Wind

I can't take a picture of the wind, though I suppose that if I wanted to walk around the neighborhood a bit I might find some pictures of the effect of the wind.

After lunch, we walked about five blocks to a shopping area to look through some stores.  Going was not a problem, as we were going "downhill" so to speak.  But coming back against the wind we assumed a posture like this as we walked along:  \  \ with BBBH being just behind me, she hoping I would serve as a windbreak.  Even so, she had to sit for a bit to catch her breath before we completed the journey.

Seriously, the sustained winds were in the forty-mile range, and there were gusts that very nearly blew us over, perhaps sixty or so!

The good news is that we arrived safely home, and we spent only five bucks.  Plus tax, of course.

We had left a crock-pot of beans simmering as it sat outside while we were gone.  When we lifted the lid, we found a mixture of beans and really, really fine sand.  Waste not, want not.  The beans were poured into the colander, thoroughly rinsed, place in fresh water in a pot and put on the stove to finish cooking.  Oh, those beans were so good for supper!  Of course, the cornbread that accompanied them put the finishing flourish on the meal.

• I was born on the high plains in Southeastern Colorado during the Dust Bowl Era.  I recall hearing mother tell of the battle with the dirt in the house, stuffing papers and rags  around the windows and using all techniques available to keep the dirt out, to little avail.  She said that the sugar bowl with the lid on and in a closed cupboard would collect dirt inside along with the sugar.  I should have known that a day such as this one was not one in which to cook the beans outdoors.

The Palm

There stands the regal palm tree

Its use is more than I can see.

It wears a crown but gives no shade

and never a bit of fruit is made.

“Regal” is an apt description
The tree, the king, share this affliction

One is useless as the other

Each an embarrassment and a bother.

California in my youth

Sported palm trees, it’s the truth

But the ones I knew there

Wore edible fruit in their hair.

The date palm, a tree utile,

Its production was not futile.

On Oahu I met the coconut,

A palm tree too, similar but

at least it produced a bread

that if it fell not on your head

was edible, a thing of joy,

I’ve eaten them since a boy.

Yet this thing I see above me

Is useless as food or shade. A tree?

What is this tall thing for?

Why, my friend, it is décor!

A Day of Rest and Restoration

 So now you see how the Creator swept into being the spangled heavens, the earth, and all their hosts in six days.  On the seventh day—with the canvas of the cosmos completed—God paused from His labor and rested.  Thus God blessed day seven and made it special—an open time for pause and restoration, a sacred zone of Sabbath-keeping, because God rested from all the work He had done in creation that day.  --Genesis 2:1-3, The Voice

Charlie's Pasture

We had a really nice ride along the water's edge to visit this nature preserve.

Port Aransas developed this area, with new walking trails, board walks over the salt flats, observation tower, and pavilion, as a nature preserve.  The work took place over the last four years.  It is a wonderful excursion, even if the wildlife observed on a given day is limited to woolly bears and dolphins.

The area is almost two square miles of land.  the designation "Charlie's Pasture" is in recognition of early owner Charlie Bujan who
allowed the local residents to graze their cattle on his property.

BBBH is strolling toward the water.  There were a couple of fishermen enjoying the afternoon there, and this is where we watched the dolphins swimming through the pass.

First-grader Ann and the School Superintendent

I understand that the Midwest is experiencing another hellacious winter storm.  While I am enjoying the warmth and sunshine of the Texas Coast, I offer you this rerun for your enjoyment.  I hope.

As I indicated, we lived in the last house but one on Water Street as you headed out of town. This location placed us just eight-tenths mile from the elementary school. Each day my wife sent the kid (only one in school so far) toddling off to the seat of learning, only to watch the Heton kids next door board the school bus bound for the same destination. Mommy very soon tired of this, and Daddy was directed to "do something about that."

So I approached the Superintendent of Schools. Was I thinking "professional courtesy" or what was I thinking? Dr. McClurg was a vast, I mean huge, Irishman who had served our country honorably during WWII as captain in the USMC. He affected the same military flattop he wore as an active-duty gyrene, though it was white now, but would still have been a full head of hair had he not had it shorn weekly. At six-five and two seventy-five, he was a formidable man-mountain.

He welcomed me into his office, and we exchanged a few pleasantries, a bit of banter actually, as his school district and the one in which I worked were keen rivals on the football field or in the basketball arena. Then, getting to the point, he asked, "What can I do for you?" I succinctly explained that my child was walking nearly two miles each day to and from school, while my next door neighbor's kids were riding the corporation bus; and since it would not require an extra stop, I would appreciate it if my child could board the same bus.

"Now, Mr. Lacy, it surprises me that you would ask that. You see, the alley between your house and the Heton's is also the town limits line. It is policy that no child who lives within the village proper may ride the bus."

"Well, Dr. M, Ann would be glad to walk across the alley to get on the bus."

"But, don't you see? the line has to be drawn somewhere. If Ann rides, then Mrs. Lewis will want her kids to ride, and so on, until the driver will be stopping 50 yards from school to pick up someone who could get there faster on foot. You take my point!"

Of course I took his point, and besides as a child I had walked farther than that to get to school. Didn't kill me; wouldn't kill my kids.

How cold it can get inside one's domicile, even with the fire burning brightly.

© 2010 David W. Lacy

Flim Flammin on the Jim Jam

Too busy making music last night; no time for making stories.  Come again.

Zelda's Interview #T

A few years ago when I was in the mood for reflections on the career, I wrote a number of items about school, both as a student and as a teacher.  I was scrolling through the archives and this one appeared.  Without apology, I repost this item with minor revisions.

We had received a resignation from one of the elementary music teachers. As per standard procedure, the vacancy was first posted within the school system; then the notice of position available was posted at selected colleges and universities.

Several applications and resumes had arrived on my desk.  I had selected four applicants to invite to interviews. In fact, I had already seen two very well qualified applicants when I received a phone call from a young lady who lived in a remote part of the state, 120 or so miles from our school. She had just seen the post at the university of which she was a graduate, and would be delighted to bring her curriculum vitae with her when she came to interview. I told her that the application date had expired, and we were already well into the interview process. She, in her bright and well-educated manner, assured me that she knew for a certainty that she was just the person for the job, and I did not want to miss the opportunity of a lifetime. I relented, granted her an interview date.

Since writing "the young lady" repeatedly would get tedious, I shall call her Zelda.  Zelda arrived exactly two minutes before the appointed time. Good. I like punctuality. I find "too early" to be almost as annoying as "late." My admin assistant ushered her into my office and made the introductions. Zelda, beaming smile in place, stepped forward, offering me her hand. Her handshake was firm, holding on neither too long nor too briefly. Good. I like her already.

As Zelda was seated in the guest chair, I observed that she was dressed professionally, a quite pleasant appearance with nothing out of place. Stylish, too. I'd tell you all about the Louis Vuitton accessories, the Manolos and so on, but I wouldn't recognize any of that if I saw it

As I glanced through her resume, I asked the leading questions, background, training, basis for choice of career. You know, carefully avoiding the questions one is "not allowed to ask." Zelda assured me that she loved children, had been very successful academically and was avidly looking forward to moving into our music program and sharing her expertise with our kids.

I asked Zelda what musical instruments she played. "Oh," she said, "I don't play." "But," I said, "you do play piano, don't you?" Well, no, she doesn't. I asked how, then, would you expect to teach music wherein not only accompaniment to singing is expected, but the basis for an understanding of musical concepts is to be taught? Oh, Zelda brightly assured me, I would use records.

Trust me, I wanted to ask, "Can you play a phonograph?" But I didn't. As suavely as I could and with the use of as little time as necessary, I got her out the door and on her way home. I did offer her a few words of kind professional advice, and I hope she took them to heart. I do hope, as well, that she has had a happy and productive life. Just not teaching music to elementary students.

It is my belief that Zelda's lack of expertise in the field in which
she was applying may well have not been entirely her fault.  I mean, she
was a university graduate with a license to teach.  Sigh.

Vanilla and James Joyce

Sunday afternoon reflecting on ancient history. But this has become a standard behavior. Interpretation: here is an old guy.

The mother of my children, who died thirty-three years ago, would have had a birthday today had she lived. Both my daughters are now older than their mother ever was.

This day which started with the brightest of all possible blue skies has turned into an occluded afternoon, the sky a dome of grey with not a spot of blue showing through.

Sometimes we feel as though our lives have clouded over, never to see the sunlight of joy again. This is not the case, for just as these clouds above me now will lift or drift off to another realm, the feelings we hold in our hearts will be assuaged and there will again be blue skies.

Living in a constant state of euphoria would be no more desirable than living in a constant state of dolor. Neither is natural.

I had an acquaintance once whose every moment seemed to be filled with joy. No one knew the pain he bore within. Now, he was either a great actor, or a total hypocrite. You be the judge. There are those who will say that for him to “let it all out” is the only way in which he could find true happiness. Others might say that his actions are heroic, for he does not dump his ills on everyone with whom he comes in contact.

Of course, we have all known someone who cannot corner us quickly enough in order to tell us the panoply of woes with which he is encumbered. And we cannot get around a corner quickly enough to avoid him. So much for “letting it all out.”

I overheard a conversation a few years ago in which one of the participants was told that her daughter had made the trip home safely. She said, “Oh, dear! I forgot to worry about that.”

Were I inclined to “worry” I should be quite good at it, for I come from a long line of worriers. I have yet to observe that the worries of these dear ancestors ever accomplished anything in terms of “fixing” or alleviating a situation. But they loved to worry. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” It is indeed totally unnecessary to borrow trouble. Everyone has an adequate supply of his own.

My Beloved Beautiful has gone in search of a dentist nearby, for in consuming a bite of candy which was a loving gift from a friend, said candy knocked a crown off. No, really. She fished into her mouth, laid the beautiful piece of porcelain or acrylic, or whatever the material is these days, on the table. “And,” she said, “That was a thousand bucks.”

We never know what our “gifts” may do for another. Nor do we know what the gifts we receive may do for us. Beware of friends bearing gifts.

If you draw anything useful from this, you are my guest. If you don’t, well I can’t help how you spend your time.

Disclaimer: This is a Joycean endeavor. Flow of consciousness sort of thing, you know. Sometimes getting into someone’s head isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. And just so you know, I sort of feel that way about Joyce.