Blue moons are rare but blue moons occurring on New Year’s Eve are even rarer, happening only once every twenty eight years. Tonight, New Year’s Eve 2009 is a blue moon. It’s just one of the rarities of the past year.
2009 began in the worst recession since the Great Depression. The stock market fell, the banking industry fell, the housing market fell, consumer confidence reached a low I have never witnessed and unemployment skyrocketed.
As a geologist and person engaged in the oil and natural gas business, I kept waiting for prices to recover. Oil finally began moving upward around June but natural gas stay depressed until December. While analysts and marketers were predicting even more gloom and doom, cold weather happened.
Snow still blankets my backyard, seven days after the Christmas Eve Blizzard, the biggest single-day snowfall ever recorded in Oklahoma City. Despite global warming, this is the coldest December ever here in central Oklahoma. It reminds me of the old commercial that said “Don’t mess with Mother Nature.”
The price of oil and gas is only a microcosm of the entire economic spectrum, but it is a piece of the puzzle worth watching. Where oil and gas prices go, so does the rest of the economy. When oil prices are low, the economy is bad. At least that is my take on the situation.
Late December’s always make me melancholy – things past and events yet to unfold. This December was special, a real rarity that only occurs once in a blue moon.
Happy New Year!
Eric'sWeb
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Seven Lucky Charms
While walking to the mailbox, I picked up a circular bit of metal on the street. It turned out to be a penny that someone had bored a hole through to form part of a necklace. A good luck charm, I thought, since it was so lucky that I had even glanced down at that exact moment. As I put it in my pocket and continued up the hill to the mailbox, I remembered the seven good luck charms I carried during the time I served in Vietnam.
Am I crazy or just plain stupid to have carried seven lucky charms? While I am not sure, consider this. As an infantry foot soldier, I served in a line company, Charlie Company, 1/8 Cavalry, First Cavalry Division, in a part of Vietnam that was supposedly the hottest area of operation in the country at the time. Despite this, I survived unscathed.
Yes, I understand my good luck may have had nothing to do with the seven charms I carried. Common sense and intelligence tells me as much. Still, I did not want to take the chance that I was wrong, and I continued to carry the charms long after I had returned to the real world.
Over the years, one by one, all seven charms were either lost or permanently misplaced. I never tried to replace them because I could not remember why I had considered them lucky in the first place. Today, it does not matter much anymore. They had already done their job.
What job did my new charm have in store? Not worrying about it or anything else, I rubbed the penny pendant in my pocket between my fingers and continued up the hill with a smile on my face and a little extra bounce in my step.
Eric'sWeb
Am I crazy or just plain stupid to have carried seven lucky charms? While I am not sure, consider this. As an infantry foot soldier, I served in a line company, Charlie Company, 1/8 Cavalry, First Cavalry Division, in a part of Vietnam that was supposedly the hottest area of operation in the country at the time. Despite this, I survived unscathed.
Yes, I understand my good luck may have had nothing to do with the seven charms I carried. Common sense and intelligence tells me as much. Still, I did not want to take the chance that I was wrong, and I continued to carry the charms long after I had returned to the real world.
Over the years, one by one, all seven charms were either lost or permanently misplaced. I never tried to replace them because I could not remember why I had considered them lucky in the first place. Today, it does not matter much anymore. They had already done their job.
What job did my new charm have in store? Not worrying about it or anything else, I rubbed the penny pendant in my pocket between my fingers and continued up the hill with a smile on my face and a little extra bounce in my step.
Eric'sWeb
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Icicles and Arkansas
Growing up in Louisiana, I never drove a car in a hilly area until my first wife Gail and I moved to Fayetteville, Arkansas. We owned a 1967 Mustang and soon bought a 1962 Ford truck. Both vehicles had manual transmissions and when winter arrived, I learned that I was not as good a driver as I thought I was.
Nestled in the Ozark Mountains, Fayetteville is a gorgeous place, and was the inspiration for the fictional town of Brannerville in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds. Spring, summer and fall it is gorgeous. It is even more gorgeous amid winter snows that fall with regularity – fine for someone from Arkansas but treacherous for a Louisiana flatlander. I found out as much the first time that it snowed.
Gail had sent me to the store for a loaf of bread. Snow had begun falling an hour before in cold wet clumps, the narrow street that we lived on already coated with ice and snow as I backed out of our driveway. I cruised carefully down the street until I reached the first intersection.
Every cross street in Fayetteville, it seems, is either up or down a grade. When I reached the first one, I had trouble negotiating the gearshift and clutch to get up the grade. The snow had turned dry and was falling in sheets, making it difficult for the wipers to keep the windshield clear. The grade was not even that steep but it took me two tries to clear it and turn right onto a busy crossroad.
Arkansas drivers are used to the slush and ice and blared their horns at me as they raced past, oblivious to the near whiteout condition of the weather. Creeping along, I finally made it to the grocery store, deciding to stock up while there – a lucky thing, as it turned out as we ended up snowed in for two days.
I was only in the store for ten minutes or so, but found the windshield iced over when I returned to the truck. Having seen little snow during my lifetime, I did not have an ice scrapper in the truck. At that time, I did not even know such a thing existed. Thankfully, a Good Samaritan lent me one and showed me how to use it.
Need I mention that I did not have gloves, or heavy coat, either? By now, the streets were white, as were the trees and all the houses. Before long, I had one of the front wheels hooked over a curb and try as I might, I could not get it loose. I was on a side street, away from traffic, and about two miles from my duplex.
Finally giving up trying to free the truck, I left it on the side of the road and hiked home with the two bags of groceries that I had bought in my arms. Gail stared at me in disbelief when I came in the door, icicles hanging from my hair and eyebrows.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“Arkansas,” I answered, wondering what the next years had in store for us as I put away the groceries in the kitchen.
Eric'sWeb
Nestled in the Ozark Mountains, Fayetteville is a gorgeous place, and was the inspiration for the fictional town of Brannerville in my novel A Gathering of Diamonds. Spring, summer and fall it is gorgeous. It is even more gorgeous amid winter snows that fall with regularity – fine for someone from Arkansas but treacherous for a Louisiana flatlander. I found out as much the first time that it snowed.
Gail had sent me to the store for a loaf of bread. Snow had begun falling an hour before in cold wet clumps, the narrow street that we lived on already coated with ice and snow as I backed out of our driveway. I cruised carefully down the street until I reached the first intersection.
Every cross street in Fayetteville, it seems, is either up or down a grade. When I reached the first one, I had trouble negotiating the gearshift and clutch to get up the grade. The snow had turned dry and was falling in sheets, making it difficult for the wipers to keep the windshield clear. The grade was not even that steep but it took me two tries to clear it and turn right onto a busy crossroad.
Arkansas drivers are used to the slush and ice and blared their horns at me as they raced past, oblivious to the near whiteout condition of the weather. Creeping along, I finally made it to the grocery store, deciding to stock up while there – a lucky thing, as it turned out as we ended up snowed in for two days.
I was only in the store for ten minutes or so, but found the windshield iced over when I returned to the truck. Having seen little snow during my lifetime, I did not have an ice scrapper in the truck. At that time, I did not even know such a thing existed. Thankfully, a Good Samaritan lent me one and showed me how to use it.
Need I mention that I did not have gloves, or heavy coat, either? By now, the streets were white, as were the trees and all the houses. Before long, I had one of the front wheels hooked over a curb and try as I might, I could not get it loose. I was on a side street, away from traffic, and about two miles from my duplex.
Finally giving up trying to free the truck, I left it on the side of the road and hiked home with the two bags of groceries that I had bought in my arms. Gail stared at me in disbelief when I came in the door, icicles hanging from my hair and eyebrows.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“Arkansas,” I answered, wondering what the next years had in store for us as I put away the groceries in the kitchen.
Eric'sWeb
Monday, December 28, 2009
Bullshot City
I am a big fan of Eric Felten’s weekly column in the Wall Street Journal. Felten highlights cocktails and rather than just providing his many readers with instructions on how to build the perfect Zombie or Mai Tai, he tells a story that is always interesting and informative. A recent column caused me to recall one of my own cocktail stories.
During the last oil boom, I began working as a geologist for Texas Oil & Gas, the most aggressive driller at the time and possibly since. My first day on the job, I had lunch at a downtown restaurant called Over the Counter with the district geologist and another company man.
Having just left Cities Service, a conservative, old-line exploration company, I was used to brown bagging a sandwich washed down with coffee or iced tea. Because of this, my lunch companion’s choice of beverages gave me a start.
Neither man actually had to order a drink. Gerlinda, our very German waitress brought Larry a Bacardi and Coke and Roger a Crown and Seven.
“You are a new one,” Gerlinda said. “What are you drinking?”
“Iced tea,” I answered.
Larry and Roger smiled when Gerlinda shook her head and said, “TXO geologists don’t drink tea.”
“A Coors then,” I said.
“There is no beer at Over the Counter. What kind of cocktail would you like?”
Larry’s grinning shrug clued me that he expected no argument from me.
“Bourbon and water, I guess.”
“What kind of bourbon?” It was my turn to shrug, and shake my head. “TXO geologists don’t drink house liquor and you look like a Wild Turkey man to me,” she said. “From now on I’ll bring you Wild Turkey and water.”
She did, three of them before we finished eating.
“Everyone drinks at lunch,” Larry informed me as I stumbled back to work. “Turkey and water suits you, Wildman.”
“Thanks,” I said as I returned to my office and tried not to fall asleep at my desk.
Lunch was the beginning of my indoctrination as a TXO geologist. I was instructed to put at least three-thousand dollars per month on my company expense account, even if I had to treat friends, cohorts and secretaries every meal. The Company expected me to create at least one drilling prospect every single week, no mean feat even when you are sober, much less when you can hardly hold your head up off the desk after lunch.
I - or I should say my liver - slowly grew accustomed to the daily consumption of alcoholic beverages that often continued into the wee hours of nearly every night. It did not seem to matter much as my seven-year marriage was already in shambles. An underground concourse wove a dark maze beneath downtown Oklahoma City, a pathway populated by restaurants, bars, barbershops and jewelry stores. The proprietors soon knew my name, and my poison of choice, greeting me happily when I stumbled through their door.
The last oil boom was populated by a cast of almost unbelievable characters – ex-used car salesmen sporting Rolex watches, diamond encrusted belt buckles and gold nugget necklaces, preying on the unwary investor, hungry to participate in the multitude of newfound riches and burning up with incurable cases of oil fever. I bought my own gold necklace, a half moon with a diamond eye, from an eight-by-ten jewelry store in the concourse that catered to the newly rich.
I managed to survive almost two years with TXO, having almost a hundred of my prospects drilled during that time. I do no remember if it was I that said uncle, or my liver. Whichever, I moved down the road with my life.
All this brings me to my cocktail story. Sometimes when I was simply too drunk to continue drinking Wild Turkey, I would switch to a drink called a Bullshot. A Bullshot is beef bouillon and vodka. I never learned the exact recipe although I tasted many varieties during my two years with TXO. The one I liked best came from an eight-ounce can. I cannot remember the company that produced it and I do not believe they are still in business.
The last oil boom is long gone, along with Penn Square Bank and thousands of drilling rigs cut up for scrap. Oklahoma now has liquor by the drink instead of liquor by the wink, and you can no longer leave a bar with a roadie to tide you over until you get home. Oklahoma City police no longer tolerate drunk drivers, nor should they.
An era of overindulgence died in Oklahoma City, along with the last oil boom. What survived was a group that could smile when someone said, “Last one to leave the State, cut off the lights.”
That was nearly thirty years ago and the lights in the City are again burning brightly. It has been nearly that long since I drank my last Bullshot. Still, the cocktail helped me survive an era every bit as exciting as the Alaskan Gold Rush, and Felten’s column every week reminds me that mixed drinks are more than a bartender’s recipe. They are an untold story.
Eric'sWeb
During the last oil boom, I began working as a geologist for Texas Oil & Gas, the most aggressive driller at the time and possibly since. My first day on the job, I had lunch at a downtown restaurant called Over the Counter with the district geologist and another company man.
Having just left Cities Service, a conservative, old-line exploration company, I was used to brown bagging a sandwich washed down with coffee or iced tea. Because of this, my lunch companion’s choice of beverages gave me a start.
Neither man actually had to order a drink. Gerlinda, our very German waitress brought Larry a Bacardi and Coke and Roger a Crown and Seven.
“You are a new one,” Gerlinda said. “What are you drinking?”
“Iced tea,” I answered.
Larry and Roger smiled when Gerlinda shook her head and said, “TXO geologists don’t drink tea.”
“A Coors then,” I said.
“There is no beer at Over the Counter. What kind of cocktail would you like?”
Larry’s grinning shrug clued me that he expected no argument from me.
“Bourbon and water, I guess.”
“What kind of bourbon?” It was my turn to shrug, and shake my head. “TXO geologists don’t drink house liquor and you look like a Wild Turkey man to me,” she said. “From now on I’ll bring you Wild Turkey and water.”
She did, three of them before we finished eating.
“Everyone drinks at lunch,” Larry informed me as I stumbled back to work. “Turkey and water suits you, Wildman.”
“Thanks,” I said as I returned to my office and tried not to fall asleep at my desk.
Lunch was the beginning of my indoctrination as a TXO geologist. I was instructed to put at least three-thousand dollars per month on my company expense account, even if I had to treat friends, cohorts and secretaries every meal. The Company expected me to create at least one drilling prospect every single week, no mean feat even when you are sober, much less when you can hardly hold your head up off the desk after lunch.
I - or I should say my liver - slowly grew accustomed to the daily consumption of alcoholic beverages that often continued into the wee hours of nearly every night. It did not seem to matter much as my seven-year marriage was already in shambles. An underground concourse wove a dark maze beneath downtown Oklahoma City, a pathway populated by restaurants, bars, barbershops and jewelry stores. The proprietors soon knew my name, and my poison of choice, greeting me happily when I stumbled through their door.
The last oil boom was populated by a cast of almost unbelievable characters – ex-used car salesmen sporting Rolex watches, diamond encrusted belt buckles and gold nugget necklaces, preying on the unwary investor, hungry to participate in the multitude of newfound riches and burning up with incurable cases of oil fever. I bought my own gold necklace, a half moon with a diamond eye, from an eight-by-ten jewelry store in the concourse that catered to the newly rich.
I managed to survive almost two years with TXO, having almost a hundred of my prospects drilled during that time. I do no remember if it was I that said uncle, or my liver. Whichever, I moved down the road with my life.
All this brings me to my cocktail story. Sometimes when I was simply too drunk to continue drinking Wild Turkey, I would switch to a drink called a Bullshot. A Bullshot is beef bouillon and vodka. I never learned the exact recipe although I tasted many varieties during my two years with TXO. The one I liked best came from an eight-ounce can. I cannot remember the company that produced it and I do not believe they are still in business.
The last oil boom is long gone, along with Penn Square Bank and thousands of drilling rigs cut up for scrap. Oklahoma now has liquor by the drink instead of liquor by the wink, and you can no longer leave a bar with a roadie to tide you over until you get home. Oklahoma City police no longer tolerate drunk drivers, nor should they.
An era of overindulgence died in Oklahoma City, along with the last oil boom. What survived was a group that could smile when someone said, “Last one to leave the State, cut off the lights.”
That was nearly thirty years ago and the lights in the City are again burning brightly. It has been nearly that long since I drank my last Bullshot. Still, the cocktail helped me survive an era every bit as exciting as the Alaskan Gold Rush, and Felten’s column every week reminds me that mixed drinks are more than a bartender’s recipe. They are an untold story.
Eric'sWeb
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Storms of the Past
Several days have passed since the Christmas Eve Blizzard of 2009 but there is still ice and snow on the ground, another snowstorm predicted for later in the week. When I first moved to Oklahoma City, cold weather and snow was common. This year’s snowstorm is a rare occurrence and reminded me of some of the storms from my past.
After divorcing my first wife, it took a while before we sold our house. I wanted to move into an apartment complex called Woodlake that featured multiple swimming pools, tennis courts, both inside and out, racquetball courts, weight rooms and many, many singles. Not unexpectedly, it was full and there was a waiting list so I moved to another complex.
The apartments where I moved still exist. When I was there, the name was Chandalaque. I lived on the bottom floor of the two story complex and soon learned that it had little, if any insulation. Not only was it cold and drafty, you could almost hear a pin drop in the neighboring apartments. The winter that I lived at Chandalaque, snow covered the ground for what seemed like months. I remember because the complex sat off the road in an incline and I would have to help people get out of the icy parking lot every morning.
Chandalaque was across the street from Deaconess Hospital and many nurses lived there. My bedroom wall abutted the bedroom wall of one such nurse. She was blonde and pretty and had lots of male friends. At all hours of the day and night, her bedstead would begin banging against the wall, rocking my own bed, her moans of pleasure awakening me and usually preventing me from returning to sleep – at least quickly. I don’t know if she knew that I was an unwitting participant to her sexual activity and doubt that she cared even if she did.
Fresh out of my marriage, self esteem began slowly seeping back into my body. In the days of disco and before AIDS, easy sex and one-night-stands were common and I soon had female company of my own, giving the nurse a taste of her own medicine. I only lived at the complex for six months. I never met the nurse but she always frowned when we passed on the sidewalk.
No matter how deep the snow, it always melts when spring arrives. When my lease expired, I learned there was an apartment available at Woodlake. Renting a U-Haul truck, I backed up to my door and began loading, not worrying how I would extricate my couch and bed without help. Before I got that far, my close friend Mickey arrived. Maybe it was ESP because he knew I needed assistance and I had not called him – at least by phone.
Years have passed since that snowy winter spent in a drafty apartment complex behind the world’s horniest nurse. As I glance out my kitchen window and see the two feet of snow still on the ground in my backyard, I think about Chandalaque and it makes me smile.
Eric'sWeb
After divorcing my first wife, it took a while before we sold our house. I wanted to move into an apartment complex called Woodlake that featured multiple swimming pools, tennis courts, both inside and out, racquetball courts, weight rooms and many, many singles. Not unexpectedly, it was full and there was a waiting list so I moved to another complex.
The apartments where I moved still exist. When I was there, the name was Chandalaque. I lived on the bottom floor of the two story complex and soon learned that it had little, if any insulation. Not only was it cold and drafty, you could almost hear a pin drop in the neighboring apartments. The winter that I lived at Chandalaque, snow covered the ground for what seemed like months. I remember because the complex sat off the road in an incline and I would have to help people get out of the icy parking lot every morning.
Chandalaque was across the street from Deaconess Hospital and many nurses lived there. My bedroom wall abutted the bedroom wall of one such nurse. She was blonde and pretty and had lots of male friends. At all hours of the day and night, her bedstead would begin banging against the wall, rocking my own bed, her moans of pleasure awakening me and usually preventing me from returning to sleep – at least quickly. I don’t know if she knew that I was an unwitting participant to her sexual activity and doubt that she cared even if she did.
Fresh out of my marriage, self esteem began slowly seeping back into my body. In the days of disco and before AIDS, easy sex and one-night-stands were common and I soon had female company of my own, giving the nurse a taste of her own medicine. I only lived at the complex for six months. I never met the nurse but she always frowned when we passed on the sidewalk.
No matter how deep the snow, it always melts when spring arrives. When my lease expired, I learned there was an apartment available at Woodlake. Renting a U-Haul truck, I backed up to my door and began loading, not worrying how I would extricate my couch and bed without help. Before I got that far, my close friend Mickey arrived. Maybe it was ESP because he knew I needed assistance and I had not called him – at least by phone.
Years have passed since that snowy winter spent in a drafty apartment complex behind the world’s horniest nurse. As I glance out my kitchen window and see the two feet of snow still on the ground in my backyard, I think about Chandalaque and it makes me smile.
Eric'sWeb
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Lily's Rice Dressing
Lily, my former mother-in-law, had eight children. All her kids and their families usually came to her house for Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. Lily was a Cajun, but like families across the country, she would usually cook the traditional turkey.
Unlike most of the country, she would stuff her bird with Cajun rice dressing. Lily cooked by feel and taste rather than recipe, but this is a close approximation. Try it sometime and enjoy.
Lily’s Rice Dressing
Ingredients:
4 cups chicken or turkey stock
2 cups rice
1 pound chicken gizzards
½ pound chicken livers
½ pound ground beef
½ pound pork
½ cup oil or meat drippings
1 large onion, chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
1 bell pepper, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 tablespoons parsley, chopped
1 bunch green onions, chopped
Salt, pepper, to taste
Directions:
Bring chicken stock to a boil in a large saucepan. Add rice, reduce heat, cover and simmer until done, about 20 minutes. Set aside. Simmer chicken gizzards in water to cover until fork tender, about 30 minutes, add livers and cook about 10 more minutes until livers are done. Drain and remove the tender meat from the gizzards, discarding the tough gristle. Grind or process gizzard meat and livers together until coarse. Set aside.
In a large pot, brown the ground beef and pork, drain and set aside. In the same pot, heat the oil and sauté onions, celery and bell pepper until soft. Add garlic and sauté briefly. Away from the heat, add rice, meat, green onions, parsley and seasonings, and toss lightly.
Eric'sWeb
Unlike most of the country, she would stuff her bird with Cajun rice dressing. Lily cooked by feel and taste rather than recipe, but this is a close approximation. Try it sometime and enjoy.
Lily’s Rice Dressing
Ingredients:
4 cups chicken or turkey stock
2 cups rice
1 pound chicken gizzards
½ pound chicken livers
½ pound ground beef
½ pound pork
½ cup oil or meat drippings
1 large onion, chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
1 bell pepper, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 tablespoons parsley, chopped
1 bunch green onions, chopped
Salt, pepper, to taste
Directions:
Bring chicken stock to a boil in a large saucepan. Add rice, reduce heat, cover and simmer until done, about 20 minutes. Set aside. Simmer chicken gizzards in water to cover until fork tender, about 30 minutes, add livers and cook about 10 more minutes until livers are done. Drain and remove the tender meat from the gizzards, discarding the tough gristle. Grind or process gizzard meat and livers together until coarse. Set aside.
In a large pot, brown the ground beef and pork, drain and set aside. In the same pot, heat the oil and sauté onions, celery and bell pepper until soft. Add garlic and sauté briefly. Away from the heat, add rice, meat, green onions, parsley and seasonings, and toss lightly.
Eric'sWeb
Friday, December 25, 2009
Merry Christmas Everyone
Yesterday’s Christmas Eve blizzard dropped more snow (14.1”) on Oklahoma City than any storm since 1890 when record keeping began. Hundreds of car accidents occurred, including a fifty-five car pile-up on one of the interstate highways. High snow drifts stranded many motorists for hours.
This morning, gloomy skies have passed. Even though temperatures are still in the twenties, the sun is shining brightly and melting, hopefully, will begin in earnest. The blizzard is a reminder of the disastrous economic year the State has experienced. Maybe the sunny skies are an omen that the economic storm has passed and the sun is beginning to shine on us again.
Times were financially tough in the oil patch during the early nineties and prompted a slogan often repeated wherever oilies congregated. It was “survive till ’95.” My partner Ray has coined a new slogan, “win in ’10.” The wonderful sunshine this morning gives me hope that we will.
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!
Eric'sWeb
This morning, gloomy skies have passed. Even though temperatures are still in the twenties, the sun is shining brightly and melting, hopefully, will begin in earnest. The blizzard is a reminder of the disastrous economic year the State has experienced. Maybe the sunny skies are an omen that the economic storm has passed and the sun is beginning to shine on us again.
Times were financially tough in the oil patch during the early nineties and prompted a slogan often repeated wherever oilies congregated. It was “survive till ’95.” My partner Ray has coined a new slogan, “win in ’10.” The wonderful sunshine this morning gives me hope that we will.
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!
Eric'sWeb
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Christmas Eve Snowstorm
This Christmas Eve morning began with rain. The rain quickly progressed to sleet and then big clumps of wet snow by midday. A local weatherman had predicted a three percent chance of snow today. Let’s hope he doesn’t spend much time in Vegas.
The weatherman today reports that the snow stretches all the way to Waco, Texas, and that this is the worst blizzard Oklahoma has seen in at least twenty years, and maybe a lifetime.
Here are a few 2009 Christmas Eve pictures showing the biggest Oklahoma City snowstorm in ten years. Have a Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Bowlers and Other Radicals
Bowlers are a strange bunch. I do not know another group of athletes – if you can call bowlers athletes – as dedicated to their sport as bowlers. Most would bowl 24-7, if they could. Their average is the most important single number in their lives, even more so than their IQs and the number of times they have sex a week.
I know all about bowling because I had two roommates in college that were avid bowlers, and I worked for about a year in a bowling alley. I witnessed many strange events during that year, but the most traumatic occurred when I accidentally switched off the power to all the lanes.
League competition is the bread and butter of every bowling alley and most avid bowlers are members of at least two leagues. Bowlers establish an average in each league, the better bowlers handicapped so that all the teams are more-or-less equal. This is never the case, as the better bowlers always have the advantage.
At the Monroe, Louisiana bowling alley that I worked at, the biggest league bowled on Wednesday nights. The bowlers were not all as good as those that bowled on the Friday night scratch league, but many were. Unlike the Friday night scratch league, the Wednesday league included both men and women.
The bowlers on the Wednesday night league were all serious bowlers. Most came into the bowling alley and bowled a game or two every day. One of the couples that bowled on Wednesday night was particularly avid. Maybe I should say rabid. I will call them Sam and Bertha because I can’t remember their names. Sam was an older person, short and with bowed legs. Bertha was at least twice Sam’s size and everyone called her Big Bertha – at least behind her back.
Big Bertha maintained a one-eighty average and was proud of it. She and Sam were partners on a team, and they led the Wednesday night league by a small margin. The particular Wednesday I am thinking of was the last night of the league and she and Sam were playing Lou and Dave for the championship. The two teams were neck and neck going into the tenth frame. That is when I made my mistake.
Big Bertha had rolled nine pins. If she picked up the easy spare, she and Sam would be the league champions. Someone asked me to reset the pins on a nearby lane, just as she prepared her release. Hitting the wrong switch, my heart almost stopped when all the lights on the bowling alley lanes went dark. I flipped it back on immediately but this only had the effect of causing all the lanes to reset the pins. Bertha’s ball struck the ball block with a resounding thud.
I was stuck behind the alley’s circular control desk, or I would have run for my live. Instead, I awaiting my impending fate as Big Bertha locked her angry stare on me and charged in my direction.
“You stupid SOB!” she yelled, leaning over the cabinet top. “You ruined my game, you stupid SOB!”
My inadvertent mistake caused all activity in the noisy bowling alley to come to an abrupt halt. Joe, the manager of the bowling alley, came out of his office and rushed to the control desk. Bertha was big but Joe was bigger. An ex-college tackle, gone only slightly to pot, he stood six-foot-four. Bertha backed off when Joe got between her and me.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“I’m sorry,” I said in my contrite voice. “I hit the wrong switch.”
“The stupid SOB did it on purpose!” Bertha said, still shouting.
Joe raised a placating palm. “I’ll fix it. We will put everyone back as it was before the outage.”
Joe and my two roommates Trellis and Chuck – the alley engineers – begin restoring the lanes to where they were before my mistake. I waited, under orders, in Joe’s office. Once they restored order, Joe joined me in his office.
Joe was big and imposing, but he was also a pussycat. “Eric, I’m firing you,” he said. “At least for a couple of weeks. Big Bertha will have calmed down by then.”
Joe ushered me out the back door. Chuck and Trellis laughed their proverbial rear ends off when their shifts finally ended and they arrived back at our apartment.
“You dumb SOB!” Chuck said. “You’re lucky that old bitch didn’t kill you.”
Trellis went to the refrigerator and returned with three cold cans of Schlitz. “Here’s to you,” he said. “Seeing the look on that old bitch’s face was worth every bit of the extra work you put us through.”
Eric'sWeb
I know all about bowling because I had two roommates in college that were avid bowlers, and I worked for about a year in a bowling alley. I witnessed many strange events during that year, but the most traumatic occurred when I accidentally switched off the power to all the lanes.
League competition is the bread and butter of every bowling alley and most avid bowlers are members of at least two leagues. Bowlers establish an average in each league, the better bowlers handicapped so that all the teams are more-or-less equal. This is never the case, as the better bowlers always have the advantage.
At the Monroe, Louisiana bowling alley that I worked at, the biggest league bowled on Wednesday nights. The bowlers were not all as good as those that bowled on the Friday night scratch league, but many were. Unlike the Friday night scratch league, the Wednesday league included both men and women.
The bowlers on the Wednesday night league were all serious bowlers. Most came into the bowling alley and bowled a game or two every day. One of the couples that bowled on Wednesday night was particularly avid. Maybe I should say rabid. I will call them Sam and Bertha because I can’t remember their names. Sam was an older person, short and with bowed legs. Bertha was at least twice Sam’s size and everyone called her Big Bertha – at least behind her back.
Big Bertha maintained a one-eighty average and was proud of it. She and Sam were partners on a team, and they led the Wednesday night league by a small margin. The particular Wednesday I am thinking of was the last night of the league and she and Sam were playing Lou and Dave for the championship. The two teams were neck and neck going into the tenth frame. That is when I made my mistake.
Big Bertha had rolled nine pins. If she picked up the easy spare, she and Sam would be the league champions. Someone asked me to reset the pins on a nearby lane, just as she prepared her release. Hitting the wrong switch, my heart almost stopped when all the lights on the bowling alley lanes went dark. I flipped it back on immediately but this only had the effect of causing all the lanes to reset the pins. Bertha’s ball struck the ball block with a resounding thud.
I was stuck behind the alley’s circular control desk, or I would have run for my live. Instead, I awaiting my impending fate as Big Bertha locked her angry stare on me and charged in my direction.
“You stupid SOB!” she yelled, leaning over the cabinet top. “You ruined my game, you stupid SOB!”
My inadvertent mistake caused all activity in the noisy bowling alley to come to an abrupt halt. Joe, the manager of the bowling alley, came out of his office and rushed to the control desk. Bertha was big but Joe was bigger. An ex-college tackle, gone only slightly to pot, he stood six-foot-four. Bertha backed off when Joe got between her and me.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“I’m sorry,” I said in my contrite voice. “I hit the wrong switch.”
“The stupid SOB did it on purpose!” Bertha said, still shouting.
Joe raised a placating palm. “I’ll fix it. We will put everyone back as it was before the outage.”
Joe and my two roommates Trellis and Chuck – the alley engineers – begin restoring the lanes to where they were before my mistake. I waited, under orders, in Joe’s office. Once they restored order, Joe joined me in his office.
Joe was big and imposing, but he was also a pussycat. “Eric, I’m firing you,” he said. “At least for a couple of weeks. Big Bertha will have calmed down by then.”
Joe ushered me out the back door. Chuck and Trellis laughed their proverbial rear ends off when their shifts finally ended and they arrived back at our apartment.
“You dumb SOB!” Chuck said. “You’re lucky that old bitch didn’t kill you.”
Trellis went to the refrigerator and returned with three cold cans of Schlitz. “Here’s to you,” he said. “Seeing the look on that old bitch’s face was worth every bit of the extra work you put us through.”
Eric'sWeb
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Bar Hopping With the Old Man
I visit my dad at least once a week and I try to take him somewhere every Sunday, usually to a seafood restaurant overlooking Lake Hefner because he likes watching the sailboats and seagulls. This past Sunday, I decided to take him to a new place.
Lake Hefner is a large, manmade lake that supplies Oklahoma City with fresh water. Because of the prevailing winds, it is perhaps the best inland sailing lake in the United States. I can attest to as much after spending an exhilarating afternoon on a super-fast catamaran with my friend David Beatty. It is also the deepest lake in Oklahoma, nearly a hundred feet in places. This past Sunday, I decided to take Dad to another restaurant on the lake.
There are at least three Louie’s restaurants in Oklahoma City and Edmond, one less than a mile from my office. My friends Jerry and Terry and I go there almost every Thursday after work, the food and drink tasty and relatively inexpensive, the friendly female waitpersons always easy on the old eyes. Since I had never tried Louie’s on the lake, I took Dad there last Sunday.
Dad and I sat in the bar area, looking out the large picture window at passing joggers, walkers and cyclists, and the gorgeous inland lake. We ordered chips and dip. I had a Sam Adam’s beer while Dad drank decaf. As I sat on the high bar stool, looking at my smiling father, obviously having a great time, I thought about the absurdity of the moment.
My Mom was, and Dad still is a teetotaler. Both disapproved vociferously their wayward son when he was placed on disciplinary probation as a sophomore in college for drinking beer in the dorm. Neither ever tried alcohol, much less frequented a bar. Seeing the confusion in Dad’s eyes made me grin as I finished my Sam Adams and paid the tab.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Winter Solstice - longest night of the year
Ancients celebrated the first day of winter because it signaled the beginning of longer days and more daylight, something much cherished in the days before electricity.
http://www.farmersalmanac.com/astronomy/a/winter-solstice-longest-night-of-the-year
Eric'sWeb
http://www.farmersalmanac.com/astronomy/a/winter-solstice-longest-night-of-the-year
Eric'sWeb
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Gurdon Lights Mystery
Gurdon is a little Arkansas town located about halfway between Texarkana and Little Rock, on Interstate 30. It’s known for three things, logging, the Gurdon Lights and as the place where the International Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo was conceived.
Marilyn grew up there and during a discussion about the place, she provided me with an answer to a mystery that has haunted southwest Arkansas for decades – the mystery of the Gurdon Lights.
The railroad runs through Gurdon and residents have reported seeing unexplainable lights on the railroad track for many years. Many people have seen the phenomena and reported it – too many sightings to easily be discounted. Some people think it is the ghostly lantern of a man that lost his head in a railroad accident.
Gurdon has twenty-five hundred residents, about sixty-five percent white and thirty-five percent black. Growing up, Marilyn’s mother Joy had a black assistant named Hattie and when Marilyn was only twelve Hattie conveyed this extraordinary story to her and her sisters. The story is ghostly, and creepy, but it is plausible. It is a real mystery, and also perfect Halloween fare.
Eric'sWeb
Marilyn grew up there and during a discussion about the place, she provided me with an answer to a mystery that has haunted southwest Arkansas for decades – the mystery of the Gurdon Lights.
The railroad runs through Gurdon and residents have reported seeing unexplainable lights on the railroad track for many years. Many people have seen the phenomena and reported it – too many sightings to easily be discounted. Some people think it is the ghostly lantern of a man that lost his head in a railroad accident.
Gurdon has twenty-five hundred residents, about sixty-five percent white and thirty-five percent black. Growing up, Marilyn’s mother Joy had a black assistant named Hattie and when Marilyn was only twelve Hattie conveyed this extraordinary story to her and her sisters. The story is ghostly, and creepy, but it is plausible. It is a real mystery, and also perfect Halloween fare.
Eric'sWeb
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Eric's Green Pepper Stew
It’s mid-December, much of the month already cold and dreary. Glancing out my window this morning I realized today would bring much the same. With the temperature in the thirties, a chill wind whistling threw the shrubs and a darkly overcast sky it is a perfect day for weekend comfort food.
Here is a simple recipe that is sure to provide comfort for your gloomy weekend.
Green Pepper Stew
Ingredients
· 1 cup grated cheddar cheese
· 2 lbs. pork
· 2 tsp. salt
· 2 tbsp. oil
· 3 medium potatoes, peeled and cubed
· ½ cup onion, diced
· 1 large garlic clove, minced
· 6-8 fresh roasted green peppers, skinned and de-seeded
Directions
Cube meat, sprinkle with salt and fry until brown in oil. Add potatoes to browned meat together with onion, garlic, salt, peppers and enough water to cover. Simmer for 1 ½ hours or until potatoes are tender. Serve with cheddar cheese and warm tortillas on the side.
Makes 6 servings
Eric'sWeb
Here is a simple recipe that is sure to provide comfort for your gloomy weekend.
Green Pepper Stew
Ingredients
· 1 cup grated cheddar cheese
· 2 lbs. pork
· 2 tsp. salt
· 2 tbsp. oil
· 3 medium potatoes, peeled and cubed
· ½ cup onion, diced
· 1 large garlic clove, minced
· 6-8 fresh roasted green peppers, skinned and de-seeded
Directions
Cube meat, sprinkle with salt and fry until brown in oil. Add potatoes to browned meat together with onion, garlic, salt, peppers and enough water to cover. Simmer for 1 ½ hours or until potatoes are tender. Serve with cheddar cheese and warm tortillas on the side.
Makes 6 servings
Eric'sWeb
Friday, December 18, 2009
A Saab Story
General Motors Co. announced today that negotiation for the sale of Saab has fallen through and that they intend to discontinue the brand. It reminded me of the Saab sedan I purchased in 1973.
My first wife Gail and I moved to Oklahoma City that year. She never liked my green 1967 Mustang and had soon talked me into buying a new car. The first place we visited was the Saab dealership in Midwest City. I didn’t know much about Saabs except what I had read in Sports Car Graphic Magazine but a fast-talking young salesman soon convinced us we couldn’t live without the strange looking Swedish car with an even stranger name.
The dealership sold other brands and had only a single Saab on the lot, a bright orange two-door sedan. The little four-banger was grossly underpowered and never got much more than twenty miles per gallon but it did have comfortable bucket seats, the driver’s side heated. It was also front wheel drive and handled well in the ice and snow.
The orange Saab is the car Mickey, Nancy, Gail and I took to New Mexico the first time I went skiing. Later, Gail and I took a two week vacation in the vehicle, driving all the way to Montana and back. I loved the sporty sedan with its four-on-the-floor stick shift and remember the vacation as one of the best two weeks of my seven year marriage to Gail.
Gail and I drove the car to Vivian, Louisiana in 1974 to attend my tenth high school reunion. The car is long gone, a single photo my only remaining visual memory. Gail and I are standing in front of the Saab. She is dressed in a short skirt. Me, I’m dressed in a twenty dollar seersucker leisure suit, a white belt holding up my pants, and wearing white suede shoes.
As I heard the news from General Motors today, I thought about my own Saab and I feel regret for the demise of a memorable car maker the like of which the world will never again experience.
Old Recipes
Marilyn and I like to collect old cookbooks and she once purchased a batch of three from eBay. When the books arrived, they included an unexpected gift – some person’s lifelong collection of personal recipes.
All the recipes were loose leaf and bundled together in a badly worn, cardboard, MASH 4077 presentation folder. Many of the recipes were clipped from the pages of the New Orleans Time Picayune, and others entire pages from the Public Service Company of New Orleans apparently included with the monthly utility bill.
From the dates I found on the newspaper recipes I could see most were collected between the late seventies and early nineties. I was soon mesmerized as I glanced through the thick stack of neatly clipped recipes. This woman’s life - I presume the collection belonged to a woman although I have no way of knowing - was revealed to me as I read through her recipes.
She liked desserts, especially chocolate desserts. Shrimp was her favorite seafood as she had more shrimp recipes than any human could ever prepare in a lifetime. She also had several recipes for elderberry wine and ginger beer, and many desserts containing rum or whiskey. In my fiction-writer’s mind, I imagine she and her deceased husband were both teetotalers and that they had never graced the inside of a liquor store. Still, I feel strongly that she brewed and tried the elderberry wine, drinking every drop of the alcoholic concoction herself.
I had mixed emotions as I flipped through the recipes. I was happy because I could feel the pleasure that collecting and preparing the recipes the faceless woman must have felt. It also made me sad that no one in her family (if she had a family) realized that their mother, or grandmother, or aunt’s old recipe collection was quite possibly the most precious thing she owned.
I only have a few of my Mom’s recipes and I would never throw them away. Perhaps the person that sent us the books discovered the tattered recipe collection at a garage sale. They must have realized their intrinsic value because they bundled and sent them to a complete stranger, hoping that a person that liked old cookbooks might also value the combined memories of someone’s culinary life history.
Fiction South
All the recipes were loose leaf and bundled together in a badly worn, cardboard, MASH 4077 presentation folder. Many of the recipes were clipped from the pages of the New Orleans Time Picayune, and others entire pages from the Public Service Company of New Orleans apparently included with the monthly utility bill.
From the dates I found on the newspaper recipes I could see most were collected between the late seventies and early nineties. I was soon mesmerized as I glanced through the thick stack of neatly clipped recipes. This woman’s life - I presume the collection belonged to a woman although I have no way of knowing - was revealed to me as I read through her recipes.
She liked desserts, especially chocolate desserts. Shrimp was her favorite seafood as she had more shrimp recipes than any human could ever prepare in a lifetime. She also had several recipes for elderberry wine and ginger beer, and many desserts containing rum or whiskey. In my fiction-writer’s mind, I imagine she and her deceased husband were both teetotalers and that they had never graced the inside of a liquor store. Still, I feel strongly that she brewed and tried the elderberry wine, drinking every drop of the alcoholic concoction herself.
I had mixed emotions as I flipped through the recipes. I was happy because I could feel the pleasure that collecting and preparing the recipes the faceless woman must have felt. It also made me sad that no one in her family (if she had a family) realized that their mother, or grandmother, or aunt’s old recipe collection was quite possibly the most precious thing she owned.
I only have a few of my Mom’s recipes and I would never throw them away. Perhaps the person that sent us the books discovered the tattered recipe collection at a garage sale. They must have realized their intrinsic value because they bundled and sent them to a complete stranger, hoping that a person that liked old cookbooks might also value the combined memories of someone’s culinary life history.
Fiction South
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Barn Kittens and Backyard Spirits
I have had many cats as pets through the years. My first was King Tut, Anne’s cat, which became part of my family when Anne and I married. Glancing through some old pictures today, I found images of the second and third cat members of my family.
Anne and I were in the oil business. A drilling contractor named John was dating Sheryl, a young woman that worked for Anne and me. He had a little ranch on the west side of Oklahoma City, several horses and a barn. Blessed by many barn cats, he gave two kitties, Buster and Squeaky, to Sheryl. Sheryl kept Buster and gave Squeaky to Anne and me.
Squeaky was the first female cat Anne or I ever owned and neither of us realized how fast cats mature. Because of our oversight, Squeaky became pregnant and soon had a litter of beautiful kittens. We soon found good homes for all the kittens except for one, a calico we kept and named Chani after a character in the Dune series that Anne loved. Squeaky and Chani soon became inseparable.
The oil business soon busted. Anne and I lost our home and moved to a rent house, Chani, Squeaky and Tut moving with us. During the difficult years that ensued, we moved five times. Some of the cats didn’t live that long but Chani made all five moves.
Calicos are three-colored cats and they are always females. Chani was a gorgeous, three-colored cat with a distinctive voice. She always let you know when she was around. She loved affection and would live on your lap, if you would let her. She also liked to drink water from the tap.
Chani died at the age of nineteen, still the queen bee of our cat family until the time of our death. I buried her in the flower bed where she liked to lie, among the flowers, in the spring and summer. Spirits abound around the Wilder household and I’m sure she still holds sway over her departed brothers and sisters. I’m also sure Squeaky is also around and that she and Chani are again inseparable.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Shake, Rattle and Roll
The strongest earthquake activity in U.S. history began 198 years ago today, originating in northeast Arkansas but moderately felt in the million square miles surrounding the epicenter. The ensuing quakes reportedly caused the Mississippi River to flow backwards for two days.
The series of earthquakes now called the New Madrid Earthquake has special significance to me because it supposedly created Caddo Lake, the largest natural lake in Texas. Caddo Lake also extends into Louisiana, a few miles from where I grew up. This wonderfully mysterious lake is the backdrop for my first novel Ghost of a Chance.
Legend has it that a group of Caddo Indians had a large village at what is now the Big Lake part of the Louisiana side of Caddo Lake. The Chief of the tribe had a vision and woke his people in the middle of the night. They broke down the village that night and moved to a new location told to the Chief in his vision.
The first of a series of intense earthquakes began shortly after the Chief evacuated his people from the village. The quakes quickly opened a large rift that soon filled with water from nearby Red River.
The United States Geological Survey continues to monitor seismic activity along the New Madrid Fault Zone. The tectonic system is still active, the U.S.G.S. reporting three earthquakes right here in Oklahoma in the past five days, one with a magnitude of 3.4.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
The series of earthquakes now called the New Madrid Earthquake has special significance to me because it supposedly created Caddo Lake, the largest natural lake in Texas. Caddo Lake also extends into Louisiana, a few miles from where I grew up. This wonderfully mysterious lake is the backdrop for my first novel Ghost of a Chance.
Legend has it that a group of Caddo Indians had a large village at what is now the Big Lake part of the Louisiana side of Caddo Lake. The Chief of the tribe had a vision and woke his people in the middle of the night. They broke down the village that night and moved to a new location told to the Chief in his vision.
The first of a series of intense earthquakes began shortly after the Chief evacuated his people from the village. The quakes quickly opened a large rift that soon filled with water from nearby Red River.
The United States Geological Survey continues to monitor seismic activity along the New Madrid Fault Zone. The tectonic system is still active, the U.S.G.S. reporting three earthquakes right here in Oklahoma in the past five days, one with a magnitude of 3.4.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Dream Erotic - a reprise
I had a dream last night – a vivid dream. I was in a group of people, but I was alone. At least I did not have the feeling that I knew any of the minions around me. I was standing against a wall, observing the passing people, when someone approached me.
At first, I thought it was three females but soon it was only one.
“Hi, Eric. Long time no see,” she said.
She was a gorgeous young woman with frizzy black hair; she was wearing a very short dress that emphasized her curvy figure. I did not recognize her nor have a clue of her identity and began searching my mind for a glimmer of recognition. I could not find one.
“Have we met?” I finally asked.
She was still smiling when she answered, “You said you would never forget me.”
Her flashing eyes, dark as night, gazed directly into my brain. She was standing very close to me, invading my private space but I did not recoil. Her body was so warm that she lit a fire in my soul, heating my psyche almost to the point of boiling. I did not know her name but somehow felt as though I had known her forever.
“I’ve had a sudden attack of Alzheimer’s,” I said.
She moved closer to me, static electricity raising the hairs on my chest. I had raised my palm to halt her advance. Instead, I took her hand in mine and pulled her toward me until her body’s warmth began overloading my senses.
“I’m Esme,” she said.
Esme grasped my face and kissed me. Our embrace was slow, soft and sensual. I did not know this woman, but it did not matter. We were, at that moment, as close as any two individuals could ever be. She pulled away, but only to turn her back to me so that I could stroke her neck and let my hands trace a downward path.
I lifted the edge of her short dress stroking her legs and rear with my fingers. She turned her head toward me, reveling in my touch and then kissed me one last time before dissolving away like a smoldering flame.
I was still hot when I awoke, Esme’s beautiful eyes, and her cat-like smile imprinted on my brain. Even though I did not recognize her, I somehow felt that I had known her all my life. Maybe it was in another life or perhaps she is someone that lives in that dark and mysterious realm that is our dream world.
* * *
I recounted this story more than a year ago. It struck me when I read it again today that a beautiful woman named Esme is the primary female character in my new book Bones of Skeleton Creek. I didn’t initially call her Esme. Mena was the name I used. It soon came to me, how I do not know, that this person’s name is Esme and not Mena.
As in my dream, Esme is a mysterious woman, possibly even from a different dimension. Despite her mystical nature, she has the same dark hair and eyes of the woman in my dream. As in my dream, she is very real to me.
Gondwana
At first, I thought it was three females but soon it was only one.
“Hi, Eric. Long time no see,” she said.
She was a gorgeous young woman with frizzy black hair; she was wearing a very short dress that emphasized her curvy figure. I did not recognize her nor have a clue of her identity and began searching my mind for a glimmer of recognition. I could not find one.
“Have we met?” I finally asked.
She was still smiling when she answered, “You said you would never forget me.”
Her flashing eyes, dark as night, gazed directly into my brain. She was standing very close to me, invading my private space but I did not recoil. Her body was so warm that she lit a fire in my soul, heating my psyche almost to the point of boiling. I did not know her name but somehow felt as though I had known her forever.
“I’ve had a sudden attack of Alzheimer’s,” I said.
She moved closer to me, static electricity raising the hairs on my chest. I had raised my palm to halt her advance. Instead, I took her hand in mine and pulled her toward me until her body’s warmth began overloading my senses.
“I’m Esme,” she said.
Esme grasped my face and kissed me. Our embrace was slow, soft and sensual. I did not know this woman, but it did not matter. We were, at that moment, as close as any two individuals could ever be. She pulled away, but only to turn her back to me so that I could stroke her neck and let my hands trace a downward path.
I lifted the edge of her short dress stroking her legs and rear with my fingers. She turned her head toward me, reveling in my touch and then kissed me one last time before dissolving away like a smoldering flame.
I was still hot when I awoke, Esme’s beautiful eyes, and her cat-like smile imprinted on my brain. Even though I did not recognize her, I somehow felt that I had known her all my life. Maybe it was in another life or perhaps she is someone that lives in that dark and mysterious realm that is our dream world.
* * *
I recounted this story more than a year ago. It struck me when I read it again today that a beautiful woman named Esme is the primary female character in my new book Bones of Skeleton Creek. I didn’t initially call her Esme. Mena was the name I used. It soon came to me, how I do not know, that this person’s name is Esme and not Mena.
As in my dream, Esme is a mysterious woman, possibly even from a different dimension. Despite her mystical nature, she has the same dark hair and eyes of the woman in my dream. As in my dream, she is very real to me.
Gondwana
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
A Dip in the Lake
I was only four when I took my first dip in Caddo Lake. Both of my parents loved to fish and they did most of their fishing with worms on a hook dangling from cane poles. This they did while sitting on a boat dock jutting out into the lake.
The sport was far too passive for Brother Jack and me, and we often wound up playing cowboys and Indians instead. Jack and I were usually cowboys, as movies in the fifties most often portrayed Indians as villains - Tonto and Little Beaver noted exceptions. We both had felt cowboy hats, boots, and holsters complete with cap pistols. Because of our noisiness, the parents were happy to have us wander off to some other place and play.
It was one those hot Louisiana summer days, with not enough wind blowing to ripple the Spanish moss draping from the bloated cypress trees that grew in the shallow water near the bank. Mom and Dad were concentrating on their red bobbers floating in the coffee-colored water, at the ends of their lines. Realizing that no one was paying any attention to us, Jack and I went looking for a little shade, and a little fun.
There were boat docks every hundred feet or so, all extending well out into the shallow water. No one minded much if someone fished, or used them to play cowboys and Indians. Jack is two years older than I am and we were very close while growing up. That did not mean that we never had any disagreements.
Jack was always bigger and constantly used his strength to bully or taunt me, whenever he could get away with it. He was having a grand time snatching my cowboy hat and sailing it into the air. Jack loved to see my face turn red. The madder I became, the more he would torment me. My felt cowboy hat was my prized possession, and I was less than happy seeing it landing in the dirt.
When I finally retrieved my hat, I ran away from Jack, my hands clamped on the brim to keep him from yanking it off again. I made a strategic error by running onto a ramp extending into the lake; I quickly realized big brother would have me cornered once I reached the end of the dock.
He was almost on me when I spotted an old paddle propped up against the railing. Grabbing it as I reached the end of the dock, I twirled around to face my brother. When I took a swing at him with the paddle, he grabbed the other end. When I yanked, he pushed.
I was at the end of the dock. Losing my footing, I sailed backwards into the tepid water. I could not yet swim but it didn’t matter. Water barely came up to my chest, but I was frightened because Jack started yelling, “Look out, there’s an alligator behind you.”
Jack stopped laughing when I started screaming bloody murder as I attempted in vain to crawl up the algae-slick posts that supported the dock. My desperate wailing soon got the attention of my Mom and Dad who dropped their poles and came running.
“What in cornbread hell are you two into now?” my Dad yelled as he rushed toward me, just ahead of my Mother. He quickly reached down and pulled me out of the water.
Jack did not stick around to see the action. Expecting a whipping, he ran toward the car and hid. Dad did not bother. He had a fish on the line, handing me, wet and flopping, to my Mother and then hurrying back to his fishing pole.
Mom fished my hat out of the lake and then took me to the car, stripped off my wet clothes and draped them on the hood of the car to dry. With only a frown and shake of her head, and not a single word of reprimand, she hurried back to the fishing dock to see what my Dad had caught.
Brother Jack finally came out of the bushes, still laughing but more subdued because of his fear of a whipping. He also had the good sense to realize how upset that I was, my favorite cowboy hat lying in a misshapen lump on the hood of the brown and white Ford sedan.
My parents never punished Jack for pushing me into the lake and I was not too upset because my Mom somehow managed to reshape my cowboy hat and dry out my boots. That hot summer day, long ago, was not my first fight with Brother Jack, but it was my first dip in Caddo Lake.
Fiction South
The sport was far too passive for Brother Jack and me, and we often wound up playing cowboys and Indians instead. Jack and I were usually cowboys, as movies in the fifties most often portrayed Indians as villains - Tonto and Little Beaver noted exceptions. We both had felt cowboy hats, boots, and holsters complete with cap pistols. Because of our noisiness, the parents were happy to have us wander off to some other place and play.
It was one those hot Louisiana summer days, with not enough wind blowing to ripple the Spanish moss draping from the bloated cypress trees that grew in the shallow water near the bank. Mom and Dad were concentrating on their red bobbers floating in the coffee-colored water, at the ends of their lines. Realizing that no one was paying any attention to us, Jack and I went looking for a little shade, and a little fun.
There were boat docks every hundred feet or so, all extending well out into the shallow water. No one minded much if someone fished, or used them to play cowboys and Indians. Jack is two years older than I am and we were very close while growing up. That did not mean that we never had any disagreements.
Jack was always bigger and constantly used his strength to bully or taunt me, whenever he could get away with it. He was having a grand time snatching my cowboy hat and sailing it into the air. Jack loved to see my face turn red. The madder I became, the more he would torment me. My felt cowboy hat was my prized possession, and I was less than happy seeing it landing in the dirt.
When I finally retrieved my hat, I ran away from Jack, my hands clamped on the brim to keep him from yanking it off again. I made a strategic error by running onto a ramp extending into the lake; I quickly realized big brother would have me cornered once I reached the end of the dock.
He was almost on me when I spotted an old paddle propped up against the railing. Grabbing it as I reached the end of the dock, I twirled around to face my brother. When I took a swing at him with the paddle, he grabbed the other end. When I yanked, he pushed.
I was at the end of the dock. Losing my footing, I sailed backwards into the tepid water. I could not yet swim but it didn’t matter. Water barely came up to my chest, but I was frightened because Jack started yelling, “Look out, there’s an alligator behind you.”
Jack stopped laughing when I started screaming bloody murder as I attempted in vain to crawl up the algae-slick posts that supported the dock. My desperate wailing soon got the attention of my Mom and Dad who dropped their poles and came running.
“What in cornbread hell are you two into now?” my Dad yelled as he rushed toward me, just ahead of my Mother. He quickly reached down and pulled me out of the water.
Jack did not stick around to see the action. Expecting a whipping, he ran toward the car and hid. Dad did not bother. He had a fish on the line, handing me, wet and flopping, to my Mother and then hurrying back to his fishing pole.
Mom fished my hat out of the lake and then took me to the car, stripped off my wet clothes and draped them on the hood of the car to dry. With only a frown and shake of her head, and not a single word of reprimand, she hurried back to the fishing dock to see what my Dad had caught.
Brother Jack finally came out of the bushes, still laughing but more subdued because of his fear of a whipping. He also had the good sense to realize how upset that I was, my favorite cowboy hat lying in a misshapen lump on the hood of the brown and white Ford sedan.
My parents never punished Jack for pushing me into the lake and I was not too upset because my Mom somehow managed to reshape my cowboy hat and dry out my boots. That hot summer day, long ago, was not my first fight with Brother Jack, but it was my first dip in Caddo Lake.
Fiction South
Monday, December 14, 2009
A Bump in the Road
Oklahoma weather is nothing if not crazy. Yesterday, when I took my Dad to the lake, it was seventy-one degrees. Less than twenty-four hours later, it is twenty-three, soon to be seventeen. What’s going on here?
I had a drink with my business and writing partner r.r. Bryan tonight and he told me the first chapter of my new book Bones of Skeleton Creek sucks. Knowing that r.r. would never lie to me, I am already searching for a way to improve the situation.
Maybe he is right. Maybe the first chapter does suck. Okay, I will sleep on it. Criticism is always hard to take but, then again, none of us is perfect. I trust r.r. and if he says my first chapter sucks, well, it probably does. Tomorrow, I will try to fix it.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
I had a drink with my business and writing partner r.r. Bryan tonight and he told me the first chapter of my new book Bones of Skeleton Creek sucks. Knowing that r.r. would never lie to me, I am already searching for a way to improve the situation.
Maybe he is right. Maybe the first chapter does suck. Okay, I will sleep on it. Criticism is always hard to take but, then again, none of us is perfect. I trust r.r. and if he says my first chapter sucks, well, it probably does. Tomorrow, I will try to fix it.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Running on Empty
I’ve never run a marathon but I have competed in a half marathon, a 15 K and more 10 Ks than I can count. I was overweight and out of shape when I ran the half marathon. I didn’t win the event but I didn’t finish last either, well at least not dead last.
Oklahoma City inaugurated a yearly marathon event several years ago to commemorate the heroism and sacrifice of the people of our City, and others that lent helping hands during the aftermath of the Oklahoma City Bombing. Before that, there was only the yearly running of the Jim Thorpe Half Marathon around Lake Overholser.
I ran track in junior high and kept up the practice through most of my life. Even so, I never ran a 10 K until the oil crash of the eighties when my little oil company went belly up. It was a strange time in my life. I had a bloated body and a deflated ego. I needed something to regain my self-esteem and somehow decided that running was the ticket. Since I was too fat to run I began walking laps through the house. Soon I was jogging through the neighborhood at what I thought was a healthy clip. Feeling better than I had in years I entered my first 10 K.
To the uninitiated 10 K is short for ten kilometers, a distance of six-point-two miles. My first was the Red Bud, a yearly Oklahoma City running event that recently celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary. It hooked me when I finished the distance in less than sixty minutes.
During my first 10 K, I learned I wasn’t the only busted oilie that had turned to jogging as therapy. Hell! Half the oil community was competing, and finding so many kindred spirits only bolstered my desire to continue running.
Many events followed but somewhere along the line, I quit training and did nothing as my weight ballooned back up to one-eighty-five. I had made excuses for the past three Jim Thorpe’s and decided that I couldn’t live with myself another year without at least attempting the distance of a bit more than thirteen miles.
I arrived for the event late and unregistered. Only the convincing of some of my oilie brethren got me registered and I was still filling out papers when the starter pistol fired. It didn’t matter because I hadn’t come to win, only to compete and prove to myself that I still had the goods, even if they had shrunken slightly.
Months had passed since I had entered an event and word began trickling down through my group of friends. Amazingly, many waited on me, or dropped back in the pack to pat me on the back and offer encouragement. Before long I felt like a fat Forrest Gump, surrounded by friends determined that they were going to will me to finish the race.
Somewhere near the halfway mark I convinced my friends both male and female to run their race and that I would run mine. One by one they broke away, disappearing into the distance, leaving me alone in a pack of twenty or so very slow runners. It was then that I realized that I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.
Lake Overholser is a City Park and I soon spotted a bathroom. Breaking from the pack I headed straight for it. When I finished my business there were no runners around and I was, I realized, really bringing up the rear.
I somehow continued trudging forward, although already spent. A Seven Eleven convenience store marked the three-quarter mark. Having a few dollar bills stashed in my shorts I stopped for a cold drink but once inside I settled on an ice cold Coors instead.
“Why not?” I told the clerk. “I’m so far behind that I can do no better than last anyway.”
“No way,” the pretty cashier told me. “At least ten runners just left here. They were all drinking beer.”
My dim hopes suddenly bolstered I slammed the Coors, gave the pretty girl a confident wink and hurried out the door. The potty and beer breaks were what I needed. I soon saw a group of runners ahead of me and could tell that if I continued my pace I would catch them before the finish line. With that goal in mind I began moving at a rate I soon realized I couldn’t maintain.
Most of the runners ahead of me continued their pace and when I reached the last turn before the finish line there was only one runner still ahead of me. I was out of shape but I wasn’t particularly old at the time. The runner in front of me looked at least ten years older than me and about the same weight. It didn’t matter because I could see the finish line in the distance and she was somehow managing to pull away. Closing my eyes tightly, I made a wish, took a deep breath and started to sprint.
Don’t ask me how but by some superhuman effort I managed to overtake the old lady and beat her by a foot or two across the finish line. My efforts didn’t impress her as she just frowned and shook her head as she walked past me. Everyone, it seemed, had already gone home and not even the scorers were left to welcome us to the finish line.
I was so sore that I could barely get out of bed the next morning and I had difficulty walking up the stairs. Still, I had a grin on my face that didn’t disappear for the rest of the weekend. Maybe I had beat out an old woman just to keep from finishing dead last but at least I had finished, and it came flowing back to me why I had begun running in the first place.
I learned a good lesson in life that day. No matter how bad you feel just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Maybe, more importantly, before giving up, stop, slug an ice cold Coors, then regroup and get after it again.
Fiction South
Oklahoma City inaugurated a yearly marathon event several years ago to commemorate the heroism and sacrifice of the people of our City, and others that lent helping hands during the aftermath of the Oklahoma City Bombing. Before that, there was only the yearly running of the Jim Thorpe Half Marathon around Lake Overholser.
I ran track in junior high and kept up the practice through most of my life. Even so, I never ran a 10 K until the oil crash of the eighties when my little oil company went belly up. It was a strange time in my life. I had a bloated body and a deflated ego. I needed something to regain my self-esteem and somehow decided that running was the ticket. Since I was too fat to run I began walking laps through the house. Soon I was jogging through the neighborhood at what I thought was a healthy clip. Feeling better than I had in years I entered my first 10 K.
To the uninitiated 10 K is short for ten kilometers, a distance of six-point-two miles. My first was the Red Bud, a yearly Oklahoma City running event that recently celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary. It hooked me when I finished the distance in less than sixty minutes.
During my first 10 K, I learned I wasn’t the only busted oilie that had turned to jogging as therapy. Hell! Half the oil community was competing, and finding so many kindred spirits only bolstered my desire to continue running.
Many events followed but somewhere along the line, I quit training and did nothing as my weight ballooned back up to one-eighty-five. I had made excuses for the past three Jim Thorpe’s and decided that I couldn’t live with myself another year without at least attempting the distance of a bit more than thirteen miles.
I arrived for the event late and unregistered. Only the convincing of some of my oilie brethren got me registered and I was still filling out papers when the starter pistol fired. It didn’t matter because I hadn’t come to win, only to compete and prove to myself that I still had the goods, even if they had shrunken slightly.
Months had passed since I had entered an event and word began trickling down through my group of friends. Amazingly, many waited on me, or dropped back in the pack to pat me on the back and offer encouragement. Before long I felt like a fat Forrest Gump, surrounded by friends determined that they were going to will me to finish the race.
Somewhere near the halfway mark I convinced my friends both male and female to run their race and that I would run mine. One by one they broke away, disappearing into the distance, leaving me alone in a pack of twenty or so very slow runners. It was then that I realized that I desperately needed to go to the bathroom.
Lake Overholser is a City Park and I soon spotted a bathroom. Breaking from the pack I headed straight for it. When I finished my business there were no runners around and I was, I realized, really bringing up the rear.
I somehow continued trudging forward, although already spent. A Seven Eleven convenience store marked the three-quarter mark. Having a few dollar bills stashed in my shorts I stopped for a cold drink but once inside I settled on an ice cold Coors instead.
“Why not?” I told the clerk. “I’m so far behind that I can do no better than last anyway.”
“No way,” the pretty cashier told me. “At least ten runners just left here. They were all drinking beer.”
My dim hopes suddenly bolstered I slammed the Coors, gave the pretty girl a confident wink and hurried out the door. The potty and beer breaks were what I needed. I soon saw a group of runners ahead of me and could tell that if I continued my pace I would catch them before the finish line. With that goal in mind I began moving at a rate I soon realized I couldn’t maintain.
Most of the runners ahead of me continued their pace and when I reached the last turn before the finish line there was only one runner still ahead of me. I was out of shape but I wasn’t particularly old at the time. The runner in front of me looked at least ten years older than me and about the same weight. It didn’t matter because I could see the finish line in the distance and she was somehow managing to pull away. Closing my eyes tightly, I made a wish, took a deep breath and started to sprint.
Don’t ask me how but by some superhuman effort I managed to overtake the old lady and beat her by a foot or two across the finish line. My efforts didn’t impress her as she just frowned and shook her head as she walked past me. Everyone, it seemed, had already gone home and not even the scorers were left to welcome us to the finish line.
I was so sore that I could barely get out of bed the next morning and I had difficulty walking up the stairs. Still, I had a grin on my face that didn’t disappear for the rest of the weekend. Maybe I had beat out an old woman just to keep from finishing dead last but at least I had finished, and it came flowing back to me why I had begun running in the first place.
I learned a good lesson in life that day. No matter how bad you feel just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Maybe, more importantly, before giving up, stop, slug an ice cold Coors, then regroup and get after it again.
Fiction South
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce - a recipe
Marilyn and I collect old New Orleans cookbooks and this week she found Creole Feast – 15 Master Chefs of New Orleans Reveal Their Secrets. This extraordinary cookbook, published in 1978 and written by Nathaniel Burton and Rudolph Lombard, features a recipe for one of my favorite desserts, one I always order whenever visiting the Crescent City.
This recipe is by Austin Leslie, master chef and one-time owner of Chez Helene, a wonderful New Orleans restaurant no longer in business. After being trapped in an attic for two days by Hurricane Katrina Leslie died in September 2005. He was the first person honored by a jazz funeral after Katrina in what was then a largely deserted Big Easy.
Austin Leslie, also known as the Godfather of Fried Chicken, was the inspiration for the short-lived television show Frank’s Place. If you are like me, an aficionado of fried chicken, you really should read the book, if only for his personal description of the absolute best way to cut up a chicken and fry it.
Chicken wasn’t the only thing Austin Leslie knew how to cook; he could also prepare wonderful deserts. I’ve published other bread pudding recipes and every one is slightly different. If you enjoy bread pudding as much as I, give this one a try because it is a good one.
Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce
1 loaf stale French bread
¼ can evaporated milk
1 pound butter
1 ¼ cups sugar
¼ pound raisins
1 small can crush pineapple
3 eggs, beaten
3 tablespoons vanilla extract
¼ cup brown sugar
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Wet the bread and squeeze the water out of it. Melt the butter and mix with all other ingredients. Pour mixture into a well-greased 4 x 10-inch baking pan. Bake for 2 ½ hours. The pudding will rise in the first hour. After an hour, remove pan from oven and stir the mixture to tighten it. Return to the oven for the second hour of cooking.
Rum Sauce
¼ stick butter, melted
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
½ cup rum
Place all ingredients in double boiler and cook for 10 minutes. Beat until fluffy. Serves 10
Louisiana Mystery Writer
This recipe is by Austin Leslie, master chef and one-time owner of Chez Helene, a wonderful New Orleans restaurant no longer in business. After being trapped in an attic for two days by Hurricane Katrina Leslie died in September 2005. He was the first person honored by a jazz funeral after Katrina in what was then a largely deserted Big Easy.
Austin Leslie, also known as the Godfather of Fried Chicken, was the inspiration for the short-lived television show Frank’s Place. If you are like me, an aficionado of fried chicken, you really should read the book, if only for his personal description of the absolute best way to cut up a chicken and fry it.
Chicken wasn’t the only thing Austin Leslie knew how to cook; he could also prepare wonderful deserts. I’ve published other bread pudding recipes and every one is slightly different. If you enjoy bread pudding as much as I, give this one a try because it is a good one.
Bread Pudding with Rum Sauce
1 loaf stale French bread
¼ can evaporated milk
1 pound butter
1 ¼ cups sugar
¼ pound raisins
1 small can crush pineapple
3 eggs, beaten
3 tablespoons vanilla extract
¼ cup brown sugar
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Wet the bread and squeeze the water out of it. Melt the butter and mix with all other ingredients. Pour mixture into a well-greased 4 x 10-inch baking pan. Bake for 2 ½ hours. The pudding will rise in the first hour. After an hour, remove pan from oven and stir the mixture to tighten it. Return to the oven for the second hour of cooking.
Rum Sauce
¼ stick butter, melted
1 cup sugar
1 cup flour
½ cup rum
Place all ingredients in double boiler and cook for 10 minutes. Beat until fluffy. Serves 10
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Lily's Red Snapper Louisianne - a weekend recipe
Red snapper is perhaps the most popular main entrée at many fine restaurants in New Orleans. My Cajun ex-mother-in-law always prepared a wonderful version she called, simply, red fish.
Lily always made her signature dish when her little brother Junior brought home red snapper from one of his morning fishing trips. I don’t have Lili’s recipe (she did everything by memory) but here is a similar one.
2 onions, minced
1 sprig saffron
2 green peppers, minced
4 pounds red snapper
2 fresh mushrooms, minced
1 cup white wine
1 clove garlic, crushed
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
6 fresh tomatoes, peeled
Cook onions, peppers, mushrooms and garlic in olive oil for a few minutes, add tomatoes and cook for 30 minutes. Add saffron. Remove head and middle bone from fish and arrange in a buttered baking dish. Pour wine over fish and season very lightly with salt and pepper. Add sauce and cook for 30 minutes in a 350-degree oven. Garnish with parsley. Serves 8 to 10.
Fiction South
Lily always made her signature dish when her little brother Junior brought home red snapper from one of his morning fishing trips. I don’t have Lili’s recipe (she did everything by memory) but here is a similar one.
2 onions, minced
1 sprig saffron
2 green peppers, minced
4 pounds red snapper
2 fresh mushrooms, minced
1 cup white wine
1 clove garlic, crushed
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
6 fresh tomatoes, peeled
Cook onions, peppers, mushrooms and garlic in olive oil for a few minutes, add tomatoes and cook for 30 minutes. Add saffron. Remove head and middle bone from fish and arrange in a buttered baking dish. Pour wine over fish and season very lightly with salt and pepper. Add sauce and cook for 30 minutes in a 350-degree oven. Garnish with parsley. Serves 8 to 10.
Fiction South
Friday, December 11, 2009
Pink Oklahoma Sky
Leaving the office earlier, I noticed the sky had turned a deep pinkish color. Stopping in the parking lot, I snapped a few pics with my trusty Nikon before the color disappeared. Notice the one picture with several ducks heading south.
World's Greatest Gamblers
The present economic woes of the world cause me to think of something that happened nearly three decades ago. Despite all my efforts, the company I had formed and fostered had gone “belly up” during the eighties oil bust. It was an awful time in my life - not the worst, but in the top three.
My second wife Anne was my partner in the company and we spent six months trying to find a “white knight” to bail out the company. We were not successful. Everyone - except of course the people that make a living in the industry - hates oil companies. This is because crude oil is the number one commodity in the entire world. No one can live without it. When prices get high, for whatever reason, everyone feels the pinch.
Back in the eighties, oil companies began going “belly up” right and left. Since the main industry in Oklahoma is oil, the state and everyone in it suffered direly. Drilling rigs that had cost millions to build were first stacked (stored) and then cut up for scrap metal when it became apparent the bust would last longer than expected. It lasted for more than a decade.
We are now into yet another recession, and the only good thing about it – for the oil industry, that is – is it signaled an end to President-elect Obama’s proposed windfall profits tax designed to punish the evil oil industry. Well, he was much too young to remember the oil bust of the eighties and the adverse effect it had on thousands of everyday working people, or the fatalist saying, “Last one to leave the State, turn out the lights.”
I digress. Anne and I were looking for a “white knight” to bail out our company. A rich oily from Midland, Texas dropped by to hear my story and see if he could help. He sat across the desk from me, listening to my sad tale when suddenly he got a big grin on his face.
“Did I say something funny?” I asked.
“You’re bringing back memories of when my own oil company went bankrupt. I know it seems like the world has ended and that you will never recover, but you will.” The man began grinning again.
“What?” I implored him.
“This is your first time around,” he said. “You can never really call yourself an oil man until you have been bankrupt at least twice.”
I have yet to go “belly up” a second time but the old oilie informed me of something I probably should already have known. There is no business on earth as risky as the oil business, and those that engage in it are truly the world’s greatest gamblers.
If you are an oilie, you also need to stand on your own two feet because – unlike Wall Street fat cats - you can bet that no matter how many people in your industry lose their jobs, their homes, their cars, and are unable to afford milk for their babies, Congress will NEVER bail you out.
Eric'sWeb
My second wife Anne was my partner in the company and we spent six months trying to find a “white knight” to bail out the company. We were not successful. Everyone - except of course the people that make a living in the industry - hates oil companies. This is because crude oil is the number one commodity in the entire world. No one can live without it. When prices get high, for whatever reason, everyone feels the pinch.
Back in the eighties, oil companies began going “belly up” right and left. Since the main industry in Oklahoma is oil, the state and everyone in it suffered direly. Drilling rigs that had cost millions to build were first stacked (stored) and then cut up for scrap metal when it became apparent the bust would last longer than expected. It lasted for more than a decade.
We are now into yet another recession, and the only good thing about it – for the oil industry, that is – is it signaled an end to President-elect Obama’s proposed windfall profits tax designed to punish the evil oil industry. Well, he was much too young to remember the oil bust of the eighties and the adverse effect it had on thousands of everyday working people, or the fatalist saying, “Last one to leave the State, turn out the lights.”
I digress. Anne and I were looking for a “white knight” to bail out our company. A rich oily from Midland, Texas dropped by to hear my story and see if he could help. He sat across the desk from me, listening to my sad tale when suddenly he got a big grin on his face.
“Did I say something funny?” I asked.
“You’re bringing back memories of when my own oil company went bankrupt. I know it seems like the world has ended and that you will never recover, but you will.” The man began grinning again.
“What?” I implored him.
“This is your first time around,” he said. “You can never really call yourself an oil man until you have been bankrupt at least twice.”
I have yet to go “belly up” a second time but the old oilie informed me of something I probably should already have known. There is no business on earth as risky as the oil business, and those that engage in it are truly the world’s greatest gamblers.
If you are an oilie, you also need to stand on your own two feet because – unlike Wall Street fat cats - you can bet that no matter how many people in your industry lose their jobs, their homes, their cars, and are unable to afford milk for their babies, Congress will NEVER bail you out.
Eric'sWeb
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Dog Story
I have told the story of how I gave my dog Slick to a caring family that apparently loved him more than me. Slick and his adopted family still live nearby. On a walk through the neighborhood a few days ago, they stopped by for a visit.
Slick, a beautiful black Gordon setter, will be thirteen in March. His black hair has turned gray and he walks now instead of runs. When he was my dog, he never stopped running. I was at work when Slick and his adopted parents dropped by, but their visit jogged a distant memory.
I have a tiny little oil and gas company and operate a few shallow gas wells in Noble County, Oklahoma. One summer, many years ago, I took Slick and Lucky with me to check out the wells. Both dogs loved riding in my 1992 Acura Vigor. It was hot, the temperature over 100 degrees when we reached the first well. It was then I made a mistake that I will never again repeat.
I got out of the car to check the gas meter, leaving the car running and the key in the ignition. Slick immediately jumped up to see where I was going and depressed the door lock. When I returned from the meter, I found myself locked out of the car, the two dogs, and their tails wagging, unable to open door.
I quickly learned that it is almost impossible to break out a window of tempered glass. Frustrated, I searched the ditches for a clothes hanger (yeah, sure!) to open the door. Twenty minutes later, a very nice young man drove up in a truck. Amazingly, he had a clothes hanger and we soon managed to open the car. I waved in appreciation as he drove away down the road. I wasn’t even upset when Slick and Lucky bailed out of the car and took off running.
Happy to be back in the air-conditioned Vigor, I simply followed the galloping dogs down the unpaved, section-line road. They ran for almost two miles before I finally corralled them at an abandoned oil lease. Slick and Lucky were pooped but happy when they finally jumped back into the Acura.
Lucky passed away in November after a long and wonderful life. Slick is old, but he has also had a wonderful life. He doesn’t run thirteen miles a day anymore, but then who among us still does?
Lousisiana Mystery Writer
Slick, a beautiful black Gordon setter, will be thirteen in March. His black hair has turned gray and he walks now instead of runs. When he was my dog, he never stopped running. I was at work when Slick and his adopted parents dropped by, but their visit jogged a distant memory.
I have a tiny little oil and gas company and operate a few shallow gas wells in Noble County, Oklahoma. One summer, many years ago, I took Slick and Lucky with me to check out the wells. Both dogs loved riding in my 1992 Acura Vigor. It was hot, the temperature over 100 degrees when we reached the first well. It was then I made a mistake that I will never again repeat.
I got out of the car to check the gas meter, leaving the car running and the key in the ignition. Slick immediately jumped up to see where I was going and depressed the door lock. When I returned from the meter, I found myself locked out of the car, the two dogs, and their tails wagging, unable to open door.
I quickly learned that it is almost impossible to break out a window of tempered glass. Frustrated, I searched the ditches for a clothes hanger (yeah, sure!) to open the door. Twenty minutes later, a very nice young man drove up in a truck. Amazingly, he had a clothes hanger and we soon managed to open the car. I waved in appreciation as he drove away down the road. I wasn’t even upset when Slick and Lucky bailed out of the car and took off running.
Happy to be back in the air-conditioned Vigor, I simply followed the galloping dogs down the unpaved, section-line road. They ran for almost two miles before I finally corralled them at an abandoned oil lease. Slick and Lucky were pooped but happy when they finally jumped back into the Acura.
Lucky passed away in November after a long and wonderful life. Slick is old, but he has also had a wonderful life. He doesn’t run thirteen miles a day anymore, but then who among us still does?
Lousisiana Mystery Writer
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
When the Weather Turns Cold
As a young geologist working for Texas Oil & Gas, I generated many prospects and experienced the late seventies oil boom first hand. One prospect a week was the company mantra. We drilled mostly developmental wells – those close to existing production. Texas Oil & Gas was the king of corner shooters, drillers that edged as close as possible to the wells of other operators. Although much reviled, we found lots of oil and gas.
I can’t remember exactly how many geologists we had at the old Midland Center in downtown Oklahoma City, but it is safe to say we had a dozen or so. During this time, Texas Oil & Gas was drilling more wells than any company in the country was. The Oklahoma City office of TXO was drilling the most wells of any TXO office, and I was generating the most wells in the Oklahoma City office.
It worked this way: I would drag into work about nine-fifteen on Monday. After a few cups of coffee, I would stare at a color-coded production map until I focused on a potential prospect. I would then map the geology, or trash the idea and start on another. By Friday, I would have a viable drilling prospect that I would show at the weekly meeting.
About a dozen people sat in on every Friday meeting, chief engineers, geologists and landmen. If they liked my prospect, they would approve it and put it on the drilling agenda. When I left the meeting, I would go to lunch. I rarely returned.
There was a bar in Oklahoma City at the time called Clementine’s. It was located in the basement of the Penn Square Mall. You could walk down a flight of stairs, or slide down via a sliding board. Once there, you felt as if you were in another world. Bill, a salesperson for one of the electric logging companies, would always be at Clementine’s after work on Fridays.
Mixed drinks were three for one at the bar and Bill had a standing tab for TXO geologists. I was always there, as were my fellow geologists, and many of the land, engineering and geological secretaries. After one very hectic week, my good friend and fellow TXO geologist Dave and I parked outside, entered the darkened doorway of Clementine’s and slid down the slide to the loud nightclub. It was a cold winter night.
Dave had curly dark hippie hair with a beard and moustache to match. His lips were always smiling and his dark eyes had a twinkle that somehow masked an ache in his heart he never explained to me.
Clementine’s had a parquet dance floor with a revolving disco ball overhead and vents for mists of steam that arose during every song. The bodies, both male and female, quickly became hot and steamy, and the crowd resembled pagans dancing in a misty Scottish moor. During the days before AIDS, casual sex was rampant, first names often disregarded, last names never discussed. Considering only the moment, we never thought about tomorrow.
How I survived my two years at TXO I will never know. That night, Dave melded into the darkness with some luscious honey he had met on the dance floor. After more Wild Turkey’s than I could count, I was ready to fall on my face. In the days before the cell phone, I somehow managed to find a pay phone and call my geologic secretary Gayle, asking her to join me. Gayle had two young sons - ages five and seven. It was her weekend to keep them.
Gayle was as tall as I am, with black hair that draped to her shoulders. Her dark hair and eyes contrasted with her light complexion. She looked like a goddess but had the gentle touch of a trusted friend.
“Stay there,” she said. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t climb the stairs by myself without falling on my face. I was leaning against the wall when Gayle found me through the crowd. Putting her arms around me, she walked me up the stairs, and then to her car where her two sons awaited.
My ex-wife Gail and I still owned a house that we were trying to sell. Gayle dropped me off, bestowing a wonderful kiss before she and her two boys drove away, leaving me alone in the darkness. She and I soon became a number.
Gayle and I dated for the best part of the next two years. My mother loved her and she kept telling me to marry her. I also loved Gayle and I think she loved me, but it was not to be. Too insecure in my own sexuality, I was too busy pursuing yet another one-night-stand to hook up with just one woman, no matter how gorgeous and intelligent she might be.
Years later, I still remember the go-go years at Texas Oil & Gas. I can’t remember the countless obscure faces of my many drunken one-night-stands, but I do remember Disco Dave and my other fellow geologic toilers, and when the weather is cold, like it is tonight, I remember lovely Miss Gayle.
Gondwana
I can’t remember exactly how many geologists we had at the old Midland Center in downtown Oklahoma City, but it is safe to say we had a dozen or so. During this time, Texas Oil & Gas was drilling more wells than any company in the country was. The Oklahoma City office of TXO was drilling the most wells of any TXO office, and I was generating the most wells in the Oklahoma City office.
It worked this way: I would drag into work about nine-fifteen on Monday. After a few cups of coffee, I would stare at a color-coded production map until I focused on a potential prospect. I would then map the geology, or trash the idea and start on another. By Friday, I would have a viable drilling prospect that I would show at the weekly meeting.
About a dozen people sat in on every Friday meeting, chief engineers, geologists and landmen. If they liked my prospect, they would approve it and put it on the drilling agenda. When I left the meeting, I would go to lunch. I rarely returned.
There was a bar in Oklahoma City at the time called Clementine’s. It was located in the basement of the Penn Square Mall. You could walk down a flight of stairs, or slide down via a sliding board. Once there, you felt as if you were in another world. Bill, a salesperson for one of the electric logging companies, would always be at Clementine’s after work on Fridays.
Mixed drinks were three for one at the bar and Bill had a standing tab for TXO geologists. I was always there, as were my fellow geologists, and many of the land, engineering and geological secretaries. After one very hectic week, my good friend and fellow TXO geologist Dave and I parked outside, entered the darkened doorway of Clementine’s and slid down the slide to the loud nightclub. It was a cold winter night.
Dave had curly dark hippie hair with a beard and moustache to match. His lips were always smiling and his dark eyes had a twinkle that somehow masked an ache in his heart he never explained to me.
Clementine’s had a parquet dance floor with a revolving disco ball overhead and vents for mists of steam that arose during every song. The bodies, both male and female, quickly became hot and steamy, and the crowd resembled pagans dancing in a misty Scottish moor. During the days before AIDS, casual sex was rampant, first names often disregarded, last names never discussed. Considering only the moment, we never thought about tomorrow.
How I survived my two years at TXO I will never know. That night, Dave melded into the darkness with some luscious honey he had met on the dance floor. After more Wild Turkey’s than I could count, I was ready to fall on my face. In the days before the cell phone, I somehow managed to find a pay phone and call my geologic secretary Gayle, asking her to join me. Gayle had two young sons - ages five and seven. It was her weekend to keep them.
Gayle was as tall as I am, with black hair that draped to her shoulders. Her dark hair and eyes contrasted with her light complexion. She looked like a goddess but had the gentle touch of a trusted friend.
“Stay there,” she said. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t climb the stairs by myself without falling on my face. I was leaning against the wall when Gayle found me through the crowd. Putting her arms around me, she walked me up the stairs, and then to her car where her two sons awaited.
My ex-wife Gail and I still owned a house that we were trying to sell. Gayle dropped me off, bestowing a wonderful kiss before she and her two boys drove away, leaving me alone in the darkness. She and I soon became a number.
Gayle and I dated for the best part of the next two years. My mother loved her and she kept telling me to marry her. I also loved Gayle and I think she loved me, but it was not to be. Too insecure in my own sexuality, I was too busy pursuing yet another one-night-stand to hook up with just one woman, no matter how gorgeous and intelligent she might be.
Years later, I still remember the go-go years at Texas Oil & Gas. I can’t remember the countless obscure faces of my many drunken one-night-stands, but I do remember Disco Dave and my other fellow geologic toilers, and when the weather is cold, like it is tonight, I remember lovely Miss Gayle.
Gondwana
Grandma Dale's Chicken and Dumplings
I remember spending the night at my grandmother’s house in east Texas. Nights were always dark because her house had no electricity until I was almost a teenager. After dark, she burned coal oil lamps until we could no longer tolerate the reek of soot and fumes.
That was a long time ago, in the fifties, when wolves still roamed the piney woods and howled at the moon all night. The wonderful aroma of grandma’s biscuits in the morning made it all worthwhile.
Grandma Dale was a good cook but there was one dish she made better than anyone else in the world – chicken and dumplings. I don’t know her exact recipe, but she would start by kneading dough she made from flour, shortening, baking powder and salt. She would roll the dough out with an old rolling pin on a wooden cutting block and slice it into the desired size with her butcher knife.
She would boil a chicken, one she had raised, wrung its neck, and then plucked herself. I remember she used a pressure cooker. When the meat was falling off the bone, she would put it in a boiling pot of chicken broth, and drop in the dumplings.
The chicken was tender, as were the dumplings, and both seasoned to perfection using only two ingredients – salt and pepper. Don’t ask me how, but the subtle seasoning combined with tender chicken and succulent dumplings to provide a concoction to die for. Chicken and dumplings is a universal dish, at least in the south, but I have never had it before or since as tasty as Grandma Dale used to make.
Many moons have passed since I slept in the piney woods of east Texas. I barely remember the coal oil lamps or the howling of wolves at night. Still, I will never forget the sublime flavor of my ol’ east Texas Grandma’s chicken and dumplings even as I know in my heart I will never taste it again.
Fiction South
That was a long time ago, in the fifties, when wolves still roamed the piney woods and howled at the moon all night. The wonderful aroma of grandma’s biscuits in the morning made it all worthwhile.
Grandma Dale was a good cook but there was one dish she made better than anyone else in the world – chicken and dumplings. I don’t know her exact recipe, but she would start by kneading dough she made from flour, shortening, baking powder and salt. She would roll the dough out with an old rolling pin on a wooden cutting block and slice it into the desired size with her butcher knife.
She would boil a chicken, one she had raised, wrung its neck, and then plucked herself. I remember she used a pressure cooker. When the meat was falling off the bone, she would put it in a boiling pot of chicken broth, and drop in the dumplings.
The chicken was tender, as were the dumplings, and both seasoned to perfection using only two ingredients – salt and pepper. Don’t ask me how, but the subtle seasoning combined with tender chicken and succulent dumplings to provide a concoction to die for. Chicken and dumplings is a universal dish, at least in the south, but I have never had it before or since as tasty as Grandma Dale used to make.
Many moons have passed since I slept in the piney woods of east Texas. I barely remember the coal oil lamps or the howling of wolves at night. Still, I will never forget the sublime flavor of my ol’ east Texas Grandma’s chicken and dumplings even as I know in my heart I will never taste it again.
Fiction South
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Caddo Lake Tree House
Here is a picture of a treehouse on the Louisiana side of Caddo Lake, and a hungry acrobat in my backyard. Also pictured is the cover of Ghost of a Chance, my Caddo Lake murder mystery featuring Oklahoma cowboy sleuth Buck McDivit. Try it, you'll like it!
Eric'sWeb
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Pulley Bone Memories and Mama's Fried Chicken
Growing up in northwest Louisiana in the fifties, money was scarce but chickens were cheap. One of the meals my mom prepared at least once a week was southern fried chicken served with fresh-cut fried potatoes. Although I never thought about it at the time, the meal now ranks as my favorite southern comfort food.
My brother Jack and I both liked the wishbone, the piece of the chicken we called the “pulley bone.” He was older and usually ended up with it. Whichever one of us got it we would have a contest, each grabbing an end of the vee-shaped bone and pulling. The one of us ending with the biggest piece of the pulley bone could then make a secret wish guaranteed to come true.
The recipe is simple, with only a few basic ingredients, and the preparation straight forward. Still, no one could fry chicken like my northwest Louisiana mama. If I had a pulley bone wish today, it would be for a bite of her fried chicken and potatoes.
Ingredients:
1 chicken, e.g. wings, thighs, etc.
1 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon pepper
½ cup flour
2 tablespoons vegetable oil, divided
1 ¼ cups milk
Preparation:
Combine chicken, salt, pepper, and the flour on large plate; toss lightly to coat. Heat 1 tablespoon oil in large skillet over medium-high heat. Add chicken and cook until golden on all sides, 5 to 8 minutes. Remove chicken, pouring off excess oil.
Return the skillet to the heat and add milk, scraping pan to loosen any brown bits. Add chicken, skin side up. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover, and simmer until chicken is tender and juices run clear, about 15 to 20 minutes.
Fiction South
My brother Jack and I both liked the wishbone, the piece of the chicken we called the “pulley bone.” He was older and usually ended up with it. Whichever one of us got it we would have a contest, each grabbing an end of the vee-shaped bone and pulling. The one of us ending with the biggest piece of the pulley bone could then make a secret wish guaranteed to come true.
The recipe is simple, with only a few basic ingredients, and the preparation straight forward. Still, no one could fry chicken like my northwest Louisiana mama. If I had a pulley bone wish today, it would be for a bite of her fried chicken and potatoes.
Ingredients:
1 chicken, e.g. wings, thighs, etc.
1 teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon pepper
½ cup flour
2 tablespoons vegetable oil, divided
1 ¼ cups milk
Preparation:
Combine chicken, salt, pepper, and the flour on large plate; toss lightly to coat. Heat 1 tablespoon oil in large skillet over medium-high heat. Add chicken and cook until golden on all sides, 5 to 8 minutes. Remove chicken, pouring off excess oil.
Return the skillet to the heat and add milk, scraping pan to loosen any brown bits. Add chicken, skin side up. Reduce heat to medium-low, cover, and simmer until chicken is tender and juices run clear, about 15 to 20 minutes.
Fiction South
Friday, December 4, 2009
A Cold Friday Night in Edmond
The final week of November, this year felt more like early fall, flowers still blooming and butterflies still fluttering the day after Thanksgiving. That has all changed with the beginning of December.
Temperatures dropped into the low twenties last night, steady wind continuing to blow in from the north. My dogs seem to love it, romping more so than when the weather is warmer. My two pugs have a sunny spot where they like to lie when they tire of romping. Patch and Velvet have their own spots.
The cold weather is affecting my walking, making me less likely to do it, that is. Tomorrow is Saturday so maybe I’ll go a sporting goods store and see if I can find an insulated suit. If I don’t find one, I may have to postpone my walking until next spring.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Temperatures dropped into the low twenties last night, steady wind continuing to blow in from the north. My dogs seem to love it, romping more so than when the weather is warmer. My two pugs have a sunny spot where they like to lie when they tire of romping. Patch and Velvet have their own spots.
The cold weather is affecting my walking, making me less likely to do it, that is. Tomorrow is Saturday so maybe I’ll go a sporting goods store and see if I can find an insulated suit. If I don’t find one, I may have to postpone my walking until next spring.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Naomi Sees a Ghost
Our accountant Naomi asked me if Anne, my deceased wife, had ever visited me in a dream. She nodded knowingly when I admitted that she had. Today, she told me about the ghost of her father.
Naomi (real name Shuchen) is from Taiwan. “In Taiwan, we believe the ghost of the deceased returns after seven days. This gives closure to both the dead and the living.
“I was in Oklahoma when my father died and did not get to Taiwan for three days. On the seventh day after his death, we spread ashes at the front door. That night, I was sleeping on a tatami bed in my Mother’s room. My Mother was beside me, asleep and snoring, and I was asleep when I heard the bedroom door slide open.
“I was afraid to open my eyes when I heard someone cross the room and stop at the foot of the tatami. I was too frightened to open my eyes, but could sense that someone was looking at me. I wanted to say something but found that I could not speak.
“I had the strong feeling that it was the spirit of my Father, and that he was looking at me because I had not seen him in more than three years. He finally walked away, leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind him.
“My Father had a metal cup that he ate his soup in. From the kitchen, I began hearing the clang, clang, clang of the metal cup struck repeatedly against the table. Finally it stopped.
“Next morning my little brother and sister-in-law said that they had also heard the cup, both thinking it was my Father, but neither brave enough to get up and look. We found my Father’s footprints in the ashes. Yes, they were his.”
Brakes squealed outside as Naomi told her story and she jumped as if shot. That was not all: a strong gust of wind suddenly blew the front door of our office closed with a slam. Outside, the day was calm and beautiful with no wind blowing.
We have all probably seen ghosts, or at least sensed their presences. Even if you have not, yet, I assure you that you will - someday.
Gondwana
Naomi (real name Shuchen) is from Taiwan. “In Taiwan, we believe the ghost of the deceased returns after seven days. This gives closure to both the dead and the living.
“I was in Oklahoma when my father died and did not get to Taiwan for three days. On the seventh day after his death, we spread ashes at the front door. That night, I was sleeping on a tatami bed in my Mother’s room. My Mother was beside me, asleep and snoring, and I was asleep when I heard the bedroom door slide open.
“I was afraid to open my eyes when I heard someone cross the room and stop at the foot of the tatami. I was too frightened to open my eyes, but could sense that someone was looking at me. I wanted to say something but found that I could not speak.
“I had the strong feeling that it was the spirit of my Father, and that he was looking at me because I had not seen him in more than three years. He finally walked away, leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind him.
“My Father had a metal cup that he ate his soup in. From the kitchen, I began hearing the clang, clang, clang of the metal cup struck repeatedly against the table. Finally it stopped.
“Next morning my little brother and sister-in-law said that they had also heard the cup, both thinking it was my Father, but neither brave enough to get up and look. We found my Father’s footprints in the ashes. Yes, they were his.”
Brakes squealed outside as Naomi told her story and she jumped as if shot. That was not all: a strong gust of wind suddenly blew the front door of our office closed with a slam. Outside, the day was calm and beautiful with no wind blowing.
We have all probably seen ghosts, or at least sensed their presences. Even if you have not, yet, I assure you that you will - someday.
Gondwana
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Marilyn's Chicken Fried Steak
If you’re exploring Route 66 and stop for lunch at a café in some small Oklahoma town, you are apt to learn that chicken-fried steak is the specialty of the house. Since you are on the “Mother Road”, you’re already looking for adventure, so point to the picture on the plastic menu and tell the homey waitress that you’re having the chicken fry.
When I returned home from work, I learned Marilyn had prepared chicken-fried steak for me. It was, she said, the first time she had cooked chicken fries in more than twenty years. The meal was delicious, served with mashed potatoes and cream gravy.
“Just the way my mother Joy used to do it,” she said. “Well, almost. Mama would buy a round steak big enough to feed eight of us and then she’d pound it out with a hammer until it was tender. I did it the easy way and had the butcher do the trimming and tenderizing for me.”
Here is Joy and Marilyn’s method of cooking a yummy chicken-fried steak:
Take two pans. Combine an egg and a little buttermilk in one of the pans. Put some flour in the other pan, add salt, and pepper to taste. Salt and pepper the meat and then, using tongs, dredge both sides of the steak in the flour. Dip the floured steak into the egg and buttermilk mixture and coat both sides. Coat the steak a second time in the flour.
Heat about half an inch of oil in a frying pan (Joy always used a cast-iron skillet) and place the floured steaks into the pan once the oil is hot. Cook until the bottom and edges are golden brown then turn the steak to finish browning. Blot additional oil with paper towels after both sides finish cooking.
That’s how you do it. Try it sometime if you can’t actually make it to that little roadside café in Oklahoma.
Fiction South
When I returned home from work, I learned Marilyn had prepared chicken-fried steak for me. It was, she said, the first time she had cooked chicken fries in more than twenty years. The meal was delicious, served with mashed potatoes and cream gravy.
“Just the way my mother Joy used to do it,” she said. “Well, almost. Mama would buy a round steak big enough to feed eight of us and then she’d pound it out with a hammer until it was tender. I did it the easy way and had the butcher do the trimming and tenderizing for me.”
Here is Joy and Marilyn’s method of cooking a yummy chicken-fried steak:
Take two pans. Combine an egg and a little buttermilk in one of the pans. Put some flour in the other pan, add salt, and pepper to taste. Salt and pepper the meat and then, using tongs, dredge both sides of the steak in the flour. Dip the floured steak into the egg and buttermilk mixture and coat both sides. Coat the steak a second time in the flour.
Heat about half an inch of oil in a frying pan (Joy always used a cast-iron skillet) and place the floured steaks into the pan once the oil is hot. Cook until the bottom and edges are golden brown then turn the steak to finish browning. Blot additional oil with paper towels after both sides finish cooking.
That’s how you do it. Try it sometime if you can’t actually make it to that little roadside café in Oklahoma.
Fiction South
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Office of the Dead - an excerpt
I began writing Office of the Dead shortly after publishing my New Orleans murder mystery Big Easy. Somewhere along the line, I got sidetracked and began writing Bones of Skeleton Creek in earnest. Now, I am back to Office and here is a chapter excerpt from the book.
Office of the Dead Excerpt
I’d taken a sabbatical from the Catholic religion for the past few years . Today was different. My ex-wife Mimsy had succumbed to cancer after a year-long fight. I called her once during her ordeal and it puzzled me that her new husband so readily let me talk to her. When she answered, her voice seemed throaty and distant, likely from the heavy pain killers she was taking, and she didn’t seem to know who I was at first.
“Mimsy, it’s Wyatt. I called to see how you’re doing.” I didn’t really mean it when I said, “Is there anything I can do for you?” The last thing I wanted was to see the beautiful woman I’d married ravished by cancer, her long dark hair gone, face sallow, body gaunt as a refuge and hope waning from her once gorgeous eyes.
“Fine, I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you so much for calling. Please don’t hang up.”
I could only imagine what I had done or said to cause her to think that I would hang up on her. Maybe it had something to do with the palpable neediness so apparent in her voice that it fairly dripped from the receiver. We had a five minute conversation interspersed with long pauses, as if she were trying to catch her breath. Finally, her husband took the phone from her.
“Thank you so much for calling,” was his unexpected response. “You don’t know how much we appreciate your concern. She’s very tired but please call again. It really helps her spirits when someone calls.”
Her husband, Rafael, was a strange man that I’d met once before. His words were almost a plea. I could hear his own desperation and realized in an instant that he loved her far more than I’d ever thought about. All I could think of to say was, “Try to hang in there.”
Mims and I had met in college. I was on the rebound, she was the new girl in town. I was looking for a good time, she wanted a house full of babies. Ultimately, neither of us got what we wanted. Our marriage ended seven years, to the day, after it began. Too many harsh words and broken dishes had left us less than friends and we soon lost touch. It didn’t seem to matter because my life went further downhill from there.
My hallmarks for years, alcoholic indulgence and unbridled anger, soon grew worse. The sleazy client I’d shoved down the stairs filed a bar complaint on me and I quickly learned he had far-reaching connections. I was disbarred and spent the next six months in a drunken haze, managing along the way to insult, incite and generally piss off almost every friend I had. Everyone except Bertram Picou.
Bertram owned a bar on Chartres Street. A very eclectic bar. Finding me at a local soup kitchen, he’d given me a room upstairs and a steady ration of shit until I finally gave up the bottle for good. He and Lady, his trusty collie, had stayed with me through my abusive ranting, tearful tirades and suicidal jags.
Whenever I begged for whiskey, Bertram would give me a glass of lemonade. Before long, lemonade became my crutch. That was seven years ago. Now, it was a dull February evening, a chill breeze blowing up from the Gulf of Mexico, as I stood alone outside St. Validius Cathedral, buying time before going in to view Mimsy’s coffin and see her husband Rafael and all her grieving relatives that still thought of me as part of the family.
The same church where I’d been an altar boy and where Mimsy and I had married. Unable to move, I stared at the moon, vivid tsunami memories crashing over my brain, flooding it with guilt and my own dire grief I dared not express. A tap on the shoulder shattered my mental musings and I wheeled around, staring into Father Alphonse’s teal-blue eyes.
“Wyatt Thomas, I thought you must be dead!”
My old Parish priest had changed but little, his slate-gray hair somewhat whiter, the wrinkles of his face slightly deeper. His voice hadn’t changed, resonating deep from within his barrel chest, his words accented by native Italian even though he hadn’t left New Orleans in the past fifty years.
“Father, you’re looking good. Long time no see.”
My words sounded inane, even as I spoke them. Father Alphonse only smiled, either not noticing or probably just overlooking my lack of communication skills.
“So are you, my son. Thank God you’ve come back to the Church. I’ve been praying for you.”
“I’m not here for myself, Father.”
I know you’re here for Mimsy’s vigil. I’m sorry it was her death that brought you back. At least you’re here now.”
“I was thinking about skipping the vigil.”
“Nonsense,” he said, grasping my shoulder. “I’m here for support. We’ll go in together.”
Father Alphonse was very persuasive and there was no way he would take no for an answer. He pushed me ahead of him, through the heavy cypress doorway of St. Validius, not giving me the chance to bolt and run.
When the hallway of the old church opened up to me, I took a deep, almost inadvertent breath of antiquity and recognition. The long forgotten odor of the church caused poignant memories to accost my senses, even more than my thoughts and aversion at peering into Mimsy’s open casket.
“Are you okay, my son?” Father Alphonse asked.
“I was an hour ago.”
Father Alphonse grasped my hand and squeezed. He kissed me on the forehead. Not a sexual kiss, but like a father would give his boy an empathetic show of affection to reassure him there’s not a monster under the bed. I’m sure it had the same effect on me as I headed back down the darkened hallway with strengthened resolve.
We soon reached the door to the anteroom. When we opened it and entered, I saw Mimsy’s mother Betty. As I did, my newly found strength wafted out of my body quickly as it had arrived. Too late! Seeing me, she grasped me in her meaty arms, held on tightly and began crying on my chest.
“Oh, Wyatt, I don’t think I can handle this.”
It was all I could take. My own tears, dammed inside for so long, welled up and flooded down my face. Soon, sobbing uncontrollably, I was in a group hug with half the family.
The first person I saw when we all finally got control of our senses and pulled apart was Rafael, Mimsy’s bereaved husband. I knew it was him, having once been introduced. With the exception of Father Alphonse, he was the only person in the room without tear-streaked cheeks. Still in a daze, I gravitated toward him.
“You’re Wyatt,” he said, shaking my hand. “Thanks for calling Mimsy. She talked about it for days.”
“I didn’t know it would mean so much.”
“You can’t imagine,” he said. I could smell from his breathe that he’d had more than just a mind-steadying drink or two. He maintained his grip on my hand, almost as if he were holding on to a buoy in a storm. Still, he seemed lucid and spoke in a confidant manner.
“Thank you so much for coming tonight. It would mean a lot to Mimsy.”
“I almost didn’t come. It feels so strange. This is really the place for her family and not me.”
Rafael shook his head. He was taller than me and just as slender, his curly hair and moustache dark and full as his eyes. “She was closer to you than any of them,” he said, rancor clouding his words. Before I could reply, he said, “Please forget I said that.”
Rafael let go of my hand, just as Father Alphonse appeared through the crowd of grieving friends and relatives. “Wyatt, come with me,” he said, frowning and ignoring Mimsy’s husband. It was then I noticed that Rafael was standing alone amid the crowded room. A circle of space surrounded him, separating him from the rest of the family that all seemed to have their backs toward him.
“I was just talking with Rafael.”
"Please,” Father Alphonso said.
The old priest led me back out into the hallway. “What’s so urgent, Padre?” I asked.
Father Alphonso put his hand on my shoulder and drew me closer, as if he were about to convey some conspiratorial information. “Rafael is no longer with the Church. He was defrocked. Even though he technically will always be a priest, he no longer can hear confession or perform the duties incumbent to the Church.”
“I didn’t know. What did he do?”
Father Alphonso paused before answering. “His mother is a witch.”
I waited for further explanation but got none. It sounded like a joke but Father Alphonso wasn’t laughing. “You mean like a double, double toil and trouble type witch?” I finally asked.
Father Alphonso nodded. “Exactly.”
“You don’t believe in that malarkey, do you?”
The good Father didn’t smile. “Real evil exists, Wyatt. It’s not a joke and it’s certainly not malarkey.”
“What did she do? Moreover, what did Rafael do?”
“She casts spells and prays to the Devil. He is her son.”
“Didn’t the Church know that before they ordained him into the priesthood?”
My question brought an even graver look to Father Alphonse’s face. “We are men and women of God but we aren’t mind readers or seers of the future.”
“What exactly did Rafael do to get defrocked?”
“He deceived the Church. He had no right to infiltrate the priesthood”
“So you think he’s some sort of spy for the Devil?”
Father Alphonso didn’t answer my question. Instead, he asked a question of his own. “You think you know more about good and evil than the Church?”
My mouth opened but my words were slow in coming. When they did, it was only to say, “Father, I’m sorry.”
We reentered the church’s dimly lit inner sanctum where vigils for the faithful were generally held in the St. Validius diocese. Mimsy’s casket, surrounded by many wreaths of gorgeous flowers, sat at the far end of the room. Candles burned on either end of the coffin.
I could see it was open and Mimsy’s friends and relatives were clustered around it, some kneeling in prayer. Mimsy’s father and mother were at the head of the casket, Betty’s tears still flowing profusely. I made my way through the mourners, knelt before the casket and said a short prayer.
I continued kneeling, staring at the floor, dreading the inevitable glance into the coffin. When I finally got off my knees, Betty hugged me again, sobs of grief wracking her body.
“Oh Wyatt, I can’t even save a lock of her hair.”
Catholic’s love relics and often clip a lock of hair to place at the family altar to remind them to pray for the deceased. Mimsy’s real hair was gone and the wig on her head seemed more appropriate for a Vegas show girl. She had a rosary clasped in her hands and there was a crucifix on the closed portion of the coffin. I wrestled myself from Betty’s grasp, bent over and kissed Mimsy’s forehead..
Betty was still distraught and I fished my keys from my pocket. I still carried the brooch Mimsy had given me so many years ago and opened it to reveal a locket of her hair. I showed it to her then pressed it into her hands.
“Forgive me for not giving it to you long before now,” I said.
I endured several more minutes of crying and thanks. Saddened and deeply troubled by my glimpse of Mimsy, I finally managed to tear away from Betty and her husband Mike. After paying my condolences to the rest of the clan, I hurried out the door and down the darkened hallway to the parking lot outside. Father Alphonse intercepted me as I went out the door, grabbing me by the arm.
“Wyatt, I need to hear your confession. Let’s do it now.”
“I’m not ready. I may never be ready.”
“It doesn’t matter. God and Satan are wrestling for your soul. Don’t let Satan win.”
“Father, you’re being melodramatic,” I said.
The old priest didn’t return my smile. Instead, he grabbed my hand and squeezed. “You have serious issues you need to resolve. I can help.”
“I’m too upset to deal with this right now,” I said, pulling away and hurrying across the darkened parking lot. “I’ll call you later.”
I didn’t turn around as I walked away, already knowing the look on the old priest’s face and not daring to see it. Except for the cars of the mourners, the lot was deserted. I started walking toward St. Charles Avenue, hoping that when I got there, I wouldn’t have long to wait for a streetcar. Headlights from a car coming up from behind startled me. It screeched to a halt and a familiar voice called out my name.
“Wyatt, let me give you a ride.” It was Rafael, smiling from the open window of a silver Cadillac Aviator that flashed in the moonlight. A tugboat on the River blew its whistle before I could answer. “I don’t know what Father Alphonse told you but I promise not to cast an evil spell on you.”
Grinning, I opened the door and climbed into the plush leather passenger seat beside him. The vehicle smelled brand new. “Nice car,” I said.
“Thanks. You must be wondering how a defrocked priest can afford such an expensive car.”
“Actually, I was wondering how anybody can afford such an expensive car.”
We both laughed as Rafael turned up Napoleon Avenue. “Where to?” he asked.
“Picou’s bar on Chartres. I have a room upstairs. It’s in the Quarter,” I added.
“I lived in the Quarter when I met Mimsy. She helped me get a job as a rent-a-priest.”
“A what?”
Rafael laughed again. “I work for the cruise lines that sail out of New Orleans. Many passengers are comforted to sail with a Catholic priest and the company I work for pays me very well.”
“But you’re —“
”Not a priest? Actually, I am. Once a priest, always a priest. Technically, I can no longer function as a priest. As the ship’s chaplain, I can perform marriages, conduct services and the such. The passengers don’t know I’ve been defrocked and the cruise line I work for doesn’t really care.”
“Hey, it’s no business of mine anyway,” I said. “I’m just glad you were able to take care of Mimsy during her time of need.”
Rafael’s smile disappeared with the mention of Mimsy. “I think I’m still in shock over her passing. I somehow never really thought the cancer would kill her, even when she was in constant pain and on oxygen twenty four hours a day.”
“Why was she so happy to hear from me? Our marriage didn’t exactly end on friendly terms.”
“Toward the end, everyone, family and friends, seemed to desert us. Sometimes days would go by without the phone ever ringing. Maybe it was the aura of impending death about her everyone was afraid to face. Sometimes I would call a friend of hers, or someone in her family. When they answered the phone, I’d hand it to Mimsy and tell her they had called her. I don’t feel guilty doing it because it always perked her up. Occasionally, an old friend, or an ex-husband would call unexpectedly. It was then I knew there is a God up there.”
“I wish I did,” I said.
“Oh, there’s a God, all right. And the Devil. Sometime it’s hard to tell the difference.”
I had little time to ponder his cryptic words as we neared the lights and noises of the French Quarter. Mardi Gras was in full swing, the venues crowded with revelers. Most of the streets were cordoned off by the police, allowing only foot traffic in the Quarter. Rafael stopped the Cadillac on Canal Street, near the intersection with Rue Chartres.
“Sorry I can’t get you any closer.”
“Thanks for bringing me this far. There’s a parking lot down the street. Sure you won’t join me at Bertram’s? I’ve got lots more questions to ask you.”
“Not tonight, my friend,” he said. “A half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey awaits me.” Before I could walk away down the stoop, he lowered his window and said, “Wyatt, my mother has a shop near Royal and Toulouse. It’s called Madeline’s Magic Potions. You obviously have lots of questions and she may have some answers for you.”
Eric'sWeb
Office of the Dead Excerpt
I’d taken a sabbatical from the Catholic religion for the past few years . Today was different. My ex-wife Mimsy had succumbed to cancer after a year-long fight. I called her once during her ordeal and it puzzled me that her new husband so readily let me talk to her. When she answered, her voice seemed throaty and distant, likely from the heavy pain killers she was taking, and she didn’t seem to know who I was at first.
“Mimsy, it’s Wyatt. I called to see how you’re doing.” I didn’t really mean it when I said, “Is there anything I can do for you?” The last thing I wanted was to see the beautiful woman I’d married ravished by cancer, her long dark hair gone, face sallow, body gaunt as a refuge and hope waning from her once gorgeous eyes.
“Fine, I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you so much for calling. Please don’t hang up.”
I could only imagine what I had done or said to cause her to think that I would hang up on her. Maybe it had something to do with the palpable neediness so apparent in her voice that it fairly dripped from the receiver. We had a five minute conversation interspersed with long pauses, as if she were trying to catch her breath. Finally, her husband took the phone from her.
“Thank you so much for calling,” was his unexpected response. “You don’t know how much we appreciate your concern. She’s very tired but please call again. It really helps her spirits when someone calls.”
Her husband, Rafael, was a strange man that I’d met once before. His words were almost a plea. I could hear his own desperation and realized in an instant that he loved her far more than I’d ever thought about. All I could think of to say was, “Try to hang in there.”
Mims and I had met in college. I was on the rebound, she was the new girl in town. I was looking for a good time, she wanted a house full of babies. Ultimately, neither of us got what we wanted. Our marriage ended seven years, to the day, after it began. Too many harsh words and broken dishes had left us less than friends and we soon lost touch. It didn’t seem to matter because my life went further downhill from there.
My hallmarks for years, alcoholic indulgence and unbridled anger, soon grew worse. The sleazy client I’d shoved down the stairs filed a bar complaint on me and I quickly learned he had far-reaching connections. I was disbarred and spent the next six months in a drunken haze, managing along the way to insult, incite and generally piss off almost every friend I had. Everyone except Bertram Picou.
Bertram owned a bar on Chartres Street. A very eclectic bar. Finding me at a local soup kitchen, he’d given me a room upstairs and a steady ration of shit until I finally gave up the bottle for good. He and Lady, his trusty collie, had stayed with me through my abusive ranting, tearful tirades and suicidal jags.
Whenever I begged for whiskey, Bertram would give me a glass of lemonade. Before long, lemonade became my crutch. That was seven years ago. Now, it was a dull February evening, a chill breeze blowing up from the Gulf of Mexico, as I stood alone outside St. Validius Cathedral, buying time before going in to view Mimsy’s coffin and see her husband Rafael and all her grieving relatives that still thought of me as part of the family.
The same church where I’d been an altar boy and where Mimsy and I had married. Unable to move, I stared at the moon, vivid tsunami memories crashing over my brain, flooding it with guilt and my own dire grief I dared not express. A tap on the shoulder shattered my mental musings and I wheeled around, staring into Father Alphonse’s teal-blue eyes.
“Wyatt Thomas, I thought you must be dead!”
My old Parish priest had changed but little, his slate-gray hair somewhat whiter, the wrinkles of his face slightly deeper. His voice hadn’t changed, resonating deep from within his barrel chest, his words accented by native Italian even though he hadn’t left New Orleans in the past fifty years.
“Father, you’re looking good. Long time no see.”
My words sounded inane, even as I spoke them. Father Alphonse only smiled, either not noticing or probably just overlooking my lack of communication skills.
“So are you, my son. Thank God you’ve come back to the Church. I’ve been praying for you.”
“I’m not here for myself, Father.”
I know you’re here for Mimsy’s vigil. I’m sorry it was her death that brought you back. At least you’re here now.”
“I was thinking about skipping the vigil.”
“Nonsense,” he said, grasping my shoulder. “I’m here for support. We’ll go in together.”
Father Alphonse was very persuasive and there was no way he would take no for an answer. He pushed me ahead of him, through the heavy cypress doorway of St. Validius, not giving me the chance to bolt and run.
When the hallway of the old church opened up to me, I took a deep, almost inadvertent breath of antiquity and recognition. The long forgotten odor of the church caused poignant memories to accost my senses, even more than my thoughts and aversion at peering into Mimsy’s open casket.
“Are you okay, my son?” Father Alphonse asked.
“I was an hour ago.”
Father Alphonse grasped my hand and squeezed. He kissed me on the forehead. Not a sexual kiss, but like a father would give his boy an empathetic show of affection to reassure him there’s not a monster under the bed. I’m sure it had the same effect on me as I headed back down the darkened hallway with strengthened resolve.
We soon reached the door to the anteroom. When we opened it and entered, I saw Mimsy’s mother Betty. As I did, my newly found strength wafted out of my body quickly as it had arrived. Too late! Seeing me, she grasped me in her meaty arms, held on tightly and began crying on my chest.
“Oh, Wyatt, I don’t think I can handle this.”
It was all I could take. My own tears, dammed inside for so long, welled up and flooded down my face. Soon, sobbing uncontrollably, I was in a group hug with half the family.
The first person I saw when we all finally got control of our senses and pulled apart was Rafael, Mimsy’s bereaved husband. I knew it was him, having once been introduced. With the exception of Father Alphonse, he was the only person in the room without tear-streaked cheeks. Still in a daze, I gravitated toward him.
“You’re Wyatt,” he said, shaking my hand. “Thanks for calling Mimsy. She talked about it for days.”
“I didn’t know it would mean so much.”
“You can’t imagine,” he said. I could smell from his breathe that he’d had more than just a mind-steadying drink or two. He maintained his grip on my hand, almost as if he were holding on to a buoy in a storm. Still, he seemed lucid and spoke in a confidant manner.
“Thank you so much for coming tonight. It would mean a lot to Mimsy.”
“I almost didn’t come. It feels so strange. This is really the place for her family and not me.”
Rafael shook his head. He was taller than me and just as slender, his curly hair and moustache dark and full as his eyes. “She was closer to you than any of them,” he said, rancor clouding his words. Before I could reply, he said, “Please forget I said that.”
Rafael let go of my hand, just as Father Alphonse appeared through the crowd of grieving friends and relatives. “Wyatt, come with me,” he said, frowning and ignoring Mimsy’s husband. It was then I noticed that Rafael was standing alone amid the crowded room. A circle of space surrounded him, separating him from the rest of the family that all seemed to have their backs toward him.
“I was just talking with Rafael.”
"Please,” Father Alphonso said.
The old priest led me back out into the hallway. “What’s so urgent, Padre?” I asked.
Father Alphonso put his hand on my shoulder and drew me closer, as if he were about to convey some conspiratorial information. “Rafael is no longer with the Church. He was defrocked. Even though he technically will always be a priest, he no longer can hear confession or perform the duties incumbent to the Church.”
“I didn’t know. What did he do?”
Father Alphonso paused before answering. “His mother is a witch.”
I waited for further explanation but got none. It sounded like a joke but Father Alphonso wasn’t laughing. “You mean like a double, double toil and trouble type witch?” I finally asked.
Father Alphonso nodded. “Exactly.”
“You don’t believe in that malarkey, do you?”
The good Father didn’t smile. “Real evil exists, Wyatt. It’s not a joke and it’s certainly not malarkey.”
“What did she do? Moreover, what did Rafael do?”
“She casts spells and prays to the Devil. He is her son.”
“Didn’t the Church know that before they ordained him into the priesthood?”
My question brought an even graver look to Father Alphonse’s face. “We are men and women of God but we aren’t mind readers or seers of the future.”
“What exactly did Rafael do to get defrocked?”
“He deceived the Church. He had no right to infiltrate the priesthood”
“So you think he’s some sort of spy for the Devil?”
Father Alphonso didn’t answer my question. Instead, he asked a question of his own. “You think you know more about good and evil than the Church?”
My mouth opened but my words were slow in coming. When they did, it was only to say, “Father, I’m sorry.”
We reentered the church’s dimly lit inner sanctum where vigils for the faithful were generally held in the St. Validius diocese. Mimsy’s casket, surrounded by many wreaths of gorgeous flowers, sat at the far end of the room. Candles burned on either end of the coffin.
I could see it was open and Mimsy’s friends and relatives were clustered around it, some kneeling in prayer. Mimsy’s father and mother were at the head of the casket, Betty’s tears still flowing profusely. I made my way through the mourners, knelt before the casket and said a short prayer.
I continued kneeling, staring at the floor, dreading the inevitable glance into the coffin. When I finally got off my knees, Betty hugged me again, sobs of grief wracking her body.
“Oh Wyatt, I can’t even save a lock of her hair.”
Catholic’s love relics and often clip a lock of hair to place at the family altar to remind them to pray for the deceased. Mimsy’s real hair was gone and the wig on her head seemed more appropriate for a Vegas show girl. She had a rosary clasped in her hands and there was a crucifix on the closed portion of the coffin. I wrestled myself from Betty’s grasp, bent over and kissed Mimsy’s forehead..
Betty was still distraught and I fished my keys from my pocket. I still carried the brooch Mimsy had given me so many years ago and opened it to reveal a locket of her hair. I showed it to her then pressed it into her hands.
“Forgive me for not giving it to you long before now,” I said.
I endured several more minutes of crying and thanks. Saddened and deeply troubled by my glimpse of Mimsy, I finally managed to tear away from Betty and her husband Mike. After paying my condolences to the rest of the clan, I hurried out the door and down the darkened hallway to the parking lot outside. Father Alphonse intercepted me as I went out the door, grabbing me by the arm.
“Wyatt, I need to hear your confession. Let’s do it now.”
“I’m not ready. I may never be ready.”
“It doesn’t matter. God and Satan are wrestling for your soul. Don’t let Satan win.”
“Father, you’re being melodramatic,” I said.
The old priest didn’t return my smile. Instead, he grabbed my hand and squeezed. “You have serious issues you need to resolve. I can help.”
“I’m too upset to deal with this right now,” I said, pulling away and hurrying across the darkened parking lot. “I’ll call you later.”
I didn’t turn around as I walked away, already knowing the look on the old priest’s face and not daring to see it. Except for the cars of the mourners, the lot was deserted. I started walking toward St. Charles Avenue, hoping that when I got there, I wouldn’t have long to wait for a streetcar. Headlights from a car coming up from behind startled me. It screeched to a halt and a familiar voice called out my name.
“Wyatt, let me give you a ride.” It was Rafael, smiling from the open window of a silver Cadillac Aviator that flashed in the moonlight. A tugboat on the River blew its whistle before I could answer. “I don’t know what Father Alphonse told you but I promise not to cast an evil spell on you.”
Grinning, I opened the door and climbed into the plush leather passenger seat beside him. The vehicle smelled brand new. “Nice car,” I said.
“Thanks. You must be wondering how a defrocked priest can afford such an expensive car.”
“Actually, I was wondering how anybody can afford such an expensive car.”
We both laughed as Rafael turned up Napoleon Avenue. “Where to?” he asked.
“Picou’s bar on Chartres. I have a room upstairs. It’s in the Quarter,” I added.
“I lived in the Quarter when I met Mimsy. She helped me get a job as a rent-a-priest.”
“A what?”
Rafael laughed again. “I work for the cruise lines that sail out of New Orleans. Many passengers are comforted to sail with a Catholic priest and the company I work for pays me very well.”
“But you’re —“
”Not a priest? Actually, I am. Once a priest, always a priest. Technically, I can no longer function as a priest. As the ship’s chaplain, I can perform marriages, conduct services and the such. The passengers don’t know I’ve been defrocked and the cruise line I work for doesn’t really care.”
“Hey, it’s no business of mine anyway,” I said. “I’m just glad you were able to take care of Mimsy during her time of need.”
Rafael’s smile disappeared with the mention of Mimsy. “I think I’m still in shock over her passing. I somehow never really thought the cancer would kill her, even when she was in constant pain and on oxygen twenty four hours a day.”
“Why was she so happy to hear from me? Our marriage didn’t exactly end on friendly terms.”
“Toward the end, everyone, family and friends, seemed to desert us. Sometimes days would go by without the phone ever ringing. Maybe it was the aura of impending death about her everyone was afraid to face. Sometimes I would call a friend of hers, or someone in her family. When they answered the phone, I’d hand it to Mimsy and tell her they had called her. I don’t feel guilty doing it because it always perked her up. Occasionally, an old friend, or an ex-husband would call unexpectedly. It was then I knew there is a God up there.”
“I wish I did,” I said.
“Oh, there’s a God, all right. And the Devil. Sometime it’s hard to tell the difference.”
I had little time to ponder his cryptic words as we neared the lights and noises of the French Quarter. Mardi Gras was in full swing, the venues crowded with revelers. Most of the streets were cordoned off by the police, allowing only foot traffic in the Quarter. Rafael stopped the Cadillac on Canal Street, near the intersection with Rue Chartres.
“Sorry I can’t get you any closer.”
“Thanks for bringing me this far. There’s a parking lot down the street. Sure you won’t join me at Bertram’s? I’ve got lots more questions to ask you.”
“Not tonight, my friend,” he said. “A half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey awaits me.” Before I could walk away down the stoop, he lowered his window and said, “Wyatt, my mother has a shop near Royal and Toulouse. It’s called Madeline’s Magic Potions. You obviously have lots of questions and she may have some answers for you.”
Eric'sWeb
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Backseat Memories
Music has a way of jogging the old memory circuits. The other day, I heard a song by Neil Sedaka and it more than jogged, it jolted a very real recollection from my distant past.
As a freshman in college, I met a girl with whom I had attended high school. I will call her Miss B. I was attending Northeast Louisiana, she, a small Baptist college in Pineville. I would call Miss B when I came home on weekends and we would usually go out if she were also in town. She lived in the tiny nearby town of Hosston.
Her dad was a Baptist deacon. Baptists don’t dance and they don’t drink alcohol. Still, there are many Baptists in the world and it’s not because they are opposed to having sex. She and I usually spent much of our many dates making out in the back of my parent’s yellow Pontiac. We never really did the deed, but we came close.
I probably wasn’t Miss B’s first love because she already knew the best “parking” spots in and around Hosston. Our favorite was the Hosston grade school parking lot, but we also knew a few secluded oil leases that worked in case our favorite was in use for some function, or other. One such parking incident stands out in my mind.
Miss B and I had double-dated with my close friend Tim and his date at the time. We had gone to a movie in nearby Atlanta, Texas. Miss B and I sat in the backseat of Tim’s Chevy (at least I think it was a Chevy). Miss B was as hot as the proverbial west Texas summer wind, and practically tore my clothes off on the drive back to Vivian. Worried about his date, Tim took us to a rural churchyard and turned out the lights. It was the night that I thought I was going to get lucky.
Miss B and I were going at it hot and heavy in the backseat of Tim’s Chevy when someone knocked on the car’s rear window. Tim rolled down the fogged front window to see a Vivian cop.
“This place is off limits. You need to go home or I’ll have to run you all in.”
“Thanks, officer,” Tim said, cranking the engine and moving out smartly, none of us bothering to ask what the cop was doing so far out of the city limits.
The incident put a pall on Miss B’s ardor. She adjusted her skirt and blouse and crossed her arms tightly against her chest. She didn’t even give me an inkling of a kiss when I dropped her off at her house.
The next week, I got a letter from Miss B. She had, it seems, found a boyfriend, the new love of her life, at the college in Pineville. He was a Baptist and I was not, and I was suddenly out of luck.
As I listened to the Neil Sedaka’s Laughter in the Rain, I wondered about Miss B. Did she marry her new Baptist beau and have a dozen kids? I hope so, but I guess I’ll never know.
Fiction South
As a freshman in college, I met a girl with whom I had attended high school. I will call her Miss B. I was attending Northeast Louisiana, she, a small Baptist college in Pineville. I would call Miss B when I came home on weekends and we would usually go out if she were also in town. She lived in the tiny nearby town of Hosston.
Her dad was a Baptist deacon. Baptists don’t dance and they don’t drink alcohol. Still, there are many Baptists in the world and it’s not because they are opposed to having sex. She and I usually spent much of our many dates making out in the back of my parent’s yellow Pontiac. We never really did the deed, but we came close.
I probably wasn’t Miss B’s first love because she already knew the best “parking” spots in and around Hosston. Our favorite was the Hosston grade school parking lot, but we also knew a few secluded oil leases that worked in case our favorite was in use for some function, or other. One such parking incident stands out in my mind.
Miss B and I had double-dated with my close friend Tim and his date at the time. We had gone to a movie in nearby Atlanta, Texas. Miss B and I sat in the backseat of Tim’s Chevy (at least I think it was a Chevy). Miss B was as hot as the proverbial west Texas summer wind, and practically tore my clothes off on the drive back to Vivian. Worried about his date, Tim took us to a rural churchyard and turned out the lights. It was the night that I thought I was going to get lucky.
Miss B and I were going at it hot and heavy in the backseat of Tim’s Chevy when someone knocked on the car’s rear window. Tim rolled down the fogged front window to see a Vivian cop.
“This place is off limits. You need to go home or I’ll have to run you all in.”
“Thanks, officer,” Tim said, cranking the engine and moving out smartly, none of us bothering to ask what the cop was doing so far out of the city limits.
The incident put a pall on Miss B’s ardor. She adjusted her skirt and blouse and crossed her arms tightly against her chest. She didn’t even give me an inkling of a kiss when I dropped her off at her house.
The next week, I got a letter from Miss B. She had, it seems, found a boyfriend, the new love of her life, at the college in Pineville. He was a Baptist and I was not, and I was suddenly out of luck.
As I listened to the Neil Sedaka’s Laughter in the Rain, I wondered about Miss B. Did she marry her new Baptist beau and have a dozen kids? I hope so, but I guess I’ll never know.
Fiction South
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