Not much to say; this and that

It’s hot.

I am working on trying to propagate “Grandma’s Rose”.  When we went back to Arkansas for the last time, to get the remainder of Mother and Dad’s stuff, at the last second I went out in the back and dug up “Grandma’s Rose”; supposedly our great-great grandmother had the “original” (no telling where she got it) rose.  Mother had “liberated” it from a relative, and had it for like 30 years.  I dug it up and brought it to Houston, where it’s graced the front of my house and favoured me with blooms (I cut some of the best ones and some of my camellias and took them to Mom, don’t know whether she enjoyed them or not but Dad did).

In any event, this big cane got too top-heavy with blooms and leaves and just fell off.  I have cut it into 6” sections, now to plant them and see if I can root them.  I’d like to have more than one of this bush in case anything happens to the main plant.

Otherwise, all I’ve done this last week is go to work and come home, trying to stay out of the heat.  The heat is insane, it works on your brane (see?). 

>o<

Enjoyed a quick internet wallow on the subject of “Mid-Century Modern”, one of my favourite things.  There are several notable mcm houses here in Houston; I wish I had one of them.  Really I don’t, because they’re usually terrible to maintain, terrible to heat and a/c, etc.  But, I sure love the way they look.  Makes you want to break into a chorus of “Meet George Jetson…”.

Here’s a slideshow on Flickr that I really liked; I’ll start it on one of my favourites.  Go “right” through the pics.  Of course, any style is great if you can afford some of the finest examples; if you have to have a 1500 square foot “mass produced” version, it’s not going to be great no matter how you slice it.  I still would love to live in one of these wonderful houses.  Link here.  Look at Braeswood, and 319 Westminster.  Those who know me might be surprised to know this is my very favourite architectural style.  I’d gladly abandon all my knicknacks for something like these.

>o<

Eggs Benedict are just one of my favourite things.  Don’t have them very often, too much work vs.. fried/scrambled, but yesterday I got all energetic (for me) and whipped them up from scratch.  Did it again today to use up all the ingredients (the English muffins are not on my diet).  I’ve used the same old recipe forever for Hollandaise; I’m sure there are better out there but I like this one just fine.  It’s from my 1951 edition of The Joy of Cooking.   Still great after all these years.

>o<

Trifecta on our generation this weekend. I’m second cohort of the Baby Boomers; the first group graduated in the 60’s and had their classics.  We had fewer “classics”, but there were several that were all ours, and we lost two of them in two days; the trifecta came in with the loss of another of our parents’ icons---they’re just going away fast.

I was never Michael Jackson’s biggest fan, but you’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to recognize his incredible talent.  I know he had issues (!) later in life, but somehow I don’t think of that now; I’m just remembering “Thriller”.  He was the music icon of our generation.

I had the poster of Farrah Fawcett on my dorm room wall.  It’s supposed to be one of the biggest-selling pinups of all time; I can tell you this much:  there were 600 guys at Penland Hall in the fall of 1975, and each one of us had at least one copy, if not several.  She was one of the sex symbols of our generation (the other was Chris Evert).  You other generations can sneer all you want, but you’ve got yours.  She was ours.  I still think she was gorgeous. 

Ed McMahon was everybody’s favourite sidekick.  We grew up watching him on the Tonight Show (sneaking around to watch it on a 13” black and white Sony with rabbit ears, because I was supposed to be in bed.  I was really proud of that Sony; I bought it myself at a garage sale and the parents had a debate amongst themselves about whether I should be allowed to keep it; they decided it was my funeral if I couldn’t get up to go to school).  Anyway, the GI generation is fading fast.  Sigh.

Between these three deaths and the carrying on in Iran and Korea---and the heat---what an exhausting week.

HOT

“’s hot in here.  ‘s damn hot.  Too damn Hot.”---spoof interview with Abner V. McCall, President of Baylor University, on KWBU ca. 1975.

“Remember, son, Hell and Houston both begin with a ‘H’”---Original settler of Harrisburg, writing to his son back East.

While the rest of the country enjoys early spring conditions, tornadoes, storms, blizzards, and other signs of the apocalypse, we here in south Texas appear to have already been thrown into the pit with Lucifer.

It may be 95 at that nice grassy field out at the airport (near the nice cooling waters of the swamp), but in West Houston, my (carefully placed in the shade) thermometers are saying it’s 100 degrees at 7:00 pm.  My air conditioner (a nearly-new, highly efficient Goodman, made with Texas Pride in Houston by Houstonians) has been running continuously since I got home at 11:00 am (I was in Dallas yesterday and drove in this morning; I had the a/c in my car on “Lo-Lo-Lo-Recirc-Max Fan” all the way). I went to the Galleria earlier this afternoon; the car thermo showed “104”.

My yard is crispy; I’m going to water after the sun goes down at 9.  It’s also overgrown and going to seed; you don’t dare cut it short, because the moisture will evaporate faster.  My pine tree is shedding needles so fast it looks like a blizzard of brown.  Fortunately, my knockout roses (named Tschep, Eibner, and Bigham; there are those reading this who will understand that reference…) seem to LOVE the heat, growing and blooming their Razorback Red blossoms profusely.  Everything else is looking parched, despite all the –expensive- water I’m pouring daily.

I have the obligatory soaker hoses around my foundation, watering every night for half an hour.  Yep, here in good ol Tejas, we water our houses.  The soil is clay; if you don’t water, it pulls away from the foundation, leading the foundation to shift, then crack.  A cracked slab = major costly repair and a negative on selling your house.  Our houses “float” on the ground.  If you keep the soil moist around the foundation, and the foundation was poured correctly, you will –most likely- avoid a foundation repair company’s visit, work, and bill.  Oh, and of course there’s the fact that, when they do your repair, they have to tear up the floors inside to do it.  You then get all-new flooring, too….

I’ll worry about the Reliant bill and the City of Houston water bill later….

Speaking of the water department, our main is broken; water is bubbling up through the cracks in the street (two houses down from mine) and running into the storm drains.  All that lovely H20 down the drain when it could be going on my yard.  My neighbour across the street (a petroleum engineer) has rigged a sump pump to pump the water directly to his sprinkler.  $97.  I would do it, but they’ll come fix the main as soon as I do and it would be my luck that the store wouldn’t take the pump back. 

It’s been over 95 degrees now for 14 consecutive days, with no rain in the forecast and no relief in sight.  NOAA reports that the temps will go to triple digits (air temp at the aforementioned nice grassy field) next week, with heat indices well over 110.  Aforementioned City of Houston Water Department assures us that there is plenty of water in Lake Houston and Lake Conroe, but I can’t imagine they’ll let us water our yards too much longer if this drought continues.

The setting of sprinklers does provide certain advantages.  When it’s 100 degrees, a little sprinkle on YOU is a nice thing.

I love my office; I share air conditioning with the server room.  You can hang meat in there.  I love it.

Sigh.  I don’t know if it’s really hotter, or if it’s just the fact that I’m older, but the heat this year seems much worse.

But, the burgers have just come off the grill.  The lettuce is crisp and cool; the tomatoes, fresh off the vine, are “real”, juicy and cool and delicious, crusted with salt.  The sweet iced tea with its sprig of crushed mint is causing the glass to sweat.  There’s ice cream for dessert.

Y’all come on, now, wash up.  Supper’s ready.

GO HOGS!!!!

 

CONGRATULATIONS TO THE FIGHTING ARKANSAS RAZORBACKS, who punched their ticket (don’t you love clichés?  I do…) to Omaha yesterday by sweeping Free Shoes U (Florida State University) in the Tallahassee Super-Regional, following their sweep of Blow U (Oklahoma University) in the Norman Regional last week (we beat Oklahoma and Florida State, all games, at their places, for the baseball-impaired).  (And for those who might be baseball-impaired, you have my pity…;-)

2009 College World Series Interactive Bracket here.

Baseball is one of the greatest sports ever devised by man.  Called for over a century the “National Pastime”, it is quirky, weird, byzantine (explain the infield fly rule in 300 words or less; GO).  It has ebbs and flows, currents and eddies.  It’s a boys’ game played by men (and, in variations, by women).  George Carlin’s HILARIOUS, consummate summary of the differences between baseball and football can be found here.  Here in America, we play the WORLD SERIES, even though we invite nobody but ourselves….

If you want to reduce many American adult males to tears, just show them “Field of Dreams”.  There have been so many odes, poems, epics, photo essays, and other elegiac efforts written and published about baseball that I will forgo that pleasure and effort in this piece.  Suffice it to say, I’m as addicted as many, though not as addicted as some (who led the National League in hitting in 1967?  What was Tom Seaver’s ERA?  How many Cy Young awards did he have?  In what year was he inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame?  Name the teams on which Henry Aaron played, and what was his nickname?  Trust me, there are guys who can instantly spout the answers.  (Roberto Clemente, 2.86, 3, 1992.

Ok, so I threw the question about Hammerin’ Hank in there because he is the baseball hero who hooked me on the game.  He played for the Indianapolis Clowns of the old Negro League, then a brief stint in the minors, then the Milwaukee/Atlanta Braves until the last two years, when he played for the Milwaukee Brewers.  He hit 755 Home Runs, a record which stood until Barry Bonds –spit- passed him in 2007.)

>o<

I had the wonderful experience of attending the College World Series in 2004.  Lucy went, too!  She was still a puppy, and it was her first Razorback road trip. 

It was 105 degrees when we left Ft. Smith, Arkansas.  I had a brand new Dodge Grand Caravan (quick aside on me and minivans; I always sneered, as most do, at people who drove “Mommyvans”.  I did that right up until a friend of mine drove us from Malvern to Knoxville in his.  We went on a football/golf trip; drove to Knoxvegas, played golf, got beat in football, then golfed our way from Knoxville to Birmingham, where we played the Robert Trent Jones courses all week, then beat Alabama in Tuscaloosa, as usual.  It is barely possible that alcoholic beverages and lots of food were consumed at such places as Buddy’s Barbecue in Knoxville and the incomparable Dreamland in Tuscaloosa.  Then we went home.  By the time I got home, I was in love with the van---smooth like a car, good gas mileage, good handling, and you can take 2 grown men, 4 medium-large dogs, 2 sets of golf clubs, assorted tailgating/camping paraphernalia, and luggage for a week, without even worrying about whether you can see out or not.  I determined that I would have one, and Big Red –my Dodge- was the result.).

So Big Red, Lucy, some friends and I set off for Omaha.  We took shorts and t-shirts with us, because it was summer, right?  Wrong, Nebraska is far enough north that a cold front had come through; we had to go to Wal-Mart to obtain windbreakers and long-sleeved shirts.

We arrived in Omaha and, since the hotels were full and we had our camping equipment, we camped at a KOA with a bunch of other Razorback friends.  It was great!

The CWS itself is something else.  People tailgating, drinking, eating, smoking, belching, and watching baseball.  “It don’t git no better’n ‘is”. 

Omaha’s Rosenblatt Stadium has been the permanent home for the CWS since 1950; it’s a great venue for baseball, very comfortable, nice surroundings, decent concessions, and a “strip” across the street with all kinds of vendors selling souvenirs, food, drink, and everything else. 

You see a cross-section of America there, but generally it’s a fairly upscale/educated crowd (“slumming”).  Most everybody is not only civil, but like us, most were thrilled to be there.  It’s a great deal when your team gets there, and yes, we were all gloating that we were not like “mere mortals” at home watching it on TeeVee.

I’ll mostly let the pictures speak for themselves, with a few underlying comments.  This year I’ll be a “mere mortal” watching on TeeVee, but it’s an experience I’ll never forget.

Big Red, decked^

Tailgating^

Beef, it’s what’s for dinner^

The scene, as viewed from our tailgate.  “The Strip” is to the right of the stadium, across the street

 

We made it!

This IS the national championship!

  

 

My buddy Les playing catch with his son at the College World Series

Yeah, we know.  We like to eat.

In the immortal words of the immortal Larry Shank, our beloved, late stadium announcer:

THIS….IS….BASEBALL!!!

 

I’m not sure there’s any comment to make here.  We didn’t know these guys but it IS pretty hirarious.

Jake Dugger batting.  I got to see him earlier this year (2009) playing AAA ball in Austin; who knows?  Maybe I’ll get to see him hit at Minute Maid Park!

texass u (spit) pitching to us

In the above two pictures, I caught the ball mid-flight from pitcher to batter

It’s never too early or too late to hate texass u (spit)

2004 College World Series, by MalvernHog

The Greatest Store in the Greatest State, Part II

Joske’s really was the Greatest Store in the Greatest State.  They literally had EVERYTHING---and what they didn’t have, they could probably arrange.  Couture, furniture, a grand full-scale travel agency, a Boot department, Saddle department, and Tack department; the Camellia Room downtown; a Real Estate Agency (featuring Farm and Ranch); you name it, Joske’s had it.

Again, Neiman-Marcus had that reputation among the chi-chi in Dallas, but Joske’s had the reputation in South Texas and South of the Border.

When I worked there, the Mexico customers were something else.  Many folks don’t realize that there are a lot of very wealthy people in Mexico (Mexico City is bigger than New York)---and they frequently come to the US to shop. 

I wound up being manager of the luggage department at Joske’s North Star, and was always amazed at the Mexico customers.  You could tell one of them was coming, they usually had an entourage.  An incredibly aristocratic blonde (think “Evita”), dressed in the latest couture, accompanied by her assistants, would sweep into the luggage department and buy a complete set (all 46 pieces) of Hartmann Belting Leather luggage for her upcoming trip to Europa.  (I was, at one time, the #1 Hartmann Luggage salesperson in the state of Texas, and #4 nationally; I still love Hartmann; if you want the best, that’s it).  My favourite demo was to put a Hartmann 26 inch 2-suiter (we had one that had ink stains on it we had written out of stock) on the floor---and stand on it while I sold the customer on the many fine attributes of Hartmann Luggage.  Sold ‘em every time.

We had a “fine foods” department, featuring exotic food items from around the globe, but especially from Texas and the Southwest.  I’ll never forget, I was standing in the Luggage/Stationery/Gourmet/Candy/Notions/Books/Camera department (1/4 of the main sales floor) one day when one of the salespeople asked me to help a difficult customer.  I enquired of the gentleman, and it seems he had a tin of rattlesnake meat (!) from *1966* (we used gum tags, and they had the date code on them) that he had found in a drawer (this was 1974).  He wished to return it for credit. 

I told him I’d have to ask the manager (knowing what the reaction would be), and, trembling, had “Mister A. B. Jones” paged.

Mr. Jones was the God-Emperor of the main floor.  We were all terrified of him, but we all worshipped the ground he walked on.  A retired Marine Corps General, native of Columbus, Georgia, Mr. Jones was 6’4, clocked in about 300, had a mane of white hair, thick glasses, and walked around with a cigar chomped in his teeth (flagrant violation of every rule in the book).  He was also manager of Men’s clothing, and was always perfectly, flawlessly, immaculately dressed.  He had a voice like a foghorn and never seemed to realize that he was no longer a Marine General and we were not his troops. (“JONES!”, he’d bellow at me in front of fellow employees, customers, and whoever else was around, “if yew wud just apply your wuthless GD ass, you might make something of your m*****rf*****g stupid seff!”  It sounds harsh, but he wanted me to be the very best I could be; he strove for excellence himself and demanded that we do the same; we were the better for it).  In short, though, his cussing would make a hardened Marine blush.  He did it at the top of his (considerable) lungs.

So I paged Mr. Jones (our PBX operator, Sallie, who also paged people, was a 60 year old alcoholic Texas “gal” who had smoked waaay too many Marlboros, had her bouffant blonde hairdo piled up on top of her head (of course), and wore tiny, spikey high-heeled shoes, miniskirts, huge jewelry, huge glasses, and enough makeup to put a clown in the circus to shame; I believe she single-handedly kept our Elizabeth Arden boutique in business.  We loved her, too.  She would NOT put up with Mr. Jones’ crap, she gave as good as she got.  This made us love her all the more; she and Mr. Jones had worked together and carried on civilized warfare for years).  “Mistuh AAAAAYYY BEEEEE JONES, puh-leeze” she’d drawl out over the storewide intercom.  (He’d bray, “Whut the GD Hell do you want?” into the phone in response).  If she had to page him more than once (which was every time; he ignored her on purpose…), the more times she had to page, the more drawn out the page would be.  “Mistuh AAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY BBBBEEEEEEEEEEEEE *JONES*, PUH-LEEEEEZE!”

(You’d be paged, then go to the nearest phone and hit something like *8 to be connected to the page.  I tried NEVER to be paged; you really didn’t want that happening…because if it did, Mr. Jones would come barrelling out of the men’s department, cigar blazing, to see why you were not at your post and had to be paged.)

So there I was, standing there with the customer with the 8 year old tin of rattlesnake meat at one register, the one in Gourmet.  Mr. Jones walked up to the neighboring register, in Notions, and hit *8.  I could *hear* him both on the phone AND verbally across the 20 feet of open air that separated us. 

“Ah, Mr. Jones, this is Nick at the Gourmet register; I have a gentleman here who wants to return an 8 year old tin of rattlesnake meat; what should I tell him?”

Mr. Jones (in a voice they could hear at Camp Pendleton, 1,000 miles away): “YOU TELL THAT MFSOB IF HE’S GOT ENOUGH GD GALL TO BRING IT BACK, I’VE GOT ENOUGH GD GALL TO TAKE IT BACK!!!!!”  Of course the customer HEARD every word, as A. B. had intended. He turned bright red, and I refunded his money. ;-)

I thought A. B. was wonderful.

(He had a heart attack and died---too many cigars; too much bourbon; too many blueberry muffins from the snack bar downstairs; they were fantastic, handmade every morning on-site, dripping with butter and crusted with confectioners sugar.  Management closed the entire store chain in his honour, and the funeral procession was miles long.  They took out a full-page ad in the Light, which I still have, honouring him.  I still remember him very fondly.  He was a great guy).

>o<

More Joske’s in the next installment, including memories from some of my friends.

A Life Well Lived

 William J. Fink, MD

"Pop", my uncle, Dr. Bill Fink (Aunt Shorty's husband), has been given the "final" diagnosis: the prostate cancer, already stage 4, has metastasized into the right lung, spine, joints. He's gone home to die (in accordance with his wishes); the doctors say it could be any time (probably in the next few days). He’s in quite a bit of pain; they’ve got him on the morphine pump.*  (He and I had many laughs about doctors saying “He has some discomfort”, which translated means, “Hurts like Hell!!!”)  I got to see him about a month ago; he was decently sharp for 92, though nothing like he was before. 

He had a remarkable life; a very intelligent man, he graduated from DePauw University with top honours, where he was a Sigma Nu. He was an FBI agent in Washington, DC working for J. Edgar Hoover (he was a "real G-Man"); decided that wasn't for him and went to The George Washington University School of Medicine, where he also graduated with top honours. He became a surgeon for the U. S. Army Air Corps (later USAF) during WWII (the good news: he was stationed in Miami Beach at the Fontainebleau Hotel; the bad news: the Army Air Corps hospital there was the first landing spot for US soldiers/airmen wounded in the Italian sub-theater, and he pretty much worked 24/7). After the war, he went to work for the VA. In the mid-50's, he took the position of Chief of Surgery of the VA Hospital in the tiny Arkansas mountain hamlet of Fayetteville, a position he held until he laid down his scalpel in the 1980's.

His wife Kay was head nurse at Washington Regional; they had 4 boys and a girl. Two of the boys died. He suffered the death of his wife (She passed away from complications resulting from an allergic reaction to the dye used in a common test at the hospital, a heart cath.) AND the death of his best friend, Cal Peeler. Cal was married to Bill's long-time secretary, who happened to be my Aunt Arline (Aunt Shorty).

Arline and Bill having known each other since the early 1960’s, and both of them being lonely, started to hang out together, dated, fell in love, married and have been so for almost 20 years.  (And Aunt Shorty, if you see this and complain about the picture, perhaps you shouldn’t clown so when people try to take one of you! ;-)

 

>o<

A lifelong, die-hard Cubs fan (he grew up one block from Wrigley Field), Pop was in the stands at Wrigley for Game 3 of the 1932 World Series (he attended all games of that Series), when Babe Ruth called his shot to Center Field (Pop maintains that Ruth was “speaking” to the Cubs’ center fielder, with whom he had been “jawing” all day.  Pop, of course, never forgave Ruth as the Yankees swept   his beloved Cubbies; when I saw him last month and asked him how he was, he indicated that it was a good day because the Yankees had lost the day before. He had no love for the Cardinals, either....). (BTW, the next batter up in that 1932 game was Lou Gehrig, who also hit a homer). Pop may have been a Cubs fan, but he would watch baseball any time, any place, and at any level. Little League to Major League, made no difference to him.

He loved the times we were able to take him to Baum Stadium; though he had no affiliation with the UofA, he loved the Razorbacks and followed them avidly.

 

>o<

Pop loved dogs. When the last one, the cocker/beagle mix, died, I thought we were going to have to shoot Pop and bury him in the back yard.  He was always patient when I (and my friends) brought dogs to his house.

He also loved the stock market; he tracked all his investments daily, but he loved piddling with penny stocks too. He was a Reagan Republican (look at the picture of the 4 of them below; on the wall behind him is the picture he got for “significant contributions to the Republican Party, inscribed to him personally by GWB), and he and I had some really great high old political debates, which Aunt Shorty just detested. She'd put her hands over her ears and storm out whenever Pop and I got started. We both loved it. We both agreed on the religious right's affiliation with the Republican Party (Pop didn't like 'em; he was all about fiscal conservatism and didn't give a damn about religious issues. He was a staunch proponent of abortion on demand, which certainly set him at odds with his fellows).

He was also very, very proud of his longtime membership in, and leadership of, the Fayetteville Exchange Club. He went to Exchange meetings until they took his car away.

Pop loved cars, and the faster and more luxurious, the  better. He had a string of Imperials, then Cadillacs, then Acuras, then Lexus's. His last car, amazingly, was a Prius---but maybe not so amazing, because he loved gadgets and tinkering (I think that's what he really liked about surgery, he could open people up and tinker with their insides and make them work again). He always subscribed to Motor Trend and Car and Driver and Automobile and Road and Track, always went to the Auto Show, and the last time I saw him he was mad as hell because they'd taken his Prius away from him (he was, at that point, a menace to himself and others).

That Prius. Let’s just say Pop wasn't broke, but he loved the Prius because of the gas mileage. It wasn't that he couldn't afford the gas, he just liked it because it was so cheap to drive. He was fascinated by the Prius when it was announced; he was at the Fayetteville Auto Show and they had one. He had a brand-new Lexus and a brand-new scooter-equipped Toyota Sienna (loaded), but he was at the show anyway. He asked the salesman how hard it was to get one; the salesman told him, "Well, this one's for sale, the guy on the waiting list backed out", and Pop whipped out his checkbook and wrote the guy a check (to Shorty's consternation). He then left the brand-new Lexus sitting in the parking lot and drove his new toy home.

He would drive the Prius over to the McDonalds on Crossover and Mission every morning and be sitting there waiting for them to open, BECAUSE THEY GAVE HIM FREE COFFEE BECAUSE HE WAS A SENIOR CITIZEN (their marketing worked, though, because he also had a fruit parfait every morning). Everybody at the McDonald's knew Dr. Fink by name.

Pop loved it when we came to visit and go Razorbacking. If his hip hadn't been so bad, he would have been out there with us at every tailgate (saying, in full grouch mode, "I don't know why on earth you people want to have a party outside in a damn tent when there are perfectly good houses and restaurants with which to do so."). He loved meeting all my friends and was always after me to "bring a bunch home with you when you come".

He had a great laugh; we loved to make him laugh because it was so infectious. He'd throw his head back and let 'er rip: HAAAA ha ha ha ha!!!  He loved The Catfish Hole and was on first-name terms with the owner; we never waited on line. He loved going there with as many of my friends as I could arrange; the time he told Jeremiah about Babe Ruth (and Jeremiah sitting there wide-eyed), Pop was loving every minute of it.

He mixed a mean cocktail. Where do you think I learned?

He was as persnickety as I am about the English language, correcting people in that clipped "Chicaago" accent of his. One which I inherited from him: you do not tell a dog, "Lay down". It is "Lie down!" "Go lie down, Lucy!"

I can't say how many journal articles he wrote; I know he published at least one book (long out of print) on the fine points of a particular surgery (damn, wish I knew these things).

>o<

He was a damn fine doctor.  Ask any of the thousands of patients he saved.

>o<

They broke the mold on that WWII crowd. When Pop is gone, we will have Aunt Shorty (90), Dad (85), and Mother (83). Mom's not looking good either, but Dad and Aunt Shorty both have bum tickers. I told Dad one time, I have this mental picture of him in his USAAC uniform, Mom with her hair up in that 40's style, both of them riding off into the sunset in a Packard convertible with "In the Mood" playing on the radio.

Pop, Mother, Dad, Aunt Shorty, w/ Punkin III 

With Pop, somehow I see him in his lab coat in a big ol’ Imperial, punching it and roaring off in a hemi-inspired cloud of burned rubber and asphalt, heading off to the hospital to save another life.

We’ll miss you, Pop.

William J. Fink, MD

June 24, 1917 – May 24, 2009

*{ADDENDUM:  Pop died at 6:15 am Sunday, May 24, 2009.  Aunt Shorty held him in her arms while he died, and he was surrounded by family.  May he rest in peace, and may Light Perpetual shine upon him.}

We Interrupt This Blog for the Following Special Announcement: *I*AM*EMPLOYED!*

I have been offered and have accepted a position with Broadspire, an excellent third-party claim administration company.

I will be the Dedicated Unit Manager for the on-site HISD unit, managing the Broadspire staff that administers the workers' compensation claims for the Houston Independent School District.  HISD is the seventh largest school district in the nation, employing approximately 36,000 people.  It is the largest employer in the City of Houston.  One always thinks of teachers when one thinks of schools, but there are bus drivers, mechanics, building maintenance, groundskeepers, food service staff, administrators, a private, certified police force, etc.  The HISD workers’ comp program has been cited as a model program, having won the prestigious Theodore Roosevelt Award for excellence in Risk Management.

The office is actually kind of a neat deal, very unconventional.  Broadspire's Houston office is in a glass box at Katy Freeway and Gessner.  I won't be working there.  HISD's office is the (converted) old Northwest Mall, at Katy Freeway and Northwest Freeway.  I won't be there, either.  The office is in an old elementary school in the Fifth Ward.  It's a two story school building, located directly on US 59; I'll have a (very nice) private office (with my own a/c control, VERY nice) with a view of the downtown Houston skyline out my window.  The administrator for HISD chose it purposely; making a commitment to the Fifth Ward.  The offices are on the second floor, the lower floor is used for community outreach.  I'll be driving downtown, but on the newly finished, super-duper ultra Katy Freeway.

I don't even have to move.

It is a lot more SECURE than the job I had before (as secure as it gets in these times).

So thank you, Jesus (serious as I can be).

And thank you to all my friends who have been through the Valley of the Shadow of Death with me these last 5 difficult months.  Being laid off messes with your brain; be kind to your friends and neighbors in that situation. Had it not been for my friend/roommate Nathan, my sister Marla, my friends Robert, Keith, Kathy and Marty, I don’t know what I would have done.  I can never repay them as long as I live.

And a special thank you to Suzann Still, the friend who started this ball rolling by putting Broadspire and me together.

I start Wednesday!  Wish me luck!

The Greatest Store in the Greatest State

When non-Texans think of retail stores in Texas, the name Neiman-Marcus comes instantly to most minds.  The Dallas specialty retailer, led first by Mr. Herbert Marcus, then by his son, Mr. Stanley Marcus, certainly became and remains world-famous.  I have a long history with N-M, and still have a soft spot in my heart for it (even though the Marcus family is no longer associated with it, and it’s certainly not the store I grew up with).  I have lots of stories involving Neiman’s---eating lunch with Mother and her friends at the Zodiac Room (the fabulous restaurant on the top floor, run by the incomparable Helen Corbitt, where models would wander the room, stopping at your table, “I’m wearing a Balenciaga frock, with matching hat and gloves and pumps; price $500 in our Couture department”), buying the odd item for myself (I still always have one or two Neiman’s items around, including some that Mother bought me back then), meeting Mr. Stanley Marcus several times and enjoying every second of it (a true gentleman in the finest sense of the word).  This story, however, is not about Neiman-Marcus.

Houstonians, of course, revered Sakowitz.  The flashy store at Post Oak and Westheimer, operated by the equally flashy retail showman Robert Sakowitz, was the place where generations of Houstonians bought their finest items. This story, however, is not about Sakowitz.

There were the great and wonderful stores Sanger Brothers, A. Harris (then Sanger-Harris), and Foley’s, but this story is not about them.

There was another store in Texas, not as instantly-recognizable or flute-snooty as Neiman’s, not as flashy as Sakowitz, not as mundane as Sanger-Harris or Foley’s, but one which made an indelible mark on me and countless other Texans in years gone past.  I speak, of course, of

Joske’s of Texas.

Joske’s was this great big grand wonderful romp of a store.  For decades their slogan was “The Biggest Store in the Biggest State”.  They had to change it when Alaska, with its hundreds of square miles of frozen tundra, became the “Biggest” state (I guess we don’t have much to say about “miles and miles of miles and miles”; anybody ever been to Andrews County, Texas?), but still---

They changed it to “The Greatest Store in the Greatest State”, but we Josketeers know better.

I say “we Josketeers” because I was one. 

On Sunday, February 11, 1973, I turned 16.  My Dad drove me over to his buddy’s house; I opened the door and got out, thinking Dad was right behind me.  He was, all right---in the car.  As soon as I closed the door, he gunned it and I was standing there alone in Mr. Lochte’s yard.  No choice but to go knock on his door, pay him the agreed-upon $250, and drive home in the charcoal-gray-and-pink (“Heather Rose, Jewell Black and Sapphire White”) hemi-powered 1955 Dodge Royal Lancer parked in his driveway, utilizing the skills I had garnered in the un-airconditioned black drivers’ ed Volkswagens on a hot asphalt parking lot at MacArthur High School the previous summer, and the freshly-minted handwritten paper receipt in my pocket that said, “Texas Department of Public Safety - Driver License”.

Having obtained the car, I quickly determined that it had a rather voracious appetite for gasoline. As I got $5 a yard, gas cost $0.25/gallon, and I had a 25 gallon tank, the math indicated that I’d have to mow a yard for approximately every 3/4 of a tank I drove.  I drove up the first tank in two days---and it was February; nobody needed any yard service.  Of course, there was also Mother to consider:  “When are you going to get a job?” (“so you can get your own transportation and I won’t have to shuttle your lazy butt around any more”)

It became immediately apparent that steady work was necessary.

Knowing that one of the teachers in my Sunday School department at Trinity Baptist Church was a very nice man named Jack Preston, and knowing that Mr. Preston was the Assistant Manager of the Joske’s at North Star Mall, and being well-familiar with Joske’s, I elected to apply for work at Joske’s, using Mr. Preston’s name as a reference.  (Jack was very kind to all of us, none of us was ever turned down at Joske’s.  We all tried very hard never to let him down, and I don’t think many did.).

Thus began my association with The Greatest Store in the Greatest State.

>End of Part I, Stay Tuned for Part II<

Happy Mother's Day, Mom

We love you.

ADOPTED!!!

UPDATE 9/22/09:

I am delighted to report that Bessie has gone to her forever home! A lovely lady from Oklahoma, with a stalwart husband, two fine sons ages 11 and 16, and a lovely college student daughter, fell in love with her from the pictures. After correspondence, I drove Bessie up to their beautiful ranch. It was love at first sight on both sides; Bessie was a bit shy but according to Lynn she has blossomed.

Rescue is a great thing. I recommend it to all.

*****

This is the hardest part of dog rescue, when you have to put the baby you’ve rescued up for adoption. It’s time though.

Bessie was rescued from a very difficult situation in San Antonio, along with her sister, Bonnie. Bonnie has been adopted by a good friend of mine in Arkansas, and is living The Good Life there. Her new Dad dotes on her, walks her, loves on her, plays with her, etc. and she eats it up. It’s good for both of them.

Honestly, when I got them, Bessie was the one I figured would go first. She’s outgoing, happy, friendly, just a typical energetic one-to-two year old Border Collie, with the drive, energy, and playfulness of that breed. She’s great at fetch and will play with you for hours (don’t pick up the squeaky tennis ball unless you’re ready for a workout!). She’s sweet and loving, too; crate-trained, house-trained, walks well on the leash. In fact, she’s a joy to take for a spin around the neighborhood.

She is heartworm-positive, but she is very mildly so and the vet told us to use the regular medication on her and she’d be fine. She’s certainly not lacking in the “energy” department, so we know we got it before it got serious.

Bessie would love to be in a home with an energetic young woman, man, or couple who would exercise her and play with her. Border Collies DO NOT do well in homes with small children; BC’s are sheep dogs by breeding and temperament. When they see small children, they view the children as something to be herded (Disorderly! Can’t have that!). The dogs can’t help it, they’re doing what they were bred to do.

If you think you could find room in your home for this bright girl, she’d wiggle her way into your heart in no time flat. She has ours. It will kill me to see her go, but go she must. I have two of my own!

Email me at malvernhog@yahoo.com for information.