Wrestling the Devil

I was both single and debt free when I left Texas Oil and Gas in 1978 to pursue a life as an independent geologist. I left a good salary, cushy expense account and company car, hoping to strike it rich as an Oklahoma oil baron. After ninety days had passed, I was wondering if I should go and beg for my job back.

I had no car or house payment, but I had no house, my 1966 Triumph Tr4, a car not known for its reliability. I also had a Triumph 750 Bonneville motorcycle that was also less than reliable. I did have two girlfriends at the time and one of them, Carol, lent me a thousand dollars. That and the thousand I borrowed against my motorcycle were about all I had at the time.

I managed to eke out a living as a consultant, making a few bucks by testifying at the Corporation Commission and writing geological reports. Still, my life was stark compared with the relatively lush existence I had experienced at TXO. As summer approached, I was working at the geological library everyday, trying to develop prospects. Developing prospects was no problem, finding someone to buy them was.

A fellow geologist and his wife asked my girlfriend Gayle and I to spend the weekend with them at their cabin on Lake Murray. After a false start on my motorcycle (Gayle was so frightened of the bike that she remained constantly rigid, trying to stay upright even when I leaned into a curve. Realizing we were both having a stressful trip, I turned around before reaching the city limits and traded the bike for the two-seater.

The Tr4 was unreliable but a dream to drive. With the top down and the wind in your hair, the growl of the little four-banger engine made you feel like an Italian road racer. Gayle and I both had giant smiles on our faces when we pulled into the rest stop just inside the Lake Murray gates.

Coming out of the little geologist’s room, I witnessed an attack. A young man and woman were in a Chevy, the windows up. A very angry young man was kicking in the door and driver’s window with his foot. The attack didn’t last long as park rangers showed up and quickly interceded.
As I stood watching with my mouth agape, one of the rangers asked me if I had witnessed the altercation. He took my name, number and address. A lawsuit resulted and a while later, I got a subpoena to appear as a witness for the defense.

The trial was to take place in the middle of the week. I showed up at the Murray County Courthouse, a scenic and historic old building, and presented myself to the court clerk. I could tell you that an epic court battle ensued, complete with wonderful country lawyers such as Spenser Tracy and Frederic March in Inherit the Wind. It didn’t happen.

The two sides, instead, settled out of court. I got a thank you, was patted on the shoulder and sent on my way. A few week’s later, I received a small witness fee—thirty bucks, as I remember. It wasn’t much but it turned out to be the only money I made that month. About that time, I felt a bit like a schmuck. I was quickly beginning to realize I didn’t have all the answers to life.

The second six months of my independence, all hell broke loose. It was the beginning of the early eighties oil boom, Oklahoma City soon transformed into a boomtown, drunk from the money pouring in from all directions. I cleared almost $400,000 my second six months and it only got better, at least for awhile.

As a young man, I was unaware of the cycles of boom or bust in the oil patch. A wizened veteran now, I have experienced more than my share of both. Would I trade it for what could have been a stable existence, working for a company with wonderful benefits and a good salary? Nah!

Living your life in “Happy Town” isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It is, in fact, boring. For me, life is only worth living when you are out there swinging, taking existence by the throat, wrestling with the devil and taking your chances. Whether you are living the good life on top of cloud nine, or waiting for a handout in the welfare line, its better when you don’t know all the answers. Even if you did, they would probably only scare you.

Eric'sWeb

Lost on Route 66

Tonight, I finished the last edit of Lost on Route 66, a compendium of the winning stories from Gondwana Press’ Route 66 writing contest. I have to say, I’m blown away by the results.

Many of the winners are published authors. Many teach writing. I have never been so happy than by the results of this contest. All the stories are very good, but some are no short of wonderful.

I probably read every story at least fifteen times. The poetry is incomparable and a couple of the stories make me cry every time I read them. The one thing I learned, the old road embodies almost unexplainable passion.

Will Gondwana have a second annual Route 66 writing contest? I don’t know. I have never subjected myself to so much work before, but the results, I think you will agree if you read the book, were worth it.

Eric'sWeb

The Tutster

King Tut was my first cat. He didn’t like me very much at first. Later, when I fed him every day, he changed his mind.

The Tutster was barely two years old when I began dating Anne. I remember him lying on the window sill, his big tail moving side to side as he indicated that he didn’t like me very much. I just kept petting him every chance I got.

Miss Anne and I married about two years after we met. She and the Tutster moved in with me and I began feeding the kitty. Yes, it made a big difference. Soon, Tut was my cat, I his human.

Kitties are strange animals. They like those that like them. Tut soon learned that I more than liked him, I loved him. He came to accept me slowly, but when he did, it was for ever.

Eric'sWeb

Camera Freak

Glancing through my closet just now, I noticed a box I had brought from my parent’s house during my last visit there. When I opened it, I found it contained a Kodak Brownie, circa 1950s, in pristine condition. Best as I remember, it was the first camera I ever owned. My Mom and Dad had bought it for me. It wouldn’t be my last.

Last month, I purchased a fixed-lens Nikon L100. I already have a Nikon S210 that I love, but I wanted something with a longer lens and faster shutter so that I can capture birds and butterflies in flight. The L100 has a 15 x optical zoom but, as yet, I have been unsuccessful in my attempts. The L100, by all counts, is my ninth digital camera.

Which is the best? They were all good but I really like my Nikon S210. It is compact and versatile and I keep it with me wherever I go. I know, it’s been replaced by a newer, faster model, but I’m too poor to upgrade every six months.

Before going digital, I owned more 35 mm cameras than I can count. My first was a Yashica, my last a Canon. I loved them all but none could match the ease and sophistication of digital. I spent much of my tour of duty in Vietnam without a camera but did have a half-frame the size of a cigarette case toward the end of my time there. I can’t remember the make, but it took exceptional pictures, many of which I still have. Maybe it was a Minolta.

My first fixed-lens single lens reflex was a Kowa (I know, I don’t think they make them anymore). My first interchangeable lens single lens reflex was a Minolta SRT101. It took gorgeous photos. How many cameras have I owned? I’d say easily a hundred. Will I own more before I die? Yes, unless I die tomorrow, and I have my fingers crossed that that won’t happen.

Eric'sWeb

French Market Beignets - a weekend recipe

I was eleven when I first visited New Orleans with Aunt Carmol. She was a schoolteacher and off for the summer. Every day, she would awaken Brother Jack and me and take us on a tour of the old city. We rode the streetcars and roamed the French Quarter, Carmol the quintessential tour guide, filling our heads with both history and lore.

One of the places I remember visiting was Café du Monde in the French Quarter. It is there that I first tasted the luscious confections dusted with powdered sugar. It is also there that I first learned about the delicious taste of coffee.

That was long ago. Carmol has since passed away but Café du Monde survives, still selling strong French coffee and beignets, the French version of the American doughnut. Here is a recipe. Though probably not exact, it is close.

French Market Beignets

• ½ pkg. yeast cake
• 3 ½ cups flour, plain
• 1 cup milk
• ¾ Tbsp salt
• 2 Tbsp sugar
• 1 egg
• 2 Tbsp cooking oil
powdered sugar, generous sprinkle


Soften yeast cake in 1/3 cup lukewarm water to form a paste. Warm the milk and add sugar, oil and yeast mixture. Gradually stir in 2 cups flour and the salt. Stir until it forms a batter. Stir in egg until it is mixed well, and then add rest of flour. Mix well. Cover and set in warm place about 1 ½ hours to rise. Take dough out and roll until about ¼ inch thick. Cut in 2 inch pieces. Place on cookie sheet or pan and let rise another half hour. Fry dough until it is brown and then remove and let drain. Sprinkle with powdered sugar and enjoy.

Eric'sWeb

Old Friends

I opened an email the other day, surprised to hear from a person I hadn’t seen or talked to in more than forty years. The message was from my old friend John T, a person I had started the first grade with and had known through high school.

I remember John T in the first grade - I know, I’m old butnot senile just yet. Even at the age of five or six we were both mesmerized by cars. I remember manipulating a shrub growing in the schoolyard into a seat and stick-shift. We argued who would be the driver.

In the fifth grade, John and I were appointed SP’s - hall monitors. We wore white plastic belts that crossed over our shoulders and made us look like dorks. We had virtually no authority and the other kids simply laughed at us when we directed them to slow down, or issued any other inane order.

John and I lived about a mile apart. We both liked Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. John, like practically everyone else in Vivian, including myself, lived close to the railroad tracks. I was a geologist at heart even then. I remember walking the tracks with him once, looking for rocks. I was off the berm, he was on the tracks, walking towards me. A train was bearing down on him, its whistle blowing. I yelled at the top of my lungs but he didn’t seem to hear me. He disappeared from view and I had to watch the long freight train pass before I learned his fate.

I expected to see his body parts strewn on the tracks. Instead, he came smiling out of the underbrush on the other side, apparently happy that he had scared the hell out of me.

Our parents both had ’59 Chevy’s the exact same color of blue and white. In the days of muscle cars, both of our Chevy’s were grossly underpowered; my parent’s station wagon was a small V-8, John’s parent’s an anemic six cylinder. There was a patch of gravel on the street beside my house. John loved to stop there and floor it, the sensation of slinging a few rocks his only answer to not being able to burn rubber. My parent’s car was no better.

John left for Louisiana Tech in Ruston after graduation. I went to Northeast in Monroe. I saw him briefly in 1968 when I was working in New Orleans for the summer, but not since. I haven’t, in fact, seen or heard from him until the recent email note.

Well, it’s good to reconnect. Old friends are your best friends but sometimes you never realize as much until you are as old as I.

Eric'sWeb

Spring in Oklahoma

The first day of spring was Saturday, coinciding with the vernal equinox, the day when the hours of darkness roughly equal the hours of daylight. The weather was snowy Saturday but mild here now, warm during the day and chilly at night.

All the trees are abloom, as are the perennial flowers. The robins, cardinals and blue jays have returned but not my three ducks from past seasons. The squirrels never left, but they are already out in force, doing their best to eat all the seeds Marilyn puts out every day for the birds.

The season reminds me of a quote from the great Charles Dickens. I don’t know if he ever spent time in Oklahoma and it is hard for me to believe that it if he did, that it did not come from days spent near what is now the historic course of Route 66.

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold, when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”

Eric'sWeb

Cruising the OKC Concourse

In writing about life in downtown Oklahoma City during the last oil boom, I mentioned the Concourse. The Concourse was a tunnel system connecting all the major buildings in downtown OKC, originally created to provide workers with a way of avoiding the city’s weather that is often inclement. It grew into much more than just an underground pathway.

During the oil boom, the city leaders decided there was room for retail development underground. Texas Oil and Gas, the company I worked for, had offices in the Midland Center and you could enter the Concourse from a stairway on the ground floor there.

The tunnel system was simply a dimly lit concrete pathway with a colorful carpet on the floor. The system of tunnels snaked in all directions and it was easy to lose your bearings – especially if you had just visited one of the many clubs and partaken of their liquor-by-the-wink. Purchasing alcohol, at the time, was illegal anywhere except a liquor store.

Retail clothing establishments, a jewelry store, a fast food kiosk, two barbershops and other businesses soon began to thrive. Several combination restaurants occupied space in the Concourse, among them the Bull and the Bear, the Brigadoon, and the most notorious underground establishment of them all, the Depot.

The Depot was a dark saloon masquerading as a restaurant and it is true that the place sold as much booze as it did chicken fries. Its main draw was the gorgeous and friendly waitresses dressed in skimpy outfits. The drinks were strong and at any time of the day or night, half the downtown Oklahoma City oil industry congregated there.

My former business partner, John and I had an engineer. Those days preceded the age of cell phones and we began noticing music and noise in the background when Nick called in a report. We soon realized that he was reporting from his “office” in the Depot rather than one of our oil wells out in the sticks.

The Depot was dark and loud and if I told you that I had witnessed a sex act performed on an adjacent table, I would be lying. I actually saw more than one, and I imagine they were a common occurrence in some of the back corner booths.

During the oil boom of the eighties, Oklahoma City emulated the wildest of any past boomtown, and the Oklahoma City Concourse the very epicenter of wildness.

This past oil boom saw none of the excesses of the eighties oil boom and there was no place, at least to my knowledge, as wild and crazy as the Depot. I am glad that I experienced the boom and all its excesses while it existed, but most of all I am glad that I survived the experience.

Eric'sWeb

What a Difference a Day Makes

What a difference a day makes. Driving home from work Friday, the thermometer in my Chevy registered seventy-three degrees. I watched the weather before turning in last night so I wasn’t surprised when I awoke this morning to high winds and blowing snow, all on the first day of spring.

The fourth major storm that struck Oklahoma this year wasn’t quite as severe as predicted. While seven inches fell in parts of the state, the Oklahoma City Metro received only two and a half inches. Although unhappy with the gloomy day, high winds and cold weather, I wasn’t disappointed that we didn’t break the all-time record for Oklahoma set in 1947, falling short by a mere two inches.

The weather could have bothered me much more, but didn’t because college basketball is in the midst of March Madness. The snow allowed me to stay inside and watch the games without feeling guilty. At the beginning of the day, Kansas was the highest seed in the tournament and considered the team to beat. Northern Iowa had other ideas.

I, along with possibly ninety percent of the viewers watched in amazement as the number one team went down in defeat. Yesterday they were number one, today they are one and done. Yes, this has been a snowy winter throughout the Midwest, but spring is finally here; sixty-degree weather is predicted for Monday. My, March madness and what a difference a day makes.

Eric'sWeb

Big Billy's Green Chili Stew

My close friend Big Billy isn’t with us any more but he was a Texas oil man and Dallas restaurateur. Like me, he liked beer and comfort food. Here is a recipe for one of his most comforting dishes. Try it with Dos Equis, Shiner or Sierra Nevada Pale Ale (Big Billy’s personal favorite)

Ingredients

• 2 lbs. pork
• 2 tsp. salt
• 2 Tbsp. oil
• 3 medium potatoes, peeled and cubed
• ½ cup onion, diced
• 1 large clove garlic, minced
• 6-8 fresh roasted green chili peppers (skinned and deseeded) chopped
• 1 cup cheddar cheese, grated

Directions

Cube meat, sprinkle with salt and fry until brown in oil. Add potatoes to browned meat together with onion, garlic, salt, chili peppers and enough water to cover. Simmer for 1 ½ hours or until potatoes are tender. Serve with cheddar cheese and tortillas on the side.

Eric'sWeb

Kareoke Nights

Not long ago, I watched the movie Duets with Gwyneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis. The movie is about a man that undergoes extreme changes in his life while singing on the karaoke circuit. Yes, there is a karaoke circuit. I learned as much many years ago.

Anne and I were NTN Trivia addicts and met many people during our years of participation. One person we met was Dave, an itinerant never-do-well when he lived in Oklahoma. He moved to Iowa before Anne died and I didn’t talk to him again until several years later after Anne had passed away.

Dave stayed with me a time or two while visiting from Iowa and I accompanied him on the Oklahoma City karaoke circuit. He had, it seems, become a karaoke DJ since moving back to Iowa. He had a pleasant but gravely voice and everyone seemed to know him no matter which club we went to.

Different clubs in town would have karaoke nights during different days of the week, often giving away prize money, usually fifty or a hundred dollars. What amazed me was that everyone knew everyone else and we encountered the same singers wherever we went. The best singers earned the prize money but it seemed only enough to support their drinking budgets in the karaoke bars.

As in the movie Duets, many of the singers were very good. Most had physical flaws. None of these singers was grotesque; they just were neither very handsome nor pretty. One girl with a diva’s voice was a hundred pounds overweight.

Dave visited a couple of times and then disappeared back to Iowa. This ended my research on the karaoke circuit but did introduce me to the national phenomenon highlighted in Duets. Since I can’t sing a lick, I never got hooked.

Eric'sWeb

Holdin' Five Aces

In Oklahoma, there is no rule for naming an oil well. Many companies use the name of the mineral owner but there is no law that says you have to. Because of this, the well name is whatever the operator wants to give it and this has resulted in some whimsical monikers through the years.

Toward the end of the last oil boom there was a Kansas operator named Wild Boys Land Cattle and Oil Company, and they were often more whimsical than most companies when it came to naming their wells. Here are some of their well’s names:

Face the Fire #2
Rock Salt Blues #1
Nose to the Wind #1
Slapping Leather #1
Muddy Streets and Dollar Baths #1
Against a Crooked Sky #1
Rawhide #1
Out on Bail #1
It’s Just Crude #1
Saddle Sores #1
Shotgun Rider #1
Fistful of Dollars #1
Shootout in Lake City #2
Having a Few Beers #1
On the Rocks #8-C
Riding Thunder #1
Whiskey Hills #1
Snake Bite #1
Riding into Hell and Back Again #1
Hell Ain’t Ready for Us Yet 2-2
Eatin’ Dust and Drinkin’ Whiskey #1

And my own personal favorite:

Holdin’ Five Aces #1

Oil drillers are generally a superstitious lot and some say it is bad luck to use any name other than the mineral owner. There may be some truth to this superstition as many of the above wells were completed as dry holes.

Maybe, but what I’ve always heard and believe to be true is never, ever name a well after your wife, your mother, your daughter or your girlfriend. Why? I haven’t a clue.

Eric'sWeb

Kevin's Excellent Adventure

Years ago, when my wife Anne and I had a little oil company, we drilled quite a few wells in Garfield County, Oklahoma with another little oil company from Norman. They had a geologist named Kevin and he was a wild man. We learned as much on a Monday after completing a well the previous Friday.

When a well reaches total depth, most oil companies run an electrical survey into the open hole. The survey records a “picture” of the zones intersected and gives a mathematical portrait of the productive potential of each zone penetrated. That Friday, the log indicated we had found a highly productive zone that could make us all wealthy.

Logging, for some unknown reason, rarely takes place during daylight. This well was no exception and it was ten at night when the last log popped out of the hole and we began celebrating. Kevin had an override in the well, a carried interest, and was in line to make lots of money.

Kevin and Bruce, one of our employees that also had an override, had brought along a cooler filled with ice and beer. Already lubricated, they started in on a bottle of Jack Daniel’s after seeing the log. Anne and I went home to Oklahoma City to celebrate in private. Kevin and Bruce headed for the mean streets of Oklahoma City.

Bruce somehow managed to straggle home before dawn. Not so Kevin. He took a taxi to Will Rogers Airport and bought a ticket for Acapulco in Mexico. He arrived the next morning, beginning to sober up and already feeling much like warmed over death. He only wanted to get a room and sleep for twenty-four hours. It was not to be.

Some dignitary, the Queen of England or some such, was also visiting Mexico and there wasn’t a single empty room in the entire resort. He spent the night at the airport, catching a plane back to Oklahoma City where his anxious wife was waiting for him.

No, Kevin didn’t get a divorce. He did get an earful, though. The well came in like gangbusters and we were all happy, and somewhat assuaging his wife’s ire. The next time we logged a well, she accompanied him to the well and didn’t let him out of her sight.

Eric'sWeb

Hurricane Oklahoma - a reprise

Growing up in the semi-tropical state of Louisiana, I experienced rainfall on almost a weekly basis. My stint in Vietnam was also rainy, at least during the monsoon season. Still, I have never experienced rain such as here in central Oklahoma during a particular night in 2007.

I know Oklahoma was the hub of the “Dust Bowl” but things have changed. Edmond, the City where I live, looks like anything but a desert. I live on an acre lot on the east edge of town and I have at least fifty fully-grown trees on the lot. My backyard slants toward the house and three years ago, this became a problem.

There was a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico – Erin, I think. After blowing onshore, it tracked across central Oklahoma and prompted me to write about Hurricane Oklahoma. That night, as I remember it, was the hardest rainfall I have ever experienced, and this includes every rainstorm from subtropical Louisiana and monsoon Vietnam.

I have a covered porch and small patio outside the back door of my house. Prior owners had installed a French drain, but on the night of Hurricane Oklahoma, it proved inadequate. I stepped outside - awed by deafening thunder and dramatic lightning, and the rain falling with such force that I thought it might collapse my roof with its weight.

On the verge of collapsing, water poured from the drain on my eave. The metal fixture was unable to compete with the onslaught of water, pouring in giant bucket loads from the sky. Grabbing a broom from the kitchen, I began sweeping water toward the drain, desperately trying to prevent the back porch from becoming a wading pool. Thirty minutes passed before the storm subsided. Wearily, I withdrew to the house, quickly finding solace in my comfortable bed. The solace disappeared quickly the next morning.

Marilyn is an early riser, much more so than I. When I awoke, she said, “Be careful. The living room is flooded.”

Rain had returned during the night, apparently harder than the one I had tried to staunch. Two inches of rainwater covered our sunken living room and filled our vents. A friendly sun shone outside but the harm was already done.

We quickly called a company to assist us with the water damage and three men with shop vacuums quickly arrived. After vacuuming the water, they applied coats of antibacterial and antifungal spray onto the floor and into the vents, and then installed about a dozen fans that proceeded to blow for a week or so.

The area was named a national disaster area and FEMA ultimately helped pay for the damage. Having lived in Oklahoma for almost forty years, I am still not used to the crazy weather we have here. I lived in Louisiana and spent time in Vietnam, but I doubt I’ll ever see a rain such as the one that occurred in 2007 – one that I still affectionately call Hurricane Oklahoma.

Eric'sWeb

Dancing With the Devil

I served in Vietnam from July 1970 until September 1971. I did not choose the fate of a draftee, but I met many wonderful people during my tour. It is also impossible to spend fourteen months of total hell. There were moments of total hell but most of the time was almost normal, some moments even fun.

I was remembering an event I still cannot believe, even after all these years. To say that I had fun is a lie because my rear end stayed puckered the entire time. The event took place almost four decades ago, at the non-com club in Bien Hoa.

I spent the first six months of my tour in the boonies as an infantry foot soldier. I've told the story of getting poked in the eye with a bamboo limb. Recuperating in Song Be - relative civilization compared to where I had been - I played chess and became close friends with the company clerk of Headquarters Company. When a position as a clerk-typist came open and I offered the job, I did not have to be asked twice if I was interested.
A time came when the Top Sergeant asked to fill in as Battalion Courier for a soldier on R & R. Long before the days of personal computers, the courier physically transported a satchel of papers and documents from our outpost in Song Be to the main headquarters in Bien Hoa. I was a spec 4, the equivalent of a corporal but not considered a NCO. A friend that I will call Sergeant Brown was going to Bien Hoa at the same time and wanted me to accompany him to the NCO club later that night.

"A hell of a place," he told me, "With the best steaks, beer and whiskey in Nam."

"But I'm not an NCO. I'll get in trouble."

"No one knows you in Bien Hoa. I got sergeant's stripes for you. Tonight you're going to be an E-5 sergeant."

We made it to the club that night. It was dark, smoky and loud, a Vietnamese rock band playing on stage. We ate our steaks and were well into our second whiskey when my worst nightmare suddenly appeared. It was E-8 Sergeant Roper (I will call him). Sergeant Roper was big, easily three-hundred pounds, and he was black - a little scary for a southern boy that had never known many blacks, much less ones in authority. I had never seen him smile.

Frightened of the man, I once witnessed him take away a live grenade from a drugged sky trooper that was threatening to blow up an officer's hooch. To say that my heart was in my throat was an understatement and I fully expected to spend the rest of my tour locked in the infamous Long Binh Jail.

I waited for the other shoe to fall. Instead, he asked, "How are you tonight Sergeant Wilder?"

When I noticed the man standing behind him, I realized why I was not already in handcuffs. It was our company commander, Captain Ahab (I will call him). Officers, like enlisted men, are also unwelcome in an NCO club. Captain Ahab, white like me, was wearing sergeant stripes - he was an E5. That night I was his equal, Sergeant Brown his superior.

Sergeants Roper and Ahab joined us and we all proceeded to drink, listen to the band and even exchange a few pleasantries along the way. I fully expected court-martial the following day, as I am sure did Sergeant Brown. Instead, nothing was ever said of the incident and we never again acknowledged even a passing hint that we may have consorted illicitly.

Years have passed and I still wonder about the incident. Why had I taken the chance of court-martial to visit a place where I should not be? Moreover, why had a Captain, the company commander, taken the same chance? The answer surely has to be that there is a deeply buried need in all of us to visit that one place, at least just once, from which society forbids us to enter. It is a location where everyone is equal. Most of us never visit but there is surely no better place on earth.

Eric'sWeb

The Lab That Was Afraid of Water

One of my business associates called today. During the course of the conversation, he told me sadly about the passing of his fourteen-year-old dog. The eighty-two year old man, obviously heartbroken over the loss of his long time friend, had gotten a new pup.

“Everyone needs a dog, someone to talk to and to play with,” he said.

With me, he was preaching to the choir. I have four dogs and my conscience is always filled with guilt because I cannot spend an hour or so a day with every one of them. Lucky, my Labrador retriever, died last fall at the age of twelve. Like every person and every animal I have ever known, he had a unique personality.

Labradors are supposed to like water. Not Lucky. Every attempt I have ever made to get him into my swimming pool failed. When he was a pup, several of my friends tried as well. Maybe that is the problem. Perhaps they frightened him, imparting him with a permanent swimming phobia. In contrast, my rottweiler Chuckie loved the pool and got into it every chance he got.

My friend Don raises and trains labs. “I will bring a duck over. If your dog is a natural retriever, we’ll know it immediately.”

Lucky and my Gordon setter Slick took to the duck, taking turns carrying it in their mouths until I finally took it away from them and threw it away. Neither duck dog ever hunted a day in their lives but at least I knew that they could if I ever needed them to.

Slick, by the way, would not get into the pool either. I am not a hunter but if I were, I guess that I would have had to take them duck hunting on dry land.

Eric'sWeb

Lily's Sausage and Chicken Jambalaya

My former mother-in-law was a wonderful Cajun/Creole cook. Like most good chefs, she had no recipes, except those in her head. She was the mother of seven and was used to feeding a crew. Here is a recipe for a regional dish that she often prepared.

Ingredients

· 1 tablespoon olive oil
· ½ pound smoked hot sausage, sliced
· 1 medium onion, diced
· ½ pound chicken, cubed
· ½ teaspoon Creole seasoning
· 2 cloves garlic, minced
· 1 rib celery, diced
· 1 bell pepper, diced
· 2 cups beef broth
· ¼ teaspoon whole thyme
· 1 cup raw rice

Directions

Heat oil in a heavy pot. Add sausage and cook on medium heat, stirring occasionally, until browned. Add onion, and brown. Add chicken and Creole seasoning, and cook, stirring occasionally, until chicken browns. Add garlic, celery, bell pepper, broth and thyme and bring to a boil. Add rice, cover, reduce heat, and simmer, stirring occasionally, until liquid is absorbed and rice is tender, about 20 to 25 minutes.

Eric'sWeb

Kissing the Blarney Stone

I wrote this little story a while back. After reading it, my Aunt Dot told me that since she was the youngest and the smallest, it was her job to crawl under the house and plant the potatoes, and to harvest them when they were ripe. She also told me that Grandpa Pitt was as Irish as they come, a fact that does not surprise me. Now I can say that I inherited a bit of the blarney from both sides of the family.

* * * * * *
My Grandson Braden has red hair, just like my brother Jack had when he was the same age. Last night, we took my Dad to Bennigan's. He is eighty-eight and loves children. Since Braden has red hair, just as he and my Brother had, he has taken a particular shine to the lad. Last night, my daughter-in-law Taffy asked if we were Irish. Well, my Dad's grandfather was named O'Rear, about as Irish as you can get. It made me think about my other grandparents and my Grandfather Pittman.

Grandpa Pitt had some Irish blood but was probably more English. Grandma Pitt often made Mulligan Stew for family gatherings. One thing is sure; Grandpa liked potatoes as much as any Irishman did. He and Grandma lived in a tiny wood-framed house that sat about a foot off the ground on cinder blocks. Grandpa Pitt always raised potatoes under the house and never failed to have a good crop. When I was quite young, I asked him how he got under the house to harvest the potatoes.

"Well, boy," he answered in his best deadpan voice. "It's all in how you do it. I plant them all in a straight line, toward the center of the house. When I dig out the first spud, the rest roll into the basket after it."

Grandpa never cracked a smile but even at my very young age, I knew that he was pulling my leg. My Dad's side of the family was definitely Irish. I'm not sure about my Mom's but I can positively say that my Grandpa Pitt must have kissed the Blarney Stone some time during his life because he could tell a story as well as any Irishman I've ever met.

Eric'sWeb

Twilight, Hah!

The TV series American Idol opened countless eyes in this country and around the world, cluing the masses that there are many talented singers out there that don’t have a recording contract. There are also many wonderful writers that have neither a publishing contract nor an agent. I learned as much when I joined the group at Authonomy.com.

The site is run by HarperCollins – a way for them to look for new talent using an electronic slush pile. Basically, you post at least ten-thousand words from a book you have written. Other members then read and comment on it. If they like it, they put it on their bookshelf. When someone comments on your book, and, or puts it on their bookshelf, it numerically progresses, perhaps to a review by HarperCollins editors.

I posted my book Prairie Sunset on the site, mostly as an experiment. I’m now hooked. Yes, some of the books are in need of major editing, but others could be best sellers - at least in my opinion. One of the books I sampled tonight has best seller and major motion picture written all over it. I exchanged messages with the young woman that wrote it and I am quite sure she has no clue how talented she is. If I were a literary agent, I would grab hold of her skirt and hang on for a wild and prosperous ride.

Thanks HarperCollins for creating the literary version of American Idol. Maybe the only ones visiting it at the moment are other writers, but one of these days all those wealthy literary agents will get a clue that there are far more than a hundred or so talented writers in the world. Then again, maybe I’m giving them too much credit.

Eric'sWeb

You Were the Greatest

When Marilyn and I went out for Mexican food recently, I tried to recall when I first began loving that particular ethnic repast. Neither of my parents liked Mexican food, so why then do I? The answer is my high school Spanish teacher, Miss K.

Miss K was what we called back then an “old maid” schoolteacher. She never married and lived in a tiny apartment until the day that she died. Still, she was one of the unsung yet true American heroes that helped educate a generation of students.

Miss K called me Damocles because she said I had the sword of Damocles hanging over my head. I was not a good student but I loved listening to her wonderful stories, as did every other lucky student in her class.

When I was a sophomore, the Spanish Club took a field trip to Shreveport where we ate Mexican food at an El Chico restaurant. I loved it, but most of all I loved Miss K’s tales of music, culture and the trips she took every summer to whichever Spanish-speaking country she happened to visit.

Thoughts of Miss K bring me almost to tears because she was singly responsible for providing a generation of hungry students with massive doses of brain food, me included.

As I ate my chili relleno, I could not help but think about Miss K. Maybe she never received any awards, or accolades but she taught so many students about tolerance, diversity and the responsibility of recognizing other cultures. You were the greatest, Miss K, and I will never forget you.

Eric'sWeb

Blackened Bleu Burger - a recipe

Many will agree that a well-prepared hamburger is the ultimate comfort food. Here is a Cajun variation - with a whimsical name - on the all-American repast.

Ingredients

4 eight ounce hamburger patties
4 ounces red onions
2 tsps olive oil
4 ounces bleu cheese
4 tomato slices
Cajun seasoning, to taste
4 hamburger buns

Directions

Grill patties and sprinkle with Cajun seasoning. Sautee red onions using 2 teaspoons of olive oil. Top each patty with sautéed onions, bleu cheese and tomato slices. Serve on freshly grilled hamburger buns.

Eric'sWeb

Winter Texans

I left early last Friday for a trip south to Padre Island in Texas. The road trip there lasted almost thirteen hours. Carl, Jerry, Ray and I spent several hours Friday night, once we arrived, at an establishment called Tom and Jerry’s. Jerry was our host, and it was a wonderful beginning for an odyssey of the mind.

Jerry, Carl, Ray and I traveled south, attempting to raise money for our new project. Thanks to friend Tom, longtime resident of the island, we met many of the locals. All I can say is wow!

The island is beautiful, as is neighboring Port Isabel. Before Friday, I didn’t know what a “winter Texan” is. Now I do, and I somewhat understand the psyche of the northern multitudes, migrating south for a few months. I quickly learned that winter Texans are wonderful people, not a whit different than I, except where they live for most of the year in northern climes.

I met lots of wonderful people: Tommy, Sherri, Tom, Jerry, Chris, Ran, Ed and Mary Jane, just to name a few. We also met George and Rob from Oklahoma City. Will I return? Yes, and I can’t wait.

Eric'sWeb