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.

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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.

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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.”

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