Pouring on the miles

I've got a new route this school year, a move of my choosing since it involves more time; and with this job, time is money. But the route is a long one. My bus lot is near Ferguson and I-30. But my three stops are in far southwest Dallas County. I tallied up my mileage just on the bus today and got 85 miles.

It was a good start. My female riders were extremely well-behaved, but that's no surprise with this school. These girls are classy and will be tomorrow's leaders. It's a privilege to transport them around.

I was told by the bossman that the almost-new bus I had been promised was a casualty, indirectly, of the state closing down Spruce High School. They pulled that bus, for some reason, to transport the Spruce kids to Madison and Lincoln High Schools. However, the bossman did say that when new buses are delivered to our bus lot this year, I'll be in line to get one. But I can't complain. Even though my bus has 119,000 miles, it is amazingly solid for a school bus...absolutely rattle-free. The engine is strong. And, most importantly, the two air-conditioning units work just fine.

The best part of today was driving past all those schools and relishing in the reality that the stress of the first day of school had been passed on to a younger group. I wish them well. They have it so much harder than I. The education bureaucracy had just started growing tentacles in 1971, and today is a full-grown monster, devouring dreams and upchucking reams of paperwork. I took it as long as I could, 36 years. I retired, not because the kids had gotten out-of-hand, but because management refined idiocy to fine art. I hope that changes for the better in my lifetime. I shudder to think what becomes of our country if the teachers continue to be, not the best and brightest, but those who have failed at every other venture.

That time of year

Teachers (and former teachers) notice that a calendar year has a certain rhythm to it. Spring break week is invariably cold and wet and still feels like winter. The Thanksgiving break goes hand-in-hand with the last leaves of the season hanging on the trees. And August heat lets you know that your longest break of the year is about to be terminated.

Tomorrow, I do a dry run on my bus in preparation for Monday's school beginning. BTW, my ever-considerate employers went back on their word and gave the new bus to someone else, but I guess that's okay. Even though I've been retired from teaching two years, a couple of times this week I've caught myself feeling a twinge of dread, thinking I was returning to another year of teaching...only to catch myself and realize I don't have to stand in front of students anymore.

But my job is so easy that there's no real sorrow that summer's over. I really do enjoy what I'm doing and that is quite a blessing. But I pray a lot in August for one thing: a safe year of driving. In 25 years, I've only had one incident. About six years ago on a September 25th, someone drove through my bus' alternating red flashers at about 40 mph and hit one of my kids as he was crossing the street. The impact knocked him out of his shoes and through the air for about 50 feet. I thought I had just witnessed someone die instantly. Miraculously, he suffered "only" a broken femur and some internal injuries. I can still recall every second of that horrible accident. I didn't sleep the next couple of nights.

So as we get back into the rhythm of school, please resolve to be aware of school buses and school kids. If a bus ahead of you has flashing amber lights, slow down considerably and be prepared to stop instantly. The flashing red lights will coming on very soon. (BTW, a number of our buses will have cameras rigged up on the swing-out stop signs to get an image of vehicles who run through the red lights.) Don't be so caught up in other things that you mindlessly drive through the lights. May all of us have a safe school year.

Must Read

I'm halfway through a book entitled, "Same Kind of Different as Me". All I can say is you must get the book and read it. You can buy it for as little as $8.40 at amazon.com. You will thank me. If you have already read it, you know what I mean.

Service with a ......

For the life of me, I can't figure out why some businesses haven't figured out that good customer relations translates into return business and that equals profit. Two well-known companies are, however, driving me nuts with their inability to understand this principle.

We have a neighborhood Wal-Mart close to us. It's not a "super" Wal-Mart, one of those mega-monsters that sells everything from lawn chairs to lingerie, but a nice, blend-into-the-area kind of store that pretty much sells food and health items. It's a great store in nearly every way. Except one. It still uses the same grocery carts that were there when the store opened about five years ago. The problem is the wheels. The wheels are worn out. On many of the carts, the wheels' rubber tires are practically gone. On most of them, the wheels are severely out of line. The result? As one tries to push the cart down the aisle, it has a mind of its own and seems determined to get into the green beans, pulling severely to one side or another as a contrary dog might act toward his master.

I've even tried contacting Wal-Mart headquarters, telling them that I love their store but may have to go elsewhere if they don't do something about the squirrely carts. The answer? "We're working on it." That was six months ago.

Then there is Luby's, a venerable Texas institution. I love Luby's, to the point that my children taunt me mercilessly, as though I were already in the geriactric set. (I'm close, but I still have my teeth.) I love Luby's because healthy food can be had there. And after I've eaten their healthy food, I can destroy my good intentions with pecan pie or carrot cake.

But this week, I happened by a Luby's at lunchtime and it was a nightmare experience. As I parked my car, I noticed a half-dozen of the employees gathered in front of the doors, smoking. Hardly an appetizing thought. It opened at 11 and I was first in line. There I was, ready to slide my tray down the row, and Luby's wasn't ready. 11:05 arrived and much of the food had not even been set out. The servers were mingling about, blissfully ignoring what was now a growing line of hungry customers. Finally, at 11:07, they decided to give it a go. Then, they had no mashed potatoes. I was told it would be three minutes and they would bring me the potatoes. How can you not have mashed potatoes ready?

I walked to a table and had a seat. Immediately, I noticed that the table was not clean. I looked down and saw silverware on the floor beneath an adjacent seat. So already, this place has gotten a failing grade and not much can be done to salvage the meal. But...unfortunately, I was sitting beneath a speaker and now was being assaulted by music that could charitably be described as awful. It sounded like a tasmanian devil mating march. I thought cafeterias piped in gentle, soothing stuff that facilitated conversation and relaxation. Not this Luby's.

I finally straggled to the cashier to pay for this experience. For some reason, I glanced upward and my eyes caught an air-conditioning vent positioned directly over the line of customers who were picking out their vegetables. The vent was covered with filth and obviously hadn't been cleaned since...maybe opening day?

Again, if businesses would just realize what it takes to generate return customers, and how easy it is, their profits would skyrocket accordingly. I don't know whether we're dealing with some sort of corporate laziness that permeates from the top exec all the way to the new hire or if business is so good that customer service gets put on the back burner. But I hate it.

Abilene Back

I've got an interesting week goin' on. This is the third and final summer school week for the (ready?) Irma Lerma Rangel Leadership School for Young Women. There was one week in both June and July, and now these enrichment weeks are wrapping up with this session. These aren't "catch up" weeks for the girls. They are advancement opportunities. This week the 14 girls I'm picking up are learning robotics at the Science Place at Fair Park.

What makes this a demanding week for me is the strange schedule. I go to nine different middle schools which are spread out from far north Dallas all the way to deep Pleasant Grove in the southeast part of town. So, I leave Rockwall at 6 AM, get in my bus around 6:45, make my first pickup at 7:30, go to 8 more schools, and finally arrive at Rangel around 9:20.

As you can tell, that translates to nearly four and a half hours of driving. In the afternoon, I repeat the process as I take them home and then drive myself back to Rockwall. I had trouble sleeping last night with a strange symptom known as "Abilene Back", a condition that originated in the '60's and '70's when I was making so many trips between Dallas and Abilene. "Abilene Back" (westexicus spinus) is nothing more than back spasms and is the result of sitting behind the wheel for stupid lengths of time. Good thing this only lasts a week.

Anesthesized Amnesia

A weird thing happened yesterday at the hospital. After a routine procedure, I was wheeled back to recovery - where Carole awaited me. But apparently, my mental state arrived at different times. Let me explain:

After we were already home yesterday, it dawned on me that I was fuzzy as to when I regained consciousness. I asked the wife about it and soon it was apparent things weren't adding up. The first thing I vaguely remember is getting rid of the lovable hospital gown (made for someone 5'4", not 6'4", btw) and getting dressed. Carole started ticking off a list of activities which preceded that and pretty soon I felt extremely foolish.

She said that we had discussed the fact that I had been rolled in to slot #22 in the recovery area...something that is funny to us since the number 22 follows us around unmercifully. Then she pointed that I had called our son, Blake, to update him on my condition...note that I made the call, not she. And to top it off, Carole said that together we had worked on the NYTimes crossword and almost finished it. This all caught me by surprise. I asked her if I had said anything embarrassing and she said, "No more than normally."

So I'm wondering if any of you out there in the blogosphere have heard of this and/or experienced it yourself. I know one thing: next time, I'm gonna have the anesthesiologist tape my mouth shut when I leave the OR, just to be on the safe side.

Learning a Lesson

Early tomorrow morning, I'm having a routine medical procedure that requires me to do without food today. The last food intake I had was a monster bowl of ice cream at 10PM last night. It is now 3PM a day later. This may have been the longest I've gone without nourishment in my life.

It is such a radical departure from the norm...I get headaches when a meal is 30 minutes late. And I've had 'em today as well. Food is such a huge part of my life! Throughout the day today, I've had visions of snacks and desserts floating around my head, dropping off pieces of sugarized morsels onto my face. (I'm not yet suffering to the degree of the now-extinct Coahuiltecan Indians of South Texas...there were four types of Indians in early Texas: the farmers, the fishers, the hunters, and then the Coahuiltecans, who were, uh, gatherers of food. Among the delicacies they enjoyed were ants, spiders, bark, and deer manure. All they had to do for breakfast was turn over a rock.)

My stomach just growled! You may have heard it. But let's cut to the chase. It's dawned on me that I'm experiencing a tiny bit of what a lot of folks in the world deal with on a daily basis. What a blessing it is to live in America! I'm suffering now, but at least I know that about 10AM tomorrow, I'll have a chocolate shake or something equally fast-breaking and this hunger experience

will be over for good. To some kid on the streets of Mexico City or in the impoverished cities of India, their hunger doesn't come with the guarantee of a next meal that mine does.

I also freely admit that I've never fasted for the expressed purpose of seeking deeper spirituality. I hate the hunger headaches so much that I've just resisted the idea, period. I'm amazed, however, at how much fasting was interwoven into the lives of early Christians. It seemed to be as routine and normal as praying. Maybe one serendipitous outcome of this experience will be the personal revelation that this is something I can do and not die from. I also think that sometimes we Christians have a little fear of anything that might lead us into a deeper commitment with God...like guys who really don't want to go to a Promise Keepers weekend, knowing that it'll will probably lead into a more self-less lifestyle, and that is something they're not quite ready to experience.

So hopefully, as the rumbles continue from just north of my navel, there is good to come from this food deprivation session. One thing's for sure - I can't wait to get my hand around that Wendy's chocolate shake tomorrow.

The Ides of August

The glories of being retired from teaching are innumerable. One of the best occurred this morning. For 36 years, the act of flipping the calendar from July to August instantly produced a knot in the stomach that didn't go away until mid-September, or roughly four weeks into the school year. For me, summer started on Memorial Day and finished with thud on August 1.

This uncomfortable gnawing away of my usual good nature occurred on the 1st even though there were 2-3 weeks of freedom still left in the month. Any joy of lingering freedom was diluted by the reality that hanging over me was the huge unknown of the next group of 150 students I'd be teaching and whether they'd be crazier than the last bunch. Also hanging on the pendulum as it steadily approached my neck was the knowledge that I would soon be stepping into a state of exhaustion, broken only by the heaven-sent holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Ironically, I now look forward to the start of school. I've got a new bus route, a new bus, and another new group of fairly brilliant Rangel students to get to know. Also, I anticipate the new year if for no other reason than it means cooler weather can't be far off. Because as I type this, it's around 100 with a heat index about 400. So bring on school, cool weather, and the relaxed stomach. Tee-hee!

Whoa

No news today. Just asking you to click on the picture above. It blew me away to the extent that I may never find my way home. One of the legion of photos I wish I had taken.

Irma Lerma

I get a lot of questions about the all-girls school to which I drive. Most folks in Dallas are unaware that such an animal even exists.

It's called "Rangel" but the official name is (ready?) "The Irma Lerma Rangel Young Women's Leadership School at Chappie James". Miss Irma was an attorney and state legislator from south Texas. The school was established about five or six years ago and will have its first senior class ever this upcoming school year. There were 28 girls in the original class and 21 of them have stayed with the program and are seniors. The numbers per grade increase as you go down the ladder. The lowest grade is the 6th.

The prospective students have to jump through all sorts of hoops to get accepted, including essay-writing and an extensive interview. Naturally, they have to have the grades and test scores just to get a foot in the door. What are the benefits? How 'bout no boys, for starters. Having loitered around the school now since February, I can tell you that serious instruction with little or no distractions is the norm. The curriculum is tough. Each student is issued a laptop. I can vouch for the fact that these girls carry books home every night and seem to constantly be working on projects.

Here's the best perk of all: all girls who stay with the school and graduate qualify for a college scholarship to the tune of 12K/year. To keep the scholarship they must maintain a 3.0 GPA. One semester below that and they lose the scholarship. This money isn't DISD money. The school employs a couple of folks who are money solicitors...talking to corporations and foundations and raising the funds.

It's one impressive place. Having spent 36 years in the district and seeing mostly the grimy underbelly of urban education, this school is a breath of fresh air. The girls, for the most part, are mature and serious. I said "for the most part" because I had a couple of silly 6th graders on my bus this year that I don't think had the necessary attitude and approach and will probably not be around much longer. It was cool this year having passengers on my bus who were actually discussing what they had learned at school that day...unbelievable! I know one thing...I never want to drive for any other school. I finally reached nirvana.

Grandkids - Part Two

Nearly a month ago, Carole and I had the opportunity to grow closer with grand-daughters Maddie and Macie while their parents vacationed in D.C. Although we were exhausted by the time Blake and Jaime returned, the marvelous interraction with the girls made it all worthwhile. Well, now we are keeping grandsons Zach and Ethan while Brett and Jenny are seeing the sights in Seattle and Vancouver.

What's cool about this is that since these boys live in San Antonio, we seldom spend lengthy time with them. Carole and I usually visit them only on weekends, usually 3 or 4 times a year. But now we have 'em for 4+ days and the bonding time is abundant. We are seeing Zach and Ethan up close and personal. And so far it's been a blast.

I spent this week driving the bus for the Rangel Leadership School. This is an all girls school developed for the best and brightest DISD females. This week was all about teaching commitment to the community. The girls worked with immigrants striving to learn English, tutoring homeless children, visiting a senior citizen center, and touring the Scottish Rite hospital. These girls are going to be movers and shakers in the future and the goal this week was to let them know about societal problems and hopefully be involved in solving those problems someday. It was cool to be a small part of this.

Tom Turkey

I have blogged previously about my fascination with TomTom, a cool GPS toy. It is really something...and has proven itself invaluable this summer as I drove the bus through neighborhoods unfamiliar to me. Well, I start tomorrow on another one-week summer school job, so last Thursday I went to get TomTom as I got together needed materials. And it wasn't where I remember putting it.

Carole and I searched for some time before I located it hiding behind some pictures on the entertainment center. How Tom got there I'll never know. Anyway, I programmed the new locations I would need this week. On Friday, I got ready to drive to Dallas so I could do a trial run on my route and...Tom was once again AWOL. This created stress because (a) I needed it to guide me around town on this new route, and (b) I was picking up another driver at 9:15 on my way in. Again, Carole and I turned the house inside out, this time taking about 5 minutes as that was all the time I had. No luck.

I drove my route with the aid of Mapsco and one phone call to Carole to have her look up a suggested route on google maps. It was tedious and laborious and I was fuming at Tom for sneaking off again. Got home and resumed the search with no luck. Tried to take a nap without success. And as I lay there, it dawned on me that Tom had to be in my car, even though I had searched the vehicle repeatedly. It simply could not be anywhere else. Sure enough, I located the rascal in a small pocket in my bookbag right there in the car. I hadn't searched that particular pocket because I assumed it was too small for Tom. And the crazy thing is, I had the bookbag with me all the time was laboriously driving the route.

Carole had not helped matters during the search, saying things like,"You're gonna have to buy another TomTom to locate the first TomTom." Har-de-har. Amazingly, this is the 4th time since I bought the device that I've lost it. I say, "I've lost it," knowing full well that this pesky thing has moved on its own to new hiding places, giggling merrily along the whole way. Maybe God is punishing me for buying something my parents would never have bought for themselves. Maybe I should take the sorry gadget back to Circuit City. Now let me see, where did I put it?

An Ode to Key Lime Pie

I don't know where key lime pie was all my life. I had never tried it until a few years ago. On that fateful day, Brett and Jenny just happened to have an Edwards frozen key lime pie. Words are inadequate to describe the ecstacy experienced by my taste buds. I believe I would have gladly eaten until death had there been an unlimited supply of pies. Words also fail to describe the number of fat grams I noticed when I turned the Edwards box over.

I'm bringing this up because of an incident Carole and I experienced tonight at Applebee's. They had a special whereby if you selected a certain entree', you would get a free dessert. I noticed that one of the dessert choices was key lime pie. So I opted for the special. I had chosen a hamburger for my entree' - the patty was fatty (!) and I scarcely paid it any mind since I couldn't get the thought of the key lime pie out of my consciousness.

Carole and I often share a dessert out of concern for calories and cost. When the waiter finally brought out the pie, he thoughtfully provided two spoons. That should have been the warning sign...one does not eat pie with a spoon. And there it was. The pie was in a small glass. There was a little bit of lime filling, a little bit of whipped cream, and a few sprinkles of graham cracker crust. I wanted to rise to my feet and immediately proclaim a key lime disaster right there and just clear the restaurant of patrons. What a joke! When you couple a fatty patty with a fake pie, you've lost my business. Forever.

Absence...making the heart grow fonder

Two blogs ago, I mentioned an impending reunion of 4 year-old grand-daughter, Maddie, with her parents returning from a nation's capital vacation. I would be taking Maddie to the airport with me as I retrieved the vacationers. This was the longest she had been away from her parents. Carole and I were growing weary of trying to find ways to respond to her repeated laments, "I miss my Mommy." "I want my Daddy". There wasn't really anything we could say to successfully assuage her grief.

But now Friday evening had arrived. Maddie and I waited in the passenger pickup area as AA flight 343 taxiied to the gate. Blake called me as soon as they exited the plane. I told him to call me again when he and Jaime exited the terminal. Maddie was getting a bit impatient. She had been waiting for over 4 days and the anticipation was deliciously intense. Finally, the phone rang and I instructed Blake to turn left and start walking...we were an easy football field apart.

Since Blake is quite tall, I spotted him first. I didn't tell Maddie...I wanted them to be a bit closer before I released her for the glorious reunion sprint. There were other folks walking in front of Blake and Jaime, but finally Mommy came into view. I pointed her out to Maddie and suddenly all the pent-up emotion had a release. Maddie showed how fast a 4 year-old could run, and Jaime was also running. When they were about 20 yards apart, both mother and daughter were already crying. Maddie was screaming, "Mommmiiiiieeee!!".

Suddenly they were embracing in an ecstatic, spinning-wheel bearhug, with tears being slung in all directions. I couldn't take it. I quickly moved to help Blake with the luggage. I'm sure he didn't feel slighted by Maddie. After all, somebody had to be hugged first.

The story of one photo...

Since I'm not a great, world-renowned photographer, no one comes to me and asks, "What is your favorite photograph?" So I often look through 4 years of shots and ask that question of myself. I still don't have a definitive answer. The picture that today I like more than others may drop a few notches a few weeks later. So the best I can say is that I have many favorites. The one you see above is one of those.

I had been contacted by a guy who worked "airside" at DFW Airport. He had an amazing job, even though it paid just over $13 an hour. He got to drive an official yellow pickup around the runways and perimeter roads and be a combination of security guy and go-fer fellow. If a pilot reported a dead coyote on a runway (it's happened), they would shut down the runway and this guy would go dispatch the coyote. Anyway, he wanted to know if I would like to ride along with him and take photos. Well, yeah!!

For this particular shot, he parked his pickup about 20 yards from runway 36R. Here came American Airlines flight 60 from Tokyo. It had probably been in the air 11 hours or so. What I liked was that it was a Boeing 777, the monster of the AA fleet. It is highly photogenic and very loud...a visual and auditory overdose. I stood in the bed of his vehicle, spread my feet, and leaned my kneecaps against the back window for further support. And I snapped away.

What I try to do at this angle is to get a shot at the exact moment the wheels hit concrete. One reason I like this shot is that I got lucky. The right landing gear has made contact a millisecond before the left...note that a tiny cloud of tire smoke has begun on the plane's right set of wheels...while on the left, only one of the wheels has begun to touch pavement. The pilot has come extremely close to nailing a perfect landing, and perhaps only a photo could convince the passengers that there was any flaw in the touchdown. Seconds later, the wing passed by incredibly close, the thrust-reversers were deployed, and waves of auditory overload cascaded over me. It was way cool.

But the shot apparently isn't that great. One aviation picture website rejected it, saying it wasn't up to their standards. I reworked it six times and they still didn't like it. And, to top it off, I have lost contact with my contact. After 7 or 8 sessions "inside the fence" at DFW, I now have to position myself outside the perimeter like everyone else. I knew it was too good to last. But boy did I love it while it lasted!

We may make it!

When last we visited the Perkins household, Carole and Tim had just begun a 4+ day endurance test of sorts, keeping two grand-daughters while their parents vacationed in Washington, D.C. This reporter has learned that the grand-parents are still conscious, despite repeated blows to various body parts with plastic or spongy weapons. They have but a little over a day before the test is over.

In an exclusive interview with Tim, we have learned that despite the physical beating of sitting in the floor for hours trying to stack dominoes for one g'daughter only to have the other take immense delight in demolishing the construction, there have been numerous magical moments. Macie, age 1 year, 5 months, is in the magical stage of developing English as a first language. She is perfecting the words "Papa", "Mimi", "Hi", and the extreme phrase of "What's that". And it has become obvious that she understands a great deal of what is being said to her, despite her inability to respond in a coherent manner. Tim reports that if you ask her to take a toy to Maddie, she wheels around and takes a toy to Maddie. Fun stuff.

Carole reports that the biggest challenge has been keeping 4 year-old Maddie entertained, since she is a high energy, highly intelligent young lady who can max out on an activity fairly quickly. But last night, Carole says, was a revelation. After Macie had been put down for the night, Maddie was given a box of Perkins family photos...and proceeded to spend the next two hours totally absorbed, sitting alone in the floor, studying each picture for details. She found one shot of her parents and grand-parents and took great delight in the fact that her daddy had blinked just as the picture was being made. Apparently, both Tim and Carole watched her with awe as minutes became hours, totally aware that this was one of those magical, priceless times in their lives.

Maddie and Macie's parents are due in around 9 tonight. Tim will take Maddie to the airport with him for what should be a great reunion. He said he anticipates Maddie sprinting 20 yards then leaping another 20 feet or so into her parents' arms. She will be followed closely by her grand-father doing the same thing.

The kids are here...

In 15 minutes, Blake and Jaime's flight leaves for Washington, D.C. Which smeans that Carole and I have hunkered down for our 4.5 days of keeping Maddie, age 4, and Macie, age 1.5.

We hope we're up to the task. Tomorrow, we plan to go to the Dallas Zoo, an outing that I'm sure will leave us totally refreshed and enthused about life in general. Right. The rest of the time with the girls will be spent doing our best to keep them happy and occupied. It should be interesting. We both give up what little TV we watch for these 4.5 days. And there will be little time with our laptops. But it will be cool to get even closer with our grand-offspring.

Blake and Jaime don't know it, but all they'll do is talk about their kids, even as they go through the Capitol building and all the Smithsonians. Funny how that works. You greedily anticipate the chance to finally have time alone and when you get it...you wonder how the kids are doing and if you can be away from them for this long. Ahhh, the love of a parent!

Adios, Ronald

I rarely seem to end up inside a McDonald's. On those infrequent occasions that I need a hamburger fix, the place of choice is Whataburger, no questions asked. But as of today, I'm boycotting the golden arches.

Corporate McDonald's just sent a check for $20,000 to the National Gay and Lesbian Chamber of Commerce. When contacted by American Family Association, the McDonald's suits replied and said they are "reaffirming" their support of the homosexual agenda. Seems like these folks are heavily into political correctness.

When Ford Motor Company did something similar, Christians around America started boycotting FMC. Their sales dropped remarkably. One thing we know for sure - the almighty dollar rules in those corporate boardrooms. I'd love to see McDonald's have to retract their stance because of Christian solidarity.

I'd also like for them to learn how to make a tastier burger.

Surviving July

Two ominous realities for this new month: As I approach my '60's, I've noted with alarm that yard work which used to be almost routine now is anything but. And I desperately need to continue doing yard work because it is my one link to hard physical activity. See, we don't have a normal yard. It takes me in excess of an hour and a half just to knock out the front - and not because I'm going slowly. I ramp up my walk-behind mower to the fastest speed I can comfortably walk and I attack the enemy.

But this year, I've had to take a break at the 45-minute mark, sit on the front porch for a spell, and contemplate a youthful energy that is long gone. And then there is the day after; when getting out of bed sounds like someone shaking a bag of Legos. And then, there is weed-eating to do, but that's a whole 'nuther blog subject. And I'm fully aware that I need to continue to keep the yardwork routine going...if I pull over to the side of the road, metaphorically speaking, I might never get the car started again.

What's ominous about this is the reality that twice during this month, Carole and I are keeping pairs of grandkids for a few days while their parents get a much deserved vacation w/o the kids. We can't wait for the opportunity to enjoy these wonderful, beautiful, highly-intelligent children - it'll be a rare treat. What I wonder is whether I can keep up with them. The last thing we want to do is sit on the couch and read the paper and tell the kids to entertain themselves. I want to spend as much time as possible in the floor, playing with the munchkins.

I just don't want to have to have Carole call the paramedics to pull me up.

Angst over the Bluetooth...

I usually don't mind colored body parts. You have the person with a green thumb. Sometimes kids get pinkeye. A loser in a fistfight might have a black eye. And who can forget Rudolph's red nose? But this Bluetooth craze has me screaming for a little sanity in our society.

First off, I don't like the way the thing looks. It looks like a Hotwheel car from the '70's has been implanted in your ear. The whole appearance makes me uneasy, perhaps because I'm not used to seeing stuff attached to one's ear.

But that gripe pales in comparison to the awkwardness this technology foists on passers-by. So here you have a Bluetoothed person, walking along as I approach, walking the opposite direction. Chances are I don't see the contraption...it might be covered up by hair or by a hat. As I draw closer, the person starts talking to me (methinks) and I strain to hear what's being said so that I can answer in a friendly manner. When I don't understand, I say to the person, "I'm sorry, what?", only to have the person walk right past me, never even realizing I was there. This tends to make me feel about as foolish as one can get.

A few months ago, I was walking toward a co-worker at the bus lot, unaware that she was "on the phone". As I came alongside her, she suddenly screamed out, "Get outta here!" I immediately jumped furtively to the side and looked around to see how it was that I was in the wrong place. Alas, she was just responding via her Hotwheels to someone's incredible bit of news. Deliver me!!

Strangely, Bluetooths (Blueteeth?) have been a huge hit with black folks, not so much with whites. Since most of my fellow bus drivers are black, I get to see the bizarre scene sometimes of a lobby full of people talking away furiously, but not to each other! It's disquieting to the max.

Uh, needless to say, this is one technological "advance" I'll refrain from buying.

Places I've never been, but wanna go to someday...

1. Alaska (preferably all the way to Point Barrow)

2. Fenway Park in Boston

3. Glacier National Park

4. Scotland

5. St. Maarten (amazing airport photography there)

Places I've been and would like to return to

1. Ft. Jackson, S.C. (where I had boot camp - I'd like to see it as a veteran now)

2. Itasca State Park, Minnesota (source of the mighty Mississippi)

3. Vermont

4. Vancouver

5. Inside the fence at DFW Airport (my contact person has disappeared)

Places I've been and will NEVER return to

1. DISD Personnel Office

2. Manhattan

3. Wolverine Tube Co., Dallas (site of a horrible one-day job in my 20's)

4. Ft. Chaffee, Arkansas (site of a summer camp during my Nat'l Guard days)

5. Aztec, NM (and people actually live there?!!)

Obama scares me...

Yes, he does. I'll vote for McCain, but not because I like him that much. It's more a case of the lesser of two evils.

Obama, according to those who measure stuff like this, is the most liberal of all the senators. He is pro-abortion, and that alone is enough to keep me from pulling his lever...oh, sorry...forgot we don't use voting machines anymore. Like most Democrats, he sees the government as the cure for any problem. That means, if elected, he would ask Congress to throw heaps of money to anyone in need as though money cures everything.

His religious views bother me. About a year ago, I saw him on Oprah and came away almost comfortable with his endorsement of Christianity. But since then, we have had the revelations concerning his church in Chicago. And recently, he said that there were many ways to God and that all should be prepared to jettison critical spiritual beliefs in an effort to have national religious solidarity. Whoa. I might be willing to concede that Lazarus hopped from the grave rather than walked, but not much more. Obama's vision is downright scary.

I am also wary of his lack of experience. He's almost come from nowhere to being sudden star, and he's already exposed a lack of understanding in key areas (to wit, sitting down for chit-chat with Iran's crazy guy and worrying about the treatment of Gitmo's terrorists). Would his advisors be just as green as he in foreign relations? Would he just trust his judgment with no regard for the past? I think McCain is all over him in the experience category.

And finally, there is the matter of selecting Supreme Court justices. There could be two chances in the next 4-8 years to inject the Court with liberal-thinking, constitution-ignoring replacements who could have a devastating impact on the freedoms we have left. It is crucial to have a pro-life president to make those choices.

If you disagree with every word I've written, I still love you.

Mars? Are we sure?

I just finished watching an amazing set of programs on NASA's early days through the Shuttle programs. What we accomplished as a nation was truly extraordinary. As a kid watching the early astronauts blasting off while I sat in the school auditorium, the fascination was truly there. And as a kid who didn't understand things like cost and risk, I whole-heartedly endorsed anything NASA tried.

Now, NASA's focus has shifted from the moon all the way out to Mars, a cold, red, sandy place as inhospitable as Parkland's ER waiting room. We've already plunked down some expensive unmanned machinery on the surface of Mars, and just last week, one of these gizmos found ice just beneath the sandy surface. The ice might as well have been Pez dispensers given the way the scientists exploded with glee. This milestone only feeds the dream of one day putting human footprints in the red sand.

Is it time, perhaps, to finally show some restraint in the realm of space travel? Of course, those involved in pushing the envelope say that man's curiosity must always be kow-towed to. And that man's drive to explore the unknown will always have merit. But for the life of me, I can't see the benefit of making the red planet just another way-stop on our way to "progress". I've been to West Texas and I know we're not short of red sand. Of course, the scientists are falling all over themselves proclaiming that Mars will unlock the Gordian knot of the origin of life. Mercy. Deliver me.

I pity the poor astronauts selected for the initial trip. It takes a whopping nine months to get there. And you thought it was boring to drive to Abilene. How long will it take before the pilot has to roll up a magazine and pop the guys in the back seat who are making faces at each other?

So let's be satisfied with our historic trips to the moon and shut down NASA. Certainly, the Martians would want it that way.

Learning something new every day...

Today I was looking at a tutorial video on how and why sonic booms happen. At the end of it, the commentator said, "By the way, the sound you hear when a bullwhip is cracked is the tip end breaking the sound barrier." Well, that was a nugget of info I didn't know. I researched it and sho' 'nuff, it's true.

Earlier today, I had been reading Revelation 7; starting around verse 12, you have this:

"Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen. 13 Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, "Who are these, robed in white, and where have they come from?" 14 I said to him, "Sir, you are the one that knows." Then he said to me, "These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
15 For this reason they are before the throne of God,
and worship him day and night within his temple,
and the one who is seated on the throne will shelter them.
16 They will hunger no more, and thirst no more;
the sun will not strike them,
nor any scorching heat;
17 for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd,
and he will guide them to springs of the water of life,
and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."

I see at least three church songs that have their origin here. What a nugget that is! Probably due the incredible power those verses have.

Meanwhile, we keep learning.

Left-wing Patriot

In conjunction with the blog entry below, I thought I'd share this picture. Three year-old Maddie saw what folks were doing during the national anthem, and did her best to replicate their actions. It was too cute not to post.

Legal Gouging

Last night, I took advantage of some free tickets and went to a Texas Ranger game. With me were Blake, Jaime, and Maddie. I go to an average of one game a year and there's a reason. I just can't handle the prices of the peripheral stuff. I guess this is how the owners are able to fund the exorbitant contracts of their players. They reach deeply into the wallets of the fans.

Let's assume a family of four takes an outing to the Ballpark. Let's assume their tickets are $20 apiece, a fairly typical ticket price. Let's also assume that one of them has a disability, as I do, and can park in a handicapped spot. Showing their sympathy for your situation in life, the organization will charge you $12 for parking in your close-by spot.

Of course, one doesn't go to the game without eating the sumptuous fare of ballpark food. Here are a couple of representative prices: large cup of soda, $4.75. Bowl of ice cream, $5.50. Beer? $6.25. (Uh, have no fear, I didn't indulge.) I didn't even glance at what a burger might cost. I could go into detail about how you can get a two-liter bottle of soda for less than a buck or how a half-gallon of Blue Bell can be had for less than $5 at your local Wal-Mart. I can almost picture Ranger owner Tom Hicks looking through a one-way mirror and yelling, "Gotcha", after each transaction.

So, let's tally up the damages. $80 for tickets, $12 for parking, $60 (or so) for food, and little Johnny wants a Ranger tee shirt, maybe an extra $20. Oh, don't forget the cost of gas for driving to the mid-cities for the game, probably another $20 there. My math says that's $192 right there. And that may be conservative. Based on what I saw around me, many families were exceeding the $60 food allowance.

Stuff like this strains my sensibilities. I can't relate to the shortstop who makes $4 million/year and I can't begin to understand 16 oz. of coke at $4.75. Better to stay home, manage my money well, and enjoy the ambience of my den and the Ranger game on TV. So there, Mr. Hicks. Gotcha!

Dad's Day

I've had the wonderful words from my kids today. Naturally, they all say the usual things. But what I want them to know is that this day would be meaningless were they not such superlative children of God. I've had, I suppose, a modicum of influence in their lives. But still, the burden of making good choices, of being good and pure and honorable, has been with them all these years. And they have come through with flying colors.

I want to make sure before this day is over that I communicate with my Father in heaven, and tell Him how good he's been to me.

Tom, Terrific

As much as I love "boy toys", I always feel a tinge of guilt when purchasing another one because often, it's hard to put the transaction in the "need" category. It's usually a solid score in the "fun" column. But I bought a TomTom GPS unit last weekend after borrowing one from Blake and being blown away by its handiness.

You see, I'm driving a one-week summer-school bus route this week. And all the stops are in Oak Cliff. I know Oak Cliff streets about as well as I know downtown Damascus, and I didn't want to be driving around Monday morning with one eye on the road and one eye on a Mapsco. The bus boss allowed me to take a dry run last Friday and that's when I used Blake's TomTom for the first time. It was miraculous and stunningly accurate. So I returned his to him and got my own.

It has made this week extraordinarily easy. I have five middle schools to go to, the streets are narrow, and often the street signs are hidden by trees. Not a problem. But I find myself almost talking back to the pleasant female voice which gives me the turn instructions. "Turn left at the light," she says. "And if I don't?" I wonder aloud. I sense her rolling her eyes. "And watch your tone of voice," I add. Meanwhile, I miss the turn.

But the brainpower of this little device is incredible. It knows the speed limits of the interstates and monitors whether I've remained legal. It knows the forks in the road and whether I should bear left or bear right. The only way I've found to beat it is to swing into a curved driveway in front of a school and do a u-ey. I can hear that lady thinking, "How did he do a u-turn in a school bus?"

So, add the GPS unit to the list of things I don't understand. It's right up there with the internet, the DVR, and Ranger baseball.

Behold, the humble baby stroller

Ah, baby strollers. Conjures up mental images of sweet-smelling babies dressed in lace, ribbon, and bows, being pushed slowly enough to let the general public see just how precious they are. How could someone see a stroller in the attic and not wax nostalgic about those wonderful bygone days when little Mary had rosy cheeks and blond curls and Daddy was so proud to roll her through the mall.

But I've seen a whole 'nuther use for the lovely stroller recently. I wouldn't know about this had I not been driving my school bus through poverty areas of Dallas. Here's the story: On Haskell Avenue in South Dallas, there is a metal recovery company that pays cash for cans. There is a surprisingly large number of homeless or almost homeless men in that area whose only income (apparently) comes from selling aluminum cans to this company. These guys go through the dumpsters behind the beer joints on Samuell Blvd. looking for cans. They are very visible on Tuesdays and Fridays because those are trash pickup days and people roll their trash receptacles out to the curb...and those are searched by these desperate men for more empty soda and beer cans.

The men have honed their skills in this primitive seek-and-find game to the point that they can fill up several 30-gallon bags with cans. But when you don't own a vehicle to stuff multiple bags of cans into, your daily survival routine becomes problematic. Some turn to grocery carts, stolen from the very few grocery stores in the neighborhood. But the police are onto this practice. Plus, the stores hire folks to scour the area, looking for abandoned and stolen carts. So the alternative vehicle has become the somewhat lowly baby stroller. It is the cargo hauler of choice for this segment of our society. And the bigger, the better. I have seen as many as five full bags of cans perched perilously on the stroller as it is pushed down bumpy side roads. And these tattered, dirty men all end up rolling toward the reclamation plant on Haskell.

If you turn your brain off, the sight is comical. But I can't do that - which is surprising because I try to find humor in nearly every situation. The irony overwhelms me. A desperate man pushing a stroller around, loaded down with a few dollars of aluminum cans, when 40, 50 years ago...maybe he was pushed down the sidewalk in a similar vehicle by a proud mom or dad...who had no idea that this baby would end up pushing a stroller for an entirely different reason...

And most people in the Metroplex are blissfully unaware that stuff like this goes on. Once, on impulse, I ran over to one of these men and handed him a twenty. Embarrassed by this for some reason, I quickly ran back to my bus. Once there, I looked back at him...and he was standing totally still, staring my way, holding the bill in his hand. No words, no jumping up and down, nothing except eyes locked on me as though I were Lot's wife.

I'm really glad God lets me see stuff like this.

Using that direct line to God

I mentioned in a previous blog that I spent much of my childhood hiking the railroad track that was two blocks from my home. It was certainly a different time back then...the idea that my mom, a caring and loving mother, allowed her little boy to be gone for hours, hanging out in a dangerous environment, almost portrays her as being disinterested in my well-being. But the decade of the '50's was a time of tranquil trust - there were few overt threats to little kids who played outdoors and left the house for hours at a time. Of course, Mom had no idea how close I was getting to trains as they passed by, even crouching in the sides of trestles, two feet away from roaring locomotives. Or that I engaged hobos in conversation on a daily basis, a fascinating activity for anyone, but particularly for a nine year-old.

One hot afternoon, my older brother, Charlie, had joined me for a long hike that took us way south toward an area where we seldom went. We finally reached a point where we badly needed to turn around and did so. A mere minute later, a scraggly white dog appeared from the tall grass and angrily accosted us. We did the smart thing and simply acted like the pooch weren't there...and calmly kept walking north on the tracks. But this doggie hadn't read the manual and he (she?) bit my skinny little leg just above the ankle. Having accomplished the mission, the dog scurried back into the grass.

Unfortunately, there was a huge rabies scare going on in Dallas at the time. Kids were being bitten by unvaccinated animals and facing the spector of getting the dreaded dozen or shots directly into the stomach with long, silver needles, just to avoid dying from rabies. The tension in the city was palpable as both daily newspapers and all three television stations were intent on getting the word out about unvaccinated dogs and what might happen if one got you.

Charlie and I arrive back at the house around 4. Dad has just arrived home from his post office job. He and Mom took one look at the puncture wounds on my leg and immediately understood the significance. A young boy has been bitten by a dog in a remote area, and the dog has run off. So what do you do? I'm sure they started silently praying. Dad said there was nothing to do but find the dog or its owner, both daunting tasks if not impossible.

The closest houses to the tracks and the site where the doggy had bitten me were in "colored town", an area where white folks didn't go. The magic boundary was Haskell Ave., and black people didn't venture north of that line and whites never, ever had any business south of the line. But my parents were desperate, and I, not understanding the significance of what was going on, hopped in the car with Dad and Charlie and headed south of Haskell. Charlie took a guess as to the street closest to the area where the "attack" occurred. It was a dead-end street and Dad drove to the last house on the block.

I remember Dad saying something like, "Well, let's get started", and he sounded tired and beaten. So here were these white folks on a desperate mission, and I guess we were going to knock on doors until midnight, trying to find an elusive dog owner in an area where whites didn't go. A black lady answered the door and Dad asked if she had a white dog that had been loose that afternoon. She amazingly, improbably, impossibly said, "Yes, I do." She disappeared for a moment and returned holding the perpetrator, who bared its teeth when it saw me. Well, one miracle down, one to go. The answer to the next question would determine whether I'd be incredibly happy and thankful the next few days or lying in a hospital awaiting the next painful rabies shot. "Has the dog had its shots?" "Oh, yes!" Dad thanked her profusely, and we hurried to the car and back home to tell Mom.

There were hundreds of houses we could have started with. But God directed Charlie to the right street and showed Dad which house to go to. At my tender age, the spiritual significance of what had just happened sailed right past me. It was only later in my life that the enormity of that day hit me. And only after I was a parent could I imagine what Mom and Dad experienced.

Likeness

Here is a conversation I heard just behind me on the bus trip home today:

"Like, how did you do on that algebra test?"
"Well, there should have been, like, a formula to explain that formula."
"I know! I was, like, 'Where was this in the review?' I'm like, 'That's unfair!'"

"I was like the same way. I, like, wanted to croak!"

These two intelligent young ladies did not speak a single sentence without saying "like" at least once. I love language and language usage. Once I got over my horror of the conversation, I tried to figure out how this "likeness" came to be. It certainly wasn't the first time my ears had thusly been assaulted. There was a species that lived in my house who talked that way (daughterius brookus).

I'm not having much luck figuring it out. Apparently, the Valley girls on the west coast started it. I wanted to turn around to these girls and say, "Why not just say 'I wanted to croak?' instead of 'I, like, wanted to croak.'" But since I'm over 40 years older than they, it would be an exercise in futility. They don't know I'm a closet linguist. They think I'm, like, just a bus driver.

Summertime, and the living is....maddening

Every year about this time, I remember why I love autumn. And it dawns on me how long it'll be before I say, "Kind of a chill in the air this morning, love."

I don't like having to take extra showers each day. I don't enjoy the feel of sweaty legs under my denim jeans. I hate having to park my school bus under a tree to get it cool enough for the a/c to do any good.

I wonder how I made it as a kid. As a ten year-old, I spent every day except Sunday hiking down the railroad track near our house. Didn't wear a hat or bring water with me. The heat reflected off the stone ballast next to the rails, so in effect, you were nailed twice by the rays. Yet I don't remember any problems with the heat. (I just remember getting dangerously close to the trains...day after day after day.)

The sad thing is that summer is not exclusive to June, July, and August. Let's face it...it will be November before we smell good again.

A Tasty Blast from the Past

How many of you out there remember these?

These were 6 and a half ounce wake-up calls. I so wish Coke still made them. The Coke of today bears little resemblance to these babies. Today's weak representation is a watered-down, sorry imitation of the real thing. Taking a swig of this mighty midget set off taste bud alarms throughout the entirety of your mouth. Swallowing two gulps back-to-back was almost impossible. The power of this stuff was awesome.

I don't know whether extra caffeine was stashed in these little liquid grenades. I suspect that was one factor in its jolt. During the first years of my teaching career, once I had signed in at the office, I headed straight to the Coke machine. Seems like the cost was either 15 or 20 cents. But I did not miss a day. I had to have the rush before I began the day. Often on weekends when I skipped my habit, I'd get a pounding headache...a sure sign that I was addicted to the stuff.

Another interesting thing about the bottles. On the bottom of each bottle was the imprint of what city that bottle had been "born". I used to line up my empties on the chalk tray, sorted by the section of the U.S. from which they had come. Man, I miss these babies.

Anyone else (near my age, of course) want to share memories of the baby Coke?

No more FT's!

I took a group of elementary choral students to Sandy Lake Park today. I think it was my 60th field trip of the year. As I threaded the yellow-hound through LBJ/holiday/Friday traffic this afternoon, I couldn't wait to get 'em safely home and wrap up a safe year of doing trips.

Field trips are where the money is...I earn my hourly wage from the time I leave to travel to the school until I bring my bus back to the lot. Last year, one of the trips lasted 16+ hours. So I'm on the clock even as I read novels, take naps, and ponder life...while waiting on the kiddoes to wrap up whatever trip they're on.

Sadly, however, for most of my co-workers, this is their only job. The newbies start off at $13/hour, so there's no wonder that getting field trips is critical to their budgets. Of course, I have my teacher retirement to draw on. They don't. Our bus lot was rocked with a scandal about a decade ago when it was discovered that trips were being awarded based upon money "under the table". It got real ugly.

But for me and a few of my fellow retired educators, it's pretty much an ideal job. One of the guys is a PhD. So when a bus pulls up in Dallas to board some students, your driver could be uneducated or extremely educated. Of course, how ideal the job is depends greatly on your, uh, clientele. Please don't ever give me Skyline High School students. They send a lot of drivers to snoop out other professions.

BTW, I had to do my best McIver impression today. The rear a/c quit this afternoon, and with a heat index over 100, this was serious. I borrowed a penny, and not because I was broke. I used the penny to open up a panel that exposed all the bus' electrical wiring. I fiddled around with the wires connected with the a/c switch and got it working again. Of course, McIver would have gotten the bus to fly somehow.

Easing Toward Sunset

These are not easy times as my mom advances through her 80's. Physically, she's frail, weighing less than 90 lbs. Mentally, every day brings more confusion to her daily routine, as brain cells no longer work as they once did. Mom has trouble doing the normal stuff of life now. She knows it, too, and it's driving her nuts - adding stress to the situation.

I'm pretty much her caretaker now. Two of my siblings live hours away. My sister teaches school in the area and will give me some help this summer. It's weird. Mom used to never call me. But as soon as we sold her car early this year, she has called me daily, often several times a day. I help her with bill-paying and grocery shopping.

Mom is troubled by the fact that she needs such assistance. She's always been fiercely independent and a real can-do person. When I leave her after a visit these days, she apologizes until I finally have to cut her off. She probably never thought she's ever need to lean on others. (I know I feel that way...pretty foolish of me).

I can't say I enjoy the "inconvience" this has caused me. But when I consider the mountain of love, care, and attention she has given me the last 59 years, I realize I'll never be able to run enough errands to tilt the balances my direction. What a blessing that she and Dad had four kids, with two of them close enough to be of help to her! I shudder to think where she'd be without us right now.

So I thank God that I'm able to "return the favor" as it were. Couldn't happen to a finer lady.

Clutter

Seems like I'm always on I-30...and one thing that bothers me greatly is the amount of visual pollution on either side of the highway. Are billboards really necessary? They are so embedded in our collective conciousness that we scarcely notice them; it's like we've always wanted them there, like we prefer clutter to neatness. We really do live in an attractive area - wouldn't it be nice if we could see it?

It doesn't have to be this way. Forty years ago, Vermont banned billboards. Also large signs of any kind. Want to put in a Holiday Inn? All that will be allowed you in the way of signage is a narrow, horizontal sign about four feet off the ground. The result is stunning. Folks travelling through the state are presented with incredible vistas, totally free of peeling, obtrusive billboards. The trees and rivers of Vermont can be seen in all God's intended glory.

So I think we need to make this mandatory in the other 49 states. Admittedly, this may not be such a swell idea in Oklahoma...where billboards may actually protect the eyes from uninspiring topography. But if we can imagine world peace or even whirled peas, we can imagine applying Visine to our countryside.

I put in a new garden today...

But mainly I just want you to click on the amazing picture just above. Nice. Real nice.

Oh, yeah. The garden looks great and I'm real sore. I'll wait until June to show you a shot of it. Needs time to flourish, ya' know.

New Digs

Ever been around folk who won't shut up about something in which you have no interest? Pretty tough to take, eh? Well, I'm guilty of this heinous crime. I will harrass people with my history of driving tired, old school buses until they're yellow in the face. The only person who understands me is my brother-in-law, Joe. Joe spent one year of his retirement driving for Rockwall ISD and enjoyed it so much that he wanted to drive his route over the Christmas holidays, simply because he loved the feeling of driving the bus.

Well, after 25 years of driving worn-out, old, raggedy, embarrassing yellowhounds, I will be cruising the highways and streets with a 2008 IC 300. With the exception of the black hood, it looks like the above bus. It has way too many amenities for me to mention here - besides, you've already quit reading by this point.

For the first time in my life, I'm wishing for summer to fly by.

I'm a sick man.

Cleaning out the sludge

Blame it on my dad. We Perkins men have high cholesterol. We're locked into it by our fiendish DNA. Back when I ran 60 miles a week training for a marathon, I still registered in the mid-200's on the cholesterol scale. A couple of years ago, I was just over 300, all the while watching my diet reasonably well.

My internist put me on Lipitor. The next checkup I was down to 168 or so. But then the checkup after that had me inching toward 200. So a 2nd drug, Zetia, was added to the protocol. After six months, I returned to the doc this week to find out how things were going. It was with a little nervousness, too. I knew in my heart of hearts (what does that mean?) that my sweet tooth (silly phrase, eh?) had gotten the best of me lately. Too many candy bars and desserts had forced their way into my diet. I had been powerless to stop their assault.

I had been fumbling for excuses in my mental prep for the visit with Dr. Dimmitt. "Gee, doc. Think of all the holidays we've had since I saw you in October: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Arbor Day." Or, "At my age, shouldn't I be making concessions to cravings?" So imagine my amazement when he announced that my cholesterol level was a cool 140! I know Dimmitt must have been inwardly impressed with my discipline even though he suppressed his admiration. Even the HDL and LDL numbers were spectacular.

Pass the pie, please.

I Peel for You

First of all, be sure to click on the above image. Amazing!

Stupidity has its consequences. Otherwise, we wouldn't be able to differentiate between what's dumb and what's not. I'm currently paying the price for not slathering sunblock on my face at Saturday's airshow. My beautiful mug is peeling like a leper.

When I vigorously rub the sides of my face, I temporarily create white-out conditions around me. I have to stand and clear my lap like a one year-old eating crackers. Now I know what Oklahoma was like in the Dust Bowl days. I was sitting in my bus this afternoon, minding my own business, when a large cornflake-lookin' piece of dead tissue drifted past my face. It was intensely embarrassing.

All of this could have been avoided had I heeded the advice I preached to my kids everytime they went outside. I did wear a cap, but it did little good other than to protect my bald spot. Being 59 years old, I'm not too fond of looking in the mirror anymore anyway, but now it is doubly painful.

Isn't it ingenious how your body lets you know when you've mistreated it?

Road Trip Report

Steve and I had a great time, but the trip tripped out when Steve tripped. We had just been allowed into the area where you can check out the aircraft that will later be flying in the airshow. And stupid me, I set my camera bag down in the general vicinity of where we were standing, and proceeded to take a shot of one of the planes. Steve stepped back to get out of my way and fell backwards over my bag onto the concrete tarmac.

He fell hard and I knew it had to hurt badly. Several nearby airmen rushed up to help him to his feet and true to Steve's incredible nature, he immediately inquired about whether my equipment was damaged. Well, my stuff was okay, but he had banged his hip on the unforgiving surface. Like a true warrior, he shrugged off help and limped around with me for the next hour as we continued to tour the aircraft.

He hung in there the rest of the day; in fact, his pedometer indicated that he had managed to walk over 3 miles before we climbed back in the car to leave. The next 3 hours were spent in wonderful conversation and time flew by as quickly as the wildflowers along the roadside.

Steve felt pretty bad Sunday and I continued to worry that there might be a fracture somewhere, but I'm happy to report (and he is too) that he felt much better today, and put in a full day of errand running.

Crazy guy, he still wants to go to another airshow first chance we get.