April Fools

When I proposed to Joyce, I asked, "How does April First sound?"

She smiled and said, "Sure!" but I still felt obligated to explain why I thought April Fool's Day would be a good day to get married. So I expounded, "It's my Dad's sixtieth birthday; it would be a nice gesture." I went on to point out all the practicalities: April First fell on a Saturday that year (1978). Also, that gave me about two months to set up household. Joyce immediately liked the idea and insisted that her wedding band be engraved on the inside: "Your April Fool".

At that time Joyce lived in Houston. I was living on-post at Fort Stewart, GA in the BOQ (Bachelor Officers Quarters). Calling it the BOQ sounds better than the full truth: I lived in an on-post single-wide trailer with a drunken middle-aged warrant officer. Even I knew that having Joyce move in with George and me would never work out. George was hard enough to live with when he was sober, but that was the best of it. I figured my bride might take exception to George's showing up armed and loaded (literally and figuratively) and pounding on the bedroom door at 2:00 AM to curse me for locking the trailer door again. I always apologized profusely (which is a good idea when you're dealing with an armed drunk), but secretly, I actually enjoyed hearing George hit the ground in those wee hours when he fell off the trailer house steps.

But back to my point. Figuring George and Joyce would not hit it off, in the two months between my proposing and the wedding, I found a newly built apartment in Savannah, bought a bed, moved in, and had a phone line installed. When we arrived "home" from our whirlwind honeymoon across the Old South, we didn't even have chairs to sit on. The only thing my pretty girl got when she married me was, well ... me.

That engraving was apt - she is indeed my April Fool. And despite all the evidence I've given her that she made a mistake, that sweet thing hasn't gotten any wiser yet.

Wardrobe Malfunction

I had a sartorial faux pas the other day, but fortunately Joyce caught it before I got out the door. I know what you're thinking: “Oh, Bob left his fly open again…” But no, that's not it. I almost left the house with the manufacturer's tags hanging off my new pants. I'd removed the tags that were stapled, but who'd have ever thought that there'd be stickers to peal off too? (As Andy Rooney would say, “I know I didn't.”) Anyway, Joyce spotted the sticker and said, “Oh my, here let me help.” Thus my lovely bride once again spared me some embarrassment.

And that reminds me of another wardrobe malfunction from bygone days in which Joyce was a bit less diligent about her spousal inspection duties. (You may excuse her dereliction of duty as the result of her chasing toddlers all day and being up at night with the baby, but let's remember, she did after all fail to keep me looking my most dapper.) Anyway, on this particular morning, I got all the way to downtown Dallas, walked several blocks to the office, rode up the elevator, set down my brief case, and walked to a colleague's office to inform him that my usual carpool buddy Jim wouldn't be in that day because he was on his way to Killeen to visit his daughter who'd just had a baby, Jim's first grandchild.

I stepped into Frank's office (where I found him and two other guys sitting around visiting). So I shared the joyous news: "Hey guys, I just thought you should know…" But Frank interrupted me with his own news flash: "Your fly's open."

I looked down and sure enough he was right. But (as I tugged on my zipper) Frank's revelation didn't deter me from sharing : "Oh, thanks for pointing that out, but I just wanted to let you know that Jim has a brand new grandbaby."

Without missing a beat, Frank shot back, "Ohhh, well then, why didn't you say so? In that case, let's all unzip our pants."

I get no respect sometimes.

(Just who do I think I'm kidding about "sometimes"?)

MsCommunication

Joyce and I have been married for nearly thirty years, so we've had our share of misunderstandings. In fact, I'd say we're getting pretty darned good at misunderstanding each other. A case in point is a conversation we had this morning while waiting for my commuter train. We were parked facing east just after sunrise. Of course, this time of year the sun rises well north of due east. Anyway, there we were in the parking lot when Joyce pointed to the northeast and said, "That Corolla is beautiful."

I looked to the left and didn't see anything remarkable where she was pointing, but as I scanned further left, there it was: a pretty little late model royal blue Toyota Corolla. I wondered why she was commenting on the car, since in all our 29+ years I've never known her to obsess over anything mechanical (other than to post on the refrigerator a list of things that need fixing around the house).

Just as I was about to ask, "So what do you find so pretty about that car, she volunteered the information: "I love the way the sun's rays stream like that." I looked back at the car and saw no sun shining off it. Fact is, the car was completely in shadow due to the sun hiding behind trees. So here I was working out the geometry problem of how Joyce, in the passenger seat, could be seeing a glint off the Corolla that I couldn't see, when it began to dawn on me that this wasn't a geometry problem at all. Nonetheless, I scanned the angle between the car and the sun in hopes of figuring out how she could be seeing something I was missing, when suddenly I spotted it.

Sunbeams were fanning out in a beautiful display from behind the tree. I asked, "Did you perhaps mean, 'corona'?"

Joyce said, "You know, Doctor Laura would really let you have it for always correcting me like that."

Lieutenants

Joyce and I have just gotten just back from a commissioning. It's now two years since Andy received his brass bars and this time next year James will receive his. So it was an emotional event for me, filled with both reminiscence and anticipation. I counted it a great honor to shake the hands of nine freshly minted Army second lieutenants and to thank their parents for bringing up the next generation of America's warriors.

The ceremony was very well run. As each lieutenant was called from his seat on the front row, the family members who were doing the pinning were announced from the podium. As the commissionee stood at attention, facing us center stage, the family members pinned his bars. Then the lieutenant was given a minute to express his gratitude to family and friends. Following that, the announcer told us who had the honor of rendering the first salute to the new lieutenant. The freshly buttered lieutenant then executed a left face and walk to the waiting enlisted man where salutes and a dollar were exchanged.

The last lieutenant to receive his butter bars was pinned by his mom and dad. Mom wore a modest but stylish dress; dad was a bit more garish - in Class A's with a chest full of ribbons, a sleeve full of hash marks and a shoulder full of stripes. After the new lieutenant's bars were pinned and he'd spoken his words of thanks, mom returned to her seat and dad turned smartly to the right side of the stage where he performed an about-face. The stern lieutenant then executed a left face and marched to a point directly in front of his dad. The Sergeant First Class snapped a clean salute (one that bespoke service as a drill instructor). The lieutenant returned the compliment, and then rendered the traditional tribute. As the coin passed from left hand to left hand, their right hands clasped. Then the older hand (still gripping the coin) reached over the lieutenant's shoulder and drew him into a firm hug. The grinning men then spoke soft words to each other, and the lieutenant took his seat while the sergeant rejoined his tear-stained bride. The applause was just a touch longer than it had been for the other commissionees.

At the reception, I had the chance to speak to the dad. I told him, "You must be very proud of that young man." He agreed, he most certainly was. I considered asking him how much he'd sell that dollar coin for, but decided it was a risky question, one that (coming from a stranger) he might not appreciate. I did however share a story with him that made him laugh. I told him about my oldest brother's commissioning some 37 years ago.

This tale is actually about the morning after Joel was commissioned. That Sunday morning, as Dad was leaning over the bathroom sink shaving, Joel appeared in the doorway. Seeing that his way to the toilet was blocked by our father (a 52-year-old WW2-vintage tech sergeant), the fresh lieutenant steadied his voice and commanded as firmly as he could: "Sergeant, stand aside. I need to pee!"

Dad snapped to attention and stepped back from the sink: "Sir! Yes, sir!"

As Joel stepped past he remarked to himself, "I've always wanted to say that to my dad."

Dad then executed a right face, reared back with his left leg and landed a solid kick to Joel's retreating buttocks. Dad returned to the task of stroking the razor against his neck, muttering, "I've always wanted to do that to a pissy second lieutenant."

No Greater Love ...

In a recent letter to his family, thirty-year-old Staff Sergeant Marcus Golczynski spoke to all of us:

"I want all of you to be safe. And please don't feel bad for us. We are warriors. And as warriors have done before us, we joined this organization and are following orders because we believe that what we are doing is right. Many of us have volunteered to do this a second time due to our deep desire to finish the job we started. We fight and sometimes die so that our families don't have to. Stand beside us. Because we would do it for you. Because it is our unity that has enabled us to prosper as a nation."

Lord, may those words always be a source of comfort and strength to Sergeant Golczynski's eight-year-old son, Christian.

Prostate Lament

[Sincerest apologies to Enya]

Who can say
when your wee goes
if it free flows?
- Only time.

And who can say
when the flow slows
if it soaks toes?
- Only time.

Who can say
if a good try
is to aim high?
- Only time.

And who can say
there's a first prize
for those good tries?
- Only time.

Who can say
if you force pee
that it could be
you might fart?

And who can say
when your wife sleeps
and the smell seeps
off the chart?

Your love wakes -- with a start.

Who can say
when your wind blows
what your love throws?
- Only time.

And who can say
where your aim goes
when she hits home?
- Only time.

Who knows? - Only time.

Who knows? - Only time.

Good News Bad News

This is the season when we Christians celebrate Jesus Christ's resurrection. But the importance of Easter isn't that we celebrate, but rather what we celebrate. Unlike our Jewish brothers, there's no ordinance in the Bible commanding Christians to celebrate at this time of year. We do it, not because we have to, but because we can't help it. We're drawn to the empty tomb in awe, not driven to it by law.

The only people I know who object to Christians joyously celebrating Easter are PC Christians who fear offending their Jewish or Muslim colleagues. For the most part (radical Islamists being the obvious exception), people of other Faiths have no objection to Christians doing what Christians do. The chocolate bunnies and colored eggs aren't offensive. Jewish youngsters look for Elijah; Christian tikes look for a basket-toting bunny. Jewish children hunt for broken matzo; Christian kids hunt for colored eggs. Isn't it quaint that we have different traditions?

But let's be clear, the message of Easter (that Israel's Messiah was crucified on the eve of Passover and rose from the dead three days later) is extremely offensive. If Messiah came in the first century, as Christians claim (and as was foretold by the prophet Daniel in Daniel 9:24-27), then for the past 2000 years Israel has been rejecting its Messiah and defying its God. That's a tough pill to swallow, because if we Christians are right about the identity of Jesus of Nazareth, then Judaism has erred very badly. And that's bad news.

But if Christians are right about the identity of Jesus, and if Messiah has already fulfilled Isaiah 53, then we can also expect Him to fulfill the prophecy of Isaiah 54 and rescue the nation of Israel from an increasingly desperate geopolitical situation. And that's good news. Listen - you'll hear the rattling of bones in Israel (Ezekiel 37).

There's a funny saying that pretty well sums up the difference between Judaism and Christianity: Jesus saves - Moses invests. It's a good joke, but it also conveys an even greater truth. Judaism views works of righteousness as earning credit with God. But if we Christians are right and if deliverance from God’s righteous wrath is “not by works of righteous which we have done, but according to His mercy” (Titus 3:5), then all of Judaism's works for the past two millennia have been squandered on a foolish investment.

So, in this joyous season the good news for us Christians is: The Rock of our salvation lives! But to our Jewish brothers we sadly render bad news: our Rock is "the Stone the builders have rejected" (Psalm 118:22). I strongly urge you, my Jewish brothers (though you find my words offensive): Someday, on Passover, when you open the door for Elijah and he actually walks in, listen carefully to what he has to say about Messiah.

Super Bad Example

In the fall of 1954 the best program on that new-fangled electronical marvel known as television was: "Look, up in the sky; it's a bird; it's a plane - NO, IT WAS SUPERMAN! a strange visitor from another planet with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men, who (disguised as Clark Kent, a mild-mannered reporter for 'The Daily Planet') fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice and the American way." Children all across America watched awestruck as Superman broke through paper-mache walls, leapt head-first out the windows of The Daily Planet, landed feet-first through those same windows, and (in between his take-offs and landings) flew with breathtaking speed across a sky filled with blue-screen clouds ... Did anyone else notice that George Reeves's ample stomache was visibly flattened by the invisible table he was lying on? But I digress.

Way back in 1954, while George Reeves's alter ego was leaping tall buildings, I was busy filling my diapers. However, while I was giving birth to poop, the Man of Steel's true disciples (my older brothers Joel and Roy) were busily birthing ideas on how to emulate Superman's feats. Mind you, El Paso isn't Hollywood (not by a looooong shot), so Joel and Roy were coming up somewhat short in their efforts to re-create even the crude stunts seen on black-and-white TV. Yet, the imaginations of children will not be denied. And thus it was that my two older brothers (having found a nifty little hatchet in the garage) made the awesome discovery that drywall can be rendered as weak as papier mache with just a few well-placed perforations.

Dad had built a partition wall in the garage (in order to create a small paint shop on the end farthest from the overhead door). He'd added drywall to the garage side of the wall, but the studs still showed on the back side. And so my two older super-siblings (ages four and six) learned that sheet rock, with just a little hatchety help, can be made into Hollywood's equivalent of mortar and brick. It was a marvelous game. A half-dozen strokes with the hatchet, one mighty leap between two-by-fours, and - ta da - there you were, face to face with ... Dad stepping out of his truck. Roy, though only four years old, sensed immediately that this game had suddenly gone bad.

When the Bible speaks of "the wrath of God", I have no problem understanding the concept. My father was a good man who had a delightful sense of humor, but (like most men) he had to keep a close watch on his anger. This was one of those occasions. To Dad's credit, he knew that if he administered punishment in his current mood, he might do serious harm both to the bodies and the psyches of the children God had given him. So, just as our Heavenly Father has postponed the Day of the Lord, so my earthy father promised a second advent when the unrighteous would receive their just reward. No man knows the day or the hour of our Lord's coming, but these two little boys knew that Armageddon would come that evening, right after supper.

I must remind you, I was not party to Joel and Roy's super-misdeed. So although Joel and Roy knew all too well that Dad was a man of his word, I hadn't a clue that there was a reason behind Joel and Roy's dawdling over their lima beans. Finally, supper ended and the lord of the household beckoned for his children to join him the livingroom where he would pay them the wages of their vandalism. Dad (much calmer, but still determined to mete out justice) methodically removed his belt, placed the buckle and tip in his right fist, and commanded Joel and Roy, "Line up and bend over." The condemned stepped from the kitchen and performed their oblique salah.

Not wanting to be left out, I toddled over and assumed "the position" at Roy's flank. Dad began to laugh - laughing so hard that he soon realized there was no way to pull off a credible execution of the guilty. So he just administered a cursory stroke on each of us and declared the Superman TV show banned at our house. And so it was that I delivered my older brothers from certain death, and Superman (the corrupter of America's youth) was cast from our home.

Henceforth, Joel, Roy and I would sit glued to the moving black-and-white pictures of our hero (our adhesion to the tube now doubly motivated by the lure of both the marvelous and the forbidden). One afternoon, about three years after Superman's banishment, as the credits scrolled down Superman's chest with the American flag waving in the background (by the way, did you ever notice that the ripples in the flag occasionally reversed direction? But I digress) as soon as the credits had finished scrolling, Roy and I sprang to our feet, freshly inspired to "leap tall buildings with a single bound." We felt "faster than speeding bullets." We became "more powerful than locomotives." We were SUPERMEN!!!

Now, deep in our hearts we knew that we couldn't really do all this single-bound building leaping. But we lived in a two-story house, so we actually could do as our mentor had demonstrated on channel 4, and leap out of second floor windows, landing in the ligustrum bushes in the front yard. Roy and I had one of the front windows open, and I was preparing to climb onto the window sill as Roy was streaking toward the ground with his bath-towel cape flapping behind.

Meanwhile Dad, having arrived from work particularly early that day, stepped around the corner of the house just as Roy pancaked into the shrubbery. SuperRoy, realizing that his secret identity was compromised, attempted to become faster than a speeding bullet, but Dad (just as Lex Luthor might have done) froze the Boy of Steel in his tracks with a thing more disabling than Kryptonite - a question. Dad asked, "Just what do you think you're doing?" From my vantage upstairs I saw (with the aid of my X-ray vision) Roy standing there with the testimonial terrycloth hanging down his back. My super-sensitive hearing had picked up Dad's icy question, but even my super ears could hear not a peep from Roy's trembling lips.

Bruce Wayne has his loyal butler Alfred and his sidekick Robin. And the Fantastic Four fight as a team. But alas, Superman - he's on his own. I backed away from the window, dropped my cape in the hamper as I passed by the bathroom, and traipsed downstairs: "Mom! Dad's home."

Geonaut

The greatest advantage of growing up in a home filled with four brothers and three sisters, and of having a father in the construction business, can be summed up in one word: "junk". (Note: there's a fine distinction between "junk" and "trash". Junk is once-useful stuff that one considers too valuable to throw away - it's trash with potential!) As a large family subsisting on a carpenter's income, we may have had to spread the peanut butter on our day-old bread a little thinner than others, but we had an abundance of the commodity kids value most. We had a virtually inexhaustible supply of two-by-four scraps, broken shovel handles, bent nails, near-usable screen doors, uncleaned broken bricks, used crankcase oil, rusty nuts & bolts, former Skil-saw blades, filthy rolls of carpet,… We had everything a kid with imagination and a tetanus shot could want or use. I remember actually feeling sorry for the children who lived along the paved section of Raynor Street. They didn't have any of our neat stuff in their manicured yards. And the uses for such treasure are limited only by imagination - which for us meant the uses were limitless.

On one dull Saturday morning when I was nine, our trove offered up an army footlocker and a four-foot chunk of gasoline-soaked garden hose. My two older brothers (Joel and Roy) and I discovered that the hose fit perfectly through a hole in the footlocker's lid (which if memory serves me, had been pierced by a capricious pick-axe we'd been abusing). Now, to the untrained observer it would appear that we'd merely created a footlocker with a four-foot section of siphon hose stuck in it. But to us boomers living in the early sixties, who'd all heard the scratchy outer-space voices of the astronauts, the word "capsule" was magical.

We, the intrepid, had built a "capsule", a craft suitable for childish exploration of unknown worlds. Because our capsule had obvious aerodynamic limitations, we ruled out the exploration of outer space. But if we couldn't go up, we could go down. Thus, deciding to embark on the exploration of geological space, we dug a hole in the barren garden next to the driveway and prepared to bury each other. Through a complicated selection process (which to this day I don't fully grasp) I received the high honor of becoming the world's first "geonaut".

I solemnly swore fealty to God and country. (Joel had done such a masterful job of inventing the oath that I hardly even noticed its similarity to the Pledge of Allegiance.) And then I, as had Alan Shepard before, boarded my tiny craft and closed the hatch to begin the exploration of uncharted space. But before Joel and Roy shoveled dirt back into the hole and covered my capsule, they were very careful to assure I had the hydrocarbon-laden hose between my teeth and I was inhaling through my mouth and expelling air through my nose. Joel, who'd had months of technical training in 7th grade science, emphasized the importance of not re-breathing the carbon-dioxide-laden air in the hose: "You could die that way - let us know if you think you're going to pass out and we'll dig you up." Only after we'd performed all the safety checks and gone over these vital emergency procedures, did I hear the thud-thud-thud of the dirt clods against my capsule's hatch. (You can never be too careful, you know.)

As this flight-of-fancy stretched into an endurance record that exceeded Alan Shepard's suborbital mission, the family patriarch drove up in his '58 Dodge pick-up. Dad (ever observant) had noticed that his two oldest children, who'd been talking to a hose stuck the ground as he drove up, were now gazing skyward and trying much too hard to strike innocent poses. In my mind's eye I can picture the scene (not being an eyewitness to this extraterrestrial inquisition, you understand). Dad must have closed the truck door and walked around the front of the hood as Joel and Roy came to rigid attention. Our insightful progenitor, looking down at the disturbed topsoil, asked, "What've you got buried down there?"

Joel and Roy answered so quietly I could barely hear their muffled reply: "Bobby."

But I recognized my queue and piped up with a sprite: "Hi Dad!"

With a deep sigh and his renowned brevity, Dad rumbled in his soft slow menacing baritone: "Dig 'im up!" Having thus set a flurry of activity in motion, Dad turned and went into the house to share our exploits with Mom.

As I emerged from my entombment, Mom emerged from the house in a way that can only be described as ballistic. For some mysterious reason she seemed displeased with us and launched into that old rant on the subject of "The moment my back is turned…." As Mom yammered on, it occurred to me that this was not the ticker-tape parade which my fellow voyagers, the astronauts, were accustomed to. I thought to myself, Just how could an adventure that began so nobly end in such a disaster?

And thus it was that I fully realized Gus Grissom's anguish when his hatch blew prematurely and he saw both his capsule and his acclaim sink into the Atlantic. Yes indeed, Gus: "How come that prick John Glenn gets all the glory?"

Easy Money

The Sotos were painters whom my dad often employed as subcontractors on construction jobs. By an odd twist of fate, Dad once owned the house in which the four Soto brothers and their families lived. Understand now, the Soto brothers were not simple immigrant Mexican peasants. They were third generation Americans. Nonetheless though not immigrants, in important ways they remained simple Mexican peasants. The governmental corruption in Mexico leaves deep cultural scars that even decades on the American side of the border won't heal, and thus, it was that the Sotos had a strong aversion to all things official. When their grandfather's house (in which they all lived) was about to be put up for sale on the steps of the El Paso County courthouse for payment of back taxes, Enrique Soto came to Dad and asked if he could help assure that the Soto family didn't get evicted from their homestead.

You see, Grandfather Soto had died over a decade before, and of course, he'd made no provision for the disbursement of his meager estate. Grandfather Soto's "house" was an ant hill of interconnected dwellings that lay in the morning shadow of the El Paso County Coliseum - each of the brothers having contributed his own compartments to that communal edifice with no thought of ever subdividing the property. So in just about every way you can reckon it, Grandfather Soto's house had no single person who could actually claim to own it.

When their grandfather died, the four Soto brothers who lived in the house mutually agreed that each brother would be responsible for the ad valorem taxes in successive years. Enrique (as the oldest) took responsibility for the first year. Monche was to have the second year, Chato the third, Miguel the fourth. When year two rolled around, as a courtesy to Monche (who was having financial problems), Enrique again paid the taxes. On year three neither Monche nor Chato could scrape together the funds, so Enrique (as the oldest) again bore the burden of paying the family's debts. The fourth year caught all three bothers (Monche, Chato and Miguel) a bit short. This pattern continued until finally Enrique declared he'd had enough of their freeloading and he wasn't paying any more taxes until one of them coughed up. They were remarkably unexpectorant.

Several years into this financial gridlock (when the notice came that Grandfather's house would be auctioned at the courthouse), the taxes and penalties amounted to a back-breaking $1500, which made it quite a tempting bargain for any enterprising dealer in used cinder block. Thus came Enrique's proposition to Dad, "I have the money to buy my gramfather's houz, but could jou go weeth me to do the beeding?"

I was privy to this proposal because, although Enrique had enough money to cover the back taxes, this was (after all) an auction, and the sale went to the highest bidder. Enrique was asking Dad to back him financially if the bidding escalated beyond his pocket money. Dad (knowing Enrique to be honest) was willing, but he was a little short on cash himself, so he brought Enrique to me. I, fresh out of high school and flush with three years of minimum-wage ($1.25 to $1.40 per hour back then) earnings, had accumulated about $1800 in savings. Enrique offered to pay me $1100 for the use of $1000 of my money. If he needed to tap into my funds on the courthouse steps, he'd pay me back within two weeks. If not, he'd pay me that $100 bonus on the spot.

So on the appointed afternoon of August 1970, Dad, Enrique and I all crammed into Dad's powder-green (or more precisely, "his powdery green") 64 Chevy pickup with the duct-tape upholstery and drove downtown. I jumped out at the State National Bank and my chauffeur proceeded with Enrique to the county courthouse. After withdrawing the $1000 I walked the three blocks to the courthouse, where I found Dad and Enrique waiting for the auctioneer to begin the sale.

When Grandfather Soto's house went on the block, Dad offered the minimum bid. No one else spoke up, so we proceeded to the tax assessor's office to complete the transaction. After Enrique had rendered his tribute to Caesar, he pealed off one more C-note and handed it to me, and I then escorted all eleven Ben Franklins back to the State National. Right after I left, (as I hear it) the clerk slid the paperwork across the table for Señor Soto to sign, but Enrique insisted that it would be best if my dad actually owned the house. He reasoned he could just tell his brothers, "Eef jou don' like eet, go talk to El Jefe - but be careful, he might just trow jou out of hees houz!" (Just to put your mind at ease, at some point shortly thereafter, Dad actually deeded the house back to Enrique. I'm guessing Dad was even more averse to paying the property taxes on the Soto brothers' house than they were.)

And thus it was that Enrique Soto, with a single legal maneuver - brilliant in its conception, economical in its execution, and satisfactory in its conclusion - cut right through this intractable legal tangle (a Gordian knot which neither Texas State Law nor even the wisdom of Solomon was equipped to handle). From Enrique's deep artesian well of ignorance and procrastination, he drew the only pure, sweet cup that the entire Soto family could swallow.

Question

Q: How many women with PMS does it take to change a light bulb?

A: One. Only ONE!! And do you know WHY? Because no one else in this house knows HOW to change a light bulb! And don't even mention toilet paper! And they don't even notice the bulb is BURNED OUT! They could sit in the dark for THREE DAYS before they figured it out. And, once they did figure it out, they wouldn't be able to find the light bulbs despite the fact that they've been in the SAME CUPBOARD for the past 17 YEARS! But if they did, (by some miracle) actually find the light bulbs, TWO DAYS LATER the chair they dragged to stand on to change the STUPID light bulb would STILL BE IN THE SAME SPOT! AND UNDERNEATH IT WOULD BE THE WRAPPER THAT THE STUPID ASS LIGHT BULBS CAME IN! WHY? BECAUSE NO ONE EVER CARRIES OUT THE GARBAGE! IT'S A WONDER WE HAVEN'T ALL SUFFOCATED FROM THE PILES OF GARBAGE THAT ARE TWELVE FEET DEEP THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE HOUSE. THE HOUSE! --- IT WOULD TAKE AN ARMY TO CLEAN THIS !*$&#@% HOUSE! ... uh ... I'm sorry ... what did you ask me?

High Drama

James and I are back from west Texas -- me slightly worse for the wear (now sporting a good case of bronchitis). James, the hearty young buck, seems to have survived the chill wind quite well.

Our decision to delay our assault on Texas' highest point proved wise. If we'd ventured forth on Monday night, we'd have been camped at 8000 feet in the middle of a blizzard. But by Tuesday afternoon the weather was beautiful, clear with a high near sixty. Only the occasional patch of slushy snow on the trail testified of the previous night's inclemency. The only mitigation to our fair weather was west Texas' pervasive springtime wind (and consequent dust) which increased as the evening progressed. On Wednesday morning we were folding our tent in a 50-mph gale. The main problem with wind in the mountains was that it seemed to be from every direction at once. Now for some, an instantaneous shift from a 30-mph tailwind to a 50-mph headwind might not prove such an insurmountable problem, but for me (one from among the prostate challenged) abruptly recalibrating the windage setting on the old gun really spiced up the morning ritual.

Anyway, enough with the chitchat. Here are a couple of photos of James. This first shot is a view from behind El Capitan (the 1000-foot sheer cliff I featured in the previous post).

This second picture is of James at the summit of Guadalupe Peak.