It Was A Christmas Miracle

It was a Christmas miracle . . . snow in Houston, Texas on Christmas Eve. At no time in Weather Service recorded history had it ever snowed at Christmas in Space City USA. Last night the planets were aligned, clouds filled the frigid air, and God said, "Tonight I think I'll drop some special confetti on southeast Texas for my Son's birthday." Coming out of church at dusk was like the final scenes from White Christmas with Bing Crosby. The double doors off the sanctuary swung open to reveal blowing waves of snow sticking to everything above the ground. Palm trees and pickup trucks were thick with the powdery stuff as children acted their age, adults acted like children, and the parking lot broke into a massive, good-humored snowball fight among families. The snow continued to fall throughout most of the evening as the we listened to George Strait's holiday album while eating a traditional Christmas dinner of homemade tamales and chili. Unfortunately by 9 o'clock the show had been reduced to a few tiny flakes in the lamp lights lining the street. Northerners who regularly experience knee-deep snow probably watched TV news accounts of our wild weather and scoffed at our enthusiasm and joy over a few inches. But there is no doubt in the mind of anyone who experienced this Christmas miracle that what we were given last night was a holiday gift from Heaven . . . nothing close to the original gift a couple of thousand years ago, but a spectacular surprise just the same.

The Other Reason For The Season

I finished my Christmas shopping several days ago, so yesterday's trip to the Mall was more a personal observation of holiday frenzy than anything else. Between stops at stand-alone stores, specialty strip centers, and on-line merchants I was able to find just about everything on my list. But, you can't get the full impact of the commercial side of the season without experiencing the energy of last-minute shoppers on a mission, children kicking and screaming while waiting in line to tell Santa how good they've been all year, and frantic retailers posting sale signs as the yuletide clock ticks down to zero. It was like navigating rush-hour on the 610 Loop at Westheimer as I wove through fast moving rows of bag ladened shoppers. There was stop-and-go traffic in front of Victoria's Secret, near collisions at Starbucks and the T-Mobile kiosk, and an occasional fender bender as folks tried to change lanes at center court. But, it was all taken in the spirit of the holiday with plenty of excuse mes, and oh, sorrys, and no insurance information had to be exchanged. As Muzak-like Christmas tunes by Bing Crosby, Karen Carpenter and Gene Autry played from the speakers above, AC-DC, George Strait and some unrecognizable Rap crap spilled out from the individual stores that I passed. It was a virtual cornucopia of audible holiday treats to delight any musical taste. For some, all fashion sense had been abandoned this day. At no other time of the year can you see a grown man wearing cut-offs and flip flops, a fuzzy red Santa cap reading "I Still Believe" and a t-shirt honoring the memory of Dale Earnhardt. The sights and sounds, the stress and the dress have all become synonymous with Christmastime, but for me it's certainly reassuring to know that there's the other reason for the season. www.baxwrtr.com

ARTICLE- Healing Soles For More Than 40-Years

HEALING SOLES FOR MORE THAN 40-YEARS If you didn’t already know that it was there, you’d probably just drive right on by without giving it a second thought. But, what goes on inside the little shop on Alma Street in Tomball continues to touch the soles of so many, as it has for more than 40-years. “One of the great things about owning a shop like this is that someone always comes in with a request for something that they can’t find anywhere else,” said Marlene McGill of JM Boot & Saddlery. “That’s always the challenge, and my husband, Jim, and I love accepting that challenge.” Though only in Tomball since 1999, Jim McGill can trace his leather working lineage back to the early 1900s. “My mother used to tell me how she and her brothers, Vernon and Harris, grew up 60-miles from town along the Missouri River in North Dakota. Being that far from town it was usually easier to fix a saddle than to go without.” That tradition is what has kept Jim working with leather for most of his life. Much of the McGills’ day-to-day business is repairing old, worn-out boots and saddles. But, it’s creating custom western footwear that is most fun for the couple. “We make all kinds of boots from calf skins and bull hides, all the way to ostrich, elk, alligator and even frog skin,” Jim said with a laugh. “Frog skin is not very durable, but it does make a pretty boot. We made some for Ronnie Milsap back in about 1985.” Performers Reba McIntire and Gladys Knight, and businessman Steward Morris of Stewart Title Company are just a few of the celebrities to slide on a pair of western boots made by Jim and Marlene McGill. “Roger Staubach, the former quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, will be coming in early 2005 to be fitting for a pair of custom boots with an American flag on the front and a Texas flag on the back,” said Marlene. “He was quite excited and said that he would wear them with pride.” There is a world of difference between a custom boot and a mass produced chip-kicker. “Almost all the boots on the market today, for example Tony Lama, Justin and Nacona, are made by the same company in China,” Marlene said. “These products are just thrown together to make the sale and get the buyer out the door.” “People don’t understand why we can’t sell boots for $49.00 when they can buy a pair with cardboard insets and injection molded soles at Wal-Mart for that price,” she said. “Our boots are individually made for the person who will be wearing them. The bottom line is we’ve been in this for a long time, and we certainly know what we’re doing. We’re not the most expensive boot you can get, but we’re not cheap.” The price range for the JM brand of custom boots varies according to the hide and additional work such as decorative stitching, inlays, and logos. “We start at $595 for a domestic leather work boot made of calf skin, cow or bull hide,” said Jim. “Then you move up to a goat skin or Spanish calf at around $720. Next would be full quill ostrich at $1175, and then alligator runs anywhere from $1,600 to $3,000 or more depending on whether the customer wants full gator or gator only on the bottoms.” For most of their careers, Jim and Marlene have been a staff of two. But, recently a third member was added to their team. “A few months ago we were fortunate to have Ryan Salman join us,” said Marlene. “Ryan was taught boot repair by his grandfather, Sam Ricca who had a boot and shoe repair here in Tomball for many, many years. I have to say, he taught his grandson well.” Even with Ryan now on staff, production time for a personalized pair of boots can be lengthy. “Depending on the order and the time of year, it can take around 60-days to make a custom pair of boots,” Jim said. “But, after the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo each year, it’s usually an 8-month wait due to the large number of orders we take and getting the hides needed to produce them.” JM Boot & Saddlery used to make saddles once upon a time, but today they are content to just make repairs. “The market for saddles in Houston is deplorable,” Jim said. “You can by a low quality Mexican saddle at about $250, when a good American made work saddle should run anywhere from $2,000 to $3,600 and last a lifetime.” “A lot of people have moved out into this area, bought a couple of acres and gotten their child a horse,” Marlene said. “They will spend a lot of money on the horse and the training, but then forget that what their child rides on is important, too. When something goes wrong with a cheap saddle they will bring it into our shop in a box and we’ll put it back together as best we can.” And, what do the McGills plan to do next? “Just keep on cruisin’ along and maybe slowing down a bit,” said Jim. “I plan to keep on making a few pairs of boots and then retiring.” But, Jim has to laugh at the prospect of retirement based on old age given that his mother is now 96 and his dad is 92. Looks like the McGills are good stock, and as strong and comfortable as western boots made with pride one pair at a time. (copyright 2004 - Michael Baxter) www.baxwrtr.com

Bad Taste And Poor judgment At Christmastime

I just love this time of year. Thanksgiving and its over abundance of food and family has given way to the main event . . . it's Christmastime baby! At no other time are our good sense and coping skills more pummeled with so much, by so many than during these next few chaotic weeks . . . What fun! Why is it that only during the Christmas season are we invited to buy the incredible "Chi, Chi, Chi, Chia" Pet? The makers of this holiday gift staple would have you believe that Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without a lovable Chia Pet under the tree. Have you ever known anyone who has received or given this sod-covered brick. I don't? Surprisingly Chialand is now populated with a Scooby Chia, Garfield Chia, and the Tweedy Chia, in addition to the Original and a menagerie of wild and domesticated Chias. And, when it comes to gifts available only at Walgreen, CVS or Big Lots, let's not forget the ever-popular "Clap On, Clap Off, Clap On, The Clapper". I have got to get one of those. Television commercials from Time Life Music and K-tel are running latenights on little-watched, yet affordable, UHF and cable stations hawking their latest compilations of holiday classics. What music collection would be complete without "The Chipmunks Christmas Song", "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer", the canine version of "Jingle Bells", and "White Christmas" by Grand Funk Tabernacle Choir? Classic commercials from Christmas past make their way back to the airways during this time of year much like the ghost who visited Ebenezer Scrooge. I wonder . . . when will Folger's Coffee retire the holiday homecoming commercial featuring Peter greeted by his young sister as he sneaks home from college on Christmas morning? That little girl must be in her mid-twenties by now, but the sappy spot still makes us smile and buy coffee just like it did in the 1980s. Throughout December we'll be entertained in theaters by such soon-to-be holiday classics as a live action "Fat Albert" and "Blade Trinity", the third installment in the comic-based series about a kick-butt, Black vampire slayer. If I'm lucky there will be a holiday dance sequence in the film to the tune "Deck the halls with boughs of garlic". TBS or Turner Movie Classics will no doubt run my favorites, "Christmas Story", "A Muppet Christmas Carol", and "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation", in tandem with that 1964 groaner, "Santa Claus Conquers the Martians". After all, it is tradition . . . just like the bizarre gifts, outrageous music and dated commercials that make this holiday season unlike any other time of the year . . . Oh thank Heaven for poor taste and bad judgment at Christmastime.

Even For A Turkey Like Me

Thanksgiving is just one day away, but because of some family scheduling issues our brood will be celebrating the holiday on Wednesday this year. There will be the expected Norman Rockwell moments. For example, my father-in-law carving the turkey while sheilded in a 60s style embroidered and ruffled apron courtesy of Memo, the eightysomething matriarch of the family. After lunch the youngsters will play football in the yard, while the oldsters watch football on TV. Some folks will sit and talk for hours, and others will nod off in assorted chairs and couches succumbing to the effects of L-tryptophan-laced turkey. As in most larger families there is a hierarchy or pecking order to the table where you sit for the holiday meal. The larger table in the dining room is for the senior women. The table in the breakfast nook is primarily for the senior men. Card tables are spread throughout the living room and den for the various couples with kids of their own and the 'tween teens. 'Tween teens are those in that Twilight Zone who aren't quite grown up, but are too cool sit with the kids. The bar with its high stools at the kitchen are for any stragglers or Johnny-come-latelies who don't fit the profile for one of the aforementioned seating assignments. The grandchildren and other younger guests dine alfresco on the patio and come inside only when refilling their plates. Sometimes I think that they are the smart ones. For us there are two constant traditions at Thanksgiving. The first is holding hands in a giant ring around the family room while my father-in-law blesses the meal then adds a special prayer for my Army chaplain brother-in-law and his family based at West Point, New York. That in itself is much to be thankful for given the military alternatives today. The second tradition is the opportunity to speak out and say what each of us is truly thankful for. Though I rarely contribute to this verbal ritual, topping my list is a wife who surprisingly continues to put up with me and situations around her that would have a lesser woman in a straight-jacket and on meds. I have good kids, more than five folks I can call friend, a real job with benefits and writing assignments on the side, the Krystal and of course . . . my pickup truck Ruby. Life is good and there is much to be thankful for this year. Even for a turkey like me.

Like Homecoming But Without The Zits

I did something today that I haven't done in more than 30-years. I helped to construct an old fashioned, "hey gang, let's put on a play" do-it-yourself parade float. The last time I worked on such a rolling work of art was homecoming my senior year in high school. It was a marvel. We were playing the Gordon High School Generals, and my assignment, along with friends Chuck Antonie and Mike Williamson, was to design and build a seven-foot tall replica of the "General", as if walking to his death at the blade of an amazingly realistic guillotine. The figure looked somewhat like a stately scarecrow in full military attire, with an ostrich plume on his hat. Oh what we could do with two-by-fours, chicken wire, papier mache, and tempera paint. I don't remember if we won or lost the game, or if our entry took an award, but I clearly remember the fun that we had working on that project. That same feeling returned tonight in a stone and timber country barn as a much older group of friends worked to turn a flat-bed trailer covered in wood, fabric, zip ties and imagination into another rolling work of art like so many years ago. Most of us are gray or midway there. It took two to lift what one of us could have easily toted just a few years ago. Some showed up a bit late or had to leave a bit early because of scheduling conflicts. But, despite the little inconveniences, changes in design, and lots of improvisation, the thing took shape nicely and will be a work worth applauding at the annual holiday parade this Saturday. It may not be the most professional entry on Main Street, but I'll wager few other teams had more fun tonight working on their float than we did. It was almost like homecoming but without the zits.

Long Live Rock And Roll

Is nothing sacred anymore? Groups across this great nation, with their own ultra-liberal, change-for-the-sake-of-change agendas, regularly attack everything red, white and blue that we hold dear. From religion and what constitutes a marriage, to how much mercury-laced red fish we're allowed to eat from the Gulf of Mexico, these pseudo pundits are apparently now intent on pushing their ill-conceived ideologies on my home town of Houston, Texas. Yesterday morning broadcast radio behemoth Clear Channel Radio attacked and utterly vaporized one of the pillars of our great democracy; the freedom to ROCK! Legendary Houston rock station KLOL-FM was replaced by something called Mega 101 FM - Latino and Proud! Puhleeeeze . . . Is this the second time that the music died? Maybe a new verse should be added to Don McLean's epic tune, American Pie. After 34-years as Houston's raucous Rock Authority, KLOL has been dumped for a format labeled "Spanglish Top 40", a mixture of Spanish hip-hop, reggaeton and pop/dance targeting young Latinos between 18 and 34. What about us Boomers who still need a regular Aerosmith fix and our daily dose of ZZ Top and Led Zeppelin along with the Accupril and Zocor? The genre is good enough for Cadillac in its commercials, so why not for Clear Channel? If you're going to dump a station, dump the one that plays polka accordion music from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. and then changes to Vietnamese call-in/talk from 3 to midnight. Not the station that has rocked a generation. Long live Rock and Roll!

Changes I Don't Get

The older I get, the more things seem to change around me. I realize that some change is inevitable. But, many of these changes sneaked up on me without warning, or else I was too preoccupied with other issues to take notice. My kids growing up and starting out on their own, I get. But, when did my mustache turn completely gray? Where did this hair in my ears come from? It was never there before! And, what's with stray, wiry, extra long eye brows? You never see a thirtysomething guy with hairy ears and a salt and pepper fuzzy caterpillar unibrow above his eyes, so why me at my age? I am also having a tough time accepting this shift in body mass as it seems to continually settle around my waist and belly. I can't help it if I never kicked the Little Debbie Oatmeal Pie habit that began between games at Midway ball park when I was a kid. I blame the pusher moms in the concession stand who probably knew the long term effects of an oatmeal pie addiction, but were more concerned with making a buck for the League. At least back then I didn't have a gray mustache, hair growing in my ears or weird eyebrows. Personal issues aside, I have to ask, who's brilliant idea was it to combine three traditional holidays into one giant, mega holiday season. It's like I went to sleep last night and woke up to find that it was Hallogivingistmas and I hadn't even started my gift shopping! Halloween merchandise was in stores in late August. By early October it was 50 percent off and the shelf space was being filled with Beany Baby turkeys, Pilgrim candles and cornucopias of fake fall leaves and mini pumpkins. Then before the last Trick-or-Treater had left my doorstep, 10-foot tall inflatable Santas were on sale and store owners were decking the halls with boughs of holly. This has to stop before it really gets out of control. What's next? Poncho Cotton Tail delivering jalapenos to kiddies at Cinco de Easter? So, until the world comes to its senses and puts the holiday calendar back the way it was, have a Merry Hallogivingistmas and a Happy Newalentines Day.

My Granddaddy Was King

I love my pickup truck. There. I said it. I love my pickup truck. It wasn't too long ago that I would never have considered owning the official vehicle of Texas, but in an uncharacteristic fit of Lone Star patriotism, I did it. I gave in to temptation the way that so many others do here. Today is the first birthday of my candy apple red Ford Ranger with its extended cab, flared sides, sprayed-in bedliner, big old tires and shiny chrome wheels. Her name is . . . Ruby. I fell in love with Ruby one joyous afternoon in November of 2003. Oh, how she stood out from the rest of the Rangers and her bigger F-150, F-250 and F-350 siblings. As if saying "Take me home with you. Take me home now," she flirted shamelessly, metal flakes sparkling in the bright sunlight. Though relatively petite in size by Texas standards, this little pickup was just what I had been looking for. Her smooth, nostalgic lines and flared sides reminded me of a smaller version of the truck that my Granddaddy Owens had driven for so many years. He'd pick me up after school, and after tossing my "grip" into the cab, he'd help me climb in to sit beside him on that big bench seat for the trip to his place way out in the "country". Bouncing along back roads in that dusty old truck was much more of an adventure than riding in our family's Ford Fairlane or the Rambler to Crook's Foodtown. It allowed me the opportunity to look down on the world from a totally different perspective . . . the perspective of a little kid riding in a big truck. I was King of the road. Well, more like Prince of the road. Because when we were in that truck, my granddaddy was King.

God Bless Texas

There is nothing quite like a good, old-fashioned Texas chili cook-off. Aside from Mardi Gras, with all its flash and debauchery, where else can you eat and drink to excess, watch an impromptu female belching contest, and carry on an intelligent conversation with a guy wearing a ten gallon hat with a stuffed duck on top and wrapped in a "Hillary in '08 My Ass!" apron? The spectacle is sensory to the extreme. There are wannabe cowgirls in their tight Wranglers and Tony Lama boots strolling the grounds in search of a free, no-strings attached Bud or Shiner Bock. All are filled to the brim with more howdies, hons, and darlin's than the law should permit, but golly-gosh-darn it's fun to be a part of the goin's on. A cook team captain is part wizard, part chef and total master of his domain within the boundaries marked off by a 100-foot-long string of Houston Texans/Miller Lite pennants. Within those confines can be anything from a simple propane stove and lawn chair, to a fully loaded replica of a western-style covered wagon with painted canvas and replete with all the fixins for gallons of beanless chili. That's right . . . no beans in Texas chili pardner! When it comes to judging chili, there is one rule to live by . . . never, never, never judge any round of competition below finals. This bit of wisdom was passed on to me by an old codger who rode the trail for many years before passing away on the range while driving a herd of cattle to Fort Worth some years back. . . . . Not really. The first time I judged an early round of chili it almost killed me and I spent days popping Pepto-Bismol like candy. You never know what's in those homemade recipes, so it's best to let others take the bullet for you when possible. They say if you're gonna play in Texas, you gotta have a fiddle in the band, but the pickers on-stage this afternoon were mighty fine without one. I heard about why all of George's exes live in Texas, then the next minute REO Speedwagon would keep on rollin' all the way to Sweet Home Alabama and on to Luckenbach, Texas with Willie, Waylon and the boys. It was a spicy musical mishmash to rival the ingredients in any award winning chili pot. I've lived in Houston for almost half my life and consider myself a Texan. I'm one of those transplants who proudly proclaim, "I wasn't born in Texas. I just got here as fast as I could." This big old Republic has a lot to offer, but I have to admit that it's the quirky, off-the-wall circumstances I find here, like those of a down home Texas chili cook-off, that regularly remind me why I stayed. God bless Texas! www.baxwrtr.com

Kay Pack Never Knew That I Existed

Tonight while checking email and listening to boomerradio.com, a block of songs played that sparked hippy-dippy memories from Atlanta's WQXI and WPLO, and the profanity filled underground newspaper from the 60s, The Great Speckled Bird. To use a far out term from my teen days, I had a flashback. Trust me. It wasn't a delayed reaction to some postage stamp laced with a chemical known only by its initials, or from licking a South American frog. Geek that I was, I never even tried an herbal brownie back then. This flashback was entirely musically motivated and brought with it vivid images of maroon and white high school letter jackets, Christie Anderson, monster movies at the Glenwood Drive-in, and McDonald's fries. Each reflection led to another in a series of experiences almost 40-years old. The fallout shelter in Jeannine Lawrence's basement, Slurpees at 7-Eleven, and freaking out when Debbie Bailey kissed me on the cheek. Those tunes from my own Wonder Years helped to shape me . . . in fact, shape a whole generation. Faceless on-air personalities such as Tony "The Tiger" Taylor and "Skinny" Bobby Harper guided us through a difficult time of social change and the passage from adolescence to young adulthood. Their word was near-gospel and their G-rated humor made me laugh at myself and the world around me, despite the fact that the Beatles' Abbey Road album proved that Paul was dead and that Kay Pack never knew that I existed. www.baxwrtr.com

The Lack Of Votes Tomorrow

It's the morning after and it looks as if "Four More Years" is no longer a slogan, but a mandate. Voter turnout was at an all time high nationwide. People stood in line for hours at schools, fire houses, churches and other voting locations because of the importance of the issues and the positions up for grabs. But who were actually standing in those lines? I saw several television network polls throughout the night analyzing voter demographics, and they were pretty consistent. From the conservative Fox News to the more liberal NBC, the numbers showed that well over 55 percent of those voting in this election were 45-years and older. I had noticed that myself while standing in line to early vote last week. So, where were the young voters? There was a major push to get first-time voters registered and to the polls by both Democrats and Republicans. Even the clout of MTV and celebs such as Sean "P Diddy" Combs couldn't pull the trigger. According to the polls only 17 percent of those casting a ballot yesterday were young registered voters . . . the same number as in the 2000 election. I know the voting age kids in my family didn't make the effort. It just didn't interest them. They were too busy. Something else came up. So I have to ask, what will interest and motivate them enough to participate in the democratic process that has guided this nation for more than 200-years? This is the generation that howled when online music provider Napster was nailed by the government and they lost their free music downloads from the Internet. Yet these young people can't find the time to help select the leaders of this great nation and help chart its future. Time is running out on the generations that decided this election. Baby boomers are getting older and many of their parents will soon be casting their final ballots. Only time will tell if the selections made yesterday were good ones, but it's the lack of votes tomorrow that worries me.

Oh Happy Day!

It's the day before what could be the most important election of our time, yet for a moment the entire world was made right today with the opening of Houston's first Krystal restaurant. There was no full eclipse of the moon as in St. Louis last week when the Red Sox took the Cardinals in four, but cosmic forces must have been at work to bring so much pleasure to so many this morning on FM 1960 West. In a state of totally unplanned goofiness, I got up this morning before 6 a.m. and drove to the Mecca of ground meat with its glowing red and yellow "K" sign as a beacon. There along side three strangers I stood in a downpour of pseudo-biblical proportions as lightning and thunder filled the sky. It was then through the recently Windexed windows that we caught our first glimpse of the elusive, most sought after, Krystal cheese burger. Never before seen in Houston, Texas, the Krystal cheese burger was so close, yet still so far. But we knew that by mid-morning it would be ours. Much like the wait to early vote last week, the line grew and we talked about all things. We discussed issues from politics and the state of Trick-or-Treating in our country, to our various occupations and of course, Krystal love stories. Some in line were Houston natives having only heard the myth of the little square burger. Some had eaten Krystal when traveling across the Southeast, while others had grown up with them as a regular part of the food pyramid. My favorite was the lady from Chattanooga who complained that some Halloween vandal had stolen the Kerry/Edwards campaign sign from her yard . . . the same sign that she had stolen from the polling place herself early last week. There was one from Memphis, several were from Atlanta, another from Austin, and a few White Castle outcasts from Chicago and New Jersey. But, no matter where they had been raised they were all right here, right now to share in this historic moment. The time passed quickly and at 10 o'clock the doors were opened. By now there were more than 100 in line and a drive-thru that backed out into the six-lane Farm to Market road. As the first dozen of us passed the smartly dressed regional manager we were thanked for being "Fantastic Krystal Fans" and each handed a card entitling us to 12 burgers every week for the next 52 weeks! I felt like Christmas Story's Ralphie when his Little Orphan Annie secret decoder ring came in the mail. I reverently approached the pristine counter and placed my order for cheese burgers with a young blonde cashier who was determined to make this the best fast food experience of my life. It was. In fact it was so good that I was back an hour later with a good friend for lunch to do it all over again. Oh, Happy Day! www.baxwrtr.com

Happy Halloween Kiddies

No matter how hard folks have tried to make me grow up over the years, it just isn't coming easy. The trick-or-treaters at my door tonight only encouraged me to continue shunning total adulthood and to dig in my heels whenever life pulls me in directions where only grown-ups tend to tread. Maybe that's why I can relate so well to five-year-olds dressed as super heroes. I can vividly remember Halloween when I was in the first grade. Our real school, Midway Elementary, had not yet been finished so we spent much of that year at the Presbyterian Church across the street. My teacher, Miss Davenport, tried to explain the concept but I couldn't understand why Halloween wasn't a school's-out holiday like Christmas. It was just as important to me. After all, when else was it acceptable to beg for candy from strangers, stay up late eating stuff that was bad for you by the bag full, and then watch a classic monster movie on the late show until you crashed? Between the sugar high and being scared out of your young, impressionable mind it was a night second only to Christmas Eve in my book. Tonight I greeted several miniature Batmans and Spider-Mans, a zombie cheerleader (one of my all-time favorites along with the pregnant nun), a clown, a fireman, a couple of policemen, Dorothy and more fairy princesses than I can remember ever seeing in the same place at the same time. As an added holiday bonus there were even two stroller-pushing moms still dressed in their work outfits from Hooters. It was really cool . . . almost as cool as what I had planned on my front lawn for all pubescent revelers as they innocently approached to ask for a treat. You see my youngest step son and I are of the same mind when it comes to the real meaning of Halloween trick-or-treating. It's a well orchestrated plan. I am the lure, quietly, ever so meekly, drawing them in for a treat as he hides in the shadows dressed as a gorilla. There is no joy so sweet as watching an empty handed 13-year-old turn and run as Zach charges across the yard in full costume on all fours, occasionally stopping to beat his chest in a Kong-like manner. Trick-or-treating is for the little guys, so get over it and don't come back to my house at Halloween unless accompanied by a child; preferably one dressed like a zombie cheerleader or pregnant nun. Happy Halloween kiddies!

I Can Already Taste The Onions

For those of you who live in the Southeast, this probably won't seem like such a big deal. But, for those of us who moved away to settle down west of the Sabine River, the opening of Houston's first Krystal Restaurant is a dream come true. It seriously ranks up there with the first coming . . . of Krispy Kreme a few years ago. I can remember telling un-Kremed Houstonians that the circular bits of heaven were best when eaten hot from the fryer. From then on I was revered somewhat like Yoda, a sort of guru with gourmet wisdom from the far East . . . well, as far east as Biloxi, Mississippi where the closest Krispy Kreme could be found up to that point. And now the second element of my personal holy trinity of finger foods is coming to Houston . The little square burger on an onion steamed bun will be here on Monday and I plan to be in line with several UGA friends to welcome it to Space City USA. As a kid I can remember riding with my folks to the Krystal on Ponce de Leon Avenue in the shadows of the tall gray buildings of downtown Atlanta. On a really good day we'd cruise across the street afterwards to the green neon-fronted Krispy Kreme. Just the thought of that artery clogging combination from 40-years ago can still set off a Pavlov-like reaction. Yes, I'm a happy man; Krispy Kreme and Krystal. The only thing that could make this any better would be for The Varsity to set up shop here. Chili dogs, a frosted orange and a big order of onion rangs . . . whadaya have, whadaya have, whadaya have? I'll tell you what I'll have . . . a sack of little square burgers on Monday when the doors open at 10 o'clock. I can already taste the onions.

I'm Terrific, Thanks

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend from out of town. At the professional level she and I are business acquaintances, but over the years have become friends. While snacking on fried jalapenos and queso the conversation turned to family matters. I asked her how things were going in her life and she answered matter-of-factly, "Well, my nephew committed suicide." It seems that my friend's nephew, her brother's son, had been having problems at home. In his early 20s, the boy didn't want to go to school, had no job or job prospects, was in a disappointing relationship with an older woman, was suspected of stealing from his folks and was content to lay around the house all day. Having tried counseling, family interventions, and other avenues to reach the boy, the parents had been advised that it was time for some tough love. They changed the locks on the doors and told their son to move out, get a job and find a place of his own to live. For several nights the boy tried without success to get into the house. Then, one day several weeks ago, he doused his clothes with gasoline and torched himself in front of his father. I was speechless until my friend asked, "And, how are you?" Without hesitation, and giving no thought to any once disconcerting issues in my own life, I smiled and said, "I'm terrific, thanks..." http://www.baxwrtr.com

Worth the Wait

It was sunny and in the upper 80s with a slight breeze as I stood in line this morning waiting to vote. The dream of popping in and marking my computerized ballot with the ease of the drive-thru at Chick-fil-A had vanished once I turned into the lot. There among the field of brightly colored campaign signs with snappy slogans was The Line . . . more than 400 early voters heal-to-toe around the building. With General Tommy Franks' book, American Soldier, under my arm, I took my place in line next to the dumpster. It was there that the neighborly conversations began. There was the casually dressed middle-aged mother of a kindergartener who joked about having such a young child at her age. Two elder black sisters were dressed as if on their way to church. One sister freely discussed her recent radiation treatment for cancer, while the other lovingly held an umbrella overhead to protect her from the sun. Senior voters outnumbered the younger ones ten-to-one today. It was inspiring to watch these gray-haired members of the Greatest Generation standing there in the unseasonable heat prepared to do their civic duty as they always had. Some stood tall, while others stooped with age. Many walked with the gait of someone much younger, while others used a walker or cane, or else leaned on a companion. It was during that 90-minutes of waiting that I read about Lt. Tommy Franks and his first weeks in Vietnam. From adjusting to the climate, the bugs and the military slang, to calling in his first artillery strike on the VC while under fire, Franks recounts how quickly he learned to see war on a soldier's level. The time passed quickly, and I cast my vote for the right man at the right time. But all politics aside, that 90-minutes shared with folks I had never met (and will probably never see again), and gaining a special insite on a war half-a-world and more than 35-years away made this a good day. It was certainly worth the wait.

It Was Still A Great Run

The World Series is under way and I'm at home on a Saturday night wondering what if? The Houston Astros came so close to winning their series with the Cardinals, but when that final out was called in the seventh game, it was the red birds who moved on to face Boston, not our hometown faves. Despite a thrill ride, roller coaster season fitting of the Astros old neighbor, Six Flags AstroWorld, the "Good Guys" put on quite a show in the end. Individual and team records were set, attendance was up, the dollar dogs were better than ever, and a city came together in support of their team. It was a beautiful thing to see. Of course it's a disappointment that the Astros didn't go all the way. Anyone who says otherwise is probably a sleeper Cub's fan. Many of us were already planning a midnight run after the final game to Academy Sports and Outdoor for the first ever Houston Astros National League Championship gear. But, that's a shopping spree now postponed for another time and probably with another crew of twentysomething in the clubhouse. But no matter, this crew of twentysomething made us proud to be living in Houston during a miracle season that made the rest of Baseball take notice. Congratulations to the Class of 2004! It was still a great run...

Who'd A Thunk It?

Is it destiny? One might wonder what else it could be having watched the Houston Astros' performance on Monday night against the St. Louis Cardinals. A one-hit shut out on both sides and then in the bottom of the 9th inning . . . . bam! Jeff Kent does what Jeff Kent does so well. A first pitch drive high against the left field facade. It was a beautiful thing to see . . . the hit, the celebration on the field, and the reaction of a Series-hungry, standing room only crowd in Minute Maid Park. It was Backe Ball most of the way. Then the Club's closer really put a "Lidge" on it by shutting down the Cardinals one after another at the end. Tonight, only one game separates the Houston Astros and Space City from an incredible year . . . The Super Bowl, the All-Star Game, and the World Series. Who'd a thunk it just ten weeks ago?

Well Done Gentlemen

Sunday's come-from-behind win by the Houston Astros over the St. Louis Cardinals continues to show that this club deserves respect. Sports commentators on the national level seem amazed that the boys from Space City USA have gotten this far in the play-offs. The truth be known, most Houstonians felt the same way given the team's record around the All-Star break. But, the times . . . they are a changin'. Granted, the press and many baseball gurus have dubbed Carlos Beltran the Golden Child of the series, but they tend to forget the other twentysomething men on the bench who continue to contribute to the cause inning after inning. This team has come together with a common purpose, and the City of Houston is their 10th man on the field. We're all in this together, win or lose. Well done gentlemen . . .

Baseball Fans Take Notice

The Houston Astros have always been viewed as a good team, but not until last night have they been viewed as exceptional. The team has had a winning record for more than half of its 43-year history. The problem was, they could never make that necessary jump from winner to champion on the National level. All of that changed on Monday night with a blow-out of hardball powerhouse Atlanta, and now title-hungry Astro fans are setting their sites on St. Louis. Some may call it a fluke. Some may call it a miracle. But, whatever label you want to tag it with, the Houston Astros have shown that they have heart and the desire to win this season. Always the underdog, though loaded with talented ball players, the 2004 Astros have now taken a giant step in gaining the respect denied them for so long. It's the right game, at the right time, in the right place . . . Go 'Stros!