A Moment In The Rear View Mirror

I have never gotten a traffic ticket. Never. So, you can image what I was thinking when I saw him in the rear view mirror.

I was sitting at a traffic light minding my own business, and thinking about where I might go for dinner that night. On Sirius radio Sean Hannity rebuked an uninformed caller who wanted to make a non-point. He was such an easy target for the Master to take down in a rapid barrage of facts and sound bites.

The light turned green and I turned left . . . so did the Houston PD cruiser at my tailgate. Several hundred feet down the street we caught another traffic signal. As I sat there I glanced into the mirror and noticed the officer motioning to me, pointing at the rear of my red Ranger and making a rectangular shape with his hands.

Was my license plate missing? Was a tail light broken?

I made an exaggerated shoulder shrug to let him know that I didn't understand. Then I heard something. A loud, indistinguishable, tinny sound. As I turned Hannity down on the radio my eyes shifted back to the mirror. This shaven-head middle-aged protector of the peace was now holding his microphone in-hand and smiling at me . . .

In a deep, authoritative voice he then repeated the comment over his PA system for all to hear . . . "I really like your Reagan For President bumper sticker!"

Jeez! I laughed out loud and gave him a thumbs up. He grinned, gave me a wave and we went our separate ways as traffic began to move.

As I continued to drive I felt relief. I also felt encouragement. I knew that my conservative beliefs and love of the constitution were shared by another Texan, a man in blue that I encountered for only a moment in the rear view mirror.

It Was A Good Night To Be A Texan

To the chagrin of liberals living within the confines of the 610 loop, last night more than 10,000 conservative Houstonians chose a Constitutional pep rally over Monday Night Football and the fifth game of the 2009 World Series. There was a Tea

Party at Sam Houston Race Park. Some carried posters denouncing Congressional leadership and pending legislation, some carried American flags that had been removed from sticks and poles, while others carried campaign placards for candidates in today’s election.

Blue collar Texans stood shoulder-to-shoulder with those wearing suits that cost as much as a house note. The full moon shown down on patriots of all colors, nationalities and religions as they joined together to protest a dysfunctional Federal government.

As the crowd continued to swell there were prayers of hope asking for direction, flag waving and an incredibly good jazz rendition of the Star Spangled Banner by event emcee, Joe “Pags” Pagliarulo – conservative talk show host on KPRC, the 950. Apostle Claver’s speech, proclaiming that from this day on we will not compromise in our beliefs, was delivered in an almost tent revival style, prompting the occasional shouts of “hallelujah”.

There were the expected catcalls at the mention of Barack Obama. An even louder outburst of displeasure echoed throughout the show grounds when Nancy Pelosi was added to the mix. But, the loudest reverberating blast came when Claver called out Texas Congresswoman . . . Sheila… Jackson… Lee. I don’t think that Congresswoman Jackson-Lee is well liked in these parts.

Others on the program spoke about freedom, the right to own firearms, the need for change and a return to the principles of our founding fathers and the Constitution of the United States of America.

It was a good night for those in Houston who still believe in individual rights and small government. It was a good night to see that you are not alone in your conservative beliefs. And, it was a good night to be a Texan.

They Live - In DC

John Carpenter’s “They Live” is an interesting Sci-Fi film.

Released in 1988, “They Live” chronicles a time where the American middle class is being reduced to poverty and the gap between the Haves and Have-nots is greater than ever before.

In Carpenter’s tale, the downturn of America’s working class is the result of a well planned strategy created by an invading skull-faced civilization from another planet, and a coalition of the elite, most powerful businessmen and politicians on Earth.

Not surprisingly the general public is kept in the dark through a constant stream of subliminal signals, stealthy messages and propaganda broadcast through state-controlled television. Only our hero, former professional wrestler Roddy Piper, and a small band of freedom fighters know the truth.

The public-at-large fully realizes that life is not what it used to be; jobs are scarce, there are soup lines and shantytowns for the growing number of homeless, America is becoming a police state, and individualism and independent thinking are under attack from the powers at the top.

The atmosphere of the world is being slowly polluted and blamed on rampant industrialism and capitalism, when in reality the environment is being changed intentionally to make it more hospitable to the alien puppet masters.

In a black tie gathering of the power elite, both mankind and alien, all are told how the takeover is progressing well, opposition by the common man is down, and that financial profits for those select humans involved in the conspiracy are up 39-percent over previous years.

A serious look at America today would lead one to believe that skull-faced aliens have invaded Washington, DC, yet I know that it’s something more sinister and less science fiction. The demise of the middle class and the continuing power grab at the top is being orchestrated by men and women who should know better than to mess with America and the God fearing ideals on which it was founded.

The outrageous behavior by many of those in power today bears no similarity to those men and women who made this country the greatest in history. It’s time to let the “aliens” in DC know that a new hope and change are coming in the next Congressional election.

Sheila Jackson-Lee - are you and your cronies listening…?

Thanks Scotty. You're the best.

It's Father's Day. The time to celebrate the man with the swimmers and remember both the good and bad times that made you who you are today.

I seriously have nothing but good memories of my Dad. I'm sure that there must have been some things on the dark side, but I can't remember any. Not one.

I remember watching him spit-shine his black lace-up National Guard boots until you could see your reflection in the toe. Then there was the day that he came in from work and said, "hey, catch this!" He tossed a realistic looking cork red "brick" at me from across the room. I was a kid, but looking back . . . what a great learning experience that was. It taught me to think fast, run for cover, and scream all at the same time. A sort of pre-school lesson in multi-tasking.

He made professional quality "mail boxes" for my Valentine parties at Midway Elementary School, a poster board weather station for science class, and covered my books with an acrylic material that he got from work way before it was available on the general market... my school books were cool.

Today kids wear helmets and pads, fall into soft rubber on the playground, and don't keep score when playing organized soccer and baseball. When I was a kid my dad gave me a kit to melt lead and mold my own toy soldiers. You even had to use the soot from a burning candle to coat the molds to prevent the molten metal from sticking. Liquid metal, matches, candles and a poisonous substance . . . what was he thinking? Maybe that I was a responsible kid. After all, I had already mastered the fine art of wood burning with a 1,000-degree tool, using a toasty Mattel Vac-U-Form and building plastic models with buzz-inducing glue.

I still marvel at the thought of Dad teaching me to drive our big Ford in the back parking lot of Belvedere Plaza. I was slow at getting the hang of braking without slamming us both into the dash board. He used the same even mannered technique on me that he had used to teach my Mom several years before. We both survived.

I remember his homemade chili, grilled cheese sandwiches and Pepsi. Our trips to Jekyll Island along the Georgia coast and stopping at Stuckey's for a pecan nut log and divinity are legendary.

My Dad taught me to play baseball; how to throw and how to pitch, how to bat, cheer on a team mate, and how to never give up even when you knew you couldn't win. I was his bat boy at Midway Heights Little League before I was old enough to play, then went on to be a part of his championship-bound major league Pirates by the time I was 11.

Looking back at growing up in the '50s, my Dad was a combination of Ward Cleaver and Andy Taylor, something that I have tried hard to emulate over the years with my brood, though falling short many times.

It's been said that any man can be a father, but it takes someone really special to be a dad. I know first hand that it's true. My Dad pulled it off and I love him for it.

Thanks Scotty. You're the best.

Taking Life Month By Month

June is National Accordion Awareness Month. Who knew? It's also National Turkey Lover's Month, National Bathroom Reading Month and National Safety Month. I guess you can never be too safe when loving your turkey while reading the current issue of "Playpoulty" magazine in the bathroom. Of course you only read it for the articles.

I was intrigued that a single month could hold so many observances, so I did a Google search and guess what?

June is National Dairy Month and Dairy Alternative Month. It's also National Seafood Month and has a Fish Are Our Friends, Not Food! week. Are these sending mixed messages or is it just me?

It's Celibacy Awareness Month and World Infertility Month, has a Meet A Mate Week, and a National HIV Testing Day. There may be a theme here.

It's easy to make the connection between National Old-time Fiddler's Week and Watermelon Seed Spitting Week. Toss in a jar of moonshine, some pork rinds and a hound dog named Blue, and it's a party waiting to happen.

June is National Ice Tea Month, National Soul Food Month, National Steakhouse Month, National Fresh Fruits and Vegetables Month, National Papaya Month, and has a National Gingerbread Day, Applesause Cake Day, Eat Your Vegetables Day, National Ice Cream Soda Day, Fudge Day, Pecan Sandies Day, and a National Chocolate Pudding Day. It's no wonder June is also National Potty Training Month.

I think it's odd that June has a Take Your Dog To Work Day and a National Ugly Dog Day. Maybe they could combine the two for a Take Your Ugly Dog To Work Day. Just a thought.

Now I'm really looking forward to July, because it's National Baked Bean Month, National July Belongs to Blueberries Month, National Ice Cream Month, Lasagna Awareness Month, National Culinary Arts Month, National Hot Dog Month, National Picnic Month, and National Pickle Month.

It's great taking life month by month.

Rock On Freaky Dudes!

I was online recently searching for bands to fill out my summer concert schedule when I found a directory. Not just any directory, but an alphabetical listing of musical groups of all genres, varying degrees of personal hygiene, and not-of-this-world beliefs. From pure country and classic rock, to talentless garage bands and several apparently direct from the flaming pits of Satan's own backyard barbecue . . . there they were. A band buffet waiting for me to place my order.

I had heard that the perfect name for a band could be as simple as taking your high school mascot and combining it with your first automobile; Blue Devil Rambler or Rebel Pacer, for example. Maybe Bear Kat Gremlin or Bulldog Caddie?

However the name was chosen, some of the bands in this directory were genius, or at the least catchy. Others were . . . well let's say . . . I'd never book them based a name.

There was a collection of handles involving animals. Kitty Spankworthy was one of my faves. (I know... don't go there) Then there was Fluff the Kat, Dropkick Chihuahuas, A Dog Named Leo, and Forks for Cows. Snit's Dog & Pony Show, Pet Rooster, Captain Orangutang and Purple Monkey Dishwasher also made my list.

Being that I'm in Texas, I wasn't surprised to find a posse of bands with names such as Galactic Cowboys, Thriftstore Cowboys and Undercover Cowboys. We love cowboys!

I had to wonder if Half Decent was following truth in advertising guidelines, while Beans Barton and the Bipeds just rolled off the tongue and sounded cool.

I'd say that the two bands Explosive Diarrhea and Slop Jar Junior were a perfect pair for any event sponsored by Pepto, but not for me.

School Girl Knife Fight and Short Bus Superheros rang of issues that might force some Independant School District onto the short list for losing accreditation over the summer.

I've used the band Death By Injection several times before, so it was good to see them there. It still makes me laugh to think that a group of musically talented criminal lawyers can have so much fun when not in court.

Slime in the Ice Machine was an obvious tribute to longtime Houston television personality Marvin Zindler who made it his life's work to nail nasty restaurants for having sticky green goo in the cooler, and roach and rodent dropping on counter tops where food was being prepared.

There was a crypt full of bands with the word death, killer or Hell in the title. I even found Dracula's Dope Dealer listed in the directory. Who knew? I thought he was a blood-sucking, night stalker because he liked it.

I enjoy bands with real character though my audiences may not be ready for Cougar Camino or Titan Tempest. Rock on freaky dudes!

Rest In Pieces Old Girl

It was a week ago today that I lost Ruby. We were traveling down Highway 87 near Wall in West Texas.

A beautiful blue-sky day, the outside temp was in the mid '80s and I was listening to Mark Levin's new book, Liberty and Tyranny, on CD. That's when I heard the bang.

I had never been in a serious accident before. Maybe a fender bender or two, but nothing like this. The rear tire on the driver's side of my little red pickup truck had blown out, tread separating from the tire and tearing out a huge gash in the fiberglass flareside.

Fish-tailing is no fun at 55 mph, but the slide to the side across two lanes of fast moving pavement was the real eye-opener. You don't realize just how fast 55 is until you are doing it sideways. I'm sure the noise around me was horrendous, but I heard nothing except for a small voice in my head saying, "we're going to roll." And roll we did.

Off the highway then down a slight drop, Ruby and I flew right into a field of soft, newly plowed dirt. That's when we flipped over. I felt the impacts . . . first on my side, then the roof, then the other side and finally back upright on four wheels, two of which no longer had viable tires.

What a rush . . . I sat there for a few seconds, then unbuckled my seat belt, opened the door and stepped out into the powdery dust settling around me. A local guy, tall and thin, and wearing a baseball cap was running across the field toward me with a cell phone in one hand and shouting, "are you alright?!"

As the "stars" cleared from my head I answered, "yeah, I'm good." And surprisingly I was.

A quick walk around the scene and I saw that Ruby was seriously hurt. Her windshield was smashed and the roof at both ends was deeply dented from the roll. The tops of both doors were embedded with dirt and slightly caved. Though the airbag didn't fire off, I would be later told that the front had taken such a hit that the hood couldn't be opened even with a crowbar.

Personal items were strewn from one side of the cab's interior to the other: loose change, luggage, laptop, my range bag, racquetball equipment, CDs and extra work boots, a baseball bat and two 100-piece boxes of ball point pens from Traders Village, paperwork, sunglasses, cell phone, my lucky St. Patrick's Houston Astro cap and more. It was a mess, but it would have to keep until tomorrow because the emergency responders had arrived.

First on the scene were a couple of deputies from the Tom Green Country Sheriff's Department; nice guys who couldn't believe that I had just walked away from the crash. Next was the Texas State Trooper who took control of the accident. The deputies tried to get me to play a practical joke on him . . . I opted not to.

A fire truck from the Wall Volunteer Fire Department rolled up with lights flashing. As the crew jumped from the truck in full gear, one of the deputies said light-heartedly, "Volunteer fire department . . . these guys love this stuff." They were a good group that quickly wrapped a support around my neck and had me strapped to a backboard awaiting the ambulance.

It wasn't long before the EMS from San Angelo arrived and I was off to Shannon Medical Center for three-hours of observation, x-rays, CAT scans and trying to pee into a bottle while laying on my back in a neck brace . . . I gave up the try.

The ER medical staff couldn't have been more friendly or helpful, even calling a cab for me once Dr. McGoon told me that I was good to go....

Though the whole event was a bit unnerving, the trip to Home Motors the next day was the most emotional experience of all. There I stood with two large trash bags in-hand looking at my girl . . . Ruby sat there among rows of other broken bodies, bruised and silent as the West Texas wind blew wildly around us. I wiped the grit from my eyes as they began to tear up. It was then that I knew, really knew, that Ruby would not be coming home with me.

I filled my bags with all the stuff that had accumulated there over the past six years, all the time remembering the fun times that Ruby and I had photographing the Bluebonnets in the Texas Hill Country and the white sand at Dauphin Island. I thought back to exploring the backroads of Texas and the north Georgia mountains in my little red pickup and what a great pair we were together. She was always there for me and all she ever expected was an oil change every 3,000 miles and a good grade of gasoline.

I know that God was my co-pilot on Highway 87 in Wall, Texas last week as he had been on all my trips with Ruby over the past six years. I survived a speedy roll-over with God at my side and Ruby wrapped around me. Thank you God. And, thank you Ruby. Rest in Pieces old girl. You were the best.

Happy Trails Joe

I went to a funeral on Saturday. Joe Pace had died.

As I stood in the entryway of the stately old church in downtown Fort Worth I watched family members, and several hundred friends and business associates arrive. Most were dressed in black though there were a few from the ranch in their neatly pressed jeans and plaid shirts, polished boots and western hat in-hand. From the Mayor and his wife to the flea market receptionist they had come to say goodbye to Joe.

Mourners took a seat as the bell in the tower began to toll marking the start of the service. The main room with its beautiful stained glass windows quickly filled and it was obvious that the balcony would be needed. Spiritually soothing tunes poured from the pipe organ, and soon thereafter the family was escorted into the sanctuary and seated in the first three rows.

To the rear on either side of the organ sat a impressive backdrop of brightly colored floral arrangements and standing sprays. But, everyone's attention was drawn to the small table, front and center at the altar. Sitting side-by-side were a old disheveled rancher's hat and a small wooden box. The sweat-stained hat - Joe wore proudly in life. The box - a temporary resting place for Joe's ashes that would soon to be spread across the family ranch lands that he so loved.

We all stood as an honor guard of uniformed Boy Scouts presented the colors, then led the gathering in the Scout Oath and the Pledge of Allegiance. Even in his later years Joe was still a big Boy Scout.

Music and memories filled the church in the following hour. Prayers were said. We heard stories about Joe's love for flying, a love that he got from his dad, "Big J.C.", and a love that he has now passed on to his own son, "Little J.C.". There were tales of business ventures and endless philanthropy by the man from Sweetwater, Texas. Tales of his kindness and love for his family.

But, the one thing that touched me most was the story told by the minister near the end of the service. He said that as Joe laid in Intensive Care in those final hours, his surgeon stopped by and asked, "Joe, is there anything that I can do for you?"

Unable to speak because of the respirator, Joe wrote his response on a small tablet then handed it to the doctor. The note said, "Go save someone else. Thanks, Joe". The sanctuary was silent. That simple request was so Joe.

From the day we met ten years ago at Joe Poole Lake right up until the end, it was a joy to work with Joe and share a bit of his time. He was a good man. Happy Trails Joe...

Tee-ball Toddler in Blue and Red

I just had to stare. It was the most incredible exhibition of total mayhem I had ever experienced. Tiny bodies running in all directions, slamming into one another then falling to the ground in piles of two, three, and sometimes four. Shouts of "run", "stop", "go", and "gimme" could be heard over the ping of metal smacking leather. It was like nothing I had ever had ever seen. It was . . . Tee-ball!

I sat high on a grassy slope as my grandson, Landon, and his teammates ran onto the field in a four and five year old sea of blue and red. The Braves were in the house and were looking to take down the Mariners under a clear, cool Texas sky.

With arms stretched wide, coaches from both sides tried to herd their newbies into position; Mariners onto the field and the Braves toward an aluminum bench along the first base line. It was like watching cowboys with their ropes whippin' over head trying to corral a herd of ferrets with A.D.D.

As each batter was escorted to the batter's box the coach could be seen speaking to the young player, obviously explaining the basics. "Now, when you get to the tee take your time, watch the ball and hit it hard. Then you run to first base as fast as you can. Got it?" To which the batter would always nod affirmatively.

One after another, the batters would approach the tee, address the ball, then swing like a pro. There were lots of grounders, a few flies and even fewer misses, but no matter what the skill level, almost every batter shared a common concept; when you hit the ball you just stand and watch it roll, never flinching, never moving off of home plate . . . standing until the coaches and the crowd shouted in unison . . . "RUN!"

As the ball rolled into the field any sign of control disappeared with every player between first and third converging as one on the small white sphere. They came from everywhere, leaving the bases unprotected. The first baseman made a dive for the ball as it approached mid field just ahead of three second-basemen, a short stop and two others who just seemed to be passing through.

In their passion to make the play the youngsters would pile-on as if making a gang tackle in football. There would be pushing and shoving to get the ball until the adults were able to sort out the mess, then they would all return to a position of their own choice awaiting the next hit. In the course of two batters, Landon played third base twice, shortstop twice, stood on the pitcher's mound until a coach made him move, meandered over to a spot between right field and first base and then landed back on third. For all practical purposes he was a freelance roving position player.

No matter how out of control it may have seemed on the surface, Tee-ball is a learning experience for these young ballplayers. It's also a time to just cut loose and be a kid. I hope they come to love the game as much as I did at that age in a sandlot on Midway Road with a chicken wire backstop. I also hope they grow to love the game the way that I do today close to 50-years later. With a bit of luck maybe that's how it will be for our little Tee-ball toddler in blue and red.

Wouldn't Want To Give Vampires A Bad Reputation

Forgive me, but I just don't get all the hoopla surrounding the teen vampire saga, "Twilight".

Vampires are not meant to be cool, pickup truck-driving, "vegetarians" from Washington state. They should be anything but that. At their best they should be like the vampire brood in "Lost Boys" or "John Carpenter's Vampyres". At their worst they should be all camped up in the style of George Hamilton in "Love at First Bite" or Lauren Hutton's "Once Bitten".

Anyone with even the slightest knowledge of vampire mythology knows that sunlight will toast a vampire into a charcoal briquette. But, "Twilight" wants us to believe that the real reason vampires avoid sol de caliente is that it makes their skin shimmer and glow as if covered in diamonds. Give me a blood-sucking break...

Caskets filled with dirt from the motherland are out. Never sleeping is in.

Superman is no longer the only character who is faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, or able to leap tall buildings at a single bound. "Look, up in the sky. It's a bird, It's a plane. It's . . . Edward?

Kiefer Sutherland and his disfunctional band of biker vampires hung out in an eclectically decorated cavern, and were cool and ruthless, swooping down from a pitch black sky onto their unsuspecting victims by night. On the other hand, Edward and his foster family of immortals live in a posh "fishbowl" with glass walls, play baseball during thunder storms, and prey on small defenseless animals.

When Edward's love interest, Bella, finally realizes the truth about her boyfriend, he orders her to "say it!" With a melodramatic gaze away from him, Bella takes a deep breath, pauses then says simply, "Vampire." If the story had been governed by the truth in advertising statutes Bella's correct response would have been "wimpire". I grew up on Dracula, Edward, and you are no vampire.

Yes, I understand that this is a love story . . . a story of forbidden, yet never ending love. It's a story of trust and lust and all the other elements that go into a best selling romance novel. I only hope that the tale of Edward and Bella steps it up in the next film. You wouldn't want to give vampires a bad reputation now would you?

ShamWow! Poor Timing

A hurricane just left the southeast Texas coast. Ike was a monster.

Thousands of people have been displaced, millions inconvenienced, and at last count a handful have been killed. But, despite the catastrophy commerce must go on according to some telemarketers and online pitchmen.

One day after the storm a co-worker received a phone call at the office that went something like this.

"Hello."

"Uh, this is Ms. Totallyoblivious calling from T-Mobile regarding the contract on your cell phone."

"Excuse me . . . but, you're not from Houston are you?" he asked.

"Why, no. Why do you ask?"

"We've just had a HURRICANE here," he said.

To which she responded, "I'm sorry to hear that. Are you okay?"

"Yes," he said.

"Good. Now back to your T-Mobile contract!"

He hung up.

Before the wind gusts had dropped to 65 miles per hour, similar corporate boneheads were firing off emails into areas around Houston with no phones, no water, limited gasoline, impassible roads and no electricity.

Though clearing the yard of debris was my priority, the Blackberry constantly buzzed with messages from marketing webmasters who thought otherwise. A website called flowgofun.com wanted to let me know that I could hear a puppet named Sally explain why puppets don't fart and the dangers of photocopying my butt. Awesome!

Something called Pedipaws, "the incredible pet nail trimmer", wanted to let folks know that with their product and the equally incredible Shed-Ender, they would never have to worry about pet-scratched furniture again. I'm sure that is great comfort to those along the Gulf coast who no longer have any furniture or pets.

e-Toys had a great free shipping offer on more than 500 items. Unfortunately, UPS and FedEx are not currently delivering to all areas of metro Houston, but what the heck! It's still a great offer.

Redenvelope.com will let me save 20% on my next order, if I order online by Tuesday, September 23, 2008. Think about this. More than 99% of southeast Texas has no electricity, so . . . No power + No working computer = No online shopping. Guess who is not smarter than a 5th Grader?

Now I know where to order a "Wishing You A Speedy Hurricane Recovery" bouquet for all my friends with collapsed ceilings, fallen trees and flooded cars. Proflowers.com will give me "24 roses perfect for any occasion" and an extra 25% off TODAY! How did I get so lucky?

According to the e-ad, had I only used Tarot.com before the hurricane I could have learned to decode my dreams in order to find the shortest lines for gasoline, decide how much propane to buy for the grill and what day heavy trash pick up would be. Am I a loser or what?

Underground.Biz.com offered me the opportunity to start earning "between $200 and $900 a day working from home!" Why would I want to work from home? I have no air conditioning, no phone and the ice chest is alarmingly low on Shiner Bock. But, with "no experience necessary" tagged to the bottom of the page . . . I just have to give it a try, don't you think?

I should have probably forwarded the email from ShamWow! to my neighbor across the street, but I didn't. This amazing product promises that "You'll say WOW everytime with ShamWow! as it holds over 20 times its weight in liquids and is "perfect for household spills". It seems that neighbor left town before the storm without securing his front door. He got nine straight hours of blowing rain and debris throughout the first floor. All I can say is, ShamWow! Poor timing.

The Junk Drawer

Tonight I decided to clean the junk drawer. You know, the drawer where things end up when they have no other place to go. A sort of Bermuda Triangle for $.34 stamps, paper clips of all sizes and colors, scissors and brick-like red Ruby erasers, and souvenir coins from places like the Winchester Mystery Museum.

I found a rubber ball with a chunk ripped out of its side and five different calculaters: A large Mickey Mouse version with easy to read numbers, a small black one that runs on solar power, a credit card sized one that my fingers couldn't manipulate, and two in-betweeners. Only Mickey was operational.

I have never seen so many ballpoint pens of different races, colors and creeds in my life. There were retractables in green, blue and red. Some with big barrels and others were slim and trim. There were waitstaff pens from Outback, Champs, Willie's Icehouse and other eateries where my daughter worked during the restaurant period of her life. In fact, there were more loose pen caps than there were pens to cap. How does that happen?

Try to image how many designs are printed on pencils? Standard #2, dayglo, flowers, teddy bears, Texas A&M, University of Mary Harden Baylor, Chase Bank and Klein Bank... Klein Bank has been gone for five years. There was even a pencil sharpener that was missing its catch-cup . . . pencil shavings were scattered throughout the back of the drawer like sawdust on a tiny honky-tonk dance floor.

I found marbles and money, stamps with birds and Santa Claus, a small vending machine-type plastic globe with a gold ring . . . it was quite lovely for a something costing a quarter.

There were books of return address labels, and an envelope with photos from the past ten years. Another small envelope had expired drivers licenses for the entire family dating back to when they were 16-years-old, and assorted other forms of picture I.D.

Why does any family need more than two rulers, or one tape measure? I discovered that at some time this family needed six. There was a 3-inch ruler in pink, a 6-inch ruler in yellow, three 12-inch rulers in assorted colors and part of another ruler that could have been any size over 10-inches at one time. . . it had been broken off, probably to make it fit in junk drawer.

There were thumb tacks, push pins and map pins mixed in with loose nails and screws, and shreds of beef jerky and M&Ms wrappers.

I even found a knife from a place setting that we had tossed out ten years ago. How? I don't even want to go there!

Cleaning the junk drawer is insightful; an exploration into the mind of those who live by the saying, "A place for everything and everything in its place" ... that place being the Junk Drawer.

My Little Buddy In Pull-ups

My three-year-old grandson has a nightly ritual. Gramma reads to him about Brown Bear, Thomas the Tank Engine, or Clifford, then Pops puts his little buddy to bed with a few songs and some guy talk that girls would see as silly.

Tonight started out no different from the many bedtimes that we had shared in the past: upstairs to brush teeth with Sponge Bob toothpaste and a yellow brush, one last pee-pee in the potty before stepping into the Toy Story pull-ups with Cowboy Woody on the front, and then into bed as the last rays of twilight dissolved into night.

As he settled beneath covers printed with images of Lightning McQueen and Mater, we talked about school and the Astros and his new Slip'n'Slide. He has the slip part down, but the slide is going to take some practice.

The talk soon led to our sing-along that we enjoy each night where Pops takes the lead and then he fills in the blanks when Pops pauses. "Take me out to the" ... "BAUH GAME". "Take me out to the" ... "CRWOWD".

We sang our way through the entire library of tunes from I've Been Working On The Railroad and Five Bottles Of Milk On The Wall, to the Beatles' When I'm Sixy-Four and Do Your Ears Hang Low?. I rubbed his back as we sang and before long his breathing led me to believe that he was asleep.

It was then that he slowly rolled over and nudged his forehead into mine, saying "Pops?"

"Yeah, buddy," I replied.

"You make me happy..." he said, and then drifted off to sleep.

I was stunned by these four simple words, unsolicited, and totally unexpected. I make this little guy happy and he wanted me to know that before he went to sleep. They were spoken from the heart. The sweetest four words that I've ever heard from my little buddy in Pull-ups.

Good Eats Along the Gulf

Sampling the food at mom and pop eateries while on the road can be an adventure. Will it be bland and tasteless, or too spicy to stomach? Will it be under cooked or blackened to a charcoal consistency? But based on the advice of the locals, maybe . . . just maybe you'll find a spot or two where the meal will be served up as a unexpected treat worthy of a blog. Welcome to my vacation at Dauphin Island, Alabama.

Wrapped in a nautical theme of wall mounted trophy fish, nets and a large jewel tank aquarium, the Island's Barnacle Bill's offered a good assortment of tasty seafood and po-boys, but it was the jalapeno hushpuppies that rated them a spot in this posting. Golfball-sized and golden brown from the fryer, the hushpuppies were soft and moist on the inside and loaded with an onion-peppery punch.

It took two visits to Bayley's Restaurant in Theodore, Alabama to feed our fix for seafood at this coastal landmark. Just a short drive north of the Island on the Dauphin Island Parkway, Bayley's mid-week specials beckoned and we answered the call. Thursday night was their famous "All You Care To Eat" fried mullet and cheese grits night. They had me at the mention of cheese grits. The mullet was crispy and surprisingly light for a fried dish, and the cheese grits were the best that I can remember . . . sorry Waffle House. The encore presentation on Friday night was Bayley's famous "All You Care To Eat" fried shrimp night. Again the meal was very good, the wait staff was friendly and phrases like, "more sweet tea hon?" and "where y'all from?" could be heard throughout the dining room.

Saturday night was a belly buster as we dined at the Pelican Reef, not too far from Bayley's. It was a nice setting along the river, pleasure craft and commercial fishing boats came and went at the adjacent marina, and again, the seafood was excellent. We finished off a full pound of sweet crab claws to start; 62 golden pinchers. But what came next took dinner to another level; Wild Alabama Shrimp that had been netted earlier in the day. These mega jumbo shrimp were lightly battered and fried to create the perfect Gulf Coast delicacy. Combined with the twice baked potato filled with onions, garlic, cheese, bacon and other goodies, we went home totally satisfied convinced that no better edible treat would be had on this trip . . . we were so wrong!

On the trek home to Houston the next day we opted to stop for lunch at the famous Crawfish Town, USA in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. After the entre' of Catfish Melee', a breaded then pan fried fillet topped with seafood etouffee, came the sweetest surprise of the entire trip; a bread pudding like no other. The thick and hearty square was covered in a hot buttery sauce and sprinkles of powdered sugar. Having spent more than a year in Savannah, Georgia, I've had good bread pudding, but nothing to compare to this Cajun creation. When pressed for the secret to this bayou delight, the waitress said only, "We use a lot of bread."

If food makes the vacation, this trip was the best ever . . . it was a getaway of good eats along the Gulf.

I Liked That

He walked into the McDonalds at lunchtime. Standing around five-foot-ten, the young man was an impressive figure in his dark slacks and tie, starched white shirt and polished black boots. On his hip was a holster where an automatic handgun was cradled, and on his head sat a white western-style hat. It was the kind that the good guys always wear.

In the small town of Giddings, Texas people come and go, and everyone seems to know one-another. The modern-style McDonalds was filling with fresh-faced high school students ordering Big Mac meals and 12-pack McNuggets before heading back for afternoon classes. The scene was chaotic on both sides of the counter as a mix of top 40 tunes played from the ceiling speakers. Orders were taken and then filled by the small staff with military precision.

As the man in the white hat made his way to the counter, students stepped aside and nodded while continuing their conversations about what teens tend to talk about. Then after placing his order he turned and walked in my direction to wait with for his call.

I noticed that the expression on his face had not changed since stepping into the madness of Mickey D's at high noon. It was a pleasant look. Not quite a smile, but pleasant, as if he were above the frey and shielded from the craziness.

A group of three young girls stood next to me jabbering about some guy, and some girl, and some issue . . . but, they paused when the man passed close by and tipped his hat saying, "ladies". They froze mid-sentence to acknowledge his act of Texas courtesy, then giggled as girls that age tend to do. I heard one quietly whisper, "wow!".

Weaving his way through the crowd he stepped past me. As he passed I looked down at the round silver badge pinned to his shirt. Within the circle was a star, and engraved around the star were the words, "Department of Public Safety - Texas Ranger". He wasn't a Walker Texas Ranger, he was a real Texas Ranger; quiet, business-like and polite to the ladies. He was minding his own business, but with a "don't mess with Texas or me" attitude. I liked that.

Pitcher Perfect

It's been close to 50-years since my last visit to a Minor League baseball game. It was the Atlanta Crackers back in the 1950s.

I remember going with my dad to the old Ponce de Leon Ball Park on Memorial Drive across from Sears to watch what would one day be known as one of the best ever in the Minors.

Since that time I've stayed a fan of the game giving my heart to only three teams: the Pittsburgh Pirates because I played for the Pirates in Little League; the Braves because I was a fan of Hank Aaron and Milo Hamilton; and the Houston Astros because now I'm old enough to respect the talent and character of men such as Craig Biggio, Jeff Bagwell and Lance Berkman.

Recently, my wife and I took in a game at Dell Diamond in Round Rock, Texas, home of the Astro's Triple-A farm team, the Round Rock Express. Talents such as Houston pitcher Roy Oswalt, and outfielders Hunter Pence and Luke Scott have passed through that franchise on their way to the "bigs" in Houston.

The ball park was first class, a far cry from what I remember the Ponce de Leon park looking like near the end of its run. Turf to rival any major league field was surrounded by several thousand seats of green. Foul ball dinged brushed aluminum panels lined the walls of the upper deck, and there was seating for hundreds on the grassy outfield berms and in the glass-fronted box seats for fans with connections.

We paid a mind boggling $12.00 a ticket for two great seats behind the dugouts along the first base line. It was a perfect night for baseball in central Texas, and as the sun set one could feel the excitement; the excitement of small town baseball being played by young guys hoping to make their dreams come true.

Former Astros Jason Lane, Umberto Quintero and Matt Albers were in the line-up joined by a dugout full of fresh faces awaiting their chance to someday take the field at Minute Maid Park in Houston.

Sitting among hundreds of retirees, school kids, families and longhorns from the University of Texas, we had expected to have fun, but never to have become a part of Minor League baseball history.

The game was close as the Nashville Sound's pitcher Manny Parra pitched his game. Strike outs, ground outs, fly outs continued to mount, inning after inning until the last history-making pitch.

The local newspaper reported it like this: "ROUND ROCK - He's been good all season, but on Monday Manny Parra was perfect. The 24-year-old from Sacramento retired all 27 batters he faced in Nashville's 3-0 victory over Round Rock, completing the eighth perfect game in Pacific Coast League history in just his second Triple-A start."

In the bottom of the ninth Parra clearly had the Round Rock fans in his corner. With each pitch they cheered, with each out the anticipation grew . . . imagine, a perfect game. One out . . . it couldn't have been scripted any better. Two outs . . . everyone was on their feet shouting encouragement to an opposing pitcher. Then came the pitch to clinch the game. A pop-up to second base and it was done.

Parra leaped from the mound into a bear hug from his catcher as the rest of the Nashville Sound piled-on, bouncing in unison like some giant uniformed ball of caps and cleats. The cheers and applause of the appreciative Texans continued to grow as the celebration on the field went on.

At some point Parra realized that the fans of the Round Rock Express were not leaving, but were in fact giving him the sort of thunderous ovation normally reserved for a hometown hero. It was then that the true quality of a professional shown through. Manny Parra stepped out from among his teammates and raised his cap to the crowd in sincere appreciation.

There was jubilation between the bases and in the stands as the young pitcher shared his accomplishment with everyone at Dell Diamond that night, as as we walked to the car the last image that I saw on the giant screen in center field was Parra signing autographs for young wannabes with big league dreams of their own.

Congraulations Manny Parra. Never lose your enthusiasm for the game and appreciation of those who wish you well.

Rain, Rain, Go Away . . . But, Just For Now.

The Carpenters sang about it, Gene Kelly danced in it and as kids we recited a rhyme pleading with it to go away and come again some other day.

It's beginning to storm outside. Lightening followed by loud, rolling thunder has me thinking about similar days when I was young.

I still remember the first time that I realized rain could fall even when the sun was shining. I couldn't have been more than four-years-old. We were living in a red brick apartment on Confederate Court near Grant Park in Atlanta. I walked out the front door and stood beneath the porch cover with its black wrought-iron supports, while gripping my marbleized-plastic flintlock pistol and sporting a Davy Crockett coonskin cap. The sky was blue and sun shined brightly, but a quick dash into the nearby grass revealed the surprising truth . . . the Devil was beating his wife with a switch! That's what my mom told me. "When it rains while the sun is out," she said, "the Devil is beating his wife with a switch, and if you stick a needle into the ground you can hear it." I never tried. That Devil stuff always freaked me out as a kid.

Then there was the time after a real gully-washer that my dad took me into the backyard at our house on Beech Drive to catch worms. We found a nice, soggy patch of grass just beyond the back steps. He poured a bottle of vinegar over the lawn where we crouched and told me that the strong smelling liquid would force the slimy buggers to the surface. Then we waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. It was getting close to dark when mom called us in for supper. The worms in our backyard had been spared to do what worms do another day.

My grandaddy Stuart was a carpenter by trade. He was a master with tools in his rough hands. The two best gifts that he ever made for me were a red soap box derby-style racer with the number 5 painted on the side, and a set of wood building blocks in a handmade wood tray. Our house sat beside a cement gully that was great fun on dry days, but was fast to fill with rushing water when the rains came. A young boy would have drowned in that gully one summer were it not for the quick action of our neighbor, Betty Dean. She was a hero that day and I have never forgotten.

Meanwhile, I was in my room overlooking that gully, having just witnesses the heroics of our neighbor. As I watched the water I wondered, "would my wooded blocks float like little boats on that rolling river?" I popped the screen on the window and began tossing squares and rectangles toward the flow. They did indeed float very well and within minutes were gone, except for the few triangles and arches that had fallen short. Mom wasn't happy and grandaddy Stuart never made replacements. Even after 50-years I am sometimes still saddened by the loss of those wooden blocks in such a silly way. But you know, kids do silly things.

There were the rained-out opening days of Little League, the soggy cancelled after-prom outing to Six Flags with Mallory Smith, and the hurricane-shortened trip to St. Augustine, Florida. We did make Marineland and the Alligator Farm before turning tail toward home.

I can remember ducking beneath the water while swimming at Glenwood Springs to keep from getting wet from raindrops . . . my logic was less developed then than now, though some may disagree. I can remember huddling under a tree with friends as a summer rain passed over head, and then shaking the lower branches to bring a second shower down on us all. And, I can remember walking home from Midway Elementary and smelling the fragrance of the rain floating in the air in advance of the storm.

As a grownup there are times when I see the rain as an inconvenience to my routine or a plan-buster, but then I think back to when the rain was such a thing of wonder and delight. Rain, rain go away, but, just for now . . . OK?

Code name: Grandpa

Code name: Grandpa. I was sent into combat this Memorial Day Weekend. It had been more than ten years since my last tour. More than ten years since I had fired a weapon at another man. More than ten years since returning home with whelps and bruises that stayed with me for days as a reminder of just how inept I would have been as a soldier. I played paint ball. The Survival Game of Texas.

A group of 18, much younger, men from work had signed up for the mission. The draft was not necessary. At their age the excitement of splattering marble-sized balls of yellow paint against opponents at 190 mph was all the incentive that they needed . . . "Oh yeah, this will be fun", they were thinking at enlistment. I was thinking, "Play smart and just don't break anything!"

On the way to the battleground I stopped at Waffle House for a hearty breakfast of cheese-eggs, grits, raisin toast and bacon, and a big orange juice. I needed my strength for was to come in the next few hours.

Above the densely wooded combat site was a gray sky filled with ominous looking clouds. The Houston humidity was high and nickel-sized mosquitoes took pot-shots at the exposed areas not covered in camo bought earlier in the week at the Army surplus store. The swamp-like ground was thick with deep ribbons of mud from days of heavy rain and smelled of stagnant water and decaying vegetation. Clusters of fire ants floated undisturbed in puddles awaiting an unsuspecting combatant. Their attacks on our teammates would come soon enough.

The first battle was in a rain created bog lined with plywood buildings facing each other across an open area of no more than 50-feet. Scattered throughout the field in between were stacks of old tires, sheet metal barricades and other spots to shoot from behind, hide behind, become trapped behind. Playing smart for an old guy, I chose to lay back behind a building and provide semi-automatic cover fire for those who didn't mind a smarting shot to the head, torso or groin . . . yes, that did happen.

The referee blew the whistle. Paint balls began screaming past, some hitting their mark while others smacked and splattered on the buildings and props around us. Shouts of "I'm out," or "They're coming around the left" filled the air for the next 15-minutes. Finally came the ref's whistle and welcomed call, "Game Over!". My orange team had won round one, I had popped a few slow moving targets from the other side, and I hadn't taken a single hit . . . Let's do this again!

So, for the next three hours we fought in the mud and among the trees, in a wooden castle and and a simulated southeast Asian village. We fought in a blinding thunderstorm for 45-minutes with goggles so filled with sweat and rain that we had our own player pinned down for ten minutes before realizing that he was on our side.

I continued to play smart, so unlike my previous bout with paint ball, my wound count was minimal. I took a stinging shot to the left hand . . . non-lethal, so I stayed in the game. I took a glancing shot to the top of the head . . . the paint ball didn't break, so I stayed in the game. I took a shot to the thigh . . . again, non-lethal. And, most embarrassing, I took a shot to the butt . . . it didn't break, so I stayed in the game to the livid protests of the shooter Code name: Rambo/Dumbo . I was one lucky paint baller this Memorial Day.

Team Orange took five of the seven matches, and Code name: Grandpa was there to help make it happen. Cheers to the Orange, and better luck next time to the black and blue battered members of the Team Yellow.

I'm Proud To Be A Fan

Last night the Houston Astros saw their incredible 2005 season come to an end without winning a single game against American League challengers, the Chicago White Sox. What a monumental disappointment it must have been for the players and staff who had such high hopes as an organization. After years of trying, this was the first trip to the Series for veterans Craig Biggio and Jeff Bagwell. It was probably the last for local hero Roger Clemens. Then you have the rest of the team, the younger guys, the new generation of players with names like Backe, Burke and Bruntlett. They made it to the place where very few professional baseball players have ever danced, and with a bit of luck, they may be invited again. It was an amazing season scripted in reality but with no fairy tale ending. From the worst to within reach of being the best in one season. Of course the fans are disappointed this morning. I'm disappointed this morning. But, that doesn't overshadow the accomplishments of the National League Pennant winners of 2005. Despite their loss in the World Series, the Houston Astros are still Houston's team; a team with integrity, perseverance and a sense of family values. I'm proud to be a fan.

The Summer Of 1980

Sunday afternoon I indulged myself by taking a nostalgic trip back to my first summer in Houston, Texas. Knowing for months that Six Flags AstroWorld would be closing its gates for good at the end of October, I decided to revisit the place where I began my career in Texas tourism 25-years-ago. I just wanted to take a few photos, revisit old feelings, and spend a couple of hours among memories from a time before kids, 60-hour work weeks and a gray mustache. As I crossed the pedestrian bridge from the parking lot to the park I remembered how much I truly enjoyed working in Public Relations at AstroWorld during the summer of 1980. I thought of people such as Gary Dalton, Alicia Smith, and Sarah Hampton, who enjoyed each other so much that after a day on the job they would go out together for fun. They were more than co-workers. They were a family. Once through the gate I noticed that Main Street had changed very little. Merchandise shops on the left and a confectionery shop and soda shop on the right. The old Mrs. Baird's bread store with it's miniature loaves of hot, sweet smelling bread had been replaced by some souvenir stand. The spot where radio controlled boats had once cruised was now a mucky pool attached to a larger mucky pond. Coney Island looked the same and the clank-clank-clank of the giant wooden roller coaster, The Texas Cyclone, was unmistakably familiar. Oh, how I used to love climbing beneath the tracks for spectacular photos of the cars racing down toward me at break-neck speed. But not today. That was 25-years ago. The carousel with its brightly painted animals of various shapes and colors was still there and the Alpine Village was just as I remembered with its clock tower chiming the hour. As I stopped to shoot a photo of the giant loop in the coaster Greased Lightning, I realized that I had taken the exact shot from the same position during the summer of '80 as part of a media piece that I would be writing for distribution in Louisiana. It gave me goosebumps. I struck up a conversation with the engineers on the old Cannonball locomotive and they gave me a special ex-employee ride on the rails around the park, allowing me to photograph the driver's compartment, while sharing stories from the train's 40-year history at the park. Every one of the rides from my era that I visited that day knew that I had come to say goodbye as I touched a rail, snapped one last shot, or simply paused to watch the guests enjoying the final days fun at this Houston landmark. My visit was an act of closure and I'm glad that I made the effort. Now that it's done I can look back with renewed memories of how it was to have been a part of that family . . . the AstroWorld family and a legacy that will be remembered fondly for many years to come.

World Serious

What a difference two days can make. On Monday night Houston fans watched in disbelief as the Astros came within one strike of going to the World Series, only to lose it in a broken-heartbeat. But, tonight all is right with the world once again. The Houston Astros took command of the St. Louis Cardinals early in the contest and never let up. The ninth inning in St. Louis was a total turn around from game five in Houston. Tonight it was the Red Birds' fans who sat quietly watching their team try desperately to comeback, playing not only the final game of the season, but the final game in historic Busch Stadium. Two bitter loses in one night for the diehard, yet gracious fans of St. Louis. The Houston Astros are going to the World Series along with more than 4,000,000 of their closest friends. This city couldn't be more proud of the Good Guys of 2005. It's been a long time coming, but well worth the wait. Congratulations gentlemen.

I Still Bee-lieve!

Tonight they came so close. Two outs in the top of the ninth inning. The Houston Astros were leading St. Louis by two runs and it seemed for a fleeting moment that all was right with the world. Then with a single swing of the bat, the screaming and chanting of 43,000 fans ceased and the dream of a National League pennant for the home team was once again put on hold. It was an emotional ride that I can't remember ever experiencing before. From the highest high to the lowest low in the time that it took for a baseball to travel just over 400 feet. I've heard the phrase, "the silence was deafening", but never really understood it's meaning until tonight. When that ball crashed against the railroad track high atop the left field wall above the Crawford boxes, the sudden silence was truely deafening in Minute Maid Park. It was so quiet, coming off of inning after inning of non-stop thunderous noise, that one might have imagined that they had lost the ability to hear. Everyone was dumbstruck including the scattered nests of Cardinal fans decked out in their red bird jerseys and caps. No one could believe what had just happened. The Astros and their hive of "Killer Bees" (a nickname for the roster featuring players such as Bagwell, Biggio, Berkmen, Burke, Backe and the other Bs) had lost an opportunity to make history, and had lost that opportunity at home in front of a sell-out crowd of real "Bee-lievers". This team is tough. This team is not known for doing things the easy way. This team will try again on Wednesday in St. Louis, and will hopefully come home as the National League Champs. If not . . . they played the good game and are still one of the top four teams in Major League Baseball. That's an incredible accomplishment worth celebrating in itself. Oh, ye of little faith. I still bee-lieve. Now let's hope the Houston Astros still do.

On The Verge

Well, here we are. The Houston Astros are just one game from going to the World Series for the first time. This is as close as the team got last year, but they just couldn't quite make it happen. But, this year it's different. This year it looks as if there is some destiny to be fulfilled. The momentum appears to be in Houston's favor. The calls and the breaks certainly are. For weeks, a chain of good things have continued to happen on the field. When a strike is needed, the call is made. When a soft bunt can make all the difference, some youngster steps up to make it happen. When a miracle defensive play can close out the inning, it's been there with unexplainable regularity. From the terrific trio of Clemens, Pettitte and Oswalt, to the bullpen bombers with "Lights Out" Lidge, Wheeler and the rest, the pitching has been phenomenal. The Houston Astros are on the verge. The face of the team will be changing soon as names such as Bagwell and Biggio, names synonymous with Houston baseball, retire after long, powerful careers. Yes, the Astros are on the verge. A new team of young, talented, and hungry ballplayers are taking their place in the dugout along the first base line. They will be filling a roster that once carried names such as Ryan, Doran, Cruz, and Scott. And this year the Astros are on the verge of a World Series appearance for the first time. Once there were the Miracle Mets and now there are the Amazing Astros. It's late October and the game goes on. Ain't baseball great?

The Year of the Good Guys

Tomorrow night the National League playoffs begin, and for the second consecutive year the Houston Astros and the St. Louis Cardinals are vying for the title. The fact that Houston was once a farm team for St. Louis makes this rivalry somewhat personal, but knowing that the local team has become a serious contender in recent years makes the series really special. Astros fever can be felt everywhere from Galveston to Huntsville, though some folks here and in other parts of the country say that we're over reacting. How can being excited about your team be over reacting when they are now ranked among the top four clubs in Major League baseball? I'm proud to have the brick-red and black star on my cap, my truck, my cell phone and, when cool weather returns to Houston, on my jacket. I'm a fan . . . not fanatic, but a fan. I don't live and die with the Astros, but it's fun to have something beyond war, hurricanes and political scandal to talk about. It's uplifting to know that a group of guys who had been written off by most of the media and many local fans are now within a few games of the really big show. The World Series could be coming to Houston for the first time and I hope that 2005 will be that time. I hope that 2005 will be the year of the Good Guys.

This Is Where The Fun Really Begins

Back in May the nay-sayers were posting obituaries for the Houston Astros Baseball Club. At 15-games below 500, very few experts, and even fewer fans, held out hope that the "Good Guys" would post a half way decent season in '05. But, here they are on October 8, just nine innings from the Division Championship against their old nemesis, the St. Louis Cardinals. The 2005 Houston Astros have possibly found that perfect balance of veteran experience and rookiesque excitement and enthusiasm to go where many media types are now predicting; The World Series. Almost to the point of embarrassment, the city celebrated a Wild Card win as if it was a national championship, so dare we look ahead at the prospect of a Houston Astros and Chicago White Sox match-up and what that might bring? I say we do. Opportunities such as this come so seldom that we should grab on and not let go until the last out of the last inning in the last game. Maybe it's good karma for being there when Louisiana's homeless looked to Houston for help. Maybe it's because this city has dreamed of a World Champion baseball team for more than four decades only to come up short. Or just maybe it's because it's our time . . . a time when all the hard work is finally paying off and we are going to be here to see it happen. Stay tuned . . . this is where the fun really begins.

A Family Divided

Tonight I'm facing the prospect of a family divided. It's nothing on the scale of those living along the Mason-Dixon Line during the Civil War and being forced to judge the economic benefits versus immorality of slavery. It's not quite as debatable as whether the Three Stooges are really funny, or even who is the sexiest . . . Ginger or Mary Ann. But, it's still an issue that will cast my family into pseudo-turmoil for the next week. Will it be the Houston Astros or the Atlanta Braves moving on to face the St. Louis Cardinals in the National League Playoffs? You notice that I have already written-off San Diego. Too bad, too sad. I grew up in Atlanta. I lived there for 29-years before making Houston my home and adopting its sports teams as my own. I remember going to the old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium and enjoying every minute of it. I remember listening to Hall of Fame announcer, Milo Hamilton, calling Hank Aaron's record-breaking home run from there. I remember seeing the Beatles perform at second base in 1964. But today I am an Astros fan. That's were the family division comes in. Mom and dad still live near Atlanta and my brother, Dave, never gave up the Braves-bug when he moved to Florida several years ago. So, tonight we are a family divided. Divided by two teams going head-to-head on Thursday afternoon within the confines of Turner Field. The battle should be intense. The Braves have been in the play-offs for 14 consecutive years. The Astros fought their way back from the second-worst record in Major League Baseball earlier this year to win the NL Wild Card behind arguably the strongest trio of starting pitchers in all of baseball. When the chalk dust has cleared on the day of the final game, one side of my family will be disappointed while the other side will be looking forward to a possible World Series appearance. On that day the family divided will again become one. After all blood is thicker than pine tar or the spit on the dugout floor.

Good Guys Don't Always Finish Last

Well, it's come down to this. It's the last day of the regular baseball season and the Houston Astros are leading the National League Wild Card race by only one game. It's not the end of the world by any means, but it is the time to take control and make things happen. If the "Good Guys" (as the Houston Astros are known regionally) win today and their rivals, the Philadelphia Phillies, lose, the Astros move on to play the Atlanta Braves in the play-offs next week. If the Phillies win and the Astros lose, there will be a one-game tie-breaker on Monday to determine the winner. If both teams win or lose, our local heroes will be flying to the Peach State after the game. It's not really confusing, but sure is nerve-racking. For better or worse, they seem to do this to us every year. Why can't there be a year where the Astros just run away with it from the start? I mean, really pile up the lead and hold on to it the way that St. Louis did this year. It probably wouldn't be as good for sales of TUMS and Corona, but a little padding would be a welcome change from the regular nail-biting end-of-season escapades that Astros fans have endured in the past. Today at work I'll be glued to MLB's Game Day Audio playing on my office computer and listening to Hall of Fame announcer Milo Hamilton call the most important game of the year. I hope to hear Milo shout "Holy Toledo!" the way he did when Hammerin' Hank hit #715 and broke Babe Ruth's homerun record in Atlanta around 30-years ago. If he does it's a good sign that the Houston Astros have taken up where they left off in 2004 on their quest for a championship. Maybe this is the year of the Good Guy. I still believe . . . I believe in this team, I believe in this city and I believe that Good Guys don't always finish last.

Just Ask Gramma

With all the preparation, evacuation and anxiety prior to the impact of Hurricane Rita along the Gulf Coast recently, a notable milestone passed that should have received some sort of coverage, but was over-shadowed by major news events of the day. Landon Michael Stowe turned six-months old on September 21. That sick little "Peanut" who almost died twice in the first two months of his life is a real life, honest to gosh survivor. He now weighs-in at more than 20 lbs and is seriously as tall as a one-year-old. The once bare patches of scalp where IVs had been inserted are now covered in baby-soft brown hair. That little throat, so sore from all the tubes that had been poked in to help him breath, now produces sounds and laughter to please the ears of all around. Then there is the smile. Landon's smile lights up a room. His fat cheeks rise as he opens his mouth wide to reveal two tiny new teeth, slightly yellowed from all the antibiotics that turned his health from critical to incredible. The rolls of baby fat on his arms and legs could make you believe that his father was actually the Michelin Man or the Pillsbury Doughboy. Landon, or Little Dude as I now frequently call him, is a miracle. It's a miracle that he cheated death at least twice. It's a miracle that having had such a tough start in life he is now so strong, alert and inquisitive. It's a miracle that he has made his mom re-evaluate her life and focus on her future. But, one thing's for sure . . . . it's no miracle that Landon is a Houston Astros fan. It's in his genes. Just ask Gramma!

It Will Be Interesting

This is an interesting night. All the preparations are done . . . batteries, radio, flashlights, food, water, medical supplies and first aid kit, tools. The check list is complete, yet I still wonder what Space City USA will be like at this time on Saturday night. In two hours my family will be loading up the van and driving to College Station for safety. Normally an easy 60-minute trip, the thousands of evacuees on State Highways 290 and 6 have turned the trek into an agonizing hours-long challenge of fragile tempers, overheated vehicles and no gasoline at any price. At home we are stocked and awaiting Rita's arrival. The "we" are two displaced friends from League City in Galveston County and myself. The trucks are gassed up, there are seven cases of bottled water in the dining room and another 50 gallons in Igloo containers stored in the garage. We have ice chests of chilled fajita meat and chicken, a pantry packed with canned veggies and fruit and . . . SPAM! Any processed canned meat by-products in a storm as they say. . . Though this is an interesting night, tomorrow night is obviously going take the prize. My friends and I are as prepared as we can be. They are sleeping now having spent 12 hours on the road earlier today to make what should have taken only 90-minutes to drive. Needless to say they came home with me and abandoned their plan to drive to College Station . . . the same place that my family is evacuating to tonight. Tomorrow the wind will blow. Tomorrow the rains will fall. Tomorrow. It will be interesting.

God Bless Houston

It started with just a few cautious Cajun driving into the city for a few days to escape the approaching storm. They would be staying with family members or taking rooms at one of the many Motel 6 and Comfort Inns that pepper I-10 between Beaumont and Houston. But, as the predictions of 25 to 30-foot storm surges and winds topping 150 miles per hour spread, the wave of evacuees washed into Space City full force. Hotel rooms quickly filled. Churches and YMCAs along the ship channel at Baytown and Channelview were converted into Red Cross shelters. The numbers swelled and so did the relief centers and a city was mobilized to comfort and tend to the needs of thousands. As the City of New Orleans slipped into chaos, the City of Houston stepped up to help their neighbors to the east with a kind hand, a warm meal, and the emotional support that was needed so badly. The Astrodome, once tagged the Eighth Wonder of the World, would soon be filled with more than 12,000 weary, homeless residents of New Orleans, and the neighborhood shelters continued to open. Next, word came that the adjacent Reliant Center would be converted into a sanctuary for the continuous bus loads of people, and the neighborhood shelters continued to open. Now we hear that the George R. Brown Convention Center in downtown, with its 1,000,000 square feet of open exhibit space, will become home to the homeless tomorrow, and still the neighborhood shelters continue to open. The unofficial count now tops 100,000 refugees calling Houston home. The city has opened its heart and its pocketbook to help in an unprecedented show of compassion. Many people across this country have never taken Houston seriously. They have never given Houston its due. But, this city is setting an example of how a community can make a world of difference in the lives of those in need. I am proud to be a part of this great city. God bless those coming to us for help. And, God bless Houston . . .