baxwrtr blogs

A Moment In The Rear View Mirror

2010-06-12T09:44:00.011-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It Was A Good Night To Be A Texan

2009-11-03T17:49:00.005-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They Live - In DC

2009-10-06T22:47:00.004-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks Scotty. You're the best.

2009-06-21T10:18:00.031-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks Scotty. You're the best.

Taking Life Month By Month

2009-06-10T07:53:00.009-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's great taking life month by month.

Rock On Freaky Dudes!

2009-05-12T17:55:00.027-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest In Pieces Old Girl

2009-04-28T08:59:00.012-05:00

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

2009-04-20T07:30:00.013-05:00

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

2009-04-03T21:39:00.020-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wouldn't Want To Give Vampires A Bad Reputation

2009-03-28T13:41:00.026-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ShamWow! Poor Timing

2008-09-18T16:34:00.009-05:00

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

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

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

"Hello."

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

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

"Why, no. Why do you ask?"

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

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

"Yes," he said.

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

He hung up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Junk Drawer

2008-07-27T21:33:00.005-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Little Buddy In Pull-ups

2008-07-23T21:23:00.010-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, buddy," I replied.

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

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

Good Eats Along the Gulf

2008-07-08T17:26:00.010-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Liked That

2008-02-15T08:29:00.017-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pitcher Perfect

2007-06-29T22:42:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-06-03T21:42:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Code name: Grandpa

2007-05-29T08:55:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Proud To Be A Fan

2005-10-27T06:57:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-26T19:57:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-19T23:18:00.000-05:00

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!

2005-10-18T00:12:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-16T20:46:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-11T21:30:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-08T23:11:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-04T21:20:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-02T07:22:00.000-05:00

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

2005-09-25T19:31:00.000-05:00

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

2005-09-22T21:55:00.000-05:00

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

2005-09-02T20:39:00.000-05:00

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

2005-07-29T10:25:00.000-05:00

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

2005-06-15T21:27:00.000-05:00

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

2005-06-08T22:27:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-28T07:00:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-16T06:52:00.000-05:00

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

2005-04-27T21:27:00.000-05:00

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

2005-04-18T20:56:00.000-05:00

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

2005-04-14T21:59:00.000-05:00

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

2005-04-06T07:54:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-24T21:44:00.000-06:00

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

2005-03-16T12:16:00.001-06:00

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

2005-02-23T20:20:00.000-06:00

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

2005-02-11T07:58:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-27T23:11:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-17T13:47:00.000-06:00

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

2005-01-12T20:40:00.000-06:00

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

It Was A Christmas Miracle

2004-12-25T06:51:00.000-06:00

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

2004-12-24T04:19:00.000-06:00

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

2004-12-08T08:50:00.000-06:00

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

2004-11-28T21:32:00.000-06:00

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

2004-11-23T20:39:00.000-06:00

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

2004-11-18T20:25:00.000-06:00

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

2004-11-13T21:20:00.000-06:00

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

2004-11-12T07:05:00.000-06:00

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

2004-11-08T21:59:00.000-06:00

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

2004-11-06T20:07:00.000-06:00

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

2004-11-04T21:56:00.000-06:00

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

2004-11-03T07:31:00.000-06:00

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!

2004-11-01T16:13:00.000-06:00

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

2004-10-31T21:45:00.001-06:00

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

2004-10-30T23:12:00.000-05:00

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

2004-10-28T20:31:00.000-05:00

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

2004-10-26T17:37:00.000-05:00

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

2004-10-23T22:16:00.000-05:00

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?

2004-10-18T22:52:00.000-05:00

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

2004-10-17T21:45:00.000-05:00

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

2004-10-12T13:02:00.000-05:00

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!