great dancer growing up. I could have even taught you how to do the polka. I was the 'polka king' growing up". Thank you Mary Wayne for teaching me to dance!!!

Pea Green Gophers....

I've never been much of a "clothes horse" and the idea of fashion has always eluded me. At this age and time of life I don't much care if anything matches or not. In fact, if I make it out of the house with two socks that match I figure I've had a pretty good day.  I wasn't always like this. I used to care....no really, I did care. Money was always so tight growing up though that we never got to shop for the latest fashions. We always got to shop for whatever happened to be on sale at the time. I'm not complaining mind you. I was never arrested for going out in public nekkid...as we say here in Texas, but unless an up to date shirt, jean, or shoe was on sale we weren't going to be getting it. I totally understand that now after raising two boys who grew out of their clothes every twenty-four hours or so, but I sure didn't understand it then.

Another confusing thing about those formative years and the pressure of "being in style" was that the style was based on region. If you drove to another county or state your stylin' outfit or haircut might be totally out of style. It was a conundrum. (I always wanted to use that word but couldn't come up with a way to insert it into a short story.)

Here in the happy kingdom of 1950-early 60's Hurst, Texas we were all pretty much even as far as clothes went. If you were in elementary school you wore a plaid, button-down shirt, tails tucked in until first recess, Sears Roebuck "Foremost" jeans with padded knees, and whatever black or white tennis shoes happened to be on the shelf. The hair style was "little boy haircut" at the start of the school year, neatly combed...again, until first recess. When spring approached we would all slowly transition into a flat-top or crew-cut. If your dad had a military background you generally got the crew-cut. Although my dad was a veteran of two wars he let Glenn and me get flat-tops. I don't know why. I don't even know why we were so insistent on flat-tops over crew-cuts. Dorky is dorky. Anyway, our first spring time flat-top was an interesting thing to see. Really, really white skin bordered the hairline all the way around the head. After a few weeks in the sun that problem disappeared but as any stylin' boy back then knew, if you're gonna have a flat-top you have to gob it down with Butch Wax. Butch Wax helped maintain that flat head look we all wanted so badly. Without Butch Wax your hair just looked like a crew-cut in need of cutting. As spring turned into summer the Butch Wax would begin to melt on our heads and run down our necks and into our eyes. It was a wonderful road to manhood.

My world was rocked during the sixth grade. Fashions began to tweak and all of a sudden Foremost jeans were not the thing to wear. Levi's took the lead in boys fashion. Another change was in footwear. Plain old tennis shoes were slowly being pushed aside for something called "Hush Puppies". I kid you not. My family didn't get the memo about the fashion adjustments before our annual shopping for school clothes. We picked out our Foremost jeans and black tennis shoes in good faith. Our hair was mostly grown out for the start of school and we walked in fully confident we would match everyone else. Being young and stupid can be a nice thing. We didn't realize we didn't match the trendsetters until it was brought to our attention by caring friends. "Hey! Look at the loser in the Foremost jeans!" "Where'd you pick up those PF Flyers dude?" Midways through the school year I was ready to ask for new clothes for Christmas. I didn't of course because I was still immature enough to know that it was no fun unwrapping clothes for Christmas. However, I did get a break after Christmas. We were planning our move to New Mexico which included packing our clothes. My mom mentioned to my dad that my tennis shoes were getting too small for me and all my jeans were too short, like I was preparing to wade in high water. He was making trips to and from Roswell on a regular basis and didn't have much time for those details. He told her to go ahead and get me a new pair of shoes but the jeans would have to do til summer. I told my mom I didn't want anymore tennis shoes. I wanted Hush Puppies. She looked at me like she didn't know who I was and said I would just have to wait "til your Daddy gets back from Roswell!"

When he came back from his trip she told him of my rebelliousness. She insisted he use some of his precious few hours at home to take me shopping. I figured I was a dead man walking but he took it pretty good. As we shopped I mentioned my blue jean malady and he listened. We looked at Levi's until he saw how much more they cost over the Sears brand. If I wanted Levi's I would have to buy them myself. Not much chance of that happening with my quarter a week allowance so I said I would just keep the "high waters" I already had. We got to the shoe department and I told him I wanted to wear Hush Puppies like everyone else. Again, he listened and actually walked over to the display. When he saw the prices he almost stroked out. The clerk told him Sears had come up with a close substitute for Hush Puppies at a fraction of the price. He then showed us the Sears "Gophers". Now I have to say it was really hard to tell the difference between the two brands so I didn't balk when the clerk started to measure my foot. Evidently I wore a size that was so odd Sears didn't want to bother with it, or everyone on the planet wore the same exact size and Sears couldn't keep enough of them in stock. Either way, it looked like they wouldn't be able to fit me in the Gophers. I had almost convinced my dad to reconsider the Hush Puppies when the clerk came running from the back with one more pair of Gophers he had found. Low and behold they were a perfect fit. That is absolutely all that was perfect about those shoes though. They were lace up instead of slip on. They weren't the stylish grey or tan sold by the better brand. Oh no no no, these were a color introduced by Sears for their Gopher brand.....pea green. Not olive green or dark green.....pea green. My dad said, "We'll take them!" I did not want to go back to school....ever...

I kept my old tennis shoes around by cutting the toes out. They weren't too uncomfortable then and nobody seemed to notice my modification. As spring neared and our move was imminent my dad called my mom and told her to go ahead and get Glenn and me sheared for the summer. He had noticed haircuts were a lot more expensive in Roswell so he wanted to avoid that extra cost. Glenn and I didn't mind. In fact, we were pretty proud to be sporting our shiny new heads before anyone else that spring.

Our move to Roswell was exciting as I've mentioned many times before but the first day at our new school was traumatic for me. First of all, when I walked into the classroom for the first time the teacher thought it would be nice to introduce me so she kept me up front with her arm around me and told everyone to give me a big welcome. The response was more of a muffled mumble than a greeting but I didn't hear it anyway. I was shocked to see that no one, absolutely no one had a flat-top or crew-cut. My white hairline began to glow red and I got so hot my Butch Wax started melting down my neck and face. Also, not one guy in the room was wearing a plaid button down short sleeved shirt. The room was filled with baseball jerseys, nice sweaters, or long sleeved solids with the arms rolled up and the tails hanging out. My thought was "Get me to a desk in the back right now so I can be invisible. That didn't happen. My new teacher told me there were no more desks available and I would have to sit at her desk for a couple of days until a student desk could be transferred in. So, there I sat staring at a room full of strangers. My new flat-top glowed, my high waters showed everyone how white my legs were above my probably mismatched socks, and then of course there were my pea green Gophers. My first day of school in Roswell was not a good day....not a good day indeed.

I made friends of course and eventually loved living in Roswell. Something strange happened during our short stay though. My feet didn't grow at all. Those pea green Gophers were a bane to my confidence the whole time we lived out there and then I had to wear them back to Texas to experience junior high as a new student...wearing worn out Gophers from Sears.

So, How Ya Doin?

Personally, I'm about to go crazy in this house. My son the doctor thinks Debbie and I are old and in need of protection against this pandemic attacking our world. I am not old. I may be a "senior" or maybe even among the "elderly", but I am not old. Old is what you are when you need occasional help getting out of a chair or you consistently groan every time you stand up. Old is when you can't work in your yard without having to sit down and rest every five minutes. Old is when people who appear to be old hold the door open for you and call you "sir". Old is when neighbors panic when they see you on top of your house cleaning out the gutters. Old is when you really need to stay close to a bathroom. Why would anyone think I'm old??

To make matters worse, we're having the wettest March I can remember. Our yard, so desperately in need of spring cleanup, is a sodden mess too squishy to enjoy. So now I can't work in the yard. I can't  go to the gym because I was banned from it (see 'my son the doctor' above) before it was officially closed by the city. I can't even go to church because its been closed down for the duration. I am about to go crazy in this house. I thought about asking if my old pals Don and Charley wanted to hit the corner cafe for breakfast but no-o-o-o...no gatherings of more than ten people. I know Don, Charley, and I are only three but if you count the waitress, the cook, the busboy, and the occasional customer, you're going to have yourself a gathering of more than ten real quick. Plus, people tend to gravitate toward the three of us because we're so cool.

Oh sure, there are plenty of things I can do around here without venturing out into the cold, dark world. I just need to get motivated. I have eleven novels waiting for me to read. I could possibly dust my study.....nah! I could build the stove top cover Debbie has been asking for ever since our neighbor, Brent, built one for his wife. He is a troublemaker. I could finish a short story I started two months ago. I could play my banjo (no I can't) or my blues harmonica. However, Debbie's patience is not real strong right now so I tend to stay as quiet as possible.

This pandemic is a terrible thing. I did think we were over-reacting like Texans do every time a light dusting of snow falls on the roads. Now I believe the CDC is giving good recommendations to halt this thing before too many people are affected. If there is a silver lining to this tragedy it's this: The word "caremongering" has been introduced. People are beginning to think of others for a change. There is concern for our neighbors. Calls are being made to shut-ins. Simple acts of kindness are being noticed more than ever before. Here's an example. Our little town of Hurst is completely without toilet paper....well, I should say our residents are hoarding toilet paper and none is available at any of the stores. A young man named Brad, who does small jobs for us, called the other night. He had to make a quick trip to Kansas and while there he found toilet paper on the shelves! He brought us a large box to see us through the siege.

Debbie and I are concerned for our son Cody and his staff. They have officially been exposed to the virus through patients who have tested positive. Healthcare professionals around the world are facing exposure every day. Those in emergency care are especially at risk. Please keep all these professionals....and their families in your thoughts and prayers. Any of these could bring the virus home with them and expose.....oh, I don't know, maybe old people.

Box of chocolate....

Well.....here I am, back in my study after a long absence. Two things are obvious to me after being gone so long. First of all, our housekeeper didn't think it was necessary to keep my desk dusted while I was gone. Secondly, we really need to get a housekeeper. This whole room could use a good dusting.

Where have I been you ask? I have been nowhere. I've been wallowing in a grand funk for a couple of months now. I haven't had a funny memory....or any memory for a long time now. I am afraid if I keep writing these little one page stories I might possibly have to make something up. I'll put it off for as long as I can and I will give you some notice if I decide to write a few paragraphs of fiction. My cousins tell me nearly all my memories are fiction but that's just not true. I always tell them "Mea memoriae non vestra memoriae, ergo tace". For the non-educated among us, that's Latin for "My memories aren't your memories, so shut up". It does sound better in Latin, doesn't it?

I was following a group text between my siblings this morning. We tend to have our reunions in the form of text messages. Everyone was wishing everyone a Happy Valentine's Day. I wasn't too keen on this since I have never given Debbie a bouquet of flowers or a Valentine's card in all the forty-nine years we've been married so, I feel a bit guilty for giving the wishes to someone else....especially my brother of all things. I finally posted a heart emoji to keep from being rude. Eventually the conversation turned to memories. I love this part of of the group texting, especially now that I can't remember anything. I can't give credit to any of the sisters or brother for any of these memories because my phone crashed a week ago and I haven't entered new contacts. All I can say is phone number dah dah dah #1 remembered the little boxes of chocolate our daddy always had for us on Valentine's Day. Phone numbers dah dah dah #'s 2, 3, and 4 all commented on the memory and everyone felt nostalgic for a moment. Then phone number dah dah dah # 3 asked if we remembered the dollar bill we always got in a birthday card from our Grandma Mihills in South Dakota. That sure brought back some good memories. It was a great day to get Grandma's card because it boosted our monthly income by double! Not only could we buy a quarter's worth of penny candy every week of the month but we could now include any toy M.E.Moses five and dime stocked for a dollar or less. Good times! Oh sure you laugh, but those are golden memories and I wouldn't trade for them.

This memory reminded me of our weekly allowance. I don't know how much the three younger kids got for allowance but Cindy and I, as the oldest, got twenty-five cents a week. Sometime in 1962 daddy approached Cindy and I with a great deal. Instead of giving us the quarter every week, if we wanted and only if we wanted, he would stop this weekly practice and give us a dollar a month. We both agreed heartily and danced the happy dance. It took us about six months to figure out we were getting shorted a dollar a year with this setup. I may have mentioned before we weren't necessarily the brightest bulbs on the Christmas tree.

Speaking of Christmas, every Christmas morning was a total blowout with gifts stacked to the ceiling...and I'm not making that up. Daddy loved all the holidays but Christmas was his favorite. Mama and daddy would start moaning the financial blues right after Thanksgiving every year and every year we expected a pair of socks under the tree...if we were lucky. Christmas morning would then absolutely blow us away.  We never seemed to catch on to this skullduggery and always fell into deep depressions before the actual day. Daddy really knew how to enjoy Christmas! I can't believe mama went along with it unless he fooled her too.

Easter was another good holiday. Every spring included a trip to Sears or "MonkeyWards" (that's Montgomery Wards for those not accustomed to our family language). We got new dress clothes, shoes, socks, and for some reason underwear. Debbie Sue was probably the only one to show off her new underwear at the "Easter Parade". We did look good on Easter Sunday and we had Easter baskets loaded down with candy, eggs, and a couple of nice presents. As Cindy and I got too old and figured out the Easter bunny was actually daddy, he stopped giving us baskets. That was wonderful because he substituted really nice gifts in place of the baskets. I remember one year we each got a brand new Arvin AM radio. Mine was mint green bakelite and Cindy's was pink. Oh the joy! We could now listen to the top forty in the privacy of our own rooms.

The top forty......now that's a memory I had forgotten. I'm gonna write that down for a later story.