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 memory in my rapidly decaying mind.

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 this month 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?

Gondwana

Old Man Meets the Killer Pugs - pics

Here are some pictures taken Thanksgiving Day of my dad, Scooter and Princess and Marilyn.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Death Becomes Us

Here is an article and video about my friend G. Terry Felts. Terry is a death investigator and contributed greatly to my book Bones of Skeleton Creek. He is also a contributing author in the soon-to-be-released Lost on Route 66 - tales of the mother road - Gondwana Press/2009.

"The career of G. Terry Felts has been one of shining light onto the dark areas of life." - The Oklahoman

http://newsok.com/truth-is-top-priority-of-oklahoma-autopsy-provider/article/3420972

Jalapeno Cornbread - a weekend recipe

Cornbread is a Southern staple and there are as many different recipes as there are cooks. Here is just one, with a few twists that truly makes it Southern comfort food.

Ingredients:
1 cup white corn meal
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
½ teaspoon garlic salt
1 ½ cups whole milk
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 cup (4 oz.) shredded Monterey Jack cheese
1 can (11 oz.) cream style corn
3 tablespoons chopped pickled jalapeños \

Directions:
Preheat oven to 375º F. Lightly grease 8-inch-square baking pan. Combine corn meal, flour, baking powder and garlic salt in large bowl. Combine milk, eggs and oil in medium bowl.

Add to corn meal mixture; stir just until combined. Stir in cheese, corn and jalapeños. Pour batter into prepared pan. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes or until toothpick comes out clean when inserted in center. Cool in pan on wire rack. Serve warm.

Fiction South

Wide Eyes and Gloomy Skies

Thanksgiving was one of my favorite holidays while growing up in northwest Louisiana. My Mother had three sisters and a brother. My Grandparents lived but a few blocks from our house and most of my Aunts, Uncles and Cousins would usually come in for the holiday.

My Grandparents, the Pittman’s, usually had Thanksgiving at their house. I loved all of my cousins, but was closest to Cousins Ken and Angela, about the same age as I am. I have lots of younger cousins, and at least one that is older, but I mostly remember Ken, Angela and my brother. I remember one Thanksgiving holiday in particular.

While there weren’t many inclement winters that I remember while growing up in north Louisiana, a certain November was particularly dark and gloomy. For some reason we celebrated that particular Thanksgiving at my parent’s house.

The Pitt’s all loved politics. Whenever they congregated, you could bet there would be a spirited discussion on the subject. It did not matter what half of the group believed, the other half would dispute it, Grandpa Pitt always leading the charge. While the parents argued inside the house, we kids were having fun in the back yard.

None of us kids cared much for politics, and this included my cerebral, and very pretty cousin Angela. We were busy outside, amid a blue Louisiana gloom, thinking only of ways to have fun.

Jack and I were the country cousins, Ken and Angela from Shreveport and Houston, respectively. Jack and I had both had BB guns, bow and arrows and knifes since we were old enough to know better. Ken and Angela had never even popped a cap.

Fireworks weren’t illegal in Vivian during the fifties and sixties. Two-inchers and M-80’s were as legal as they were potentially deadly. Jack and I had made pipe guns, plugged on one end, with a stock for holding and aiming. You would drop a lighted two-incher down the barrel, followed quickly by a marble, aim and wait for the explosion.

Ken and Angela were slathering at their mouths to shoot the guns. Finally, Jack and I acquiesced. The two City Cousins held the barrels in the air as Jack and I dropped two-inchers, followed quickly by marbles down the barrels. They pointed and the resulting explosion was deafening. Jack and I watched with open eyes as the projectiles blew out the windows of my Dad’s garage.

Angela and Ken were oblivious to what they had just done but Jack said, “Oh, shit!”

My own rear end began to pucker.

Jack and I knocked out the remaining glass from the windowpane and discarded the broken shards in the trash. With Thanksgiving festivities in full swing, we got a bye for a few days before my Dad realized what had happened.

When he finally discovered the transgression, he failed to give us the whipping that we anticipated. Instead, he took away our marble guns, and our fireworks. Angela and Ken never received any punishment, and I do not suppose they should have, neither having a clue as to what they were doing when they blew out my Dad’s garage windows.

Yes, Thanksgiving is still one of my favorite holidays. I miss hearing my parents and relatives discussing politics, but mostly I miss those blue Louisiana days when skies were gloomy, and our young eyes wide.

Gondwana

Mom's Fruitcake

I recently read a quote from someone whose name I cannot remember. They said that if the world keeps trending in the same direction, there would soon be nothing left except rats, cockroaches and fruitcakes. That is not the exact quote, but it is the gist of it.

The thought brought a smile to my face this holiday season. My Father and Brother are big fruitcake fans but neither could hold a candle to my Mother. She made one about this time every year and she never gave up trying to get me to eat a slice.

Well, more than that. I always relented and ate a sliver but I never liked it, and she wanted me, with all her heart, to like it as much as she did. No matter how many slices I ate, or how hard I tried, I have never acquired a taste for fruitcake.

I don’t know when my aversion for fruitcake began, but my stint in Vietnam only served to solidify my dislike. That is because during my six months in the boonies, I ate more than my fair share of C-Rations, and one of the condiments in almost every box was a little tin can packed with fruitcake. About the only thing worse were the barely edible pork slices and, of course, the Tropical Bar.

A Tropical Bar is a piece of chocolate candy manufactured so that it would not melt beneath the high temperatures of the tropics. You could not get the darn thing to dissolve, and stomach acids had little more effect. It was so bad, you could throw it on the ground and even the Vietnamese field rats wouldn’t eat it.

I digress. The Army’s fruitcake was bad, but not as bad as the pork slices and certainly not as horrible as a Tropical Bar. Still, despite my Mother’s best cajoling, I never willingly touched the candied confection to my lips.

My Dad and Brother are still alive but my Mother has passed on. I know that she’s not far away because every year around this time I can feel her presence, and yes, she’s still nagging me to try just one little slice of fruitcake. I love you dearly Mom, but sorry - not this year.

Fiction South

Hawkodelia

Here is an awesome picture of a hawk in flight, slightly Photoshopped.

Gondwana