Time

A good friend of mine was at our annual campout this past weekend and he is a song writer.

It is alwasy interesting to be re-acquainted with some of the lyrics that he has written over the years.  One of my favorites (others I intend to share with you over a period of TIME) is a line that contains the title of the song.

",,,Time is just a record of losses and wins, but It will all even out in the end." ,,, Louis "Buddy" Hale Jr.

 

Hear Ye, Hear Ye, - Five Star Event

Dang, I feel like ToTo riding in Dorothy’s basket. It has been hectic. I need to settle in and catch up to date with ya’ll. The Annual Angelina River Bottom Exhibition (fishing trip, remember the pirate’s chest) is this coming weekend, actually starting Friday, so I will be tied up for a few more days.


One thing that has gone on around the old house place was this weekend’s festivities. A few months back, The Boss and I were riding around after we had our breakfast at the “Egg & I” and we were talking about the holiday events where we “dote” over our girls. Then we got to talking about our “towheaded” son’s in law. I thought and eventually spoke out loud.

“I think I am gonna declare a holiday for the guys.”

She said, “What in the world are you talking about?”

“We are gonna pick out a weekend and name it Son-In-Law Day.”

“Do you think they will go for that?”

“Ain’t gonna tell ‘em about it.”

“What? You are going to just announce it and they are going to come running up just because you said so?”

“Yep, especially if we don’t tell THEM. The girls will make ‘em show up, especially if I throw in a steak or any other kind of supper.” A supper nice restaurant here called “Jakes” was the destination, so they had us a nice place for 10 prepared right on time.

I was right. They showed up just a twisting and a squirming wanting to know what is all this about. The girls didn’t even know “what” was planned.The only little surprise was that the girls didn’t let out the secret about “why” we all got together for what seemed to be no reason. I had a couple of walnut plaques made stating they were “Five Star Son in Laws” and a wooden pen set with their names lasered into them. I fixed up this declaration for a Justice of The Peace friend of mine to read but he had to change his plans so the young lady that was the hostess was “convinced to read this to the room of diners.  Each one got his copy with the "officail" Red Ribbon of Authenticity on the front.  The two boys just about fell out of their chairs. The fact that the girls had kept such a good secret made the whole event work, plus the fact that they are REALLY “Five Star Son-In-Laws”. The additional fact that they are afraid of me doesn’t hurt. 

Here is the Declaration “Hear Ye, Hear Ye”, and I will update tomorrow with some pics.

Write Neeeckkeeed

Write Neeckked


How many times have you seen, heard, or read, “What is the most prevalent thing that you feel hinders your writing”?

The Boss tells me I say silly things to those who are asking or saying something to just make small talk. This was one of those times; I can’t find where it was but I am giving credit to The Literary Lab, in my mind; I think. They were asking for a suggestion or thought from the readers. My comment was “I need to more often write neeckkkeed”. In reality, at first, I thought I was being cute and usually I look for some kind of shocked response, but then I realized that I really felt that way. No, I don’t mean without my blue jeans. Peel away the layers of apprehension and shyness. Write what happens in the real world. I don’t always talk like what is spoken in the real world, but can I write it? I think I am suppose to, but truthfully, I don’t do that very often, if ever. I think that in order to get to the core of a topic, you have to dig through that muck and mash.

My next reaction was, “surely I am not the only one that has ever thought this”; it seems I was correct. Our local writer club, East Texas Writers’ Guild  met one Monday soon after this and the agenda was to watch YouTube videos of interviews with different writers. We experienced computer problems and ended up just having an open discussion night. The next day I went to the YouTube site and searched out the interviews on my own. I remembered the interview with Anita Shreve , the author of “The Pilot’s Wife” along with many others. In one segment she is telling about writing a scene that was a little too risqué for her personal comfort. Her response to herself was, “I can’t write this way. My Daddy is going to read this.” After considering an alternative direction for a short while, she determined that the scene was important to the story so she overrode her anxiety about the scene, peeled away the “layers” and wrote the real world into the story.

Like an overweight doctor that tells me to lose weight, I sit here and preach about this as if I have “torn down that wall” and mastered this technique, when in real life, I have not. My three girls are going to read just about everything I write and so are my sisters, my nieces and nephews and maybe even a few of you, so am I going to write very Neeckkeed? Probably not. For my purposes, I don’t think I need to. I will let “Momma Lou” do all the really colorful language, but maybe I should shed a few layers and still be in line with what is called for.

Watch all parts if you have the time

 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6SgE8qTA5eQ&feature=related

and click each Next Part

Circle Unbroken

A good while back, I posted this story and forgot about it.  This Monday I went to our writers' critique meeting and I had nothing new, so I pull this one out of the pile and read it.  It was interesting how there were varied opinions on the "meaning" and "direction of the story; maybe it doesn't make any sense.  I thought "what the heck", I asked another writer friend to look at it and they whacked it to "smitheriens", but I like the suggestions they made.  I figured that I would run it back through the ringer one more time and hopefully someone will give me their idea(s) on what the durn thing is about.  sooooo.....


A Circle Unbroken aka Old Fence Post

The blue 59 Chevrolet Apache pickup easily climbed the grassy knoll looking down on the valley of the neighboring landscape. The Texas summer had been hot, way hot. He hated winter, but the tilt of the planet had finally allowed a crispness to fall upon the bristling grass. The cirrus clouds painted a giant canvas of O’keeffeian beauty in the western horizon. The panorama reflected off the polished aqua blue paint on the hood of the old truck, mirroring the picturesque light show. It would soon be dark.
Turning the key off, the six cylinder engine came to a complete stop. He just sat there listening to the crackling of the hot engine cooling down in the fall air. Reaching his arm out the window, the chrome button on the door handle easily unhooked the latch of the door; the inside latch mechanism had long been broken. The truck was old. He had actually taken his driving test forty two years earlier in this same truck. You hold onto old friends that have helped you along over the years.

That fence was not going to fix itself. Replacing a single post would hobble through the winter. He and his daddy had strung this fence when he was still in high school. Tough, but the elements and time had given it’s toll on the whole run of fence. The loamy Texas dirt was soft so digging the hole next to the existing post was finished in short order. Hammering the galvanized staples into the new post, securing the old rusty barbed wire would take very little time.

An orange ray of Texas sunset reflected off the rolled up window of the passenger door on to the old dilapidated post. The smooth decades-old surface was cracked and splintered. The barbed wire had left scars and discoloring up and down its torso. Still upright, the Old Codger like post had served its intention well.

With a grunt and a shuffle, he clawed around behind the seat and finally found his fencing pliers. Grabbing the head of the long since rusted staples, he gave each one a twist and a pull. The evening wind let out a sigh of relief as the wires dangled free from its crimped existence With a “whoomp“, the new post found its new footing; it was ready to take over in this relay of performance. Three whacks each on the wire strands and the new staples were set to hold. Throwing the pliers back under the seat, he stopped and looked at the old post. Working it forward and sideways, soon the dirt had loosened around the footing. The post landed with a clatter in the bed of the truck. You don’t just throw away something that has helped you along over the years.

Darkness was winning the battle. He glanced at the empty hole. Not sure if you make a sound if no one is there to hear you, but the old codger spoke with a chuckle,

“That’s a hell‘uva note”, when you’re finished as a fence post they take you out of a hole and put you in one when you start out”.

“Sounds kinda backerds to me”

“Old Blue“ roared to life the instant he touched the starter button.

Where Ya'll Been ?

Where Ya’ll been? Me ? I have been in “Rehab”. Yep, I seem to be susceptible to addictions lately. Some of you have read my earlier post. 

http://glnroz33.blogspot.com/2011_02_01_archive.html

This time, I have been hooked on “crack”. The lure and latch was almost unbreakable but I did it. “Word Crack”. My oldest daughter kept on at me to read a series of books that she had read. She had finished the first two and was forced to go in the middle of the night and buy the third one- right then and there. I thought, “ye’uh another bunch of those vampire monster books that ain’t got one line of reality in ‘em. Then The Boss started in on me after she read them. Then there you have the youngest daughter; she’s read ‘em. I am not sure about the middle daughter. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, you would sooo like these books.” I ain’t got a chance when they gang up. I was caught up and finished with the couple of books I had been reading so I snuck around and started the first one without telling anyone. This way I could say, “I tried reading those danged things but just couldn’t get into the first one.” You have to think ahead with all these women telling me what to do; they know me better than I know myself, reckon? “W O R D C R A C K”. For the past couple of weeks I have been hooked on these durned books.

The main character (heroine) is a 17 year old girl. I almost stopped when I discovered this. They didn’t tell me this with all their sales pitches. I read on a little further. “Hunger Games” is a shallow, fast moving , and have to say, inspiring read. It is pretty confined to the main character throughout the book. “Catching Fire” is a continuing saga but it changes gears and keeps you thinking because it has its own identity. The final book, “Mockingjay”, is a final wrap up of the various obstacles that were created in the first two books with adding a few of its own. These were a definite surprise to me. I am still wondering what it was that made these books so appealing to an Old Codger like me.

The thing that amazes me is that the characters and plot did not take on the feeling of what I imagined would be for the intended age group and market audience. I have finished with these, but I am not sure “Katniss Everdeen” is finished.

I Kinda Feel - "NEGLECT" in My Efforts

If ya have a chance, just give a quick WATCH

http://news.yahoo.com/video/omaha-ketv-18230073/girl-keeps-new-year-s-resolution-one-good-deed-per-day-24439740

Education - Farm Style

Growing up, Timmy Ray lived out in the country. It ain’t like that was anything special, it was just that everyone we knew lived out in the country. You get a different look at life living out in the country and along with that sometimes a different approach to education.


Everybody played at everyone’s house. Everybody was part of everyone’s family. This was also the case when it came to meal time, if you happened to be at a friend’s. It was pretty much understood that if you were there you were invited.

Timmy Ray had two brothers and a sister. Timmy Ray was the oldest, next was Bobby Jack. Jackson was his real middle name, named after his Momma’s Daddy, but no one ever called him that. Willie Bob, actually William Robert as his full name was shorted the day he was born. He was the youngest boy and he told everyone his name was “Damit”. His Daddy said that it was because he was always hollering at the boy to do different things.

“Damn it, get that firewood box filled up in yonder in the kitchen. Damn it, get cleaned up for supper.” He would end up being called by that clear on up through his old age. Myrtle Faye was the baby. She was ruient rotten.

“Ya’ll get on in hen’uh now, get cleaned up and get somethin’ to eat.” We didn’t waste any time. Their Momma could cook like nothing else. They had a garden so the table was always set with a lot of different foods, in the springtime. Cornbread and fresh cow’s milk to round it all off. None of us wanted to be the last one in. Everyone had their regular spot and I got down next to Willie Bob. He was on the end of the bench next to Bobby Jack.

Their Daddy was what seemed to be a reasonable man but always came across a little “gruff”. He cussed a lot. One thing he always did was say the “Blessin’” before the first biscuit was bit. Immediately after “Amen”, their Momma passed the plate of hot fried chicken and everyone took a piece and the Daddy asked, “What vegetables ya’ll want?”

Timmy Ray, being the oldest spoke up first. “Can I have some of them damn mashed taters?”

There was not even a pause. The Daddy rared back and with a long sweeping stoke, bounced his massive hand off the top of Timmy Ray’s head. It was not that hard but Timmy Ray’s head jumped forward with enough force that he spit out his first bite of a chicken leg. Nobody said anything or even moved. After what seemed like five minutes the Daddy spoke.

“Bobby Jack, how ‘bout you, whad you want?”

“Well---may I PLEASE ,, have some of them damn potatoes?”

Like lightning, “whack”, a knuckle sandwich bounced off the top of his head. Bobby Jack had already swallowed his first bite of fried chicken. I am looking back and forth at the different choices. It would soon be my turn to ask. Another long silent pause was settling around the table Myrtle Sue was pointing at Bobby Jack with one hand and stifling a giggle with her other hand over her mouth. Maybe I will have green beans.

“Willie Bob?” The Daddy was looking at him with a sideways glance. He didn’t say anything else. You could see look of concentration on Willie Bob’s face. Finally he spoke.

“Well Daddy, I don’t know for sure, but you can pretty much bet your sweet ass I don’t want none of them damn mashed potatoes!”

I became educated, that instant. I grabbed a piece of cornbread and headed for the house.