Rest In Pieces Old Girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Trails Joe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tee-ball Toddler in Blue and Red

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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