Meeting of the Executive Committee of SFA graduates in the Austin Area

Well, I am finally home from the meeting of the Executive Committee of SFA graduates in the Austin area. The employees of the Red Lobster off 183 ran us out just a few minutes ago. It seems that they had to close the restaurant so they could open it for the next days activities—weird rule but they seemed to know what they were talking about.

Neither Bobby nor I had seen hide nor hair of Jimmy Phipps since graduation from Texas A&M back in 1970. Forty plus years had gone by just like an overnight.

We managed to induct Jimmy onto the Executive Committee prior to starting any discussion on world peace, the state of the union or the solving of hunger throughout the globe—a hard task, but we managed.

Taking seats in the booth we started in on the questioning of Mr. Phipps: where he had been over the last forty years; what he had accomplished; and what his plans were for the future.

Due to the fact that there were two old military types the conversation naturally revolved around the telling of experienced “war stories”—all of which were true I am sure. Have you ever heard a war story that you even had the slightest bit of doubt as to its authenticity?

We allowed Jimmy to tell several prior to the gauntlet being thrown down. During the telling of an adventure he detailed about an event while stationed at Fort Riley, Kansas, Jimmy mentioned that there was nothing between the North Pole and Fort Riley—obviously trying to one-up the cold factor on the entire assemblage. His account of the cold was most likely true to anybody having not ventured north of the Lower 48 but I couldn’t let the challenge pass.

At this time in the tales of the past Jimmy did not yet know of my traveling. I took the opportunity to interject that I was between the North Pole and Fort Riley for the four years I spent on my first tour of duty in the Army and had better first hand knowledge of just what the effects of the Hawk could be. In fact, the Hawk checked in with us prior to heading south. Cold? Man, let me tell ya ‘bout Cold..

After this confrontation we moved on to each of us attempting to one-up one another time and again with our best stories concerning: Fort Hood adventures, flights on C-141s, flights on C-130s, mountain adventures, Fort Drum adventures……..

At the end of each inning, Bobby would add his editorial comments and we would move right back to the confrontation.

The process took an hour to get through our salads and two waiters//waitresses before we ordered lunch.

Once in a while, the conversation would move toward the politics of the state, the nation and the world. Each appropriately adding their own two cents (never more) about the current subject prior to moving on to the next somewhat related (not a requirement) war story and extra innings.

Eventually the waiters forced us to order a meal which was pretty much engulfed without the interruption of the current conflict being described by who’s ever turn it was.

Boy! What a time we had.

I want to publicly thank Big Bucks Bobby for picking up the check. By the way, he promised to do so again whenever we meet north of the Colorado River—this is an option I will not soon forget.

By the time they asked us to leave, the restaurant had ran out of both coffee and iced tea—both sweetened and unsweetened. As I was sitting on the inside and both Bobby and Jimmy had outside seats, the lack of non-alcoholic libations was probably a good thing at this time; I know I was beginning to feel the urge.

We resolved to meet again as soon as we all recovered from “war story overload.”

Do you remember the Texas Prison Rodeo in Huntsville?

I remember it very well. Those Sundays at the Walls Unit in Huntsville in October usually with my Dad were times I will never forget.

I remember going there soon after arriving in Bryan in 1954; this time with my Dad, Mom and brother Kenny. We probably made several trips as a family, but that was to soon give way to the jaunts being just my Dad and me.

I remember a couple of times—maybe about the time I was 12 or 13—that Preston Bishop joined us on a Sunday afternoon. Of course I knew Preston as Cathead more than his given name. Cathead was an old doodle-bugging friend and confident from the 1940s and early 50s. I would never miss the opportunity to sit and listen to the stories these two would tell about their days in the seismographing industry (locating potential oil fields). The stories those two could tell—most hard to believe, but nothing less than the truth.

Well, it seems that they are now tearing down the structure that housed those Sunday memories. There hasn’t bee a rodeo conducted there since 1986 when the structure was deemed to be un-safe. Funds availability to repair//rebuild found it hard going against other budget items determined to be more appropriate. See Associated Press and Austin American-Statesman article: http://www.statesman.com/news/texas/workers-tear-down-famed-home-of-texas-prison-2102847.html?cxtype=rss_ece_frontpage

I remember when halftime would come and they would roll out the afternoon’s professional entertainment. Some big names; usually of the country-western variety would perform. The article mentioned names such as Roy Acuff, Willie Nelson, John Wayne and Steve McQueen—all good Google terms for hit-ability. There were plenty more just as visible that made their stop on a Sunday in October.

I remember one that the article mentioned; I couldn’t wait to see. The infamous Juanita Phillips—more recognizable as Candy Barr, her stage name—was the one I most wanted to see. I don’t know what my young teenage mind expected to see when the Goree Girls made their entrance—to a teenager, a stripper is a stripper no matter what the program says—a performed their short act of two or three songs. The prisoners on the lockup side were just as or maybe even more excited than I was at the time.

I remember the event called “Hard Money” referenced in the newspaper article written by the Associated Press’ Michael Graczyk. I don’t think that Mr. Graczyk ever attended a Sunday performance—maybe a rodeo ever. His description of the Hard Money event made it out to be the most dangerous event in the afternoon’s performance. Forty inmates trying to snatch a tobacco bag from a bull’s horns is exciting—especially when accompanied by the fear of being gored//trampled by the bull; but much more the threat of being knocked over by the hoard of fellow contestants and trampled by them or either them and the bull in the frakus can not be understated. There was also the Wild Horse Race and Mad Cow Milking; both very similar to the Hard Money event. But, in my esteemed estimation these were by far not the most dangerous event of the afternoon. ANYBODY that ever attended a Sunday in October could tell you this.

I remember exactly what the most dangerous event of the afternoon was. Anybody that has seen a rodeo will tell you that the most terrifying one second to maybe twenty or so that takes place is the bull riding. No occupation—with the possible exception of Alaskan crab fishing is more dangerous or so the authorities tell us. Just ask a crab fisherman if he//she will sit the back of a bucking, snorting, wheeling, whirling bull and you will get a resounding NO! Right, bull riding is far more dangerous. Now multiply that danger by a factor of ten. There you have it—real danger. The announcer behind the chutes would warn the audience prior to the start of each and every rodeo. It went sorta like what you might imagine: “If you are squeamish or upset easily, it is suggested that you leave the arena right now. What you are about to see is not for the faint of heart.” Time was then given for the cowardly to exit.

I remember what would happen as soon as the cowardly time was up. The announcer would then describe what was to take place—the Prison Rodeo in Huntsville being the only place one could find an event as dangerous as what was to come. Most of your rodeo arenas had four, six or as many as eight chutes for the bucking//riding events to emerge from, but Not Huntsville—there were ten. All ten were loaded and ready. At the sound of a whistle all ten chutes were pulled open and 10 bulls with their 10 riders would be let loose into the arena, all at the same time. The event was called the Mad Scramble; an appropriate name—yes it was. Mayhem erupted into the arena and mayhem continued until the last astride rider was thrown, recovered and usher out of the arena—all the while the 10 bulls were running loose causing what mayhem they rapt.

I remember going to Huntsville eight, ten or maybe even twelve times and having seen many dangerous events throughout the northern half of the western hemisphere; but I have never seen a more exciting twenty seconds or so anywhere else in that region. Quite possibly there is not another twenty seconds of planed purely voluntary mayhem anywhere in the world.

I remember the one time that sticks out more in my memory than any other. I was probably thirteen at the time and my Dad and I had seats about three rows up behind the chutes on the right side looking into the arena. During the bull riding event, an inmate made a ride that will always stick out in my memory as the best ever. It so impressed my Dad that he actually said the same out loud—a very unusual occurrence I can assure you. The guard positing directly in front of us must have heard my Dad’s comment. He turned and looked back up at us and said: “He might even get better over time. He has ninety-nine years to practice!” His editorial on the ride has always stuck with me. At the time I couldn’t imagine anything lasting ninety-nine years.

I remember the last time I saw the rodeo. I took my wife and kids on the 10^th of October in 1982 during the time I was stationed in Bryan briefly after departing the Army. It had now become my turn to take my son (and daughter) to the best rodeo anywhere. Their only experience up until this time was a two chute event we had attended in New York staged on a race track; the entire arena less than the size of a basketball court.

I remember that my wife tells me I spend too much time in the past: I’m still happy that I can remember these times when others my age are can’t.

I remember it all like it was yesterday; but will be never again. Do you?

Heroes are subjective entities!

Did you have heroes as a kid? I did. There were many of them. I considered myself fortunate to have heroes. Sometimes, hero worship could be the best part of the day. Strap that six-gun on your hip, grab a brother or a neighbor and go outside and take up where you left off the day before with Roy Rogers or Gene Autry—could there be anything better? Having the chance to meet your heroes was even better. I actually had that opportunity early in life. The custom in the days of my youth was for the cowboy stars of TV and movies to perform at rodeos. At the end of their act, they would ride around the arena apron and shake hands with the throng lined up for the chance.

In the early winter of 1954 at the Cow Palace in Denver, CO, I shook the hand of Gene Autry—I didn’t think it could get any better than that. Then some three or four years later, I again had a similar chance and managed to shake the hands of Roy Rogers and Dale Evens at the Houston Fat Stock Show Rodeo—my life could have ended that day and it would have been complete; at least I thought so at the time. I guess that my one failure in this area is that I never had the chance to shake the hand of Matt Dilon from Gunsmoke fame. Matt was not initially a hero but his impact wore on me as time moved on and finally won me over.

Heroes are very subjective beings. They often come and go throughout our lives. Our desires and interests change or we move on to the next phase of our lives. It was after the second summer that I spent roomin’ with Dutch that I finally got around to figuring out just who were my real heroes. I remembered back: that guy that took me to work with him in the fields of Colorado, Montana and later Texas; that guy that managed to have Santa leave my first bicycle in Colorado the Christmas of 1953 and spent time helping me learn to ride over the next several weeks it in the ice, slush and snow; that guy who played pitch and catch in the yard in front of our trailer house when it came time to join me up for Little League (he also spent every game in the stands watching me play when he was in town); that guy that would knock off work early some afternoons when I tagged along with the crew just so we all could try our luck in a farmer’s pond or stock tank; and that guy that bought me my first shotgun and insured that I knew the rules and found me a place or two to see that I did. That’s the guy that later turned out to be my real hero—I had figured out that the TV and movies were just play-like as he used to remind me.

Howard H. "Dutch" Hatfield (1911 - 1993)

I bet you had heroes also. Who were yours?

Veterans Day 2011

"Citizens by birth or choice of a common country, that country has a right to concentrate your affections. The name of American, which belongs to you, in your national capacity, must always exalt the just pride of patriotism, more than any appellation derived from local discriminations." -- George Washington Farewell Address, 1796

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OgwJ1ZzlGqM&feature=related

My wife & I just returned from the Austin Veterans Day Parade.

I had the distinct pleasure of standing with SGM Gill; retired Air Force and Army - 44 years service in active and reserve. He started his service in 1942 and retired in 1977—having served in three wars: WWII, the Korean War & the Vietnam Conflict. He is 92 years and has been slowed just a bit by a recent stroke. SGM Gill stood and saluted every American Flag that passed, color guard unit or not. His son kept putting him back in the chair that he had brought which just made the standing task harder each time. I guess anybody that’s been with us for 92 years deserves to take longer to get to their feet each time they do so. What a pleasure this was. We promised each other to meet again next year on the same street corner to watch the 2012 Veterans parade.

SGM Gill and his son

Standing along side of also was Perry Jefferies, the manager of the TexVet Initiative of the Texas A&M Health Science Center, College of Medicine in Round Rock www.tamhsc.edu

Perry is an interesting guy and doing fine work. He coordinated a visit with SGM Gill and his son to meet and record the Sergeant Major’s story. This, I want to hear—44 years, it oughta be a good one.

Another one of my favorite entries in the parade every year is the Retired Chief's Association. A continual participant is Dale Lyons who also happens to sit on the board of directors at the credit union where my wife, Patsy, is the VP of Human Resources.

Dale Lyons

This was the longest Veterans day Parade that I can remember. We watched for an hour and a half at least. The entries just kept coming.

The one thing that struck me was the number of youth enrolled in the ROTC programs at the local high schools. What a bunch of good looking young leaders of tomorrow. I have included some shots of the various groups below.

James Bowie High School ROTC unit

Akins High School ROTC unit

William B Travis High School ROTC unit

Bastrop High School ROTC unit

I hope you got out today and showed your support. It kinda makes you feel good inside and has the same effect on those around you.

Yesterday was Election Day - Fond memories of Jesse James & more - 09 Nov 11

Did you get out and vote yesterday?

Sitting here in the kitchen this morning, I got to remembering elections of the past. Nostalgic, you might say? I’m OK with that? It was just me and my pups so the feeling wasn’t rampant and actually took us exactly nowhere.

In my early adulthood days and primarily during the 1970s I was in the military serving in such foreign lands as Alaska, Virginia, North Carolina and New York—foreign to a Texan, at least. Because of this fact, I was left to cast my ballot via absentee.

Every year I would send to the State of Texas for my ballot and finally receive it in the mail with plenty of time to study it and return it via the same, U. S. Mail—regardless of the foreign land I was currently stationed.

I always took the opportunity to take that same ballot to work with me and brag a little bit about my activity—a pure Texan activity you understand?

Pursuing the names on the ballot always brought a bit of laughter from my associates. The reason will become obvious the further I relate the specific circumstances.

For most of the 1970s, one name always appeared on the Texas ballot at the State level regardless of who else was running. This name brought the questions of the validity of the document that I would proudly show around the area. Most thought that I had somehow made the entire document up and was just doing it to get a laugh—not so, not by a long shot. It was as real as it could be.

Right there about the 3^rd or 4^th office down was the name: Jesse James, a Democrat running for State treasurer. Most of the office holders at that time in our state’s history were Democrats—not nearly the case today. But there it was, one of the most famous names in American History and obviously not a name anyone would associate wit the position of State treasurer.

For those that don’t remember, Jesse James (Oct 1904 – Sep 1977) was the longest serving Texas State Treasurer; having held the post from 1941 until his death in office in 1977—appointed to the position by Governor Coke Stevenson when Charley Lockhart became ill and could no longer serve. Then duly elected and reelected over and over, year in and year out from that time on.

The second point of contention associated with my absentee ballot was the device furnished by the Secretary of State to be used in the recording my votes onto//into the actual ballot. The instructions included a statement (I wish I could locate the copy I have retained all these years; I think maybe my wife might have thrown it out.) advising (more like a warning than a piece of advise) me that I was “to use the provided device to punch the holes in the ballot and only the provided device to punch the holes.” This was odd for reasons I will clear up in a moment.

I would show the warning and the device around the office and have my associates read the instructions. They all would look at me with this dear-in-the-headlights grin and ask: “How they gonna know?” My only response was: “Oh, they’ll know. We’re dealing with the State of Texas here!”

The ballot itself was sort of the consistency of one of those manila envelopes and had a Styrofoam backing—those hanging shads had to go somewhere. I was always amazed that the State allowed me to keep the poking device—after being so specific about it’s use, one might have assumed that they would want it back to reuse next election day. Not so, they never requested it back.

The all-important device came taped across the bottom of the ballot itself. Right there for all to see was one of those large paper clips—not just one of those used to lip three or four pages together, but that big kind—suitable for heavy duty work. Now, it wasn’t just your everyday paper clip. No, not by a long shot. This clip had one of the legs bent straight so you could get a real hold on it prior to tackling and punching that ballot—a task not up to just your ordinary man without the aide of such a device which could be supplied ONLY by the State of Texas.

Needless to say; I followed the instructions to the letter. I didn’t want a all expenses paid trip to Huntsville the next time I showed my rosy red cheeks in the State.

I welcome your comments and remembrances of election days past. Please leave a comment.

Bigfoot Huntin’ with the Grandkids

A couple of weeks back, while attending the grandkids’ (Alison – 8 and Gavin – 5; 26^th and 22^nd of May respectively) birthday party in McKinney, both of them were so excited about a movie they recently seen. I men real excited! They couldn’t stop talking about it. As best as I could tell the movie centered on a young girl that encountered Bigfoot in some way or another; I never really understood the actual connection. I just couldn’t get to the why-she-tried-to-catch-Bigfoot reasoning.

All the way to the farm where their party was taking place, all they could talk about was how they would go about capturing Bigfoot. Gavin’s imagination completely ran away from him; I mean completely. What stuck out to me most was that the bait just had to be peanut butter—nothing else would do.

Alison ask me on the way back from the party if they could try to catch Bigfoot in the park near my house the next time they came to visit. My response was: “Of course we can. I heard that he has been seen many times right in that area.”

Every phone call from that date forward contained a short discussion about our up-coming expedition.—tactics, provisions, safety equipment and who would perform which task. Still, catching Bigfoot was the entire desire—planning the adventure was supreme. When I talked to them early in the week, I reminded them to be sure to bring hunting clothes; ya know, stuff that would blend in. As you might expect their mother didn’t follow the plan. These kids stuck out like sore thumbs—no camouflage considerations taken into account whatsoever.

I really didn’t put much effort into the plan until they arrived on Wednesday afternoon and I saw just how excited they were about the expectation of capturing Bigfoot. I knew then I was in for some trouble if I didn’t do it up as right as possible. My plan prior to their arrival included only ropes, binoculars, a sturdy wagon (old, extremely loud and squeaky from their uncle’s childhood) and a half used jar of peanut butter. My boast that after capture, we would haul it back to the house, clean it up, lock away in PupLand and charge a nominal price to view just prolonged their excitement.

My other grandson, Dilin (19) called Wednesday afternoon and ask if he could come down Friday for a week’s stay. Of course this just added to my need to make the hunting event all that it could be.

Wednesday afternoon after arriving, I told the kids that Dilin was coming Friday and we should plan to conduct a dry run on Saturday morning with all our tools and equipment. This way we would be well prepared for a full scale daybreak hunt on Sunday morning.

I happened to mention that a hunt was gonna take place on Facebook and soon had responses like: “How fun...good luck on the hunt.” or “Good luck on the hunt—that’s a very important mission you are going on.. Love those grandkids---“ or “Don't forget the little men in white suits w butterfly nets.” I had backed myself into a corner that was gonna be impossible to escape from.

After the kids and I finished our Friday morning constitutional I updated my Facebook page with news of our planning trek in the park area I had selected for our loop snare location. I almost immediately received more responses like: “Creating memories...good for you. Let us know the ‘rest of the story.’” My ability to extract myself from the corner was getting narrower all the time.

Alison and Gavin kept asking what our chances were of catching Bigfoot. Not having any real answers of substance I volunteered that “Bigfoot has been determined to have a fancy for Popeye’s chicken and is seen at the Manchaca Popeye’s several times a week. He is also been known to be sighted walking down the pipeline right-of-way carrying a tub of Popeye’s chicken munching on a wing or a leg while paying absolutely zero attention to the other inhabitants of the park: kids on the play-scape, women and men with dogs on leash and people just there for the morning or afternoon.”

We waited on Dilin’s arrival Friday evening to take supper and resume our discussing and planning for the morn’s adventure.

There’s no way out. I’m in for it and I now realize that fact.

Early Saturday morning, we awoke and eventually gathered for breakfast. Time was getting away from us, but I paid no attention at the time—a mistake I would later pay for. We casually sat and discussed what we were to do and before we realized what was happening, Little Gus and Little Otis were performing their morning routine of it’s-time-to-walk-nothing-else-will-do. The decibel level reaches a rating that one will even take them for a walk just for the peace that it will return.

Patsy, my wife, has been on the sideline for the entire time and has now only begun to show any desire to be part of the troubles. I grant her the position of photo journalist. For this she is grateful and prepares for her participation. I give her, once again, a short tutorage on taking pictures with my camera—a device we have had now going on four years. Oh, she has used it many times but each requires the same tutelage for the required operation. She probably wanted to join us all along.

Off we went. Trooping down the road to the park. The pups out front followed by Alison; the disinterested teenager (DIT), Dilin, on the opposite sidewalk; our photo journalist working her way around the entire procession taking pictures here and then there and all of us trailed by Gavin pulling the loud and squeaky wagon with our provisions—including the all important peanut butter.

Soon we arrive at the designated huntin’ grounds and eventually Gavin and the provisions make their way into our midst. I direct Gavin where I want him to stage the wagon and eventually we are ready to deploy our equipment.

To satisfy matters as best as possible, I deploy Gavin to his post in the tree and have him practice his alert call” “Ca – Caw-w-w, Ca – Caw-w-w.” He has it down; he must have practiced all night. Before walking away, Gavin ask me what he should do if Bigfoot comes after him. I responded with his question turned back on him: “What do you think you should do?”

Gavin, without loosing a breath came right back with: “I’ll smack him in the face.” his answer accented with a swift right cross. I nearly fell over as I stumbled over to the hide and tug area where Alison and I would position ourselves for the loop reduction phase of the capture. There I retrieved the mountain rope I had dug outta my duffle bag in the garage. I hadn’t had this out since I had last used it on Mount McKinley sometime back, maybe late 1972. As I strung it out, I had forgotten that it was 250 feet long and had to have Alison run off up the hill with one end so we could make sure it was kink-less; ya know there’s nothing worse than a kinky rope. Waiting on Ali to reach the top of the hill with her end, I noticed the danger associated with Gavin straddling the tree limb he was perched on and ask Dilin (the DIT) to position himself up there with Gavin to insure his safety. This he did immediately.

I tied a knot in my end of the really long rope and ask Ali to start back with her end. Upon her arrival we slid her end of the rope through my loop and started stretching out our BIG loop for our manual snare. I figured about twenty-five feet in diameter would do the trick—we didn’t want to take much of a chance with the stride of Bigfoot figuring he might be able to retrieve the peanut butter without being very near the jar. The rope being so far from the center of the capture area the need for camouflaging it was negated; this saved a lot of set-up time.

Now with the lookout in place and the loop deployed, it was time for Alison and I to discuss our loop retrieval and closure tactics (known throughout the Bigfoot hunting and capture world as the LRCT). We figured out the best positioning of the two of us in our hiding area and the exact method we would use in insuring the swift and efficient retrieval of the capture rope. With most everything worked out our final decision was to have my capture partner: (1) on my signal, (2) leap to their feet, (3) turn north, and (4) run as fast as they can while taking up as much slack as possible—get the picture?

Our biggest fear at this point was that Bigfoot would gain his feet and escape his bindings. We decided that the best recourse was for the DIT to leap from the tree at this juncture and swiftly begin wrapping tight loops of the capture rope around Bigfoot’s feet—holding him tight and immobile. DIT voted against this step but was solidly out voted by the other members of the capture team—outvoted as he was, he acquiesced to the plan.

Every thing was now in place and we then opened the jar of peanut butter and sat back to wait out our dry run simulation. Soon I realized that I was loosing attention with those of the shorter span—this could not be allowed to happen. It would mean total disaster.

Gavin seemed to be loosing attention despite our best efforts; even after being reminded that there was no whining (or crying) in baseball. Alison, having the best knowledge of what makes Gavin tick (or un-tick) suggested that she and he trade places. We move from behind our defilade spot and switch the two out at the lookout tree. Before you can say Bigfoot stinks, Gavin and I were back behind our log with both hands on the rope.

Realizing that we might drag on a little too long if we continue without action, I ask the photo journalist member of the team if she could possibly act as a stand-in for our prey. She reluctantly accepted and took position next to the peanut butter jar at ground zero.

Gavin and I started retrieving rope as fast as we could. Arriving at the point where I knew we need speed now more than stealth, I signaled Gavin to get up and run. He responded and off he went; north and then east (east not in the plan but his improvisation worked just the same). Before you can say: “We got fake-Bigfoot.” The loop was tight around the stand-ins ankles. While it went against our dry run rules, we decided that the DIT need not practice his leap and loop (L&L) technique. This quiet possibly could come back and haunt us tomorrow morning when we attempt a real capture but this is what we did.

While we retrieved and recoiled the capture rope we lost concentration on our tracking pups. Finally realizing what we were doing, I noticed the pups had found the jar of peanut butter and had consumed over half of it. This also just might put us in a bind for the Sunday morning capture attempt—we’ll have to just wait and see.

Some time later I downloaded the photo journalist pictures and posted a group of them on-line thereby soliciting comments like: “Looks like Bigfoot is in for it” and “ any sightings?”

Alison checked back on Facebook and read the comments and decided that we needed to respond to the question: “ any sightings?” to which we posted: “He's been spotted at the Popeye's several time in the past few weeks and the word is that he travels down the pipeline right-a-way that we intend to trap him on tomorrow morning. It has been so hot that we don't know how long we will be able to wait him out.”

That brought additional comments such as: “love it !! :)” and “You have officially lost it!” and “What a hoot!! I know your grandkids love being with you.” Later added to the fray was: “And just what would it be like to be the grandchild of HH? Exciting to say the least. Cute kids and Pups too-their old man isn't bad either.”

Coincidentally as I peck this out, the Animal Planet just happens to be broadcasting “Finding Bigfoot” with footage highlighting some of Bigfoot’s close realities like the Skunk Ape in the Florida panhandle. All things taken into account; ya might think the Animal Planet would have taken my needs into consideration just a bit more than they have and televised these segments prior to our expeditions. One of these days the powers that be are gonna hire me to be part of these type telecasts. They really, really need somebody that stands there when those guys say something like: “Did you hear that?” or “Did you see that?” when they experience typical Bigfoot behavior. I could be the guy that responds: “No-o-o-o-o. I didn’t hear anything! There was nothing out there. You guys are crazy; c-r-a-z-y!” But No, they haven’t called—at least not yet.

Sunday morning Patsy woke me about 0630 and asks if I was still going to follow through with the hunt. “Of course,” I responded. “The kids are expecting to hunt Bigfoot this morning and I’m not agonna be the one to disappoint them.” We hurried up with the upstairs prep. I went into the kid’s room and awakened Alison who was bright eyed almost immediately. Now Gavin took just a bit longer—some thirty-seven seconds. I went back to wash my face and turned around and the kids were standing there fully dressed with shoes and socks on—an unusual situation to say the least. With kids attached to one hand and pups attached to the other I made my way down stairs to wake the DIT.

All gathered in the kitchen I told them straight off: “If we’re going huntin’, we need to be off right now—we’re burning daylight.” Everybody responded in the affirmative and as I gathered some provisions: treats for the pups and three baggies of Honey Nut Cheerios for whomever; the assemblage headed for the front door—having to wait just a bit for the DIT who wasn’t quiet as fast as the remaining others. I cut through the garage to insure we had the loud and squeaky wagon, the jar of peanut butter bait, the capture rope and the capture team laying-on towels—after all, we aren’t roughing it all that bad—those towels are important.

Looking over the troops as we moved toward the huntin’ grounds, I complimented the entire group on their stick-to-itiveness and courage for their undertaking—a real fine lookin’ group. We made it through two or three courses of “A-hunting we will go” on the way to the grounds of skill and treachery. Practiced as they were, it took hardly any time at all for the team to set up the capture loop and make the remainder of the camp ready. Before ya can say “We gotcha Bigfoot” we were in place and hunkered down ready for what came our way—large, small, hairy, stinky, whatever and the clock still having reached only 0630 hrs.

An hour later and still no Bigfoot, I decided to ask the DIT if he would kindly stand in for the capture ape. He responded in the affirmative and moved from the tree to ground zero and took up a submissive position awaiting the tightening loop. While this was taking place, I remembered to get the half full jar of peanut butter just in case we need it for future endeavors—like a skunk ape, a chupacabra, an abominable snowman, a yeti, or anything big, hairy and stinky.

Ali and I started retrieving rope and when I gave the signal, she took off like a dear—man can that kid run? The DIT was bound in the loop faster than you can say “gotcha Bigfoot.” Alison started back with the rope and all started braking camp for the return trip home. The DIT even volunteered to coil the 250 foot rope, a task I was not looking forward to at all.

We gathered at ground zero and discussed whether or not our efforts were worthwhile and ask and answered the question: Did we have a good time? Yes. I agreed and told the team that the best part of huntin’ and coming away without a trophy was that we didn’t have to clean it—whe-e-e-w, I am glad we didn’t have to clean a Bigfoot.

After reaching home, downloading the new pictures, posting them on-line and recounting our adventure the comments started to roll in:

- “I love how you are teaching your treasures....to not need Toys-R-Us or Best-Buy to have fun!!”

- “Most is out of that crazy Hatfield Brain. No kidding aside, I agree you don't have to spend a fortune at the toy store for kids to have fun and to learn valuable life lessons.”

- “I think you caught lots of memories, and they last a lifetime...”

- “What fun! You are truly creative to have thought up such engaging entertainment for your grands!”

Isn’t that what it’s all about?

Quality BBQ – 2 - 11 Jul 11

Back on the trail of Quality BBQ this past weekend, we found ourselves, wife, son and I, in Llano at Cooper’s Old Time Bar-B-Que. You can find Cooper’s on Hy 29 West, crossing Hy 71. easy to get there, only about an hour out of Austin.

This is different from the Lockhart BBQ I reported on a few weeks ago—real different. Oh, you still pay by the pound all right, but their method is not the smoking method utilized down in Lockhart or over in Taylor. These guy cook BBQ like my Dad taught me some fifty-five years or so ago.

The first difference you will notice prior to ever getting inside the establishment—you don’t. The pit is outside and that’s where the line forms also. There is some sixty feet of covered area for the line to snake around on days when it’s real busy. We were lucky and hit there mid-afternoon and didn’t have to wait long at all. Like Smitty’s in Lockhart, you order from the guy currently cooking—that’s the last similarity to Lockhart.

There was the usual selection: beef ribs, pork loin, sausage and chicken. The main difference here was the thickest and biggest pork chop I have ever seen—affectionately known as the Big Chop. If you go for pork, who wouldn’t in their right mind, and believe you brought at least enough family members to cove a baseball field—a basketball team will not do the trick—the pork chop is the way to go. Upon making your selection, the cook will ask if you want it sauce dipped—I recommend fully that you take this option.

While I am a stickler for sauce and I far prefer my own, Cooper’s was better than most commercial I have had at these establishments. On a scale of 1 to 5 with 5 being the best: Cooper’s comes in at a sound 4 while Smitty’s places at a high 2 and maybe a low 3 at best. I take my recipe from my Dad and it still remains the only solid 5 I have ever tasted.

BBQ sauce should be stick-to-your-ribs thick. That’s right. It should drip off like water when you dip a rib, a piece of brisket, or even, if you happen to lean toward the yard bird fancy, a piece of chicken in it. I was brought up in a Southern family and gravy was always part of the meal. BBQ sauce should be like thickening gravy. It has to have the viscosity of 60 weight motor oil and old 60 weight motor oil at that.

My Dad taught my Mom to make his recipe not long, I am told, after they were married. He had picked it up in the late 1920s while working at a pig stand in south east Oklahoma. I stole it from watching her make it. I had to steal it as I wasn’t allowed in the house much at all when the pit was fired. It actually took me several years of passing through and stealing glances while she was putting it together before I ever decided I could make it on my own. But I got it after a while.

If its not a gravy, don’t call it BBQ sauce. I don’t know what it should be called, but it’s not BBQ sauce. If you have a name for it, leave me a comment.

The desert selection was better than Smitty’s also. That bowl of blackberry cobbler was outta this world—just like my Mom used to make.

Before I forget it; the pickles, bread and beans were free—that’s right, free. And beside that, they were good and you could go back for as many seconds as you could consume.

Our choices consisted of: two inch section of pork loin, 8 beef ribs, 4 sausage rounds, ½ chicken (somebody snuck it in, I didn’t notice it) and some slices of brisket (I don’t remember how many).

Because the meat is cooked over mesquite and the rubs they use are different than those in smoking BBQ, I enjoyed the flavors better at Cooper’s than the Lockhart versions. This is the way BBQ is supposed to be done—over a wood fire.

As a side note: that guy that didn’t like the plastic used in Lockhart will be glad to know that there were real silverware although the silver content was about as low as I have ever seen—but silverware nonetheless.

The Lockhart BBQs take their place near the top rung of Texas BBQ as much for the quantity of establishments located there as for the quality of their product and longevity. I have sampled two of the top three in Lockhart and do plan to finish off my third in the near future.

If I remember right, I gave Smitty’s a rating of 8.9 on a scale of 10. I would have to say that Cooper’s comes in just above that, somewhere around a 9.3 maybe.

All the way home, my son just kept saying: "That was good stuff." Over and over he repeated' "Good stuff."

There you have it. If you have a suggestion for an establishment you would like to see rated, please leave me a comment. If you don’t agree with the ratings recorded her; please provide your feedback. I would love to discuss them with you.

Untimely Social Media Posts - 20 Jun 11

As luck would have it, some missed the social media craze. My mind was wandering yesterday and I got to thinking what they might have put up if they had today’s technology available to them. Somebody else may have tried this before, but in any event here’s a few of my takes on the missed opportunity:

FaceBook:

George Armstrong Custer: Currently on top of a good hill with ability to see in all directions. Hopping that predator drone and the F-16s are still on station.

Noah: Still waiting on answer. Not a word in past week. I’m seriously considering leaving these two mosquitoes behind.

Cornwallis: Just whose idea was it to move out here on this peninsula?

Rommel: That can’t possibly be the main attack! Patton is still in England.

Hitler: That can’t possibly be the main attack! Patton is still in England.

Adam: That crawley thing there; what’s he doing up in that tree?

Julius: Meeting this afternoon with some of the guys from the Senate on the steps.

Twitter:

George Armstrong Custer: Man! Where’s that help Washington promised? It’s just like them to adjourn when the going gets tough.

Noah: Been out here 31 days. Still not sure why a shovel was not on the basic load list.

Hitler: I understand that there’s a lot going on in Normandy, but Patton is still in England.

Crockett at the Alamo: Wow! There’s a lot of Mexicans out there. Maybe I should have considered staying in Congress at least one more term.

Capone: I'm not paying taxes. I don’t care what they say.

Dodo: It’s just one egg! (I realize this is a stretch, but it fits the theme.)

Marie-Antoinette: Cake should be just the thing.

Ike Clanton: Let’s walk over to the OK and see what’s goin’ on!

Never seen again: Mt Saint Helens is beautiful this time of year!

Also never seen again: Hey, the White Star line has a ship they say can’t be sunk!

Napoleon: I hear the Duke of Wellington is planning a get together in Waterloo this Weekend. We oughta go see.

Lincoln: Do I gotta go?

Ton Selleck: Offered the lead as Indiana Jones but have plans for the weekend.

Cell phone:

George Armstrong Custer: Hello Pentagon! Custer here. You ain’t gonna believe how many Indians there are in this little southeast corner of Montana. Over!

Travis at the Alamo: What’s that General Houston? Ya want me to hold on here. Did I forget to tell you just how many Mexicans are in town?

Ike to Billy Clanton: Let’s mosey over to the OK and see what’s goin’ on!

Do you have a rocker to add to the list? Please leave your untimely famous posting bas a comment below.

Quality BBQ - 17 Jun 11

Just what is it that makes quality BBQ? Why is one better than the other? I have some lengthy experience in this matter and I’m just gonna tell you.

I had an invite to join some people for dinner in one of Lockhart’s fine BBQ establishments yesterday evening. The wife took off early to be able to trip down there with the rest of us.

My just turned 74 first cousin and his new wife of almost 5 months got lost trying to find my house and this put us behind just a little bit – the BBQ place’s web site says they close at 6 PM during the work week. We were headed to meet up with two long time, but not quite as infirmed, friends of my cousin there. They were coming from the western side of South Austin. The wife had some concern when the cuz didn’t show at the appointed time. I wisely said to just hold on and we’ll see. Cuz’s wife eventually called and I gave her instructions from their current station to our abode.

While I was waiting, I took a look at the Lockhart websites of the four real BBQ establishments. Just Google “Lockhart Texas BBQ places” and you will find them prominently displayed along with fifteen to twenty reviews on each. In an attempt to stay away from any legal battle that might arise, I will not mention any names. The review screen looks like you are ask to rate the establishment from one to five starts. From the comments, I believe they should have included a zero star option—you’ll see what I mean.

Here’s some direct quotes:

1. **** “Went to all 4 BBQ restaurants in Lockhart. XXXXX's was best.”

2. ***** “Can you say Hatfields and McKoys?” XXXXX's got the pit and WWWWW got the ashes when the family parted ways. BBBBBB in Luling and XXXXX's in Lockhart. Best BBQ I've had south of the Colorado River.”

3. * “Nothing worse than eating off of paper, and no table waitress. I live in lockhart and i do not eat out here much. I want to be pampered when i go out. The choices are limited at all the BBq places in Lockhart. I want my food and plate hot. Not paper and plastic forks. Thanks,”

4. * “The ribs were super. The side choices are limted. Once again no floor staff and eating off paper and using plastic. No Thanks,”

5. * “Another paper, plastic, no floor staff restaurant. No Thanks,”

6. * “Nothing worse than eating with plastic and off paper. No waitress. The meat was fatty. Thanks,”

7. * “I want to like this place because the food tastes ok, but the food was COLD...our meat was cold, our sides were cold and we were the only ones eating there at the time, My chopped beef had pieces of sausage in it, so THATS where they put their scraps...YUK It also gives me the TURKEY TROTS everytime I go”

8. * “I agree with Dawn. Lousy service unless they are servicing your men. A good place to go to find homewreckers serving up std's.”

9. * “The food is ok but the service is horrible. The only thing the girls there want to service is your husbands.... BEWARE!!!”

I do appreciate #2 giving my family name a mention.

As you might imagine #s 3, 4, 5 & 6 were written by the same (initials only) anonymous reviewer. The guy lives there and kept going until he had had practically the same experience at every establishment. Some people just never learn.

My question to the reviewer in #7 is: Why keep going back if EVERYTIME you go you get the turkey trots?

Boy, what’s up with #9? What’s this all about? I bet there’s more to the story here than what made it to the review screen! But wait there’s more; # 10 was about the same tone. But since these are anonymous, it is quite possible the same person may be jousting with windmills here. This is when I decided that the review screen had no choice less than one (1) star.

There were far and above many more REAL good reviews of all four establishments than there were these bad comments. I merely portray those that managed to catch my eye.

* * * *

My cuz and his wife finally arrived just after 4 PM and we were soon on our way. Actually we arrived at the appointed place in plenty of time; some 30 minutes before the missing other couple.

We decided that there was time for a beverage while we were awaiting our chums. I got a Shiner Bock and my cousin took one of those frou-frou Bud Lites. I had to share half of mine with the wife; she never wants one, but is extremely willing to take half (sometimes more) of mine.

Finally, the other older couple made their appearance and we moved to the serving line; leaving behind the currently most infirmed to guard the table and purses—like she could have really run off a fifth grader.

Most went for the beef ribs. Cuz ordered two pounds (took home one lb); the other ordered a pound of ribs and several slices of brisket. My wife had a pound of ribs (leaving several to take home later). I went for six slices of brisket and two rings of sausage. I was not allowed to finish off all of mine (two slices and one sausage ring went home for today’s lunch). I did manage to wipe out the bowl of red beans and most of the block of cheese before I was told “No more!” I will say that my wife managed to switch the two glasses of tea: mine sweet and hers un-sweet. Mine didn’t have enough ice—I’m not sure whose fault that was. Now I know good iced tea when I come across it. Being of the southern variety, I was handed a glass of iced tea by a nurse in the delivery room when I was born and have been drinkin’ it ever since—don’t try to pass off low quality iced tea on me.

It was a very pleasant drive back to the house. I constantly had to wake up the others with a poignant comment every now and then.

But what makes good BBQ? I’ve had this long-running argument with many others about just what it is that determines the quality of BBQ. Well, Ima gonna get to that but I must first establish my credentials.

First (maybe not foremost), I have been eating for a good long time and know what I like. Unlike my cuz and his same age friend, I do not yet collect social security. This, I hope helps you understand that I am no way as old as his just –turned-74. I’m a long way from that; but I do understand his generation very well—they just don’t hear much of what I’ve gotta say.

Second, I learned at the foot of one of the best BBQ people in the world; my Dad. I have documented evidence that he had a long career in the field. The 1930 census form lists him as a cook in a BBQ pig stand. There you go. I can remember from the time that I was about eight having to help with the fixin’s: wood, charcoal, pit prep, fire watch, meat prep, etc. Those were some HOT Texas summer days workin’ around the pit. Oh, I must mention that he did use propane, but just to get the fire started and evenly distributed.

Third, After managing to get the BBQ prepared; I helped serve it up and then I helped eat it. No matter whether it was beef, pork, goat, mutton or even some chicken for the females attending the feast—I don’t much go for that chicken, especially when there are far superior meats available.

Forth, If you have sweated over the cooking, you are far in away the better judge of the quality. Most likely you have sampled so much meat by the time that the finish line has come over the horizon that you would rather just sit and watch everybody else chow down.

I can remember as a boy, my dad telling me, the server, to switch up what I told those in line. We usually placed the beef first and followed it with the pork, goat and mutton respectively. When the guests started passing over the goat and mutton, I was told to mix up the species and they never knew the difference. This happen more times than I can tell you. Good BBQ is Good BBQ.

Oh yah, so what’s the real qualifier determining good, better and best. It’s not the fact than one uses only wood. It’s not the fact that hickory is better than mesquite. It’s not that charcoal is better than gas. It has nothing to do with whether the meat was seared over an open fire on a spit that constantly turned by some little buckaroo

That was detailed just that job for the day. Actually none of that matters.

So what does matter?

Let me tell you my friends. There are only two factors that have anything to do with the quality of BBQ. I fully believe that if you think about my criteria you will be won over to my side and become a lifetime qualified reviewer of good BBQ.

Qualifier #1 is the quality of the beverage being imbibed. It doesn’t matter if you prefer beer, wine, hard alcohol, water or iced tea. As long as its good beer, wine, hard alcohol, water or iced tea; that’s all that matters. Come to think about it, in my example above my tea didn’t pass muster. This is why I have modified my criteria over time. As long as you are a master reviewer (you make this determination your self) you can over rule criteria #1 as long as criteria #2 passes the acid test.

Qualifier #2 is the quality of the company one has when devouring the BBQ. If the company is good and a good time is had by all; you have consumed good BBQ. That’s all that it actually takes—nothing else matters.

Woops, I see my iced tea pitcher is way low. I gotta make a new one.

Summer Plans – 13 Jun 11

Everybody got big plans for the summer. I hope so. It’s time to get out there and stir up the slagging economy. Let’s go somewhere and do something.

No better time than now.

I have a short trip planned with son and grandson to go watch the Texas Rangers in Chicago. Actually it was my son’s idea; but just the mention of ROAD TRIP and I was on board. On the way up there, we plan to stop and see a game in Kansas City. While in Chicago, the Cubs just happen to be in town and we will take in a game at Wrigley Field if luck is with us.

As one might expect, on the way back down from the far away north country, we plan to stop in and see the Cardinals who (because we ask the commissioner to schedule them this way – just kidding!) happen to be in town at exactly the right time. I haven’t been to St Louis and a Cardinal game since they were still playing in old Sportsman’s Park back in 1951 – a laps that I intend to correct.

I’ll report back to you as events get firm and transpire.

So what do you have planned for the summer. Leave a note, I’m interested.

Drawbacks to culling – 01 Jun 11

Over the last few weeks or so, my grandson Dilin, after finishing his first year of college, had been down to help with some stuff around the house. His last task was to repaint the inside of the kitchen pantry. That he did and then restocked it with the stuffs he had distributed all over the kitchen and dining room. That is all except the nearly six foot high stack of cookbooks he had left out on direction from his grandmother—my wife.

As you might expect, I was tricked into helping sort out and cull what cookbooks were not to be retained. I accomplished this from my chair completely across the room from Patsy who actually handled the material—I was not allowed to touch it.

The first item in the stack tackled by my better half was a three ring binder with lots of loose and punched items stuck in it more or less randomly. The good stuff looked to be a compilation of what looked good and needed saving at the time. Some really interesting keepers I thought as Patsy read them out as she went through the binder. I thought most of it deserved retaining—I was obviously out voted and as she claimed that she was the collector of the good stuff, she was also the final decision on whether to keep or cull.

There were such items as: (1) a newspaper clipping with the recipe for chocolate chip pie, (2) recipe for deluxe Mexican cornbread, (3) warranty and operating instructions for a 52” ceiling fan we no longer possessed, (4) same with a char-broil grill we no longer possessed, (5) page after page of clipped recipes I had never used or seen, and (6) a book entitled “Famous Chili Recipes from Marlboro Country” that looked like a keeper. I would estimate there were over two thousand recipes carefully clipped and pasted to yellow pages neatly filed away for later use. I’m not sure when later is going to be; I haven’t seen that binder off the shelf since we moved into this house.

The last item in the binder, I did think was of special note and thought I would give it a little more attention. I ask Patsy if I could review it just a bit. She relented and took it out of the binder and gave it to me. The item peaking my attention was a pink colored brochure that was most likely picked up at the Alaska State Fair in 1972 (see pix of prize winning 38 & 1/4 lb cabbage below) titled “Making Mukluks and Mittens With Fur.” Now I know you will side with me on this one: this is a keeper!

I am positive that I fully intended to make a pair of mukluks at one time or another. I always liked the ones the Air Force wore; we didn’t have that option in the Army—we had the VB boots though: better and cool looking. But still, I always liked their mukluks and wanted a pair.

The pamphlet looks to have been distributed by the University of Alaska Cooperative Extension Service’s division of Statewide Services (Pub #4). Page one provides a list of materials required to construct a quality pair of mukluks. The first item listed is “One pair Eskimo crimped soles, or soft soles of moose, caribou or hairseal. Only oogruk soles, prepared by Eskimos, are water proof.” Nuff said: that’s what I need. Step two did allow a little leeway on the fur requirements: “Two square feet of short haired fur such as hairseal, calf skin, caribou shanks or ground squirrel for tongue and ankle of mukluk.” I just might be able to acquire a few squirrel hides. My back yard seems full of them some days. The instructions for the trimming strips allows one to use “long haired fur, such as rabbit, fox, or otter, for tops.” That fox or otter may be just a tiny bit hard to come by but I bet I just might be able to come across a rabbit or two. I do believe I’m agonna leave off the pompons though. It was nice of them to allow one to use dental floss instead of the nylon thread.

Page 2 followed with very detailed instructions on laying out, cutting, preparing and assembling of the finished product. Shouldn’t be that hard once I get the material together. The second half of the pamphlet deals with mittens and as I have a perfectly good pair of Arctic mittens I’m just not going there.

The next item I reviewed later that same day. It looked to be very interesting: the 315 page “Recipes from Old Virginia” compiled by The Virginia Federation of Home Demonstration Clubs and first published in 1958. I remember seeing this book on the shelf many times. Upon review I discovered only one page with any real use and that looked to have been me; it was no doubt that the notes appearing on that page were in my writing. I don’t remember making molasses spice crisp but must have at some time. The recipe was contributed by N. Lula Pope of Southampton County. Looks good though!

My wife remembers obtaining this book on our first trip to Virginia upon entering the Army in 1970. The price sticker says $2.65. She also remembers seeing the same book (no change) in Williamsburg on our last trip to Virginia just a couple of years back—price at the time as far as she remembers was in the $15 – 20 range; I guess ya might say that was the change. My review of the collection pointed out a couple of quizzical options in some of the recipes. I had to giggle just a little at the use of the term slow oven and the attachment of 300ºF with that term. I finally found a note up front that explained that some of the older recipes came from long, long ago when ovens had not the fancy instruments we have today; thus slow oven is 300ºF, medium oven is 350ºF, etc.

It looks like they turned no recipe down that the testers (two pages of) pasted judgment on as being worthy. Why else would you need cocoanut icebox cookies I & II (Mrs. John W Gunter of Appomattox County and Alice Garrette of Appomattox County respectively), icebox nut cookies (Mrs. C G Siebert of Norfolk County), icebox cookies (Mrs. O S Crute of Augusta County), vanilla icebox cookies and almond icebox cookies (both from Mts. H Van Vleek of Norfolk County), mincemeat (Stella Dellinger of Shenandoah County), mincemeat (Mrs. Tom Boyer of Grayson County), mincemeat (Mrs. W A Sherman of Orange County), homemade mincemeat (Mrs. Stanley Dawson of Westmoreland County), grandmother’s mincemeat (Churchill Wright of Orange County), and green tomato mincemeat (Mrs. Frank Trainer of Prince Edward County). It does look like they eat a lot of mincemeat in Orange County and a lot of various icebox cookies in Appomattox and Norfolk Counties.

There were a couple of humorous entries, at least I thought so at any rate. On page 50 I came across a recipe for Scrapple for Canning (Mrs. M H Pannill of Orange County). I don’t know many people that eat scrapple anymore and I am sure I haven’t seen one of the ingredients on my HEB butcher’s shelf. There were only two ingredients: (1) 4 hog faces and (2) 16 feet. You did need to clean the faces and feet and cook until the meat falls from the bones. Next you had to “Remove bones and all liquid fat, but leave right much of the other liquid.” I do want to point out that both scrapple recipes were NOT in the index.

It was interesting to me that you had to wait two months for the “Best Ever” cucumber pickles of Mrs. Marcellus Boyer of Shenandoah County when I can go over to the HEB and get them this afternoon if I want. I could cut my wait in half by taking up the 14-day sweet pickles recipe of Mrs. Leslie Gordon of Appomattox County.

By the way, I did see a great number of really interesting recipes that I just might try down the road.

The primary drawback of culling is that ya just don’t know unless ya spend the time lookin’ close at each and every item in the stack what ya just might chunk that might be of use just around the corner or some time in the future. I’m more in tune with finding another place to store it and hold on; there’s plenty of corners in my future.

I know if I’m in need of scrapple that I can find pigs feet but I guess that I’m agonna have to call my HEB butcher over to the side and see if he can get me some faces; I just never see them on the shelf.

I am also in a quandary as to where I might come across some oogruk soles prepared by Eskimos. There’s really not a large population of any Eskimos, regardless the tribe, any where in Central Texas. I guess my mukluk project remains a No-Go without proper Eskimos tradesmen or women residing close by. Anybody out there got any contacts I could use? I’m still not much for this new fangled culling idea.