Spring roofsit

March 31, 2019

“Back to the roof”

            ROOFTOP – I’m a real fan of begonias. Cast your gaze downward and you’ll see a pot of red begonias in Kay’s garden. They’re my favorite. They’re called Go-Go begonias. It says so on the tag. I was calling ‘em Ruby Begonias after an old girlfriend of mine. Kay corrected me.

            Excuse me a second. – “Jim, don’t even think about climbing up here with that cup of coffee in your hand. This roof is higher and steeper than the one at the other house. So, you WILL fall, and Shari will kill me.” – I’m sure you noticed how I was using my Liam Neeson voice. – No, it wasn’t Nick Nolte.

            Speaking of which, I’ve had only one other rooftop experience here at our new house. The problem is that this is a pyramid roof. I tried sitting on a big pillow at the pointed peak, but it really hurt my rear. I walked in a squat for a week after that article.

            Well, yesterday, I was sitting in the backyard thinking about Ruby’s begonias, when I noticed that the back porch has a two-sided hip roof that juts out from the main pyramid-roof. It’s a short span, but could definitely hold lawn chairs. The reason I didn’t notice it before was that I was distracted by the excruciating pain in my posterior. I thought I mentioned that.

            But, let’s get past all that. It’s a cool and beautiful evening and our Eighth-of-an Acre Wood blocks our view of the neighbor’s backyard. That narrow strip of trees and shrubs is the reason we grabbed this lot. You see, this entire area was forested up until a couple of years ago when the land was made ready for a subdivision. Our house is sitting on one of the few lots that hold evidence of what used to be. That makes Kay and me partly responsible for the clearcut of 100 plus acres of forest. Progress is one of those transitions that provide both benefit and despair. That’s true of most things.  

            Take “age” for example. I had to go grab a takeout order from Vernon’s last Tuesday. Tuesday is Smoked Chicken Day. I really like Smoked Chicken Day. Anyway, I was in my around-the-house attire when I placed the order, so it was imperative that I change clothes for the pick-up. While standing in the closet trying to choose a better-looking shirt, my mind landed on something smart. I don’t know how I do it. – Why the Sam Hill do I care what I look like? Nobody notices an old guy. I don’t even notice them.

            Age changes one’s attitude about stuff. When I was young, people were always looking for something about me they could make fun of.  I just knew I was the only weird guy on the planet. I had acne, I sweat a lot, and there wasn’t a piece of clothing in my drawer that looked good on me. My only hope was to find something that would not draw attention. Fortunately, I’ve now reached the age where I’m unnoticeable. I’m just dust in the wind. (I recently saw a documentary on the rock band “Kansas.” Fascinating.)

            That’s one of the good things about getting old. The bad thing about aging is how it can make you stupid. When I was looking up the phone number for Vernon’s so I could place my order, I couldn’t remember the name of the place. All I could think of was Kuntry Katfish. So, I walked into the living room and asked Kay, “Sweatpea, what’s the name of Vernon’s?” As she was thinking that over, I left the room.

            Fortunately, for a senior citizen, I’m still agile as all get out. I have the moves of a cat. Occasionally catch myself licking the back of the hand. And I still play a mean game of racquetball. During Tuesday’s tournament with Brad, I managed to hit the guy in each of the four games we played. The first time I hit him on the side of the head, right where his ear sticks out… used to stick out. Apparently, the ear is a bad place to get hit, because Bradly really carried on. I hit him another time in the back of the head, and twice in the small of his back.  

            Bradly would’ve probably beat the daylights out of me, had he not realized that each hit was accidental. There’s no way I’m able to hit the ball where I’m aiming. It’s all I can do to hit one of the four walls. Perhaps I’m swinging too hard. Regardless, I’ve only been able to beat the guy twice. Not on the same day, of course. The good thing about losing a game is that you get to serve first in the next game. Both times I beat Bradford, he refused the first serve advantage. No matter how many times I hit him, he still gives me every break. Half the time, he forgets how many points he has. I worry about the man.   

            Speaking of which, “Jim, don’t take another step. We’re coming down. We can sit in the backyard if you want, but we’re through up here. “ – The thought of coffee sounds good about now. Not even a guy with enviable agility should bring a mug to this rooftop. If I try to maintain my balance while balancing a cup of coffee, I’ll be a goner for sure. My epitaph will read, “He died doing what he loved. Falling off the roof.” 

           

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You can contact Mark at  hayter.mark@gmail.com

Jefferson Trip

March 24, 2019

“Trip to Jefferson”

 

            There was no such thing as Spring Break during my tenure as a student. At least not in Texas. We had what was called “Two days off for Easter,” and were proud to get it.

            In 1960, a movie called “Where the Boys Are” came out in most theaters. The picture involved some goings-on in Fort Lauderdale during something called “Spring Break.” While the “Boys” were partying in Florida, I was seated somewhere in Mrs. Powell’s sixth-grade class at Pomeroy elementary in Pasadena, Texas. Even if the School Board had heard of Spring Break, they wouldn’t have given us one. Our parents would have revolted. 

            When I became a high school teacher, I experienced a lot of spring breaks. I liked ‘em, too. Kay and I would occasionally take short trips with Virginia and Freeman to dull places where kids wouldn’t likely visit. Now that we’re retired we don’t go anywhere during spring break, because I don’t want to share my fun with a bunch of kids. 

            Last week, we made the exception after Jill asked Kay and me to go to the small town of Jefferson with her. Why Jefferson? Jill wanted to see the statue of Big Foot. It doesn’t take much for my kid sister. Crazy me, I had no idea why the good people of Jefferson would want a Big Foot. It would be akin to the town of Wapanuka, OK putting up a statue of Jerry Lewis.  

            Turns out, there have been several sightings of Sasquatch in and around Jefferson, Texas. While I’m not certain that a Sasquatch is the same as a Big Foot, I’m fairly certain that a clear photo of either of them does not exist. Matters not, I’ve been to Jefferson, and it’s loaded with interesting stuff. 

            A friend of ours, JJ, is from Jefferson and she told us to be sure to go to the place that serves cornbread sandwiches. I asked her for the name of the place and she said, “Well, Mark, you’ll need to look for a place with the name “CORNBREAD” in it, you jackass!” --  JJ didn’t say “jackass” but I could tell she thought it. (The actual name is “Kit’s Kornbread Sandwich & Pie Bar.” Unfortunately, there is no Kuntry Katfish at the KK & PB.)

            Instead of renting rooms at one of the many hotels in the town of 2106 residents, Kay decided to go online to“Airbnb” to find one of several bed and breakfast places. She found a dandy. It was an old house with an old house feel and an old two-wheeled cart for a coffee table. Kay almost killed herself tripping over the protruding handles of that cart. I placed one of the old, uncomfortable wooden chairs over the handles, so she would not have a re-fall, and so Jill and I wouldn’t have our first fall. 

            The best places to see in Jefferson are… well, most of the places. It rained the three days we were there, so we only got to shop. We didn’t even get to complete the Big Foot Trail. We did see the creature, though. That thing was starkers. I thought the creatures would at least have had an awareness of nudity. They’ve certainly seen enough clothed humans traipsing through the woods. You’d think they’d catch on.

            We did get some great photos of the monster. In one of them, Big Foot is ogling Jill, and in another, Jill is ogling Big Foot. I took on a wrestling stance for my pose. And, Kay? Kay didn’t want her picture taken with the furry beast. There is a point of propriety beyond which Kay will venture. One of the reasons I married her. 

            I do not have time to tell you of all the great places we visited in Jefferson, so I’ll just hit the high lights. Riverport BBQ has the best smoked ribs, I’ve ever had. Of course, I generally consider the ribs I’m eating at any given moment to be the best I’ve ever had. Same with pie. 

            Don’t miss a visit to the Jefferson General Store. You could spend like 40 hours in there. In fact, Jill did. There were so many toys and candies of my youth. You can see some the goodies in Cracker Barrell, but The Barrel is much prouder of their candy and toys than Jeff’s General Store is. 

            I wanted to grab some of the toy guns and balsa wood airplane gliders, and cars and trucks and just run all over the store with ‘em. But, after seeing Kay do all of that, I realized how stupid it’d look. I did end up getting a giant peanut patty, a hard, thick disc of red sugar with peanuts in it.

            Please visit the lady in The Blackburn Syrup Works. She is an absolute jewel. And, since her husband passed away, she’s looking to sell the store. Too much work for the retired kindergarten teacher. So, one of you needs to buy her store, complete with all of the best jelly, syrups, sauces, and memorabilia you’d ever want. And, after purchasing her store, you must be as nice as that lady. Again, an absolute jewel.

            As for the cornbread sandwich? Jill’s review was the best. She said, “It’ll do if you don’t have bread.” -- I thought it tasty, but I wish I had asked for a chili cornbread sandwich. My only true disappoint of our trip had to do with the weather. We didn’t get to go on the haunted tour or take the carriage town-tour, or the boat tour of Caddo Lake.

            But, we did get to see Big Foot. And I’ve got to tell you, if that thing is as muscled up as the statue portrays, it’s still out there. Nothing could bring down that monster

  

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You can contact Mark at hayter.mark@gmail.com.

I and Me

March 17, 2019

“For the death of me, I don’t know why--”

            Do you ever wonder why bees “sting” and mosquitoes “bite”? Nobody ever says that he got stung by a mosquito or bitten by a bee. It just sounds wrong. If an insect or person uses a pointy thing on its nose or bottom to poke through your skin, you’ve been stung, not bitten.

            And, take ants. They’ll only bite you if you’ve been staked out in the desert or lying dead somewhere. Other than that, they don’t bite, they just sting. What was it that ever made us think we were being bitten by ants. I think it’s because of the king who wore no clothes. Remember him? Well, one day he apparently got stung by an ant but told everyone that he had been bitten. ­­­­­­­Though the people knew he was crazy, they accepted his assumption. Ever since then, ants have been biting the daylights out of people. They seem to be the only ones who know what they’re actually doing.

            While someone might sense a political statement in that story, it was not intended. It just happened. The same as when Virginia and Freeman came over for supper last week. By the way, we eat “supper” at our house, not “dinner.” I don’t even eat dinner in a diner. I fail to see the need for two different names for the same meal. Somebody was just trying to be cute. Cute is fine until it confuses. I believe Copernicus once said that.

            But, let’s get back to supper with the Plilers. During one of the few lulls in conversation, I decided to bring up the loss of the word “me” in conversation.”  It was after my last rib that I mentioned the word “me” to Virginia, an ex-English teacher who knows what of she speaks. I told her that it steams my clams when I hear someone shatter the rule involving the usage of  “I and me” in a sentence. It took me a good while to learn the rule, so it both stings and bites when people break the rule.  

             I thought Virginia, too, would feel anguish over the death of “me.” I asked her if she had noticed how many people have replaced the word “me” with “I” whenever someone else enters the picture. Virginia had no idea of that of which I was talking, so I had to give her an example of that to which I was getting. (That’s correct usage of grammar that sounds just horrible.)

            I explained that, while it is proper to say, “Kay and I invited Freeman and Virginia over,” it’s improper to say that “Freeman and Virginia invited Kay and ‘I’ over.” Nobody invites “I” over for supper. They invite ME. Yet, if I bring someone with me, people often refer to us as “Kay and I.”  That’s just wrong, yet, reporters, screenwriters, and even teachers are saying stuff like that. And, regardless, not a one of ‘em has ever invited me over for supper. Dinner, maybe.

            Virginia didn’t seem to care one whit about the use of  “I” instead of “me.” If I had made the mistake, she would’ve been all over me. Or, I. She would’ve been all over one of us. 

            I recently signed up for “Grammarly,” a computer program that brings attention to misspelling and grammatical errors. The problem is, when you make up words as I do, practically every sentence has a mistake in it. My old spell-check program would let me enter my weird words into a dictionary, so it could start accepting them. My new program doesn’t want its dictionary infected by wrong words, so it constantly tags my made-up words.

            If that’s not aggravating enough, there are some words that “Grammarly” has never seen. One of ‘em is “awhile.” I realize that there are times when awhile should be written as two words, but not always. My new program flags every “awhile” it catches, and it acts as if I’m stupid to keep using the word. Hey, I can tell when a program uses sarcasm.  

            There are only a few hundred other gripes I have about word usage, but I only have time for one more. I’ve decided to end on the writing of numbers. In most books and in every newspaper the writer is supposed to spell out each numeral from one and nine. Ten is optional. Naturally, any number that begins a sentence has to be spelled out. That’s why I seldom begin a sentence with “One hundred forty-seven.”

            Some would think it no big deal to have spell out a number. But, it is if you include a lot of numbers when you write.  I can see the reason for writing out “one.” It might get confused with a lower case L. But the other numerals have swirls and weird lines jutting out, so you can’t possibly get ‘em mixed up. But, it doesn’t matter. I imagine it was Joseph Pulitzer who came up with the rule. Maybe Miss Manners.

            Okay, that’s it. Right now, I say we put the matter of word usage to rest, but only as it relates to me. All of my grammatical mistakes are intentional. In fact, I got a grade card last week from my “Grammarly” account. I was informed that I use more unique words than 98 percent of its program’s users. I kid you not. My word usage isn’t wrong. It’s “unique.”

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You can contact Mark at hayter.mark@gmail.com.

Article ideas

‘Mark’s Think Tank” (March 10, 2019)

           

            I’m glad you could be with me today as I introduce this year’s “Idea’s For Mark’s Article Think Tank” – IFMATT. A Think Tank is a group of really smart people who give advice and ideas to individuals, corporations, governments… who are planning something big.

            Take me for instance. Last year, I assembled a committee to come up with ideas for stuff to write about. I was looking for a “Think Tank” but got an aimless assortment of oddballs who had trouble getting along. Oh, and thinking. They had trouble thinking of stuff. Remember Flo? That girl was zoned.

            Well, this year I acquired a group of experts who can not only think on their feet but also in their seats, but they’ve also been in the newspaper. That pretty much makes ‘em credible, but only if you discount all of the wackos who have been in the newspaper. So, let me introduce this year’s IFMATT.

            We’ve got my kid sister, Jill; my friend since second grade, Johnny Sutton; my friend and accomplished photographer, professional boxing ref, resort manager and reporter, Brad Meyer; and my lovely and charming wife for life, Kay. Where is Kay? Kay, I’m introducing you, so get your buns out here. There she is.

            Not with us today is my kid brother, Big Al. He has yet to respond to my phone message. He may be out shooting another commercial. Apparently, Al has a look that makes people want to buy whatever he’s hyping. I don’t have that look. I couldn’t sell a ladder to a… to a person who really needed a ladder.

JILL: Mark, you said tee tee.  I-F-M-A-TT. Speaking of which, I don’t like the name of the Tank of Thought and if you don’t change it I will walk right out of here, Little Mister. Hey, I’m joking! Don’t give me that look. 

MARK: Okay, if Jill is through, let’s get started. What say we start with Montgomery County’s auger of deep stuff, Brad Meyer. What you got for me, Bradlison? 

BRAD: I suggest you quit writing drivel and write about important stuff… like the National Debt. That thing’s climbing faster than a squirrel on meth. What’s causing that?

MARK: Squirrels on meth? I have no idea. And the National Debt is equally puzzling. Let’s see, the people who used to hate a big National Debt are now okay with it, and the people who used to not care much about the debt now hate it. You’d love me to step in the middle of that argument, wouldn’t you, Bradford? Well, I’m not doing it! 

BRAD: Okay then, write about how robots are taking over people’s jobs and will soon take over the world, starting with Oklahoma?  

MARK: Bradly, I’m fairly sure that Oklahomans wouldn’t know a robot if it set next to ‘em on the porch swing. – Jill, you’re next. 

JILL: I think you should write about the history of the Washburn Tunnel in Pasadena. It must be Washburn’s birthday because somebody on Facebook has posted pictures of when they started building it. It made me think of when Daddy would take us to Lake Houston. He and Mom would be inside the pickup, with little Al sitting between them. This was before seatbelts and child seats, back when kids were allowed to jump around in the bed of a moving pickup. I remember, we used to try to hold our breath all the way through the tunnel? Dennis said that he did it, but he was a storyteller. 

MARK: Well, if anybody could hold his breath all the way through the tunnel, Dennis could. He could do anything. Okay, that’s a fond memory that almost brought me to tears. Jill, I need you to do some research on the Tunnel and get back to me early next week. – Johnny, speak to me. 

JOHNNY: Mark, I think you should write about the time Craig and I drove to Mazatlan on a surfing trip and took you along so you could help pay for the gas. We set off with our surfboards strapped to the top of the old ’55 Chevy. This was back when you could actually survive a drive all the way across Mexico.

MARK: Okay, I know how this story ends, my friend, and I’m not writing about it.

JOHNNY: So, we made it to the beach, and you grabbed your borrowed flippers, goggles and snorkel and walked into the surf, where you met a 12-foot wave that caused you to disappear. When we found you, you had lost everything but one flipper. You would’ve lost your swim trunks, had they not wrapped around your ankle.  

MARK: Johnny, the one thing that gets me about that story is how you and Craig just let me walk out there as if I knew what I was doing. You were just looking for a good laugh. Well, I ’m here to tell you, my friend that--

KAY: Mark, I think you should write about something positive, like digging a garden. What are we going to plant this year?

MARK: We? There ’s no “we” in gardening, puddin’ head. Gardening is nowhere on my list of “wanna do's.” Pretty much along with everything else I’ve heard from you guys today. Not to worry, when I get Big Al here, he’ll really pick you up. 

BRAD: Hey, I’ll buy whatever your kid brother is selling. By the way, does he play racquetball any better than you do?

MARK: You know, I had this very same feeling after my first meeting last year with the IFMACs. The “C” stood for Committee.” I thought that, by giving this group of yahoos a smart name, they’d live up to it. What’s in a name? – Whoa, that’d be a decent topic.

           

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You can contact Mark at hayter.mark@gmail.co