Pile of Snakes

Posted Thu Jul 31, 2008 in

Palo Duro SnakesOne of the things about Texas is the Sweetwater Rattlesnake Roundup that is an annual event. While I’m not a particular fan of the roundup, and there might be (emphasis on might) an impact to the local rattlesnake population, it is an interesting affair. I wish I’d attended it some time.

But, I didn’t. In any event, the image is from a friend who happened upon a wad of snakes in Palo Duro Canyon. Click on the image for more detail.

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Long Ago

Posted Tue Jun 3, 2008 in

As part of the me-me meme I need to ruminate a bit on some places I lived. Here’s one…

I was very young, perhaps four or five years old. We lived in Encino, California, if what I recall from what my parents told me is correct. My maternal grandparents lived next door to us. Mom was never comfortable living too far from her mom and dad.

Sometime after my first sister was born, I recall feeling a bit “left out.” While I now understand that’s normal for the older child, it was beyond my experience at the time. One morning I woke and no one was awake. I was hungry, but hadn’t reached the point where I could fix for myself.

I recall sitting on the curb in front of our house, chin cupped in my hands, elbows on my knees. The lady across the street saw me and came into her front yard. She asked me “What’s wrong?”

“My mommy doesn’t love me anymore. She won’t even feed me breakfast.”

She took me into her kitchen and fed me Cheerios. I can still remember that after all those years.

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Guilty

Posted Fri Aug 31, 2007 in

High Wheeler DodgeI finally had my day in court. Way back in June I brought Shadowfax, my ’02 BMW K1200RS, to Nevada from Texas. I rode it through New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and Nevada. The ride was less comfortable than I wanted, so I decided to trade. On trade day, I was stopped for speeding and then cited for failure to register a vehicle.

Last Wednesday, I had my day in court. Before the court date I called a lawyer and asked him what I should do. He called his ex-wife, who still works traffic court, and asked about the procedures in Lyon County. So, I was instructed to plead not-guilty, then meet with the district attorney and explain what happened. He was certain they’d dismiss the registration charge and negotiate a no-points speeding ticket.

It was the points that worried me. From what I’ve read, when an insurance company receives notice that a points violation has been assessed, insurance rates go up. We’re already paying too much in insurance. So, I wanted a no-points conviction. I figured the cost of the fine and costs would be much less than the potential impact of an increase in insurance premiums. (We pay a lot!)

So, court day came. Wife and I drove to Dayton early and parked the Bimmer in the lot. We went inside. The bailiff, Dave, was already on duty. Dave, a big man with short-cropped gray hair, worked in his office, a M1911A1-style pistol in a holster at his side. His bright blue-gray eyes didn’t miss much and when I approached his office, he asked “What can I do for you?”

“Where is traffic court?”

“Around the corner to the left. But you need to meet with the DA before you get to court. Go downstairs and ask for S. Lee. She just came in.”

So, we headed for the hall where we found an oriental-looking woman mopping spilled coffee from a table in the hall. She had a filing box full of stuff.

“This is not a good way to start the morning,” she said, glancing up at me.

“Let me take the box for you. We’re looking for S. Lee.”

“That’s me. Let’s go downstairs to the office.”

The office was a hole-in-the-wall, with just enough room for a desk and three chairs. I placed the file-box on her desk, which she took and placed on the floor beside her. We chatted about how one becomes a deputy district attorney and about her job. I love to hear people talk about why they do what they do.

She got serious, though, when it came to business. However, it was just business. She agreed to dismiss the charge of failure to register my vehicle. She also agreed to reduce the speeding charge to rural speeding, which carries no points, in exchange for a guilty plea.

I agreed. So, we went upstairs to wait for court and the judge.

The bailiff was pretty busy, so there wasn’t much time to talk to him. I was curious about his job too. Wife spent a lot of time on her favorite pastime — people-watching. I read the historical documents which populate the courthouse.

While reading, a young man walked into the courtroom. He obviously knew the bailiff. We chatted a bit about why he was at traffic court.

“It’s my truck… They keep stopping me. It’s taller than regulations and I had to take the bumper off so the back-up camera would work. The cable wasn’t long enough…”

I looked at his vehicle (image at top). It’s tall all right. “Isn’t that hard to drive?”

“No. It’s a dream. A lot of people look at it. I almost got hit the other day when someone was trying to take a picture of it with their cellphone while driving.

“People drive crazy. But I keep getting stopped when they see me. They even get out a tape and measure it.”

I thought of SiL, who like tall-trucks. “My son-in-law would like it. Do you mind if I take a picture?”

“Not at all.” So I made the image while we chatted. It turned out he was ex-military (82^nd^ Airborne). I thought of many of our young people in the military now.

The appointed time came around, so Wife and I headed into the courtroom. The metal detector sounded as we passed through.

“Just a minute,” the bailiff said to Wife, “I’ll have to check your bag. We don’t want any guns in here.” He checked her bag and found nothing.

He looked at me. “Step back through, sir,” then looked back at Wife. “It’s probably him — he probably has the gun.”

“I’m not carrying.” I responded, but stepped back through the detector. It didn’t sound. We later figured out it was our cellphones that probably triggered the device. We found a seat and looked about. A wide variety of people were in the courtroom. I visited with the bailiff. He came to Dayton from San Diego after things started getting rough in southern California. He didn’t want to raise his daughters in that environment.

“All rise,” he called as the judge entered the chamber. We stood.

The judge called the court to order and began the business of court. He called cases and the two district attorneys did their jobs. The cases were interesting but it was the interaction that was more interesting.

My turn finally came. I entered the gate that separates the proceedings from the audience. The district attorney presented our discussion, getting some of her facts incorrect. The story was essentially correct, but the facts were wrong.

“Do you agree?” the judge asked me.

“Yes sir.”

“How do you plea?”

“Guilty.”

“You understand that you give up your right to a trial?”

“Yes sir.”

“All right. Fine is set to $67. I see you traded the vehicle. You decided on four wheels?”

“No sir. I bought another motorcycle.”

“I assume it is registered.”

“Yes sir. I registered it right away.”

“I used to ride one of those things. People out here drive crazy and I decided to sell it before someone killed me. You be careful out there and watch your speed.” The judge grinned.

“Yes sir,” I said as I headed out of the courtroom.

I paid my fine, satisfied that I had achieved what I thought would be the best outcome I could. But it felt odd having plead guilty. I suppose there is an entire line of thought I could take from there — a philosophical discourse on the guilt of all humanity since the fall of Adam and the sacrifice required to atone for that guilt.

But, I think I won’t. It isn’t that those thoughts didn’t pass through my head on the way back through Carson City to drop off Wife and head for the office. I just think I’ll keep them for myself to mull over. At least the ordeal is over.

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"Sourdough Jack" Martin

Posted Wed Jan 31, 2007 in

Sourdough Jack MabeeI’ve been a fan of sourdough bread for a long time. I remember asking for it as a kid, not knowing anything about how it was made or why it had that particular taste. All I knew is that I liked the consistency and that slightly sour taste, really more tart than sour, that came with the the fluffy white texture.

Later I started baking bread. I have no idea why I started, only that I did. My favorite mode was sourdough. Somewhere over the years, Wife and I accumulated a book by Sourdough Jack Mabee. I’ve written about that book, about my experience with sourdough, and my search for Sourdough Jack, here and here. So, there’s no real need to repeat those stories here.

But, I received an email recently from a friend of Sourdough Jack. He wrote:

Urban and David:
 
Found your post by accident.
 
I did not have to track down Sourdough Jack Mabee. He was a friend.
 
Years ago I met a wonderful man on Jury Duty who was known as “Sourdough Jack.” He published a couple of great Sourdough Cookery cookbooks which are still highly sought after.

I became a fan of his passion. His name was Jack Mabee and was known as “SOURDOUGH.” A year or so after he died, I was contacted by a friend of Sourdough, who told me Sourdough wanted me to have his Sourdough Starter, his equipment, all he had and knew about his Sourdough Starter.

I have shipped his kits to well over 2,000 Sourdough fans across the country. Am thinking about republished both his books from the 1970’s — and remarketing Sourdough’s Sourdough Starter Kit.

He was a great man, and his 100+ year old Sourdough Yeast is the absolute best I have found — and makes the best goodies anyone has ever had or made.

Sourdough in Seattle,
Martin

So, out of the blue comes a link to Sourdough Jack! I’ve been corresponding with the new Sourdough and he’s going to send me one of Sourdough Jack’s Starter Kits. How cool is that? I may actually have to start baking bread once again, all this time later, using the original Sourdough Jack’s Starter. I’ll have a piece of history, because that Starter is reputed to be more than 100-years old.

There may yet be good baking smells in the Ruminator’s kitchen.

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Two Men and A Boy

Posted Mon Jan 8, 2007 in

Danny's Ironwood GrillOne of my favorite eateries in Minden is Danny’s Ironwood Grill. It’s a converted Denny’s and I wonder if the name is a pun. Sunday I headed out from the motel to refuel the Bimmer, grab a bite, and wander around the valley for awhile. The restaurant was busy and I was solo, so I sat at the counter. The Jets were playing someone (I was paying much attention) for the AFC wild-card slot. The image just happened. While sitting at the counter of Danny’s Ironwood Grill Sunday, I saw a blurb for a TV show entitled Two And A Half Men. It’s an intriguing name, but I doubt the implementation thereof will live up to the name. That’s just television programming these days.

But, the notion reminded me of a couple of aphorisms Dad used to use. The first had to do with workload. A big job would be one that required “Two men and a boy.” I can’t recall the number of times I heard him use that.

I’ve used it myself more than once. Aphorisms have that way about them.

The second is one I’ve used on my sons innumerable times. “A boy is a boy, two boys is half-a-boy, and three boys ain’t no boy at all…” When the boys had friends over and there was work to do, I’d pull that one out of my repertoire. Of course, they hated it when I said that. I don’t think they disputed the truth of the saying, but it irritated them when I found much amusement in the recitation thereof.

I suspect those two proverbs are now passed on to another generation, much the same way they came to me. I know I’ve heard Older Son say “Those are Dad’s words. I just head Dad’s words come from my mouth.” more than once. <grins>

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PC and the Paper Ball

Posted Tue Jan 17, 2006 in

Years ago my wife and I had a cat we think was a Russian blue. She came to us via a college friend who could no longer keep her. She was named PC.

She settled right in with us and quickly became part of our family. She was an inside cat (I’m a believer in inside cats), but managed to escape a couple of times. I made the mistake of having her de-clawed, which I’ll never do again. I was young and didn’t realize what it meant. The vet didn’t do anything to dissuade us, either.

She loved to play with wadded up paper. Wife’s brother-in-law came to visit once and wadded up his cellophane cigarette wrapper. PC immediately appeared, looking expectantly at him. None of us knew what was going on. In jest, he tossed the wrapper and she pounced on it, batting it around the room (and the entire house) and chasing it around like a fiend. She continued for several minutes, then returned to him with the wrapper and dropped it. Her intent was for him to pick it up and toss it again.

Thereafter no one could wad up a piece of paper to discard. She would retrieve the ball from the trash can and play with it. In fact, when she heard the rattle of the wadding process, she would show up immediately and wait for you to toss it.

It became a family game. Although we didn’t have scorpions in Missouri, where we lived at the time, I was trained to shake out my boots in the morning because I often found a ball of wadded up paper in the toe from where PC had deposited it.

She would play with a small ball, but she really preferred a wadded up piece of paper. I think the rattle is something she liked.

She was a good cat and a good friend.

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Thankful

Posted Wed Jan 4, 2006 in

This morning, as I read the front page of the News-Miner, I came across this story. I was reminded of my own experience, many years ago, right after we completed my Ph.D. (yes, I said we). We found ourselves working for the U.S. Geological Survey and duty-stationed in south Mississippi. I worked at Stennis Space Center with a detachment from a headquarters unit of the Office of Surface Water.

One Saturday, the family and I drove down to Biloxi to spend a day messing around down there. We pulled into a fast-food restaurant for a bite. When we exited the restaurant, I looked at our Chevy, a hand-me-down from Wife’s folks, and noticed a spill of green fluid beneath the car.

I was immediately struck by that sinking feeling, the one that comes with a breakdown at 1700 on a Saturday afternoon with the knowledge that there is no one, at least no one but me, to effect the repairs. My tools were all at home.

Although I was working full-time, we had not yet moved from the poor-graduate-student phase into working life. There was a moment of panic before I realized that we had a bank balance and weren’t broke, like we’d been for the preceding six years.

I went back into the restaurant and asked about service. Someone there, maybe the manager, gave me a phone number or a name and a phonebook. I can’t remember which. (It was a long time ago.) I called the number and the phone was answered. That startled me in and of itself.

“Yes, we can repair your vehicle. I’ll call a tow-truck and come and get you,” the woman’s voice said.

A few minutes later, the wife (and co-owner) of the repair shop showed up in a pickup truck with a tow-truck following. The technician hooked-up the Chevy and we all piled into the pickup.

The owner and principal mechanic, and his wife took us in. He checked out the vehicle and told me it needed some additional work, but that he could get us back in service in a couple of hours. In the meantime, his wife would take us somewhere we could putter about while he effected the repairs.

So, we spent a couple of hours messing around at the Biloxi mall or some such place while he scrounged up the parts necessary to get us rolling home. There weren’t any cellphones then, they were called radiophones and were extremely rare (and expensive). When the vehicle was complete, the wife came and fetched us, we thanked them profusely, paid them, and drove home in amazement.

I took my vehicles to Biloxi after that for repairs. It was worth the forty-minute drive to know that the man working on them was that kind of man. I never worried that I’d be over-charged or that work would be done that wasn’t required.

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