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 Baird's bread store with it's miniature loaves of hot, sweet smelling bread had been replaced by some souvenir stand.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 . . .

The Neighborly Thing To Do

It's amazing how the basics in small towns have managed to remain intact while, for better or worse, the world around them continues to change. I was driving along Texas Highway 60 yesterday morning about 11 o'clock, just taking in the views. To my right were lush, green fields of turf; sod being harvested for someone's front yard in Houston or Dallas at $.80 a square. To the left was a herd of cattle huddled beneath the cool shade of a cluster of oaks in a browning pasture. But, what really sent me off on a nostalgic flashback was up ahead. As I cruised at 65 mph in my little red pickup, I noticed someone walking along the side of the road heading in my direction. I slowed and could see from his appearance that he had to be a farmer or some other laborer. His face was aged and weathered from years in the sun and his baseball cap was ringed with sweat and dust. He wore soiled jeans and a sun-faded red t-shirt with some logo on front that had all but disappeared. His work boots were caked with dirt and his heavy canvas gloves had definitely been used for more than pulling weeds and tending the flower garden on Sunday afternoon. As I whisked past, this gentleman raised his hand to wave and without hesitation I automatically waved back. It was a southern courtesy rooted in my upbringing that I hadn't thought of in years. I immediately remembered sitting on the porch with my Mema Maude and Granddaddy Stuart way out in the Georgia country as a kid almost 50-years ago. It was just like yesterday. Up the road bounced an old pickup truck. The trail of red dust it left behind coated everything on either side of that one-lane road as it settled back to the ground. I can remember that truck load of folks waving as they rambled by and my granddaddy waving back as if they were old friends. I asked, "Who was that?" Granddaddy Stuart just smiled and said, "Don't know." I asked, "Then why did you wave?" He leaned over to me and said, "Because it's the neighborly thing to do." Lesson learned. Thanks granddaddy.

Gone But Not Forgotten

Tonight I'm heart-broken. A dear friend since childhood is no longer with us. After moving to Houston more than 25-years ago we had lost touch, but I never forgot that sweetness and warmth. I can still remember the good times in Atlanta with my mom, dad and my brother David as we drove for miles to spend a few special moments together with my friend. Yes, tonight I'm heart-broken because a relationship once lost, then found, is now lost again . . . . Krispy Kreme Donuts in Northwest Houston has closed its doors for good and all that remains are the memories and the empty green and white shell of a building. Those incredible glazed rings hot out of the grease may have added pounds to my fiftysomething waist line, but oh the sugar rush made it all worth while. The caffeine buzz from their special blend coffee made the occasional trip to the urologist a personal sacrifice worth making. Crulers shaped like tiny four-inch tractor tires would melt in your mouth and the chocolate-dipped originals brought new meaning to the phrase "love at first bite." For a short time the Krispy Kreme in Northwest Houston commanded flashbacks of simpler days when Bonanza rode into my living room every Sunday night and the school boys asked, "Ginger or Mary Ann?" Holy sweet sin-sation Batman, Krispy Kreme donuts were the best and always will be, not only because of their tempting flavor and knack for immediate gratification, but because of all the fond memories surrounding this Southern icon. My hope is that the recently opened Krystal restaurant doesn't meet the same fate here. If it does I will be devastated. Let us pray...

Small Town Wonders

I had to take a short business trip today; short by Texas standards that is. I drove to Bay City, Texas, a small town about 100 miles southwest of Houston and not too far from the Gulf coast. I really enjoy driving these back roads and taking in the sights and sounds of communities far from Houston with its traffic and noise. Bay City was nice enough with its refurbished downtown area surrounding the '50s style block granite county courthouse. The people were friendly and the pace was so laid back. But it was on my return trip home that the real taste of Texas began. Thirtysomething miles from Bay City is the town of Wharton. Like so many other communities outside of Houston, Dallas, San Antonio and Austin, Wharton is a grassroots piece of Texan culture with strong moral values and a simpler, homespun lifestyle. I stopped at McDonald's to treat myself to the first Quarter Pounder with cheese that I've had in years. The burger was good, the fries were great and the decor as perfect. The golden arched walls of this American icon were covered with finely drawn black and white caricatures of town celebrities. There was a wall of fame for special employees of this particular McDonald's location. There were drawings of city councilmen and other political figures. There was even one of Officer Steve, the D.A.R.E. coordinator for Wharton. But, the best were drawings of staff members from Dawson Elementary School. The founders of this part of Texas were of German and Polish descent, so the names still reflect that bit of history. There was a caricature of Mrs. Fucik with a cartoon-style voice bubble above her head that read, "It's foo-check you smart aleck!" There was the drawing of 5th grade math teacher, Pat Kovar that read, "commence cipherin' ", and Liz Chilek's drawing with, "There's no crying in the 4th grade!" written below. Ms. Jubenak and Ms. Konvick's caricatures had drawings of young boys with glazed eyes and hearts floating above their heads. But the best cartoon image was of assistant principal, Ms. Kallina with the boldly written heading, "Fear This Office!" From Wharton I passed through mattress central: Sealy, Texas. Really. That Sealy . . . the Sealy Mattress Company. Just beyond there is where if found a folk art commemoration to the long forgotten prehistoric creature, Tywheelosaurus. Tywheelosaurus was a massive predator of the NASCARassic era with a skeletal structure made entirely of tire wheels. In a pasture filled with grazing cattle, this imposing sculpture was mounted atop a full size tractor trailer along I-10 for lovers of bizarre stuff to stop and see. I stopped, I saw, and I delighted in another great day on the Lone Star backroads.

The Vacation That I Had Almost Missed

It was so relaxing. After a day of meetings, and a week of writing and working while on vacation, I finally got the downtime that I had been looking for. Last night while sitting quietly in the backyard of a friend, all of the week's troubles and frustrations simply went away. The short, graveled path led to tiny flat rock Cul de sac of decorative frogs, lush potted plants and two wrought iron rockers. Beyond was a thick landscape of trees and underbrush accessible only to the squirrels, rabbits and other smaller animals that could be heard moving in the darkness. It was an unexpectedly calming and therapeutic sanctuary on the edge of nature. As a deeper darkness closed in and the pleasant night time breeze dropped to a whisper, lights began to flash in the evening sky. There were thousands of them. First from deep in the woods they came, never venturing beyond the tree line. Lightning bugs were making their nightly appearance like some band of flittering fairies from Bill's "Midsummer Night's Dream." I sat quietly in my rocker watching the luminous specks flash in unpredictable patterns and remembering my own summer nights as a child. With an open jar in-hand, I would chase the flashing lights as they darted here and there, occasionally snagging one then quickly screwing on the hole laced cap to prevent escape. Non-stop development in the big city and spraying for mosquitoes have ended this sort of display at home. This treat (retreat may be a better word) was just what my working vacation had needed. As I quietly rocked on that tiny flat rock CUL de sac the lightning bugs and the memories surrounded me. The Beatles were playing on the Oldies station inside the house, and for a short time I found the vacation that I had almost missed. A vacation miles from the real world and shared with a few thousand illuminated friends.

A Jerry Springer Moment

It had the makings of an episode from the Jerry Springer Show. No, there were no flying chairs, no DNA tests or bleeped out "F" words. But, there was the foundation for a solid 30-minute segment on "Disfunctional Families Who Come Together To Celebrate A Child's Graduation From College - And Actually Get Along For The Weekend". My son Aaron graduated from Texas A&M University at Corpus Christi last weekend; a terrific achievement based on hard work and the fact that he's a really smart guy. It was the guest list that made this occasion almost laughable. It was one of those "you can't tell the players without a program" sort of events. Try to follow along: I was there with my ex-wife, Audrey, to celebrate our son's graduation. We get along well, so there were no issues there. My youngest son, Chris, was on-hand with his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Robin. Then there were my ex-in-laws, Margie and M.D.. Margie's ex-husband, Wally, was there with his wife, Jo. There was Audrey's sister, Vickie, with her daughter, Stephanie, and Stephanie's new boyfriend. Vickie's boyfriend, Whatshisname, wasn't there since she sent him packing several months ago. Audrey's step sister, Karen, was there with her longtime male companion, and her young granddaughter - the spittin' image of a Campbell Soup Kid. Still with me on this? Karen's brother, Michael, that is Audrey's step brother, showed up with his step daughter. I think Michael was the smart one having moved away to north Texas several years ago . . . it was good to see him even though he bears an uncanny resemblance to a young Bill Clinton. Now this part gets complicated so follow closely. My ex-wife's ex-husband, Ed, was there along with their daughter, Kelly - that is Aaron and Chris' half-sister. Throw in an equally colorful mix of family and friends on the side of Aaron's girlfriend, Dree, and you get a ready-made script for television. It was like a real life Soap Opera without the murders, money and champagne, though verbal backstabbing was alive and well, and the barbecue and cold beer couldn't have been better. Aaron and I even staged an impromptu "Baxter Boys Unplugged" performance of CCR and Jimmy Buffett for the crowd. Toss in a little "Dueling Banjos" and someone ordering a fat guy to "squeal like a pig" and the script would have been complete. God, I love living in Texas.

For Weinerman's Sake

Testosterone and tension filled the air. It was thick enough to cut with an ACME chain saw. That's right . . . I said ACME. The sort of diabolical tool that you would expect of Wyle E. Coyote or another of his Warner Bros. compadres. For this was the event, the main match . . . this was Mascot Wars Dodge Ball presented by WB39 - the Warner Bros. TV channel in Houston. The line had been drawn in the sand. Well, the tape had been laid across the basketball court on which the competition would be held. To the right stood a motley crew of name and amateur competitors: Freddie the Flea, WB's own Michigan J. Frog, Scooby-Doo, the James Coney Island Weinerman, Lucky Dog and King Tux the Penguin, and an unimpressive, top-heavy Duck that kept repeating, "Smoking is Fowl." To the left of center court was the cocky competition. A team of two challengers so confident in their ability that they would take on the team of eight. Who were these macho manglers? Toro, the long-horned, steroid popping, bull mascot of the Houston Texans NFL franchise, and Chilie Dog, the equally as buff and vicious-looking, half-breed K-9 from the Houston Aeros professional hockey team. The scene brought back long-buried memories of recess dodge ball at Midway Elementary School. There I stood on one side of center with Butch Credille, John Berger, Ken Norton and Steve Mitchell. Across the court they stood, snorting smoke from their nostrils, fire in their confident eyes. We knew them, we feared them: Bill Ogle and Mike Meyers. Two against five . . . we were doomed. That pre-pubescent dodge ball blood bath 40-years ago went much the way of this mascot event. Balls were hurled at cannon-shot speeds and less aggressive teammates fell to the floor and were called out by the man with a whistle. When the smoke had cleared, Toro and Chilie Dog were victorious and the beaten band of misfit mascots looked on in defeat. But, one has to wonder . . . will the dodge ball bashing suffered by the James Coney Island Weinerman haunt his dreams years from now the way that my defeat has haunted me from time to time? For Weinerman's sake and for the sake of his wife and little weiners, I hope not... I sincerely hope not.

You're A Good Man

It snowed in Galveston the day that Aaron was born. The scene was much like it was at Christmas 2004. Frosty palm trees and white powder covering the tar spotted sand along the seawall. We were so excited to have a son and the possibilities were endless. From his homemade Smurf costume at Halloween to the tearful goodbye at day care when we moved to Houston, those early months with Aaron were so fulfilling. He was loved by everyone he met and his future would be no different. Aaron has never failed to amaze and make me proud in both good times and bad. His sense of awe at learning about the world around him, his need for exploration and discovery, and that ever-present creativity are characteristics envied by those he touches. Aaron is graduating from Texas A&M at Corpus Christi next month. He has worked hard to get his education, though to many it may have seemed to come easy. I am proud of him for that. What lies ahead professionally is anybody’s guess, but as long as he’s happy with his job choice, I’m happy for him. You’ve done well Aaron. I’ve never been more proud of what you’ve accomplished and I’ll be watching with great expectation at what’s in store for you just over the next sand dune. You are a good man. I love you.

That's What I Think

Yesterday I got to spend my first bit of quality time with Peanut. Landon has been at Texas Children's Hospital for three weeks. Though no one said it, there were times when we thought we might lose the guy to infections and other maladies that seemed to attack him every day. But despite the pounding, at just 8 lbs. this little fighter appears to be beating the baddies and making a comeback on his own terms. All but one of the tubes that used protrude here and there across his body have been removed; the one remaining is for his powerful antibiotics. He is drinking milk from a tiny bottle and, for the most part, keeping it down. There is even talk of taking him off the critical list and moving him to better digs with a view and a TV. I had my first chance to photograph Peanut yesterday. I hadn't photographed a newborn baby in more than 20 years, but it all came back in a flash . . . literally. I popped shot after shot of Landon as he fought off sleep, yawning, his eyes rolling back under the lids. I remember the same scenario with my own two boys when we were all much younger. There is something special about capturing this time and place with a camera, stealing it away and holding on to it as if the ritual might somehow keep them small and innocent. As I watched my grandson frown, grin and blow miniature bubbles through his sleeping lips, I wondered what he must be dreaming. I'd like to think that the frowns were nothing more than flashback memories of his recent bouts with needles and tubes. The grins had to be comforting thoughts of being cradled in his mother's gentle grasp. And the bubbles? Well, I think the bubbles are Peanut's first attempt at making a raspberry sound and putting everyone on notice that he is going to beat the odds and come home soon. At least, that's what I think.

Pulling For Peanut

My grandson, Landon a.k.a. Peanut, was born a little more than two weeks ago. From the action of the nurses in recovery it was immediately evident that there were physical problems with this little guy. After four days in ICU he was taken by ambulance to Texas Children's Hospital where every day there has been another challenge. Staph, spinal meningitis, pockets of infection to be drained, blood and breathing issues. But, he just keeps on fighting. He takes after his mom. In this period of taking one day at a time, I have been awed to find that the prayers and heart-felt concern for Peanut has grown to touch lives throughout the world. From my first simple emailed requests to friends to keep Landon and Brittany in their prayers has grown a network of prayer warriors that I would never have imagined. Prayers are being sent skyward from France and Great Britain, from Australian and Japan, across southeast Asia, as well as right here at home. Full congregations in Texas, Georgia, Florida, and Oklahoma are praying for Peanut. Individuals in Oregon, California, Alabama and South Carolina are asking for healing. It's an offering of love and support that I will never be able to repay. It's an amazing thing to watch unfold. No doubt there are angels in Heaven, but this episode has proven that there are a multitude of caring angels right here at home; friends and strangers pulling for Peanut.

Brittany's Little Peanut

A week ago I was asking if I was too young to be a grandpa. Tonight I'm wondering how much longer I will be one. Peanut was born on Monday morning at 8:08 a.m. and everything seemed right with the world. There were ten fingers and ten toes just like it's supposed to be. But, shortly after the delivery, nurses began scurrying around the nursery plugging Peanut up to this machine and that monitor, and putting tubes in here and suctioning there . . . it was disturbing. A time when surrounded by family and friends that should be filled with so much joy was quickly spiraling downward toward an uncertain end. It's now been three days of waiting, hoping and praying for a miracle. Peanut is sleeping in a new ICU at Texas Children's Hospital in Houston's famed Medical Center -- a place where the odds are beaten and miracles happen every day. His mom and grandmother are sleeping nearby at the House that Ronald McDonald built. An incredible prayer chain has been forged in the past few days with strong links from coast-to-coast. Some of these links are family, some are friends, but many are people that I have never met, in fact I will probably never meet. These are friends of friends, prayer partners from church congretations and businesses in states far from Texas all speaking to our Father in a single voice asking that Landon get well. It's incredible to think that there are hundreds, maybe thousands of people praying for Brittany's little Peanut tonight. I am indebted to them all. Tomorrow we hope to see some small improvement, always holding on to hope and knowing that a life with Landon would be so much more fulfilling and fun for us all. A week ago I was asking if I was too young to be a grandpa. Tonight I'm wondering how much longer I'll be one.

I'm Too Young To Be A Grandpa

I'm too young to be a grandpa; at least that's what I thought eight months ago when I was told about Peanut. Peanut is my grandson. I'm going to meet him for the first time sometime after 7 a.m. on Monday morning. His real name, the name given to him by his mom, is Landon Michael Stowe. But at least for now, I'm going to call him Peanut. In all honesty, Peanut was unexpected. In a perfect world Brittany woulda, coulda, shoulda waited, but things happen and once they do you forgive and accept, then make the best of the situation. But one thing's for sure, having seen the physical obstacles that have been overcome and the incredible turn-around in Britt's life since finding out that she was expecting, Peanut is a miracle baby indeed. I'm too young to be a grandpa. Brittany has told me that my new handle will be Pops when Peanut comes home to live with us. Pops. It has a nice sound . . . not too geriatric. I never had a nickname as a kid other than the one that Mr. Owens, my elementary school P.E. coach, used to call me. He'd yell, "Hey Crisco. Get the lard out!" as I ran laps around the dusty gravel playground at Midway Elementary. You have to admit that Pops beats Crisco by a long shot. Peanut and Pops. It does sound pretty good. So, maybe I'm not too young to be a grandpa afterall. I guess I'll find out on Monday morning.

Dueling Keyboards

I have never been much of a handy man. For the most part, the shop class kind of stuff that guys usually learn in their teenage years didn't register. I don't know how toilets work, or what that kerchunk, kerchunk sound under the hood of my wife's van is. But, for years I've prided myself on being able to write a good story, snap a good photo, and strum a good tune on the guitar. It was those creative talents that balanced the scale; that is until I was given a banjo for my birthday several months ago. The five-string banjo. It looked so easy when the Darlings cranked out some earthy bluegrass tune for Andy and Barney in the hills between Mayberry and Mount Pilot. How hard could it be if that kid from Deliverence could do it? After all, I've picked the guitar since I was 12-years-old and made Hotel California and House of the Rising Sun sound pretty doggone good. But this thing is a beautifully designed, highly polished, perfectly balanced chromed pain in the patuddy. I have the Mel Bay Method "You Can Teach Yourself Banjo". I have Austin-area banjo extradinaire Eddie Collins' "The Basics of Bluegrass Banjo". I have sat on the floor for hours reading the books, listening to the instructional CDs and watching a woman play her mother of pearl inlaid instrument effortlessly on the DVD. The fingers of my left hand sting from the strings, and the first two fingers and thumb of my right hand smart from picks that are way too tight. Still, I push on through pitifully performed versions of Camptown Races and Boil 'em Cabbage Down. I won't admit that I've been bested by a banjo, but my ego has certainly taken a hit. You would have thought that a five string banjo would be one string easier to play than a guitar, but it just ain't so. I'll keep at it and who knows . . . maybe someday I'll be good enough to pick a tune during open mic night at Hickory Hollow Barbecue. Until then I'll keep shooting the photos, strumming the guitar and banging out the words on my dueling keyboards. www.baxwrtr.com

ARTICLE - Mother, Mentor and Honky-Tonk Maven

MISS LESLIE: MOTHER, MENTOR AND HONKY-TONK MAVEN On-stage, Leslie Lindley of “Miss Leslie & Her Juke-Jointers” is fulfilling her dream, singing the old honky-tonk tunes with a style and confidence originally reserved for the likes of Patsy Cline and Connie Smith. But, beyond the spotlights and late nights, Lindley is more than a retro Country crooner. She is a college-level instructor and stay-at-home mom on a mission. “It’s challenging to juggle work and family, as almost anyone can relate to,” she said. “I have my concerns about trying to juggle one more thing in my life, but I feel like I need to try to satisfy this dream that I’ve always had.” Married for almost 11 years to husband and guitar-playing Juke-Jointer, Randy, Lindley spends her days rearing their children, Hannah (5), Ethan (3) and Caleb (2), with an old-fashioned ethic instilled in her by her own folks. For the past four years Lindley has taught evening classes for the North Harris Montgomery Community College District, specializing in computer-related programs from Keyboarding and Introduction to Word Processing, to Intro to PC Operating Systems. Most recently she has been teaching two nights a week at the main campus of North Harris Community College and the Parkway campus. “My favorite thing about teaching is working with these students who are trying to go back and get a degree, or gain skills to advance to a better career,” she said. “I hope that I instill confidence in my students and help them realize that anything is possible if you have the will, the drive and the determination.” When Lindley puts on her Miss Leslie persona it’s undeniable that she practices what she preaches, and that anything is possible when you passionately believe in your dream. Nominated in 2004 for Houston Press Music Award, Lindley is pleased, but not surprised, by the growing success of Miss Leslie & Her Juke-Jointers. “This is really the first band that I’ve ‘fronted’,” she said. “In the past, Randy played music professionally and I was being supportive of him. Today we perform together. It’s a part of our hearts and souls, and a way of relating to each other that is different from most other ways.” Next up for Miss Leslie is a performance on the Texas Stage at the Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo on March 3, and several other shows in Willis, Webster, the Heights and downtown Houston in the coming weeks. The band is also featured in a soon-to-be-released DVD documentary about the career of Country Music Legend, Tammy Wynette, available nationwide through Wal-Mart. Their new CD, “Turn Around”, is scheduled to be in the market later this summer. “As an instructor at North Harris, it’s definitely inspirational to me to see how hard these students work -- some working one or two jobs while going to school and trying to raise a family, all to fulfill some dream,” she said. “We’ve found that to be true in our lives, too. For us music is another way to go through life with that special person. It’s like an additional fulltime career, but we love it.” copyright 2005 Michael Baxter

The Road Less Traveled

Today was the kind of day that comes around far too seldom. In fact, it was an alternative plan that brought such delight as a cold, constant rain fell from the Texas sky. It was the perfect use of a gray day to reinvigorate my soul after business meetings in Ft. Worth that went fairly well. As in Robert Frost's classic poem "The Road Not Taken", I decided to drive home along the road less traveled, and just as Frost had poetically suggested, it really did make all the difference. In a most roundabout route, I took Highway 377 outside of Ft. Worth and traveled south passing through one small town after another. For the longest time the blinding mist from fast-moving 18-wheelers in the opposite lane flew up from the road making it difficult to see what was ahead. I had never driven this road and therefore had no idea what to expect, but that was fun of it all. I never knew that Stephenville was home to the Cross Timbers Country Opry where for just $8 for adults, $7 for seniors and $4 for children under 18, you could be entertained every Saturday night by Carroll Parham and his Country Express. They've been doing it since 1979. Then there was the town of Hico, Texas. There were two signs at the city limit welcoming visitors to this busy little community along Highway 6 west of Waco. The first sign said, "Welcome to Hico. Where Everybody is Somebody." I think that's the same slogan used by Luckenbach, but what the heck? The other welcome sign proudly announced, "Hico, home of Billy the Kid". Luckenbach may have had Waylon, Willie and the boys, but they didn't have Billy the Kid. There was even a big sign inviting me to visit the Billy the Kid museum and gift shop. I never found the museum, but the life sized bronze statue of Bad Billy in a shooting stance with his gun drawn was prrrret-ty impressive. The highlight of the road trip was the two hours that I spent in Dublin, Texas, population 3000. For the past 112 years Dublin has bottled the famous Dublin Dr Pepper, the only Dr Pepper still made using Imperial pure cane sugar from Houston. When bottlers around the World were switching to corn syrup and other sweeteners, the little plant in Dublin kept turning out bottles of my favorite soft drink the old fashioned way. The 30-minute tour of the old bottling plant and museum was a serious trip back in time. As the rain continued to pour outside, the sweet, fruity Dr Pepper continued to pour inside. Next door in Old Doc's Soda Shop I sat at one of the small, wire-framed retro tables across from the soda fountain that had been painted lime green to match the wood interior of this century-old stone building. Dr Pepper memorabilia and gift items hung from the walls. I ordered a PB&J sandwich and chips and washed it all down with a couple of ice cold DPs. For dessert I sampled a few Dr Pepper flavored Jelly Bellys. It was too good. Being the Pepper that I am, I grabbed a couple of cases of the original formula in the bottle (no cans . . . it changes the taste) to share with the uninitiated back home on Friday. "I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference" . . . You got that right Mr. Frost. Michael Baxter www.baxwrtr.com

This Boomer Was Impressed

It's not too often that you meet someone who might be classified as really special. I meet people all the time who are interesting, are good conversationalists, and in time could become good friends. But, how often do any of us actually meet someone with a history, the guy who's been there - done that, someone who upon first impression really wows you? Last week I met such a person. Let's flashback to just before Christmas. I was scanning eBay one night looking for items that I collect (60's era Duncan yo-yos in their original packing, comic art, and such). I spotted a listing for an animation cel from the Houston Astrodome. After a right mouse click, I was soon reading the description of an original piece of art used to create one of the black-and-while illustrations seen by millions of fans on the giant Astrodome scoreboard for decades. I bought several cels and animators drawings that night that were destined to be given as holiday gifts. Last week there was another posting of new art, so I bought a few more, but this time asked the seller if I could pick up my purchases at his home in southwest Houston to save on shipping costs. He agreed. The encounter turned out to be one of those unexpectedly special times that don't come around too often. Ed is an elderly gentleman who lives in a nice home not more than 15-minutes from the Dome. After exchanging basic "howareyas" the conversation turned to, "so, how did you get all this stuff?" That's where the fun started. It turns out that while in his prime, Ed owned a production studio in Houston and was contracted by Judge Roy Hofheinz (who built the Astrodome and AstroWorld theme park) to create and coordinate the animation for his "Eighth Wonder of the World". Ed also worked with the Judge on the design and graphic art package for the adjacent AstroWorld, today known as Six Flags - Houston. The wow factor was now growing. As we continued to talk I learned that before owning his own shop here, Ed had been a animator for Disney, Columbia Pictures and Screen Gems. He was no "in-betweener" filling in the motion and scenes between primary drawings. Ed was AN ANIMATOR. As a team member one of his most famous projects was Walt Disney's "Sleeping Beauty" in the mid 1950s. Having grown up in the day of the Mickey Mouse Club and Huckleberry Hound, and having worked with Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera for a short time, I have always been an incredible fan of cartoons. But, there was more . . . Ed began to tell me about the work that his company had done for NASA during the Kennedy/Johnson years concerning the Apollo mission. His team had created the animated visuals that would be used to explain the complicated maneuvers necessary to land on the Moon and return safetly. The Astrodome, AstroWorld, Disney and now the manned space program . . . the only thing that could have made it better was if he had told me that his daughter was Barbi Benton. It's not too often that you have the opportunity to sit and talk one-on-one with someone who enjoys telling the stories as much as you enjoy hearing them. Ed is one of those guys. For a full hour he allowed me to share a few bits from his professional past and for that I'm grateful. Yes . . . this Boomer was impressed.

ARTICLE: Bluegrass Is In Their Blood

The old adage, “the family that plays together, stays together” never rang more true than when describing a local brood of talented musicians with a family tree rooted deep in the bluegrass of Kentucky, Tennesee and West Virginia. As a young boy in the 1940s, Jamie Sloan would lie on the floor of his family’s home and listen to the static-and-hiss filled broadcasts of the Grand Old Opry from his small radio. With every performance, legends such as Hank Williams Sr., and Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs would melodically stoke Jamie’s passion for the music. Years later he would share that passion with his daughters Hilary and Leslie, and son Joel. Today Joel, who Leslie says was “the smart one who knew he couldn’t make a career out of music,” is a successful accountant in North Carolina and rarely performs. Spring and Oak Ridge North residents Jamie, Leslie Lindley and Hilary, on the other hand, have been diagnosed with an incurable case of the banjo bug and the fiddle flu. A one-time minister, now owner of James Sloan Insurance in Cypress, Jamie looks back on a career spanning several decades and several groups as sweet memories. “In the early ‘70s we had a band called The Last Bluegrass Band (a play on the film titleThe Last Picture Show). We picked with some really fine musicians like Bill Monroe, Danny Jones and Ralph Stanley,” he said. Jamie’s wife, Glenna, sang harmony and played bass with band back then, but today is an indispensable roadie often seen wrangling the grandkids at family performances. Like their father did many years earlier, the Sloan girls developed their love of Country and Bluegrass music while lying on the floor late at night and listening to the homespun sounds of banjos, mandolins and acoustic guitars rising up from a basement jam session. “I can remember being six or seven years old and falling asleep listening to mom and dad down in the basement playing bluegrass with friends until 2 o’clock in the morning,” Leslie said. “Bluegrass is a part of our heart and soul.” It was the years of being on stage as The Sloan Family Band that helped to shape Leslie and Hilary into the regionally well known performers that they have become. Both women studied the Suzuki method of violin from an early age, learning the classics, yet yearning to fiddle. “When the kids were in high school we started doing the family band thing,” Jamie said. “We were playing little podunk rodeos, the monthly Country show at Yoakum’s near San Antonio and the Rosenberg Opry.” The concert venues today can hardly be tagged podunk as the sisters’ popularity has grown. Miss Leslie and Her Juke Jointers has taken a retro route to revive the style of Country music made popular in the fifties and sixties. “We do some original tunes, but most of our repertoire comes from obscure covers that never charted, or in some cases may never have been released,” she said. Dressed the part in an outfit complete with pearls and heels reminiscent of June Cleaver or Harriet Nelson, Miss Leslie croons the tunes and fiddles the melody from the stage at Cosmos Café, Borski’s and Traders Village, to the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. Hilary Sloan and Aunt Irma’s Fillin’ Station has taken a more traditional Country road on their way to fulfillment. Nominated as Houston’s Best Bluegrass band for two consecutive years by the Houston Press, Hilary enjoys “fiddling around” at the legendary Gruene Hall and the Broken Spoke, as well as at local music halls such as the Firehouse and the Continental Club. Texas Bluegrass Music Hall of Fame member Michael Fuller says that “Hilary is probably the most talented bluegrass fiddle player in Texas.” But, contrary of the accolades from the press and her peers, Hilary increasingly sees herself as a songwriter, penning many of the group’s tunes. Her dad and sister openly agree that Hilary is the prolific songwriter in the family, often drawing inspiration from times of despair in her life. In recent years Jamie has phased out own his group, Vintage Sounds, to back up his daughters on guitar at concerts across the State. “Dad tells us that he’s getting older and that we don’t need him on stage, “ Leslie said. “But, I have to explain to him that we like being on stage with him. I like sharing that connection with him, sharing the musical experience. That will always be a very special thing for the three of us.” copyright 2005 Michael Baxter www.baxwrtr.com