Brittany's Little Peanut

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

I'm Too Young To Be A Grandpa

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

Dueling Keyboards

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

ARTICLE - Mother, Mentor and Honky-Tonk Maven

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

The Road Less Traveled

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

This Boomer Was Impressed

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

ARTICLE: Bluegrass Is In Their Blood

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

It Was A Christmas Miracle

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

The Other Reason For The Season

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

ARTICLE- Healing Soles For More Than 40-Years

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

Bad Taste And Poor judgment At Christmastime

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

Even For A Turkey Like Me

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

Like Homecoming But Without The Zits

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

Long Live Rock And Roll

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

Changes I Don't Get

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

My Granddaddy Was King

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

God Bless Texas

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

Kay Pack Never Knew That I Existed

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

The Lack Of Votes Tomorrow

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

Oh Happy Day!

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