Elite 8, 2010

Where have all the cowboys gone?

When I started thinking about moving back to Houston, I immediately consulted the Houston City-Data board.  City-Data gives all kinds of information on different places; cost of living, statistics, weather patterns, etc.  They also have forums for every location in the country.  The forums are a kind of internet “information, please” deal.  People talk about their city, the good, the bad, and the ugly.  There are always people from other areas relocating to the city, and asking questions of the locals.  Since I love being a tour guide….

I hadn’t intended on staying on the forum, but it kind of grows on you and, like every other internet community, once you learn the different personalities of the “regulars”, it gets to be fun.  Our forum has one individual who takes these wonderful walking tours and posts great pictures of the city; we have everything from doctors and lawyers to realtors to cops to street thugs.

Tonight’s forum had a question from some Floridians moving to Texas; I responded to their post.  I hadn’t intended to write an opus, but got started and, well, those who know me from Razorback forums know how that goes with me.  So, since I’ve been stumped for a blog topic, I decided, “Why not?” 

Their question: 

We're relocating for work from overdeveloped Boca Raton, Florida and really want to find a friendly western town, cowboy boots and horses and all. Can we find this in Conroe or surrounding areas?

My answer: 

(hint: look at a map of Texas while reading this post)

Really, you're going to need to be pretty far out of Conroe to get out to the actual "country". Conroe is effectively a big, semi-distant suburb of Houston.

As an example (I'm not as familiar with the northern areas as I am the western ones), going west on IH-10, you've got to get past Columbus (an hour and a half from my house in West Houston, through some of the densest traffic in North America) to actually get into "horse country". Between Columbus and Katy USED to be, say 20 years ago, but at this point, Brookshire and Sealy are already "gone", the development real estate signs are out everywhere.

My sister and her husband have a place at Flatonia (Flatonia is almost exactly halfway between downtown Houston and downtown San Antonio), 96 miles from Houston.

When they were looking for their place, they sounded exactly like you ("We're sick of Houston! But we like the money we get from our excellent jobs!") "Acreage" places were more expensive every mile closer to Houston they got. Everybody wants "5 acres out in the country." Well, 5 acres is not very much---that's still a subdivision. Country acreage gets into 50 acre tracts (pretty much minimum). When you're talking $1,000 an acre, okeydokey. When you're talking $50,000 an acre with a minimum of 50 acres.........

The aptly-named Centerville is exactly halfway between downtown Houston and downtown Dallas. You could probably get something decent in that area. Since you're going to commute to Conroe, that's not "terrible". Huntsville can get a bit trafficky at rush hour, and Willis (look on a map) is where the "Houston" traffic finally peters out....TODAY. In 10 years, Willis will be completely engulfed.

The Texas you're imagining is vanishing. It kind of petered out in the 60's. Development really took off in the 80's and 90's. When I was a kid in high school in San Antonio in the 70's, "West" Houston was IH-10 at Gessner Rd. and Highway 6 was known as "Jackrabbit Road". "North" Houston ended up around the new Intercontinental Airport and you drove through the woods a ways to get to the small town of Conroe. San Antonio stopped, you drove through countryside to the small town of New Braunfels, then more countryside to San Marcos, then more countryside to Austin. In north Austin, when you got to US 290, that was it until you got to the small town of Round Rock (countryside between Austin and Round Rock), then more country to Georgetown, then more country to Belton, etc.

 
Today, "Houston" extends to Willis on the north and Sealy on the west. IH 35 is one long, continuous suburb from San Antonio to Waco, punctuated by downtown Austin. Round Rock, Georgetown, all suburbs. Dallas and Ft. Worth, meanwhile, having finally grown together and merged with over 200 other cities into "the Metroplex", are trying desperately to reach Oklahoma--and will succeed in that, in my opinion, in my lifetime.

This part of Texas is now growing into one big urban "thing". In fact, Governor Perry's office (I'm not a fan; they stole the idea and videos from a private businessman from Ft. Worth who produced them) is marketing it currently as "one thing": the "Texaplex" (Dallas/Ft. Worth, Houston, San Antonio, Austin, with Waco, Huntsville, and College Station thrown in) (see videos below, they are fascinating). It has almost exact Florida counterparts: "Orlampa" (Tampa/St. Pete/Orlando) and "Florabama" (the entire Florida Panhandle). Of course, there is also the entire south Florida coast that we all refer to as "Miami" that goes from Palm Beach to Homestead.

 
The modern "cowboy" will most likely be driving his F-350, Silverado 3500HD, or Ram 3500 diesel dually. He'll wear a starched white button down oxford shirt, jeans, boots, and use an Excel Spreadsheet on his laptop (conveniently anchored to the fold-down armrest in his leather upholstered, late-model truck) to keep track of his herd (not to mention the production from his wells or his cotton crop). He'll use his cell phone to keep up with the antics of Bucky Junior at A&M, Texas, or Baylor while uplinking his production reports via air card. He'll drive to a modern, suburban-style house (admittedly pretty big), where his Suburban-driving wife will be organizing a party via facebook with her sorority sisters or church group (unless she's a lawyer with a degree from SMU, working from home).

 
Mostly, they keep and ride horses for fun.

Not trying to rain on your parade, but the "real Texas" that people talk about was always part myth anyway.

These days, you have to look pretty hard to find it.

>>o<<

The Texaplex videos:

Texaplex

Houston

 

An Exercise in Circumlocution…

In the preceding post, I attempted (hopefully with a bit of humor) to utilize every buzzword I had accumulated over the past few months.

I had inspiration for this type of effort early-on.  My Dad was sitting around work one day (man, they lived in a different universe than we do…) and came up with a little essay, which he presented to me upon my departure for Baylor.  Fortunately, I thought  it funny enough to stick it in a photo album.  It’s one of those old sticky page photo albums, so now the paper’s irrevocably attached (apparently at the molecular level) to the book.  Nevertheless, I still have the document.

>>o<<

AN EXERCISE IN CIRCUMLOCUTION FOR STUDENTS OF SECONDARY SCHOOLS

by Maurice Jones

     To obtain an education, whether in pursuit of your vocation or a pleasant avocation, or for your personal gratification there is required a degree of determination (and some professorial exhortation) to overcome the strong temptation to go into hibernation or indulge in abstract meditation during a student recitation or a professor’s dull narration.

     Despite a student’s prognostication that he will suffer from prostration or, at the least, regurgitation if he is forced into participation, it isn’t likely that all of his expostulation will force the administration to enter into negotiation concerning the assignation of a daily compilation of enlightening information.

     I say to you without equivocation that if your are planning matriculation, you should request elucidation on all subjects under consideration and refuse all invitations to indulge in excessive fraternization that would result in vacillation.

     If you will always practice excogitation your compensation at the termination of this period of melioration will be acclamation by your paternal relation and receipt of documentation which attests to your graduation.

>>o<<

 

Although everyone knows I'm addicted to my computer, I do not want to read books on it. One of my favourite books/short stories ever is "A Christmas Carol"; I've had many copies over the years, usually either lending them and not getting them back or just plain losing them. When I moved to Houston, I think my last copy went to the Malvern Library in one of the *47* cartons of books I gave them for their sale.

In any event, this year I needed to read it again and looked it up on the innerwebs. It's public domain, so there are various versions of it. I tried reading it online but finally wound up just printing the thing to read in my hand.

Somehow, a book is just comforting. I like books. I like the way they look; I like the way they feel; I like the way they smell. If it's an old, used book, I like the way it falls open to the previous owner's favourite part. If it's an old library book, it has that "library" smell, which is a comfort smell to me because of all the time I've spent in the library.   

I just like books.

In some ways, I feel sorry for the current crop of kiddos.  They might use books, but they use all the various search engines to find their subject matter.  When I was in school (to which I walked 5 miles in the snow…), one had to be organized to write a paper.  You had to spend hours in the library at the card catalogue, sifting through the thousands of cards to find the 2 or 3 books that had the information you needed, then go to that section of the library and find the books---and READ them (or at least skim them).  I’m not saying that way was better (you can have my computer when you pry my cold dead fingers off the keyboard), and I love Google, but there is something to be said for the skill needed to organize a manual search.  

As print media gives way to the inexorable force of the electron, certain things are being lost---and this loss is NOT an improvement.  Newspapers were the chronicles of mankind from the 17th century to the 21st.  Many editions are still available, and it’s fascinating to look at The Times archives and read about the ongoing difficulties in the Colonies, or India, or about something Disraeli or Churchill said yesterday.  These moldy old papers are still hanging around. 

I have a small brown paper bag on the bookshelf in my Den.  It contains all the letters my Dad wrote home to his parents and sisters during World War II (In another area, I have at least most of the letters he wrote Mother).  The letters are on that peculiar onionskin GI paper, and censored by government censors.  Now, my email output is about that much PER DAY, but it’s ephemeral---it doesn’t really record anything; it’s not an archive of thought.  It consists of blurbs, dribs, and drabs---little shots of thought here and there.  We’re losing letters altogether (when is the last time you took pen and paper and wrote one?).

All this electronic stuff is fantastic---right up until the power goes out.

 

>>o<<

If, for the next generation, Apple builds a bigger ipad, will it be a maxi-pad?

Buzzing Around

 

At work, we’re in a huge state of transition; the company for which I’ve worked for the last 6 months lost their contract, effective 1-31-10; the new company was kind enough to offer me a job with them (same office, same everything, but February 1 I’ll be employed by a different company).  We’ve been working like demons to make sure the transition is as “seamless” as possible, but this is a whole big bunch like a divorce:  everybody’s trying to be very nice and very professional, but the old company doesn’t like it one bit and the new company is anxious to get started, with “us kids” (my staff and me) in the middle. 

We’re ripping out the old office stuff and installing new; it’s got to be coordinated like D-Day; all the old ties need to be dissolved and all the new established---not just furniture and equipment (that’s fairly easy), but mapping thousands of computer fields, transitioning to completely different vendors, computer software, trying to fit square pegs into round holes, coordinating training and “onboarding” for staff, while trying to carry on with “normal” business.  I’m not solely responsible for all of this, not by a long shot, but I am involved in every one of the decisions; I’m a guest on every one of the 10,000 conference calls; I have to try to explain to the staff where we’re going and how we’re going to do it so they can push it out to the public….I’ve been getting home around 8 o’clock every night, eating something, and crashing.

 

In the process, I’ve learnt many new and fun with which you can both baffle and amuse your little friends!

“Granular”---imagine yourself on a beautiful beach; the white sand, the blue sky….so when you look at the beach, are you seeing one thing (the beach) or 10,000,000,000,000,000 things (each individual grain of sand)?  If you’re seeing all the granules, you’re getting “granular”.  So to “get granular” (short for “getting down to the granular level”, which is also used and technically correct while already being a bit passé) with regard to work means you are examining a thing at the microscopic, or lowest possible, level.  We’ve been “granular” a lot these last two weeks.  Conversely, you can stop someone cold by saying, “I’m not trying to get that granular here; I’m looking at the Big Picture.”  (It is still acceptable to look at the Big Picture).

“Deliverables”---I owe you an Excel Spreadsheet, or some data, or a return phone call regarding a question you asked that I can’t answer.  I have a “Deliverable” for you.  (Question asked often this week by all:  “Let’s see, do I have any Deliverables for you?”).

“Onboarding” (and its kinda/sorta counterpart, “reverse takeover”).  We are “onboarding” with the new company, while experiencing a “reverse takeover” with the old one.  In order to onboard correctly, we must remember to “ramp up” our knowledge base while “retrofitting” those things that do work but must be made to fit in with the new order.

“Process Map”---this is a “flowchart” with a swanky new moniker!  I’ve been designing Process Maps for YEARS and didn’t even know!

“Throw (insert name here) under the bus…”---if someone has to be thrown under the bus, hope it’s not you!  This is a new expression for a time-honored human practice:  scapegoating!  “Can you believe Fred just threw Barbara under the bus during that conference call???"  “Now look, I don’t want to throw old Fred under the bus here, but it WAS his department’s failure that caused this fiasco….”  “Barbara is trying to throw me under the bus on this thing, and I don’t like it even a little bit!”

“It is what it is”---ok, guilty as charged on this one, I use it 100 times a day.  “We can’t change that, it is what it is.”

“Circle back”---this means, “get back with” or “meet again to discuss this issue after we’ve both had a chance to check on the things we need to find out”.  “Janet, let’s circle back on Thursday, between “Calls” (short for “Conference Call”), on this issue, ok?  Now, will you need to circle back with Pierre before you circle back with me?”

And, not exactly a buzzword, but dreaded words for everyone in business in this era of conference calls taking up most of the day (to the point where you can’t get to your email!):  “(beep) Who just joined?”  We have conference calls with 20 people in 4 time zones; most just “mute out”, that is to say, mute their microphones and go on about whatever it is they’re doing; this is exceptionally annoying when someone has asked a complicated, 5-minute question and then said, “…isn’t that right, Janet?” and Janet, who is responsible for the answer but has been doing email, says, “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”

Honestly, at the end of the day, in order to break through the clutter and make it “pop”, I pick the low-hanging fruit by synergistically utilizing our human assets and integrating our Best Practices into the new paradigm, while not neglecting our Core Competencies. I have to herd cats in a seamless, integrated fashion while simultaneously ensuring that mission-critical, client-focused events stay on track and are timeline-compliant going forward. In order to accomplish this fast-track infrastructure retrofit, while ensuring that the analytics, metrics and logistics are taken together in a holistic, organic manner, great care must be exercised to avoid silo mentality and ensure granular-level co-opetition between ourselves and our business partners, being ever-mindful of the long tail that, if ignored, can have a catastrophic effect on the enterprise long-term. 

In other words, I’m basting the turkey and boiling the ocean here; I don’t have time to worry about a damn blog entry!   ;-)

(Think I’ll take a little bow on those last two paragraphs; I worked hard on them and they DO actually describe reality for me right now).

For those iphone users:  there’s an app for that.

 

Alas, Greycliff

The Original Giovanni

 

Photos by my cousin Cathy Fink, 1-17-2010

UPDATE!

There was ONE survivor (besides the people) from the Greycliff fire!

The Original Giovanni remains on its wall, where it always was!  Charred, needs refinishing, shades and bulbs gone, but the Giovanni remains.

The living room walls (made of rock) collapsed with the heat, as did several of the rock columns.  There are no other contents remaining, and as of this writing (1/11/10) the fire is still burning.  The tarpaper roof (while now on the floor) is still on fire, and will be for several days, even weeks.  Nothing else remains. 

I told them they’d need to name the new house the Greycliff Phoenix, rising from the ashes.  She’s going to build it back on the same plan, with some modifications---and across the road, rather than on the old site.  When the new house is finished, the Giovanni will take its place as a reminder of the past, in the new house that looks to the future.

The Hits Just Keep on Happening---Earth, Wind, and Fire, or, How Punkin Saved the Day

Friday was a tough day for my family (see the blog post immediately prior to this one).  More on that later.  Dad was supposed to go home with his sister, Aunt Shorty, to Greycliff for an extended vacation/clear-the-head session.  Unfortunately, Aunt Shorty and her family couldn’t get out of their driveway.  Too much ice.

Many of my friends know my Aunt Shorty (Arline Peeler-Fink).  She’s a die-hard fan of the Arkansas Razorbacks (took me to my first game), went to WebHogs tailgates and football games with me for years, and is just generally a great friend, in addition to being a relative.

In 1958, Aunt Shorty and her husband, Cal Peeler, were on Dyess AFB in Abilene, Texas.  Knowing they were about to retire, they cast about to decide where to go and what to do.  A friend of theirs in the Army Corps of Engineers told them, “Hey, y’all ought to go to Northwest Arkansas, we’re about to put in a big lake up there.”  They went up the treacherous, rural highways and looked the place over; there were tiny towns nearby like Rogers, Bentonville (there was a dime store there called “Walton’s 5 & 10”), and Springdale.  The closest town of any size was the college town, Fayetteville, home of the University of Arkansas.

They bought their land and started walking it.  On it, overlooking the (future Beaver) Lake, they found a large cliff of grey rock.  They had an architect draw house plans for this site; they had in mind a Frank Lloyd Wright, mid-century modern style home for the spectacular setting.  I remember them at our dining room table in Dallas when I was six; they were proudly showing Mom and Dad the plans for their spectacular new home.

They retired from the USAF and moved to a rental in Fayetteville.  Cal returned to college, got his advanced degrees, and became a professor at the University (they say his math classes were pretty tough).  Meanwhile, Shorty got a job as a secretary at the VA Hospital, working for the Chief of Surgery, Bill Fink.  [The Peelers and the Finks became fast friends, and remained so (first Kay Fink, then Cal Peeler, died, and Arline and Bill wound up together for almost 20 years). ]

There was a “shotgun shack” on the property; it had been a farmhouse a hundred years before, but was mostly a hunting camp.  They fixed the shack up and lived in it on the weekends while they cleared timber, put in roads, and mostly picked up rocks.  Rocks, you know, are part of the EARTH.

They picked up rocks in the boiling heat of summer.  They picked up rocks in the freezing cold of winter.  They picked up rocks in the rain.  They picked up rocks with flashlights.  They picked up rocks, then they picked up more rocks, then (just for fun, when they had nothing else to do) they picked up rocks.  They had rock pick up parties.  They drafted young nephews to help pick up rocks.  There were lots of rocks.  Rocks, rocks, rocks. 

They used the rocks to build the house.  Every exterior wall, several interior walls, the balcony half-wall, the massive fireplace---all rocks, picked up by hand by them, their friends, and family.  Individuals had individual rocks identified (“I picked up that one!”). 

The house was a triumph of the Wright philosophy.  Flat roofed, it looked as though it were an extension of the hillside, part of the cliff.  You drove up the steep rock driveway and suddenly encountered…a carport??  Walking along the rock (ahem) walkway by the carport, you came into a lovely open-air lanai.  Unexpectedly, the lanai was paved with Florentine marble!  They had a connection for marble, and used bits and pieces of marble left over from other jobs to form a beautiful floor that looked like nothing so much as a Mondrian painting.

That floor flowed through the beautifully carved front door into the entry hall and dining room.  The dining room (featuring a beautiful teak table, tall white upholstered chairs, matching teak breakfront full of beautiful American Brilliant Cut glass, sterling silver, and other nice things.  One wall was glass, overlooking the courtyard.  The other was a half-wall (with a solid middle, the back of the massive fireplace) made of rocks.  A stroll over to the rock half-wall revealed a two story living room, hanging off the cliff, with twin staircases (rock) leading down from the dining room into the living room; the outer wall was a wall of windows overlooking the lake. 

To the left along the balcony was the kitchen, den, an extra bedroom, and a deck.  To the right was a master bedroom, huge bathroom with marble five foot by four foot roman soaking tub, shower stall, and his-and-hers walk-in closets—and another large deck.

On the back of the fireplace, on the rock wall, there hung a fascinating piece.  I’m going to try to try to tell the story, but I reserve the right to re-tell if I get the details wrong. 

The story:  a friend of theirs in St. Louis, named John, got this old sconce off the wall of a hotel that was being demolished.  He thought of it for this spot, and brought it to them.  They thought, “Mmmm, kay”, but liked it and hung it anyway—what else to put there and why the hell not?  Later, another friend came to visit and oooohed and aaahhhhed and generally fawned over the piece.  “What is it?  It’s fabulous!  What a work of art!”  “Why,” Cal responded with characteristically totally straight face, “Don’t you know?  That’s an original GIOVANNI!”  (Cal was totally serious; everybody else was trying desperately not to howl).  The friend bought it hook, line, and sinker, and the original GIOVANNI! had a permanent home.  Note rocks behind it.  (For those who don’t know, Giovanni is “John” in Italian…).

There were things wrong, of course.  The builder got the kitchen wall 2 feet  short---in other words, the kitchen was two feet smaller than was planned.  It was always a tight fit.  The fountain that was planned for the lanai never materialized until just a few years ago.  The two decks proved impractical, and were enclosed as extra rooms. 

Mainly, though, there was the issue of the roof. 

Flat roofs are usually “built up” roofs; that is, they are made of layer after layer of tarpaper, literally “built up” to form a (hopefully) impenetrable barrier (theirs never was, it leaked constantly).  Theirs was covered with…rocks.  Lots and lots of gray rocks, picked up by hand.  Rocks, rocks, rocks.  Rocks which helped give the illusion that the house grew out of the cliff.  Pure Wright.

Rocks are heavy.  If you’re going to put rocks on the roof, you’d better make sure it’s braced properly.  Their architect and builder assured them it was.  It wasn’t.

One day, Aunt Shorty arrived on the jobsite to discover that her beautiful living room with the expansive view---had a pole in the middle of it.  The pole held up the sagging roof.  She screamed.  She cried.  She “spoke sternly”.  She threatened.  She pleaded.  They apologized, then encased the pole in the same rocks.  She named it her “Maypole”, and it bugged the hell out of her every time she saw it.

They moved in in 1967. 

Everybody they knew came to visit.  The joke was, if you wanted to go see the Peelers, you needed to make a reservation at the Hotel Peeler.  They boated.  They fished.  They ate the fish they caught, expertly grilled, fried, or otherwise prepared.  They hauled stuff around in their great old truck, a yellow Dodge named “The Yellow Peril.”  They had everybody they knew as houseguests.

Shorty loved every minute of it.  She was in her element as hostess; it’s her natural role in life.  Anybody who’s ever attended one of her parties, or been a guest in her home, knows this to be true.

Ultimately, the roof leaked and sagged enough over the years that they had a “normal” roof of trusses, plywood sheeting, regular shingles, etc, built right on top of the old built-up roof.  It no longer leaked.  The boring beetles got to the beautiful cedar siding, and the house was re-sided with regular siding.  No longer “Wright”, but still a beautiful home.

Cal died.  Arline married “Pop”.  They split time between Greycliff and Pop’s house in Fayetteville.  When Pop passed away last year, Aunt Shorty moved back to Greycliff to live out her life overlooking the lake she loves.

Pop in the den at Greycliff; note rocks…

>>o<<

This morning (coldest on record), Aunt Shorty (now 91) was pleased to welcome her son Jack for coffee.  I imagine they were discussing the weather and the fact that Jack had had to put a space heater under the pipes under Shorty’s bedroom, trying to keep them from freezing, and how they would be glad to welcome my Dad. 

Dad was supposed to go home from Mom’s funeral with them yesterday, but there was too much ice on their road and they reluctantly decided they couldn’t make it.  Accordingly, Dad came home with us last night on the Gulfstream and came home with me to Houston today.  We all figured, the ice will be melted by Tuesday and I can pop him on a plane to Tulsa Tuesday morning; he’ll be at Greycliff before lunch.

So Shorty and Jack were sitting there at the breakfast table.  The door to the dining room was closed (kept drafts to a minimum).  Punkin, the miniature Pinscher, began to act strangely.  She jumped up and down, barked, ran to the dining room door, barked some more, ran around, barked, and generally panicked.  Shorty tried to calm her down but she refused to be calm.  Jack got up and went to the dining room door, opened it, and said, “Mother, the house is full of smoke.  Get the dog and let’s go.”

Greycliff burned to the ground today, January 9, 2010.

Here’s a link to the newspaper photo.

The space heater must have blown over in the WIND, contacted some insulation, which caught FIRE.  The fire spread to the attic, the attic which had been dry for many years, the attic whose floor was a built-up roof of layer after layer of old tarpaper.  Once the fire touch that tarpaper, it was only a matter of events taking their course.

Three fire departments responded; unfortunately, one of the fire trucks slipped on the still-slick, steep road and injured a firefighter; our family is praying for his speedy recovery.  There just wasn’t much for them to do.

Aunt Shorty is the owner of acres and acres fronting Beaver Lake, a Lexus, a Prius, a sweat suit, a pair of tennis shoes, a miniature pinscher, a smoking, charred pile of rocks on top of cracked, ruined Florentine marble, an excellent insurance policy---and her life, for which we are all intensely grateful.

Punkin, already “somewhat” pampered, will (as far as I’m concerned) dine on steak the rest of her doggy life.  Any puddles, poopies, hair, barking, or any other doggy foibles are hereby and permanently forgiven and forgotten. 

I called Aunt Shorty today and told her that my house was hers as long as she wanted.  Her response:  “Oh, honey, I’ve got a ton of houses.  All of my children and grandchildren want me to come live with them.  All of the Fink kids and grandkids want me to come live with them.  I guess now I’ll have to add your house to the list, but I just need a quick place to stay while I rebuild Greycliff!”  I told her that was a good thing; now she’ll have somebody to boss around.

We’re just glad to still have our Shorty.  I guess this means I’ve got to go to Rogers…and pick up some rocks.  

Dad, at Greycliff, with the heroine of the day

 

P. S.---Why do I not have a picture of Shorty at Greycliff? 

Greycliff was exceedingly difficult to photograph.  As I said, a triumph of Wright architecture, it was difficult to get a photo of anything except the carport.  The rest of the house hung off the cliff, or jutted out of it.  The best shot was from the lake, but I never got any of those.  The rest burned in the fire, along with all of our family photos (other than the ones I now have), part of Gramp’s fabulous cut glass collection, Arline and Cal’s extensive Hummel collection, the Haviland china, the flag that was on Cal’s coffin, dogtags, “wings”, 10,000 books, a huge collection of wonderful vinyl records, all those wonderful recipes and cookbooks….

Now, getting a picture of the Short One in her Natural Habitat---or out of it---is multiple levels of difficulty harder.  She does NOT like to have her photo made.  I’ll keep looking, but I promise nothing.

As Shorty’s daughter in law told her today:  “New year, new house, new woman!”

GO, SHORTY, GO!  I hope you live to be 130.

I’ll always love you Mom

 

 

Martha Virginia Tarkington Jones

August 6, 1926 – January 4, 2010

 

Martha Virginia Tarkington Jones, 83, died Monday, January 4, 2010 in San Antonio, Texas. Born in Malvern, Arkansas to Roy Brooks Tarkington and Audie Virginia Brown Tarkington, she was raised in Malvern and Prescott. In 1943, she married Maurice Eugene Jones (son of Jester and Stella Jones of Malvern) following a whirlwind courtship. “And they said it wouldn’t last.”

Following World War II, the couple moved to Dallas, Texas, where Martha became an operator for Southwestern Bell Telephone Company; there, she made friends with whom she was close for the remainder of her life. She worked for Southwestern Bell until the birth of her third child, at which time she became a full-time homemaker. Following moves to Corpus Christi, Texas and Ft. Worth, Texas, the family moved to San Antonio, Texas, where she returned to work as a school nurse at Montgomery Elementary School.

After one more move (to Tulsa, Oklahoma), Martha and Maurice retired and returned to Malvern, where they enjoyed retirement for 25 years before moving once again to San Antonio to be near their children.

Preceded in death by her oldest daughter, Ted Laneca Jones of Malvern, she is survived by her husband of 67 years, Maurice Jones of San Antonio, Texas; her son, Nick-Alan Tarkington Jones of Houston, Texas; her daughter, Marla Jones Rhodes, son-in-law Philip Rhodes, and two grandchildren, Rachel Virginia Smith and David Mark Smith, all of Boerne, Texas, as well as many friends and relatives.

Whether sculpting and painting in her ceramics studio, relaxing on the boat on Lake DeGray, collecting everything from seashells to figurines, playing with her dogs, or enjoying Christmas on the beach at Navarre Beach, Florida, Martha always exhibited a zest for life, a love of fun, dancing, and parties, and fierce love of and loyalty to her family. Her wit and joi de vivre will be missed by all who knew her. She truly was a “Renaissance Woman”.

Her funeral will be held at First Baptist Church, Malvern, under direction of J. A. Funk Funeral Home, on Friday, January 8, at 1:00 pm; Interment to follow at Shadowlawn Cemetery. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to the American Heart Association, the American Cancer Society, or the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA).

Online condolences may be made via jafunkfuneralhome.com

 

>>o<<

 

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

I AM the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.

I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: and though this body be destroyed, yet shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not as a stranger.
We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.

Happy Birthday to the Greatest Guy I Know

He was born during the Roaring 20’s, the decade of flappers, jazz, and Al Jolson.  Cool Cal Coolidge was in the White House; the Model T was at the height of success. That year, you could actually---for the first time---listen to a broadcast of the only post-season football game, live from the brand-spanking-new Rose Bowl stadium, on the radio.  Movies were silent, although there had been a test-showing of a new technology, “sound-on-film”, in New York City that year .  Alan Shepard, Chuck Yeager, Henry Kissinger, and Bob Barker all made their appearance within the same year, while Gustav Eiffel (of steel construction fame) made his departure.

Life expectancy for a baby born in the US in 1923:  56.1 years. 

In Arkansas, there existed about 20 miles of paved roadway outside of Little Rock and Hot Springs.  The “Texas Road” was a muddy track through the forest skirting the edge of the hills (it wouldn’t be numbered “US 67” until two years later); if you wanted to go anywhere, you took the train, of course.  Razorback Hogs and black bears still ran wild in the hills, and many people hunted and fished, not for pleasure, but for food.  Neither telephones nor electricity were plentiful, and most doctors had not been to college (but had apprenticed with an older doctor). 

Jester and Stella Jones were at a crossroads in their lives.  They lived in Willow, Arkansas, on a small farm.  Both their families were farmers, although Stella’s brothers had a tendency to “run ‘shine” from time to time.  Jester, being the second oldest of 13 (you had to have big families; you needed help on the farm, and manufacturing them seemed the easiest way; besides, whoever heard of birth control?  …and anyway, you were guaranteed to lose at least a couple along the way due to typhoid, cholera, measles, or some kind of cut or other accident that would lead to death from sepsis), looked around him and didn’t like what he saw.  His brothers all wanted to be farmers; his sisters all married farmers and started making more farmers.  Jester had liked school, so he had studied hard.  When he finished eighth grade (the highest level of education available in Arkansas at the time), the teacher offered him an unpaid position as his assistant.  The teacher taught Jester out of his own books.  Three years later, the teacher left and Jester assumed his position.

So, there they were, the young couple with two girls and a boy, and here came another boy baby.  Teaching school and farming part time were not getting the job done financially, and really, Jester had reached the end of his rope.  They decided to move to the “big city”; the nearest one of those, a buggy ride away, was the county seat:  Malvern.  Jester secured a position as “Assistant Teller” at Bank of Malvern (the oldest chartered state bank in Arkansas).  He worked for the Bank of Malvern for the next 59 years.

The family moved into a house on Clardy Street, and that was where that baby boy spent his childhood, chasing after (and being chased by) his older brother and sisters. 

The oldest, Virginia, held sway as “assistant Mother”, and one imagines she could probably be pretty commanding as an older sister (she certainly was as an adult).  She desired to be a “great lady” in the grand old southern tradition---and succeeded.  Her quiet voice was, till the day she died, instantly obeyed by her entire family.  She was sweet, wonderful, and everybody loved her---but you really didn’t want to make her mad.

The next eldest, Arline, has yet to be tamed, although it’s rumored she began to cut back a bit when she passed 90 last year (this blog does not believe rumors).  Arline got to 4’9 and stopped growing, earning her the (then unwanted) nicknames “Stumpy” and “Shorty”.  She couldn’t (and can’t) help it if she liked (and still likes) to have fun instead of sitting around all day being religious.  Like all her siblings, she feels that, if God didn’t want people to drive fast, He wouldn’t have put accelerators in cars with 400 horsepower. 

The oldest son, Houston, was a handsome devil---and the “handsome” part enabled the “devil” part.  Houston lived 66 years on this earth, and during those 66 years he ate what he wanted, drank what he wanted, smoked what he wanted, and “dated” what he wanted.  He liked his motorcycles, cars, and airplanes like he liked his women:  fast and flashy.  He lived his life his way, on his terms.  In short:  he lived fast, died young, and left a good looking corpse.

The baby, Maurice, was a bit of a “decepticon”, and a combination of all the siblings.  His sweet looks could mask the desire to play pranks, roam all over the countryside, get into trouble, get out of trouble, fight, play football, box, drive fast, and get into mischief.  At age 13, he wanted to go see his Aunt Lois and Uncle Joe (by then living in Atlanta, Texas), so he hitchhiked down muddy, dusty US 67 to do so---without bothering to tell his parents.

He had many adventures:  he was hit by a car on his bicycle; he got to hear President Roosevelt give a speech under a great oak tree on the lawn of a local church (they paved the road from Hot Springs to Malvern for the occasion, so the President’s Packard wouldn’t have to jounce him over the dirt track; the Pres had been to Hot Springs for a dip in the waters).  His boxing career came to an abrupt end following a broken nose. 

He was always crazy about airplanes, and took flying lessons at the local “airport”.  As the war clouds gathered, he graduated from high school and stuck out for Nashville, Tennessee for aircraft school.  He then went to San Diego, where he worked in an aircraft factory, learning how the things were made.  He lived there with his brother, Houston, who was doing the same thing.

He returned to Malvern and accidentally met the woman with whom he was to spend the next 68 years, and with whom he’d have three children.  After knowing each other two weeks, they eloped (I’ve told that story elsewhere on here) and settled into married life—such as it was. 

 

Dad went off to war with the rest of his generation, serving in the China-Burma-India campaign.  The Allies were flying routes across the Himalayas to keep the Chinese and Americans supplied, as they fought the Japanese on that front.  In order to navigate (still not easy today) over the Himalayas in DC-3’s and DC-4’s, a series of radio stations were installed.  By homing in on the radio stations, a plane could navigate the treacherous routes (while also trying to avoid the enemy).  Dad had one of the radio stations.  He doesn’t talk much about the war; many of his generation do, but just as many don’t.

As the war wound down, Dad received an early discharge:  his daughter, my older sister Ted, was gravely ill and he made it home in time to meet her---and bury her.  The emotional toll exacted on them was severe; they were afraid to try for another child for another 10 years.  In the meantime, they moved to Dallas, where Dad went to work in the aircraft industry, while remaining in the “new” USAF. 

Korea erupted, and Dad got 48 hours’ notice:  report to Greenville, SC or else.  He and Mother survived throwing everything they owned into their 1948 Buick (still their favourite car ever) and driving insanely from Dallas to South Carolina (no freeways…).  At one point during the trip, Dad woke up as Mother was pulling into a gas station.  “Are we out of gas already?”  “No, I woke up doing 90 mph on the shoulder and decided you needed to drive.”  They made it ok.

They moved back to Dallas after the Korean Conflict, and resumed their former lives.  I’ve always said they were stupid:  they had a new baby, a new car, and a new puppy simultaneously.  Talk about guts.  Talk about no cash.  Dad had a scooter he rode to work (and occasionally had a passenger…).

Dad exited the USAF and was out of a job.  He took 3 part-time jobs to feed his family:  Mom had difficulty after my younger sister’s birth and couldn’t return to work; her mother had moved in with them, and of course he had the two kids and assorted dogs, birds, etc.  An old boss of his called and offered an interview in Corpus Christi, Texas.  Dad took ME (way cool!!!!) and we drove down US 77 (no freeways) to Corpus from Dallas.  In LaGrange, a lady ran a red light and Dad plowed into her; there was only one injury:  I was asleep in the back of the station wagon and slid forward and bumped my head.  I came up out of the back in my usual calm and serene demeanor (ok, had I known any cuss words at age 6, I’d’ve been cussing like a sailor).  I sat in the car, looking (for the first time) at the Gulf of Mexico while Dad interviewed at the Naval Air Station.  He got the job and we went back to Dallas, packed, and moved to Corpus Christi. 

What a nightmare that move was for Dad.  He had 2 weeks.  He had to pack everything (no “relo” packages then).  He had to take a trailer full of household goods to Malvern, to store at his folks’.  He had to borrow money from his Dad, plus cash a life insurance policy in order to have the money to have the movers move us.  Mother was still in bad shape; he took the twin mattress off my bed and put it in the back of the station wagon (having driven HIS car to Corpus and ridden the train back); in short, we loaded up the (wagon) and moved to “Beverly”. 

Two years later, things were much better; he was making good money, they loved the beach (I hated it), they had a great home in a lovely neighborhood---and the same guy who hired him for Corpus, now in Ft. Worth, called.  Two weeks later, we were living in Ft. Worth, Dad having once again packed up all the junk, the kids, the dogs, the grandmother, and Mother.  Dad pretty much hated his new job, but we were all happier there, so he had some comfort.

But then, as now, RIF’s (Reduction In Force) occur.  Once again, he had to go find work (at least this time, the government was in all-out mode; Vietnam was cranking and Dad was in aircraft…).  He had the choice of moving back to Dallas to a job he knew he would hate (and a demotion); he could move to San Antonio, Texas for a promotion; he could move to Albuquerque, NM for a BIG promotion.  He chose the middle route, and moved a very sullen family (Mom moped; I was apoplectic---how DARE he move me away from my friends???  Grannie and Marla were not happy as well).  Things got worse when we pulled up in front of the house he’d rented for us in San Antonio; we had a lovely home in Ft. Worth.  This dump in SA---well, it’s still a dump, I saw it recently.  It was the best he could do with (again) two weeks to get it all done.  We pulled up in front and Mother took one look and said, “Ok, that is a funny joke, now where’s OUR house?”

 

They lived in San Antonio (having moved to a much nicer home) 8 years, then Tulsa, then (kids gone, parents gone), they retired and moved back to Malvern, Arkansas.  Dad lasted about a month before getting bored; he built Mother a ceramics shop, still bored, then got a call to do consulting work.  He took that job and had ANOTHER career, one of over 20 years of consulting.  Probably his favourite time in Malvern was spent on the boat; he’s always loved boating, and he finally had the cash and wherewithal to have what he wanted.

He loved those trips to Florida, too.  We spent several very happy Christmases in Navarre Beach, Florida, trips which he instigated and loved.

>>o<<

When I moved back to Houston, it was going to be very tough for them to remain in Malvern.  I hadn’t provided THAT much help, but my presence was enough.  Mom had had her stroke, and it was time to move on.  So, Dad once again moved, this time back to San Antonio (at least this time, Nathan packed!).

Throughout it all, Dad has maintained his equilibrium.  He’s been the Rock of Gibraltar for our family, the one to whom we’ve all turned for advice, wisdom, and counsel (not to mention money….;-).  He’s been solid and dependable for all these decades, and if he was ever afraid or worried, he never showed it.  (Mad, that one he showed…just mess with the “fine tuning” on the television set, or take one of his tools and not return it and see where it got you….). 

Even today, he goes every day to see Mother (who truly is in tough shape), maintaining his equilibrium through the shoals of another major surgery (I think the count is:  2 heart attacks, gall bladder, 6 stents, triple bypass), this time aortic aneurysm.  Like John Cameron Swayze’s Timex, he takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’.

Happy 86th birthday, Dad.  I love you and respect you more than you will ever know.

Seasonal thoughts and etc.

Here we are in the middle of all kinds of seasons.  College Football season is over (well, after this Saturday’s Championship games), Basketball season has started.   The Holiday Season started with Halloween and will end with New Year’s.  On October 1, it was almost 90 degrees in Houston; today it’s 51 degrees and pouring; we’re almost through the fall season and into the winter season (which will last roughly from Christmas to February….).  We’ll have a brief respite from football after the Bowl games, though the NFL playoffs will continue and the Supa Bow will be a few days before my 53rd birthday---which overlaps with the college baseball season…which overlaps with both the MLB season and the MLS season….

As far as the Hogs’ season, it was a good one, I think.  Plenty of disappointments, to be sure (the Georgia game, the Florida game, the Ole Miss game come to mind), but plenty of things about which to be optimistic.  If young Mallett can resist the siren call of the NFL (knowing that he’ll be holding a clipboard for 5 years), Arkansas ought to return a very good team next year.  The Cotton Bowl would be wise to snatch us this year, while they can.  I’d like to have another crack at LSU, but we’ll get our chance next year.

>>o<<

Thank GOD St. Tim of Tebow is at last graduating.  I’m sick unto death of his smarmy religionism, his celebrations that would land any other SEC player with unsportsmanlike conduct penalties, and his grandstanding.  I don’t like him.  Sorry, ‘murikuh, I just don’t care for your idol.

>>o<<

The Houston Dynamo acquitted themselves well, especially since they’ve not quite found the replacement for DeRosario.  Taking us on a thrilling ride to the semi-final game, they lost in OT to the Galaxy.  Dale dale dale dale Dynamo, son de Houston!

(Astros, I give up.  When y’all get serious about baseball, let me know.)

Razorback basketball is dead to me.  I hope they lose every game, and I will actively root against them for the remainder of the (mercifully short) season.  Pelphrey:  do the right thing, man:  leave (and take the thugs who are disgracing that cardinal and white uniform with you---or quit protecting them so they can go on to jail.).

>>o<<

Seasons indicate change.

Change is what it’s all about for me right now.  My company lost our contract; the new company says they will offer me a job.  My old company says they might have something –delicious- for me as well.  A choice?  How would that work, exactly???  I’d be glad to have any, but a choice would be sheer luxury.

I think maybe if you survive your 50’s, the 60’s should be O-K.  At least that’s what I hope.

Reconnected on Facebook with one of my old college roommates.  What a blast!  I always did love that jackass (he’s a great guy and I’m delighted to have his friendship back).  I guess now he’s morphed from “jackass” to “codger” or some such ;-)  We had a lot of fun, in our season as roommates, all those years ago….

>>o<<

Seasons sometimes cause us to sit back and reflect on where we’ve been and where we’re going.  I think back over where I’ve been, and say, “You know, even though it’s been bumpy in spots, it’s not been a bad ride.”  As for where I’m going….

Onward into the night, my friends….

 

Uh, waiter~~hold that order of Kool-Aid, please; I’ll take an Alka-Seltzer instead

You really just hate to see regression, but that’s what Arkansas Razorbacks fans observed Saturday.

It’s hard to single out any particular phase of the game as being more egregious than others---Ryan Mallett apparently determined that he needed to try to get the ball to the Mississippi Gulf Coast, several hundred miles south of Oxford, rather than to his receivers on the field.  Meanwhile, the receivers had their hands encased in concrete---or butter, take your pick.  The defense decided that, having taken the Florida game seriously, they’d just take the Ole Miss game off.  (Hey guys:  that McCluster fellow, you might want to consider blocking him.  You know he’s going to get the ball.  You know Houston Nutt has had propensities in the past to run the same back(s) over and over and over.  You couldn’t figure that out?

The most disappointing aspect of this weekend was this:  Bobby Petrino was outcoached by Houston Nutt.  Apparently, Bobby and his staff took a cue from the defense and mailed it in this week. 

Hey, Bob:  this is the SEC.  As Joe Kines once said, “they will slit your throat and drink your blood.”  You don’t GET a day off in the fall.  You make more in a month than I make in a year, so let’s not hear any whining.

This level of play will not be considered acceptable next year. 

>>o<<

I watched the Mississippi State/Florida game this weekend.  Once again, while State was finally put away, the officials “helped”.

Arkansas, South Carolina, Ole Miss, and Mississippi State (along with their fellow-traveler Vanderbilt, and maybe even Auburn) might as well give up their foolish ideas about becoming SEC champions.  That’s reserved for Florida, Alabama, LSU, sometimes Tennessee, sometimes Georgia.  The SEC is going to be sure of that.

Proud of the Hogs/A Public Apology/Love Them texass—er, SEC Refs!

Arkansas played #1 Florida in the Swamp today, and came as close to an upset as the Hogs have ever managed against the Gators (in the SEC era).  While Ryan Mallett still showed signs of nerves/jitters in the face of a top-notch defense, he mostly made plays when he needed to do so.

Arkansas’ offensive line played very well indeed.  The blocking up front gave Mallett the time he needed to make the plays. 

The receiving corps, likewise, did well, making some clutch catches (yes, they missed some, nobody’s perfect) they would have missed early in the season.

How bout that young Dennis Johnson!  Whoa, where did HE come from?  He certainly stepped up while Smith is out---and had some nice kick returns as well.  Ah, to be young again, and have that kind of stamina…

The Defense:  what can you say about these guys?  Worst to first!  They were trounced last year, and started out this year looking like “Second verse, same as the first!”  They’ve quietly improved, game after game, and today’s game---let’s just say the #1 Gators had all of the Arkansas defense they wanted and then some.

Ole Miss offense:  Be afraid.  Be very, very afraid.

I am very, very proud of the Hogs today---they stood toe-to-toe with Florida, with some of their best players on the sidelines, and won the game (with the exception noted a couple of sections below). 

Fearless prediction:  January 2, 2010, Cowboys Stadium, Arlington, Texas:  The SBC Cotton Bowl Classic, Arkansas vs. Oklahoma (or K-State, depending on how that shakes out).

>>o<<

A Public Apology:

Toward the first part of the year, in public and in private, I excoriated Willy Robinson, Arkansas’ Defensive Coordinator.  I publicly called for his head, stating that he obviously wouldn’t know Defense from a paper bag.

I was wrong.

Mr. Robinson, you have developed your players all year (something not seen at Arkansas for the past 10 years).  You’ve devised some very stout defenses against some very good offenses.  I am impressed.  I was wrong, and I publicly apologize.  Give ‘em Hell, Willy!

>>o<<

I watched the game today with Nathan and his fraternity brother and friend, Adam.  We were cautiously optimistic as the game began, but as it wore on and it became more and more likely that we might pull off the upset, we began to be very concerned with and interested in the game.  As the game wore on to the final quarter, Adam began twisting his hat, unconsciously running his fingers through his hair, and both he and Nathan started sitting on the edge of their seats.  I was sprawled back on the sofa.  At one point, Adam turned to me and said, “You look pretty relaxed for someone who professes to be nervous!” 

“Boys,” I said, “y’all are 26.  I’ve been living with the Arkansas Razorbacks for 52 years.  I’ll get excited when we get down to the last minute.”  (I was thinking of the scene in “Fried Green Tomatoes” when Kathy Bates slams her Ford into the young girls’ car, then says, “Face it, girls---I’m older and I’ve got better insurance!”).

They’re 26.  Full grown men with college degrees and homes and cars and careers and wife (one) and fiancée (other).  They were 9 years old when Arkansas played its last Southwest Conference game.  They vaguely remember us playing texass u (spit) and aTm and Baylor and SMU and TCU and Rice and Texas Tech and Houston; they’ve never been to Lubbock; Waco is someplace they’ve driven through going from Dallas to San Antonio; Austin is 6th Street (but not football); Texas Stadium is where the Cowboys used to play, and who was Amon Carter and where is Ft. Worth anyway?  They never owned a copy of Dave Campbell’s Texas Football (or the Arkansas version).  

>>o<<

Horton Nesrsta.

That name may not mean anything to young Razorback fans (see above) but it does to us old farts.

Arkansas was playing SMU at Texas Stadium; SMU was in full “Pony Express” mode with their bought and paid for players (Craig James you suck); when they got caught, that set in motion the demise of the Southwest Conference.

In any event, Horton Nesrsta was an official in that game.  He called Arkansas’ Nathan Jones for Pass Interference (which then was half the distance to the goal, period); this put the ball at the Arkansas 17 and SMU went on to win the game, which gave them the Conference Championship.  Except there was no Defensive Pass Interference.  It was obviously, positively, blatantly OFFENSIVE pass interference, should have resulted in a (drive-killing and probably game-losing) penalty for SMU, and everybody in the stadium and in the national TV audience saw it---except Nesrsta.  Even the SMU player later said he was play-acting, trying to convince Nesrsta that it was Jones interfering with him, when he knew he was guilty as original sin.

Out of all the hose jobs the Texas referees (for the young fan:  Arkansas refs could not referee an Arkansas game; the Texas schools were afraid we’d “cheat”.  So of course, ALL of OUR games were refereed by ALL-TEXAS refs---but hey, that was fair, right?) ever pulled on poor old Arkansas, that was by far the worst.

In fact, out of all the hose jobs EVER pulled on Arkansas in both the old Southwest Conference and the Southeastern Conference, that was the worst---until today.

THE SOUTHEASTERN CONFERENCE SHOULD DIE OF SHAME BECAUSE OF THE REFEREEING IN THE ARKANSAS-FLORIDA GAME TODAY.  Those referees (who likewise hosed Georgia in favour of LSU) should never be allowed to work another game in the SEC, if the SEC is to have ANY credibility whatsoever.  I have thought the refereeing in the SEC was bad, and I’ve heard the complaints of favouritism from other fans, but I’ve never witnessed anything like this hosing, except for dear old Horton Nestrsa.  What game were they watching? 

I’ll tell you what game they were watching:  they were watching the SEC’s bottom line, they were watching the fact that the SEC has the number 1 and number 2 ranked teams in the nation right now, and they were damned well intent on keeping Florida #1, even if they had to carry the ball across the goal line FOR St. Tebow and Co.

Normally, I am one who says, “Whining about the refs is for losers,” but in this case, it’s deserved. 

Look, when our team does something against the rules, fine.  There’s “holding” on every play in every football game; as long as it’s called evenly, that’s fine when we get popped.  Off sides, False Starts, 12 men on the field---we commit them all, and deserve to be penalized for it.

But when an Arkansas player is obviously going for the ball, does not push off, and otherwise just properly defends a pass into the endzone---and gets flagged for pass interference, when there clearly was none…when an Arkansas player gets called for blocking his man cleanly, with no other apparent issue—and gets flagged for it---both of which penalties result in keeping the Florida drive alive when it was sputtering---that’s just plain old bullshit.

Foul, Southeastern Conference, foul.  If Florida goes on to win the national championship (which I hope does not happen), it will be tainted as far as I’m concerned.  I hope St. Tebow and the Gators lose in the NC game.  I’ll sure be rooting for their opponent (for the first time since we joined the SEC in 1992), unless it’s texass u (spit).  If that’s the game, I just won’t watch it.  I don’t think my heart could take it. 

FOOBAW; or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the game

I had a little speed bump on the road of life Friday; spent the day getting checked out for “Chest Pain, nonspecific” at St. Luke’s.  (St. Luke’s is where some ol nobody doc named Denton Cooley made somewhat of a name for himself---I mean, if you’re going to have heart issues, Houston is the best place in the world to do it, no?). 

They checked me and found I was in no immediate danger (they figure it was “stress”), scheduled me for more tests (surprise!) and sent me home with instructions to not engage in any “heavy physical activity”.

I took this as an excuse to mean, “Don’t mow the yard; sit in the recliner all weekend and watch football.”

So I did.

I watched 6 games this weekend.

AUBURN at ARKANSAS

---photo courtesy Mr.. James K. Pork

Well, THAT was fun, wasn’t it!?

You could make arguments that Texas A&M was not ready for primetime; that we really hadn’t played anyone; that we were still very suspect in a number of areas.

The Auburn game proved the contrary.  Arkansas dominated Auburn from one end of the football field to the other; yes, Auburn helped with giftwrapped turnovers, but upon second viewing a lot of those turnovers were Arkansas-induced.

I’ve seen the argument on the Auburn boards that “Arkansas gets up a lot more for us than we do for the; they consider us a MAJOR opponent while we consider them like (snif) one of the Mississippi schools.”  Uh, yeah, NO, not really.  I mean, the Auburn game is an SEC game, all right; it’s a “big” game in that they are all “big”, but in no way does Arkansas consider Auburn to be one of the SEC elite teams.  I’d say we’re right there together, Aubies.  Y’all haven’t “broken out” either.  If you disregard us every year, well, that’s just great, you keep on doing so---makes it easier for us to beat you on our way to beating “REAL” SEC teams like LSU and Alabama. 

---photo courtesy Mr.. James K. Pork

The thing I liked about the Auburn game (well, I liked a LOT about the Auburn game) was the fact that the defense really does seem to be improving by leaps and bounds.  They were better against Auburn (a much better team) than they were against Texas A&M; better against A&M than they were against Alabama; better against Alabama (which is better than anybody gave them credit for being preseason) than they were against Georgia.  Had our defense played as well in the Georgia game as they played in the Auburn game, that would have been a win for us.

Receivers play is looking good, and we have a QB who can get the passes there.  He played 3 or 4 games for Michigan, otherwise, he’s effectively a FRESHMAN.  That’s the other thing you’ve got to love about these Hogs---they’re VERY YOUNG.  When they get some seasoning on them---well, let’s say I wouldn’t feel funny talking about Atlanta next year, especially considering Alabama loses a lot of that talent to the NFL next year. 

It’s like this, Aubies: 

HEY AUBURN!

HEY AUBURN!

HEY AUBURN!

WE JUST BEAT THE HELL OUTTA YOU!

WHOLE HOG, HALF HAM, ARKANSAS BY DAMN!!!

 

ALABAMA at OLE MISS

AND LO, THE HEATHEN GIANT CRIMSON BEASTS FROM THE BANKS OF THE BLACK WARRIOR RIVER DID RISE UP, AND SMOTE THE CHILDREN OF MISSISSIPPI WHERE THEY STOOD; OFFENSE AND DEFENSE THEY SMOTE THEM; THEY SMOTE THEM ON THE OFFENSIVE LINE, THEY SMOTE THEM ON THE DEFENSIVE LINE, THEY SMOTE THEM IN THE BACKFIELD, THEY SMOTE THEM IN THE KICKING GAME, THEY SMOTE THEM IN THE BOWL CUTS.  VERILY, EVEN THE MUCH-VAUNTED SNEAD REGRESS-ED ONCE AGAIN, THANKS TO THE TUTELEGE OF THE REVEREND, AND AS THE DARKNESS COVERED THE FACE OF VAUGHT-HEMINGWAY STADIUM, YEA, VERILY, I SAY THAT THE VOICES OF THE MISSISSIPPI FAITHFUL CRIED OUT IN DESPAIR, AND GREAT WAS THEIR MOANING, AND THERE WAS WEEPING AND WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH, AND THERE WAS HOTTYING AND TODDYING; THEY TORE THEIR GARMENTS AND ANNOINTED THEMSELVES WITH BOURBON!  AND DID CRY OUT, “BUT REVEREND NUTT, WE DRANK YOUR KOOL AID!  WE BELIEVED!  BUT FORSOOTH, OUR SPECIAL TEAMS WERE NOT SPECIAL, AND OUR LINES CAVE-ED IN, AND GREAT WAS THE SUFFERING OF OUR SNEAD!”  TO WHICH THE REVEREND REPLIED, “GIGGITAH!  SMEZMERIZE!”

And there was sadness in the valley of Oxford, and they were sore afraid, for the rest of the SEC schedule did not look promising, and it appeared their cousins from Arkansas were right; and this, surely, was the unkindest (bowl) cut of all.

 

BAYLOR at OKLAHOMA

Man, Baylah is a long, long way from the days of “I Believe” when Grant Teaff took us to the Promised Land. 

And there was sadness at Jerusalem on the Brazos, and the little light on top of Pat Neff Hall (where God lives!) was dark, and there was no green on Pat Neff Hall; and the natives cared not, for they were at George’s, snarfing down chicken fried steaks and Bud Lights, and trying to get into Betty Baylor’s (or, for that matter, Bobby Baylor’s) pants (without anybody finding out, since it IS Baylah….).

 

FLORIDA at LSU

Well, the great shoot out that wasn’t.  Seemed to me both teams struggled mightily with each other throughout the game.  At the end, Florida proved that they’re just a bit bigger, badder, and stronger than LSU.  Tiger Bait, indeed.  More like Gator Bait.

 

DALLAS at KANSAS CITY

Sigh.  What an exercise in futility.  Yes, we won (yaaaay!).  We managed (through the heroic individual effort of one player) to scrape by in overtime against one of the worst teams in the NFL.  Woo-Hoo!  Pardon me if I’m less than thrilled. 

As a head coach, Wade Phillips is a great defensive coordinator (whose defenses can’t seem to stop quarter-ending drives for game-winning TD’s).

As a quarterback, Tony Romo would be good holding somebody’s clipboard.  Yes, I’m ready to throw Tony under the bus.  Buh-bye.  Less celebrity dating.  Less nightclubbing.  More completed passes.

Bleah.  The whole experience was just foul.

 

HOUSTON at ARIZONA

Sigh.  Until the Texans get themselves an offensive line and a new QB (I’m not sold on Schaub at all), they’re never going to make the playoffs (much less win a game in the playoffs).  Kubiak’s last year in Houston.

 

COLTS at TITANS

Hey, it was a FOOBAW game!  Well, not much of one, and I could care less about either team, but it was foobaw!  Of course, it’s always fun to watch the Titans lose (and no, Titans, you CAN’T wear Oilers uniforms again!  There is a lot of bitterness in Houston about the way you left us in the lurch!  I personally hope you lose every game!).

 

And that was this weekend!  Whew!

 

Hogs have their work cut out for them in the Swamp next weekend.  Who knows?  It could happen!?