Life

Just Peachy

Since the tradition started last year, I felt obligated to do my part to keep the tradition alive. With last years attendees out of town for my father-in-laws birthday in North Carolina, the mantle fell upon me to fetch the peaches for the eventual syrup and jam and associated mess.

My morning did not start out so that the rendezvous point would be easily achieved. My son (the original and younger of the Chick-Fil-A boys) needed to be at work at 9:00. The meeting point was 25 or more minutes away from the restaurant. (This was assuming good traffic and none of the dreaded “special weekend construction projects”.) After picking up cash from the ATM (they don’t take cards at the orchard), I got him to work. The traffic was very cooperative, but not too cooperative. I pulled into the Cracker Barrel at about 9:25. My friend is not know for being early. In fact, rarely does he ever arrive early. If not for his very disciplined spouse, he would have an even worse reputation. A quick text to him, gave me the expected and undesired response:

Me: Here
Friend: On the way
Me: How long?
Friend: Well, about 20-30 minutes or so.

Since he lives about half an hour away, it was clear what happened.

I am known to go almost nowhere without my book. Considering the company I keep, this does keep me from going crazy. Fortunately, he did arrive within his allotted time. He had to transfer water jugs to my car (we wanted to have room for the peaches). I grabbed my boots and hopped in his car. The car we were blocking in was patience with us as we loaded up and moved out.

The driving conversation to the orchard was light. We were driving up 35 heading to Oklahoma. My daughters have attended quite a few cross country meets up this way. My friend encouraged me to “lie” to him as to when he should arrive at all future meetings to try and compensate for his inability to properly plan his time. I poo-pooed the idea, but did not entirely dismiss it.

We eventually drove off the main road with a country kind of zig-zagging toward the Red River Peach Orchard. Besides many scrap yards and other businesses that often accumulate in somewhat rundown areas, we met these guys by the road.

By the time we arrived at the orchard, it was nearly 11:00. The cool weather was supposed to turn hot later. Since we went north and it was still early in the day, we hoped to have our buckets full before the day got too much older. Lots of things to see there. These are the things that stood out:

As soon as I got there, I went to the bathroom. The bathroom was fine. After washing my hands, the towel was a shared hand towel. And, tucked in where the towel was hooked was a spider nearly 3 inches across (not the body, but from leg to leg). He/she scurried up the wall. They were willing to share. Being a country boy, I dried my hands and felt inclined to warn the Asian lady w/ child who followed me in the line.
We received buckets to put our peaches into. They were not the cleanest things. My only real instruction was if you fill the bucket, it will be about 15 lbs. Having been told to get 30 lbs, the math worked out pretty easily. Once both my friend and I had our buckets, we went straight back even though we were told the pickings might be a little better behind where we parked. As we wandered into the peach trees, my friend who had been along when the tradition began the prior year commented on how the peaches appeared quite a bit smaller. The “lack of pruning” theory was proposed by me. We later found out the drought was the largest part of the problem.
SOOOOO many peaches on the ground. We understood we were not part of the “early pickers”. In fact due to our schedule, the tradition would have died if I have not able to go on this particular weekend. Whether the peaches fell directly to the ground from being overly ripe OR they were picked and discarded after a bad spot or worm hole was found OR they were picked and found to be not quite ripe enough to meet the pickers needs, the accumulation of peaches was fermenting very nicely. (Not being much for alcohol, I did not enjoy the smell.) The smell was so pervasive, it made the whole experience quite a bit less enjoyable. Whether it was whole peaches or peaches trampled under many different feet, the smell will be one of the first things I will think of when preparing for my next visit to the orchard.
I am not sure if the phenomenon was worse this year than other years (the owner assured me it happens to some extent every year). Nearly every tree had branches snapped off from the trunk. A few trees were completely leveled. None of their branches exceeded 3-4 feet in height. All of them completely snapped off from the base. The peaches remaining on the branches may have still been ripening. I chose to pick fruit more solidly plugged into the mother tree.
A.) The wildlife did find its need to be orchard dwellers, too. (bird, hoppers, spiders, worm laying bugs) The grasshoppers were hard to miss every step within the knee high grass disrupted some gorging or other malevolent intent. The well-fed jumpers were found covering trees and gnawing annoyingly on many beautiful peaches just as if they were doing that licking techniques older brothers do as they claimed their pieces of chicken etc. Once the “mark” was noticed, I know I wouldn’t pick them. There were more than one broken branch covered in grasshoppers. Other than the obvious consuming of leaves and marking the fruit, their congregating by the dozens made no sense to me. (Are they telling some gossip or just ridiculing the orchard owners for letting them so dominate the place?) A person I spoke to the other morning said chickens are good to have around when the grasshoppers are so thick. Not sure how all of those exoskeletons would have affected the eggs…..a little extra bounce in the yolk…??? B.) The birds were not being the natural predators they should have been! Yes, chickens could have been imported. The dining was plentiful, but the diners were few. There was one lonely dove who was being a good mom to whatever she sat upon. C.) Many of the bugs were assumed to be present. It was only in the later stages there presence was fully felt. Many peaches appeared perfect until the little hole was noticed in the otherwise nearly perfect complexion. In most cases, these nearly sinless tree spawn were tossed into the fermentation basin. Of those that made it into bucket and eventually home, any mercy shed on the imperfect fruit was regretted. In many cases the pit had a fine-wiggly friend tickling the inside of the peach’s inner pit-iness.
As we walked into the orchard of peach, our eyes were most immediately drawn to the fruits at eye level. As our eye filters became better capable at zeroing in on the “better” rather than the “good”, we realized much of the good was not going to find admittance into our buckets without a little help. Assuming my telekinetic skills were not choosing this moment to reveal themselves to me, it looked like a ladder or climbing skills were going to be necessary. (Based on many of the trees inability to hold securely to their limbs, climbing seemed to be a decision of last resort.) My friend mentioned the orchard last year seemed to have multiple ladders running around. (If this tradition continues next year, the phrase “this year” needs to be much more present. Based on what I experienced this year, a repeat next year will make picking peaches from a bin at a grocery store a much more rewarding experience.) As we got to the back corner of the orchard, a few ladders (maybe 3?) were hidden in the branches of a few of the trees. As we decided which trees to set the ladders up under, the closer we got to the trees, the more difficult it was to find a location where the “top hangers” could be collected. Once the ladder was placed and the obligatory couple of peaches were sacrificed to the fermentation pit by the ladders careless movement, we climbed the ladder and looked at the fruit at eye level. Somehow many of the succulent orbs of flavor became much less desirable treasures when our hands met them. Of course, much of the fruit was deemed at minimum good, and it took up residence in our buckets. The most difficult challenge was claiming a ladder after our first bucket was emptied. The trees at the front of the orchard seemed to have some fruity family members who were destined for a fruit cobbler. My task of securing a ladder to make their wish true ended up taking 10 minutes–the orchard had filled up and others desiring to see if the top fruit might be everything they fantasized it to be. After pushing an older couple off the ladder and telling them peaches were the original forbidden fruit (not really), I wandered back to my friend. The picking finished pretty well with the exception of constantly having to push the would be thieves off or our ladder. (We did pass it on to they guy who asked first.)
As we checked out, I openly admitted to eating a peach while picking. I had picked a peach with a bad spot. The guy who would eventually take over our ladder when we left, told me to open it up and see it was bad in the middle. Once it was opened, I saw the peach, despite its less than perfect complexion, was perfect for quenching my peach appetite. Apparently, the admission of this fact granted me a discount. My friend whose peaches weighed less than mine ending up paying a little more for his box of peaches.

The drive back was similar to the drive to the orchard, but different. My friend can talk to anybody about anything for an almost endless period of time. So, a little drive was barely a challenge for him. We parted knowing the job of blanching the peaches would be something we both would have to do alone.

While driving home, I did cross an overpass full of citizens waging a poster campaign against illegal aliens. I did honk in support. If they knew about the peach orchard and all of the peaches going unpicked, I wonder if they would have found some other way to spend their Saturday afternoon?

Sod Replacement Therapy

As a relocated midwesterner, sod was never much of an issue when there were any problems with the lawn. We knew the rain wasn’t going to be much of an issue, and we sprinkled some grass seed (likely blue grass) down in the spring, and were pretty confident any “naughty lawn” places would grow back in nicely.

In Texas, we do not have this luxury. We need to buy a piece (or pieces)of St Augustine sod (one of really only a couple of choices in lawn greenness in Texas) to fix the bad spots. Due to our winter being extra cold and somewhat dry, it seems the ugly spot ratio was much higher than normal in most lawns this spring. And, as much as we want the HOA award for best yard, we will just have to be satisfied not being the house people say, “as least it is not our yard.”

As I did some of my own sodding this year, these are techniques used by myself and others:

Plugs: This is like one of the pictures above. As I view it, there are two ways to get to effectively perform the “plugs” technique. First, you go back to a healthy part of grass in your back yard. You take up a few hunks–not too many from one spot, but taking a few from here and there. You then transplant these pieces to the less than appealing area–likely the front yard somewhere. Secondly, these “plugs” may come from the dissecting and dismembering of a purchased piece of sod. Somehow, you can’t seem to commit to using a whole piece of sod in a particular area, so you spread out your luck over a larger area with more pieces. Certainly one of them will take off!
Lay in: Although not described above, this method is more an approach than a specific technique. When new sod is placed in your yard, an area is created for it. The old, dead grass is cleaned up and the new piece of sod should fit right in. You may backfill a little once the “sod-space” is removed to account for any low spots, but the goal is to get the new sod as close to the Texas dirt/sand/ants as possible.
Lay on: This approach competes with the “lay in” method. And, maybe “layout” is a better term to describe it. It seems this technique is pretty popular–likely because the LACK of work necessary. If you have a spot with dead grass, there is no problem. Just put the sod right on top of the dead grass. It makes it obvious to all who pass that you have new sod in your lawn, and if anybody wants to bury a body, these kind of lawns are ideal!
Kill it all: This seemed to be less popular, but I did see at least one neighbor who used it. Our yards are laid out with a little grass next to the street, the sidewalk, and then the rest of the front yard. Apparently one neighbor was SO disgusted with his appalling lawn and the ugly glances from those passing his house, he decided it was better to admit full defeat then to try and claim partial victory. It appears he used a weed/grass killer on the whole section between the street and the sidewalk. And, once it all died, He probably had 50 or so pieces of sod that found a new home in his yard. Unfortunately, it appears some of the sod has also chosen to go “brown” rather than stay green. I hope they bounce back before the summer is out—good luck to him!

Irrigation is a key to any sod replacement therapy technique. Due to tweaking of the sprinklers, I hope my sod will claim green as its favorite color for the rest of the summer. If not, we can see if the therapy works better after summers heat has fizzled. Or, we can embrace the cactus and other “lovely” plants that thrive on low moisture OR we can move….

Double Red Day

It has been awhile since I made a donation of my precious blood. In Texas, it is Carter Bloodcare. (In Ohio, it used to be the Red Cross. Different name – same job. ) After receiving a few emails and seeing an article in the paper regarding low blood supplies, I decided to rescind my “donoring” hiatus. (When a 2:00 apt becomes 3:00 before they turn on the vampire vacuum cleaner and the double red treatment takes 29 minutes to run its cycle, the whole process takes [including driving there] over 2 hours.) Temporarily, the rescission made me feel good. I was glad I could get back on the horse and give up a pint for the greater good.

Then, I arrived at the donor center. The only good thing (I thought) I had done was making an apt. One couple ahead of me were “walk-ins”, so I did get to jump in front of them. As I read the literature, got screened (this is where they check your blood pressure, pulse, and [I think] red blood cell count. During this process, many questions are asked regarding your name and address and date of birth. All of this info is good to know, but when this question continues as I interact with others, my flippant, tongue-biting self is anxious to emerge.) It would seem if you are American who isn’t gay (past or present), doesn’t do drugs or have a tattoo or pay for companionship, doesn’t travel much, and doesn’t have any weird diseases that most people can’t pronounce or don’t know what ailment is, you are probably okay to give. So, I was soon moving on to the “chair”.

The people who work with you are always very nice (most of the time they really are). They realize they rely on donors who volunteer their time to contribute vital fluids in a “pay-it-forward” type of gesture. After getting on the chair this time, these are some things I did/said/thought:

When asked if I was ready to get the needle poked into my arm…”It’s what I came for.”
When asked to confirm my height, I stated, “I was about 6 feet when I came in here. All of these redundant questions are draining my of all my energy, so I am probably shorter now.” (Some of this is not true.)
Now, because they no longer have saline solution {there is a shortage- who knew?}, they allow the donors to have milk and cookies or red velvet cupcakes in the donor area. (Not necessary all of these things, but waiting to get to the canteen area is waiting too long. They start your snack before you give so your body can kick up the blood production before you get out of the chair. Wow, why did it take them so long to come up with this one!
The guy kept telling me to squeeze and hold it. This is great, but prior to him poking me with the needle and the draining that followed, I had nothing to squeeze. (They used to provide foamy things to squeeze on. Apparently, somebody bled on them once in a third world country, so they cannot provide them again with out severe liability issues. ) After my insistent nagging, he did provide a couple of paper towels wrapped in tape. (We can get a man to the moon, but…..) So, every 1- to 15 seconds, my left hand squeezed on the towels. (If you rightly assumed the needle was in my left arm, you get extra points for knowing how the system really works.)
He expressed to me his concern and sincere desire to get the blood flowing as quickly as possible. I appreciated his goals, but being short handed was why I made the apt. It all felt very deja vu-ish….
He did compliment me when I mentioned the newspaper story about supply being down. I let him think I was a truly good person and the article had been the sole factor that allowed us to be getting all chummy. I can’t help it the truth occasionally makes my halo visible to more people than normal. 😉
The guy who did not have an apt and whom I bumped turned out to be done only about 5 minutes after me. I felt badly he was bumped for me and I felt even more badly that he was bumped and I looked like a heel so I could be done just 5 minutes before him. He didn’t schedule an apt. He walked in out of the goodness of this heart. (His wife also gave!) He deserve far more accolades than I do.
The guy who took care of my procedure was a trainer. He has to be in the field a couple of days per month to continue to be a card carrying blood sucker. Otherwise, he is in the special place where the vampire go to learn their trade. He did warn me if I ever go in there again I may want to avoid him. Usually, he has some immature vampires following him around. They don’t have their final teeth yet. (I guess they have to molt or something a couple of times to get their official teeth that make they highly effective. ) I think I have had some of those folks unsupervised in the past…
When giving “double red”, they pump your blood out, run it through a centrifuge, do some funky stuff with your white blood cells, and then send the oxygen-bearing wonder back into your body. (I believe the oxygen bearing stuff is what is removed in my case.) When they take it, it is called a “draw”. After the centrifuge gets your blood all dizzy, the blood is sent back to you and called a “return”. In the past, the “returns” have been known to cause a coppery taste to appear in my mouth. To combat this they give you some Tums or some other calcium chewable tablet. When “they” give it to you, they need to do LOTS of paperwork. So, I bring my own, and hope they don’t think I am doping up during the procedure. I did let my guy know today. If I was to be seen as slightly angelic, I didn’t want to keep any secrets from him. 😉

I did refuse to schedule my next apt. The next few months have many variables. But, since it is double red, you can really only do it 3 or 4 times a year. If I chose to schedule, it would have been on November 13th. Their offer of giving them an early Christmas present was pretty tempting, but I had to turn them down.

I don’t believe I have matured much since last I gave. I was truly irritated by how the process drug out. Sometimes, things need to be done despite the restraint you need to exercise. This is one of those things I should get past my issues and participate in again, and again and again….

Grasshopper Frenzy

As the video shows, I failed miserably as a grasshopper whisperer at the peach orchard.

Whole Foods Diversion

With the nice cool weather, came a bit of boredom. The great outdoors which is a typical playground for my kids (more so my younger kids, but mostly all of them) failed miserably in providing some of the entertainment they needed. So, around dinner time with limited prospects for excitement before bedtime. (This is discounting the viewing of the troubled and uneducated southerners found on “Honey Boo Boo”.) we went on a very limited adventure with the simple goal of getting Chinese food. To make sure no one would be bored while waiting for our food, we all grabbed our books.

After wandering through a couple of speed traps, we made a right at the light as we neared our most tastebud-tested Texas Chinese restaurant. (My Ohio Chinese restaurant has still had quite a few more visits. While in Ohio, we had not yet discovered texmex or guac.) But, just north of the restaurant (the insides of which are “dive-like”, so our meal was to go), we realized the Whole Foods we had watched transform the old strip mall was finally open. And, since distraction was the purpose of our adventure, we promptly found a parking space with our name on it. As we walked in, the girls are getting excited. The produce greets us as we enter the door. The purple pepper (my oldest daughter claims she had a dream about one the other night) found its way into the cart, as well as a couple of pluots. As we wondered the bulk foods bins, they started to drool and throw their previous favorite bulk food store under the bus. (Whole Foods did strike us as a cross between Trader Joes and Sprouts.) They liked the variety available, the in-house bakery, and the quirkiness of some of the stocked items. They made a few comparisons to Sprouts, but I think they were able to realize both stores had their strengths. The wood burning stove with pizzas on display at the front of the store/restaurant also left a very positive feeling. After finding out during checkout the store had opened the previous week, we paid our bill. I am sure the girls will lure me back for another visit. And, when we go, they will have a list and not just impulse shopping.

As we piled back into the car and stowed our bag of groceries, I took full advantage of the rather lengthy strip mall. I wondered through the hole parking lot to get to our dinner. I took a quick jog on a side street and avoided the main road as I went into the back entrance of the purveyors of General Tso’s Chicken. (RiceKing) The parking lot was sparse, empty in fact. And, the locked door confirmed what we feared: if we did Chinese tonight, it would be trying out the wok skills of someone new. We less enthusiastically took our seats as we resumed our dinner adventure. I thought of another Chinese place that was too far away. The girls seemed okay with whatever–they had trail mix and some funky whole grain graham crackers to focus their minds on. As we neared Dad’s favorite “default” restaurant of choice, we look to the left in a different strip mall and saw what “could” be out previously dismissed producers of wok-wonders. The ONE car in the parking lot did not bode well, but the pangs of hunger drove us to the front door. After a few seconds, we were greeted by an Asian gentlemen who immediately apologized for his inability to serve us. It went something like this…(to properly picture, be wearing no glasses and squint to the point where you cannot see. When repeating his statements, be very animated around the mouth-overly accentuating the corners of the mouth.)

“I so sorry we cannot serve you food. Many people miss our food very much. We be open very soon. Two weeks we be open. (holding up two fingers) Please come back then. We very happy make food for you.”

We likely will be back. His command of the wok is better than his command of English. And, his command of English is far better than my command of Chinese (if that is his native tongue–definitely Asian) The girls and I again found our seats. Before we pulled out and headed to Chick-Fil-A, I had to do a poor impression of our would be restaurant host. I love that the girls will laugh at my efforts.

We “settled” for chicken sandwiches and a shared large waffle fry. My girls are easy to please. They drink water, and do their best to keep the bill down. I will miss them the next few days as my wife works her 80 hours of birthday for her dad. (She took bells in her checked in bag to play happy birthday on.) I like a new adventure, but I like it especially when I can share it with a couple of young ladies I can affectionately call “my girls”.

July in Texas?

Didn’t feel like Texas today. (Today’s paper said it was a record low high-temp) Texas sometimes provides lots of humidity, but the temperatures this time of year are usually pretty simple: will it be almost 100 or will it be over 100? Today it didn’t break much beyond 80. The landscape was only to happy to hold onto the moisture and not give it up without a fight. The sidewalks were able to stay wet without the steam coming off of them. A walk around the neighborhood was able to be completed without perspiring (I sweat, but my wife does not. We can settle on self-contained cooling systems) in all of the those places where heat accumulates.

The temperatures were not abiding by a vote taken by the residents. (I believe this is one thing “both sides of the aisle” could agree on) The cooler temperatures did have a sidekick know as “rain”. Although not a complete stranger to Texas, it certainly could visit more often AND let us know it REALLY likes us! (As I have acclimated to Texas from Ohio, I vacillate on my feelings toward rain. When the sprinklers runs twice per week under water restrictions and barely soaking the lawn, I think fondly of the lawn mower fighting the setting water in our lawn in Ohio. When I experience the spring or fall with perfect blue skies and the temperatures cool enough that the life is not daily sucked out of the vegetation, I am pretty happy with minimum rain. )

And, it is for this reason our summer reprieve was so enjoyable. When “super-summer” kicks in (sometimes before summer officially starts on June 21st or sometimes just flirting with the 100s like we have this year), we go through the motions every day knowing it can’t last forever. This year, we may still get a few more 100 degree days. (likely we will) The hiatus from the heat allows us to reset our “heat-whine” so we can tolerate a few more days til possibly the next reprieve. Or, if we are lucky, we will barely bump the heat threshold again and be surprised when we wake up and fall (or fall like temperatures) have arrived.

As the next morning dawned (really, dawn II for me. Most of the family caught an early delayed flight east for the birthday of my father-in-law. An hour after they shuffled out the door, I was able to get back to sleep for a couple of hours.) and I drove for an oil change and car inspection, the sidewalks were full of people with dogs and fluorescent apparel. They were soaking up every bit of the cool temperatures. They knew the dirty cottonballs that temporarily filled the heavens were soon to head north. Our heavens were soon to be filled with that beautiful blue sky and its typical partner, the golden sun.

The Road Rager

Apparently, I still have enough testosterone to get myself in trouble while driving!

My daughter had a birthday party at 5:30, so with traffic it was not a stretch to think the 20 minute drive could stretch to 30 minutes. And, “traffic” really came down to one intersection. When we were backed up one light before the backed yo light, I started doing a bit of self-talk. (Not sure if I was talking out loud or in my head, but I am sure the dialogue did take place.)

“We will be lucky to make it through this light in 4 lights. I hope he doesn’t want to turn into the Home Depot. He should go straight and turn at the next light and come in the back way. Boy, the left lanes (the road has 4 lanes. The left two are turn lanes, and the right two are the going straight lanes. The far right lane has the option to also turn right. I was positioned in the straight-only lane.) are clearing out quickly. I am sure somebody is going to try and sneak in so they don’t have to wait in the long line. I hope they don’t do it to me. If I am lucky, I should get through the next light, but these cars sure don’t move very quickly. I REALLY hope I can make it on this one. Oh, good. It looks like I am going to make it.”

At this point, I am sure I started talking out loud. As the light turned yellow, I was just getting into the intersection. And, the guy in the car next to me (my left) wanted to skip all of the waiting and sneak right in front of me from the turn lane w/o waiting. It was at this point, my testosterone kicked in briefly, and I gave the car enough gas so I would stay ahead of him. On the other side of the intersection, there is a train track. And, since the nose of his car was just ahead of mine, I yielded to him. Prior to yielding, I made a hand/arm gesture trying to ask the question, “Why should I let you in when you came from the turn lane and decided to go straight?” (In my mind, this “him” is a petulant little child who may be living in the body of an adult, but is a very sad little boy deep down. He expected the world to submit to his whim and if it doesn’t submit, he has to throw a temper tantrum to show why you should never deny him what he obviously deserves. He was likely the type of child who got everything he wanted, and when he did get in trouble, his parents would blame the adult who found fault with their fantastic, beautiful son. )

If only this was the end of the incident, I would not have fully learned the lesson that I needed to. As we drove toward the next light, I tried to switch lanes a couple of times so I would not be behind him. Each time I switched lanes, he would switch lanes ahead of me. The closer he was to me when he switched lanes, the bigger he shrugged his shoulders. I think he was trying to say in his “I am more important than you way”, “How does it feel when somebody cuts you off?” My response would be something to do with waiting my turn and using the lane for its designed purpose. I resolved at this point to try and keep an appropriate distance from him while trying to get my daughter to her party in one piece.

With two traffic lights to go before I made a right hand turn, I was trying to drive carefully. As he was still in front of me, I knew I would make no sudden moves. But, when traffic opened up enough, I switched into the left lane. I was working on passing him, when he pulled out in front of me leaving me almost NO room to brake. He didn’t need to get over…he was still working through what he perceived to be my personal affront to his manliness. (His wife or girlfriend was in the front seat and maybe he wanted to impress her. Since I had the minivan, he must have thought it would be really impressive to mess with the dad driving some portion of his family around. ) He shrugs his shoulders and feels really pleased with himself for his incredible victory in this battle of minds. This is where my rarely used “long horn” seems to beep for a second or two. (A short been would not have allowed me to vent adequately) His head swells with pride knowing he has gotten to me so superbly. He has a little trophy to put on his shelf with all of the sports trophies he garnered for being a participating bench-warmer in various soccer and t-ball teams. His favorite trophy is probably the one for “Most likely to be thrown out of a game for being a bad sport” and the most accurate trophy from High School was for “Most likely to be involved in a drive by shooting”.

At the last light after pulling my head together and realizing what a psycho I am dealing with, I stay at a distance behind him in the far right lane. Once the light changes and he clears the intersection, I put on my turn signal and turn right. I still had a bit of emotions to gain control of, but I survived and learned a very valuable lesson. I do not think I would have let him ahead of me as he entered the intersection in the wrong lane. After viewing his actions, I would, however, assume he was a psycho immediately. I would turn at the first light and camp for a couple minutes so he would be WAY beyond me. Let him get to his destination w/o having to deal with getting revenge on some crazy old man in a minivan.

As much as I ranted here, I did say a prayer for him and myself. Neither of us handed it perfectly, and I can only control what I learned from the experience. I pray we both become better people and have experiences to get us to the point where we are supposed to be. (If I rant any more right now, it will make me seem like I need LOTS of help after the little party we shared. ) Fortunately, I walked for 6 miles afterwards with the last mile spent with a good Christian guy. I have put this little learning experience into perspective. Life happens, and if you don’t learn from the bad experiences, ask someone to bump the record player to get you our of the annoying rut you are in.

Easy Salmonella?

What started out as a simple day where the only real plan was making fajitas on the grill, did have a few complications!

With both boys off at 5:00, it looked like we could have one of those rare meals together. (We do very well eating together IF the kids are at the house. The “Chik-fil-A wrinkle” is whether they will be off when dinner time arrives OR if they will be far enough removed from their break to make dinner something they will consider.) We had a partial package of chicken breast in the frig, so I put on my marinading hat. (Of course, this can be understood to mean tenderizing hammer/mallet and my fat-removal knife.) I grab a convenient cutting board, and I start trimming and pounding. A few pauses for coating the chicken in the marinade, and 5 breast later, we know the chicken will be our best all tex-mexed for dinner. I clean up my mess (put away the marinade ingredients, clean off the cutting board, & put the covered chicken into the frig) before going to get the girls.

Knowing the boys can eat a bit of fajitas, we stop at Sam’s on the way home to get another package chicken. Once we get home prepping the chicken is on my mind, but the fresh hummus we had been planning means lunch, and lunch is our priority. After some tweaking to our first hummus venture and the introduction of the roasted red pepper (roasted a couple of days before and refrigerated in anticipation of this blessed blending in my new food processor), I praised the girls for reaching the pinnacle of hummus perfection in only two tries. They took the praise, and prepared the veggies for the hummus dipping. After arranging the celery, carrots and thin pretzels nicely on a plate, we sat down to eat. There was no double-dipping as we all dipped into the hummus container. All 3 of enjoyed it very much. And, the container was greatly depleted of its marvelous hummus-ness before we hung up our taste buds.

And, no, I haven’t forgotten the salmonella in the title. As we were cleaning up the kitchen, I noticed the cutting board I had cut chicken on earlier. It was sitting in the exact spot I would have expected the veggies to be cut on. Her quick “yes” answered the question I had hesitated to ask, “Did you use this cutting board for the veggies?” (I had scraped the board and the board was made of plastic, but yet it just was not “good” to reuse the board after the previous food that had been playing on its knife etched surface was a protein known to carry “bad” things.)

After running through a quick lecture on “if it is in the sink do NOT use it without asking first”, I did the obligatory Google search on salmonella. As it turns out, the site I went to informed me we would know in 12 – 72 hours if we were sick. And, as I write this, we are sitting on 56 hours. I am VERY hopeful it will just turn out to be a great life lesson for my daughter, but if not, I will still love her. I am guessing my stomach will ultimately forgive her. (She did make homemade granola bars today, so I am guessing my stomach has already warmed up to the idea.) Maybe further research will prove hummus has salmonella killing qualities…. If I am “clean” in 16 hours, I am willing to swear on a can of garbanzo beans that it does!

Post-Monsoon Mushrooms

Due to the “much” rain in north Texas early this week, some of the fruits of the rain are creating the inevitable contrast with the grass (presently green). I am not talking about greener grass (although it is true). I am not talking about swimming pools that are still nearly overflowing. (In our pool, the pool will drain the water off until it gets below a certain level.) I am, of course, talking about the mushroom.

I saw many different varieties on my walk today. I had no confidence in any prior mushroom recognition skills to pick one up and start chewing. The varieties were all similar: some sort of toadstool type of thing. (Not good for eating anyways) Seeing that many made me think of how mushroom were a lot more numerous up north. While I am at it, it is worth noting the growth in the beds. The fungus loves the moisture. Its mottled brown kind of wavy growth is certainly not something you would plant. However, the fungus seems to either be a free additive in the bags of mulch or it is a special treasure the flower beds reserves for extra wet conditions. (My kids know they can expect to hear, “There is a fungus among us.” whenever I hear the word.)

It also must be noted the anger mushrooms seem to bring up in people. It seems observing a mushroom minding its own business is too much for people. They (or people like me) seem to find it overly compelling to either kick off the top of the mushroom or manually remove its lid. Fortunately, I have some restraint. I am usually content destroying only one of family of mushrooms. Some of my lesser brethren cannot resist the urge to destroy not only the family but any extended family that dwells in close proximity. (In the above picture one of the mushroom family was deceased and on the sidewalk…not at my hand or foot…)

Is there a moral here? Probably not. I hope in my observations someone might find a smile as their brains dance through the memories each reader has access to. And, if not, feel free to borrow some of my memories-none of mine are copyrighted!

Less Facebook = Happier Life

My mood the past few days has not been what I like for it to be. I have agonized over it, and I can come up with really only one solution—-Facebook!

It is not the post from friends. It is not the invitations that I have learned to ignore and delete. And, it is not even the constant gnawing of “what a pathetic life I live” by reviewing all of the many pictures from foreign places I may never see. (Somebodies bucket list is getting a good workout. If only we could assign bucket list items out. When we live out our assigned item(s), others can live vicariously through our experience, and we through theirs…..but, that might be another future post.) No, I am referring to the groups I have that ALL repost the same stories or variations on the same story. And, to be even MORE specific, it is all of the political stuff I like to stay current on. (Since I lean right [honestly more than lean], there is lots of information out there to make me go crazy.

So, this morning, I did a purging. I went through my political groups and with the exception of only a couple, I have stopped following them. I wish them well, and hope their groups continue to grow. But, I cannot be part of any future growth. I have read their stories, watched their little video ads that play before the “real” video (they do make some sort of money off of that–they have to), and I have become visibly frustrated by the bickering and failures of our government to honor its laws and to work together to produce results that those outside of Washington can claim as successful.

If the government is not there for me, then I don’t need to be reading every nuance of a story on Facebook that is documenting the fall. I don’t need to become enraged reading the spin from various conservative or liberal media outlets. And, frankly, I don’t need to waste time dealing with what I already know to be the truth – the spiral downward is an inevitable part of the human journey.

On a happier note, I see my mood improving already!

I will journey onward keeping tabs on the plummet downward – the speed and the pitch downward vary, but the direction seems unavoidable. With this knowledge, my happiness and satisfaction must be sought from other than providing influence on the national level. I will fully be the dad, husband, and citizen I can be. I will visit Facebook to keep up on friends. But, I will NO LONGER use Facebook as a way to peer into the lives of our representatives in Washington. Many of them serve a different master than I or we have an entirely different idea of what our Master seeks from us.

So, I may give a “like” or provide a comment OR even post something of my own. My lack of involvement is nothing personal, it is just me.

Walking Down Life's Road With Andy