The ol' pet tree

“Feeling Fall”

    ROOFTOP – All right, now it feels like fall. You know when it feels like fall? Now. I think I just said that.

    I can understand why you had trouble hearing me, ‘cause it’s so breezy. Breezy and cool. And, clear. In fact, to see a bluer sky you’d have to travel to Oel in the galaxy Trifore. They’ve got an unnaturally blue sky there. Scary blue. Take my word.

    Another fall sign is the one tree we have with some red leaves. It’s the Chinese Tallow at the edge of the porch. The one I usually climb to get up here. Unlike the oaks out there, the tallow leaves do turn a lovely red.

Kay was out a few minutes ago with the camera. Mumbled something about the light being all wrong and went back inside. I guess the light would be better were the tree on the north side of the house. I’m not moving it though.

I don’t know if you knew, but my first pet was a tallow tree. The one on Camille Street. We weren’t allowed animal pets, ‘cause you had to feed ‘em and they made a mess in the yard. That was back when kids played outdoors and rolled around in the grass and stuff. Dogs and cats were not welcome at the Hayter house.

So, one day I asked Mom if I could have the tree in the backyard. She said, “I don’t know. Which one do you want?” I took her to the kitchen window and showed her the forked Chinese Tallow.

"Well do you think you can take care of it?” Can you believe that Mom never took a parenting course? She honed her skills on the first four Hayter kids. By the time she got to Al, she forgot all she learned. Anyway, she gave me the tree, and I befriended the thing. Even talked to it. “How was your day? You need more water? Oh, I got my report card and Ol’ Ms. Smith gave me a ‘C’ in conduct. Dad’s gonna kill me. I’m scared to go inside. What should I do?”

When Dennis found out that Mom gave me a pet tree, he laughed big time. And, when he heard me talking to the thing, he told the world about his idiot brother. He’d swing around on the thing just to tick me off. “Is this its elbow right here? Do you think it hurts when I do—this!”

I suppose I should’ve thanked my big brother for trying to humiliate the weirdness out of me. Unfortunately, I wore humiliation well. Always seemed to fit. I was a mess. I’m so much better now.— Beg pardon?

And, who wouldn’t feel better on such a lovely day?  After all, it’s fall! I’ve been so anxious about its arrival that Thanksgiving snuck up on me. Sneaked? What’s bizarro is the fact that none of the Hayters have stepped up to the plate to host the family get-together. They all have families and have apparently made other arrangements. It can sure happen.

So, Kay and I are staying home and preparing something we wouldn’t ordinarily prepare. The ol’ surf and turf. Lobster and steak. The two times we bought lobster tails they were frozen and we tried to steam ‘em. They were rubber tails. Kay read where you’re either supposed to grill or sauté a frozen lobster tails. I’m grilling.

Thanksgiving morning, we’re going to eat breakfast, read the paper, watch about ten minutes of the parade and then play some one-on-one football. With only one person per team you pretty much have to play tackle. Touch would just be stupid. “Okay, hike.” Touch. “That’s not fair.  

No we’ll have to play tackle football. As soon as one of us gets hurt, I’ll do the fireman’s carry and get her inside and then fire up the grill. It’ll be different, but good. You know what it will be? Different, but good. Just seeing if you were listening.

Hey, Happy Thanksgiving from the Hayters. And, befriend a tree.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s review of Dimassi’s Mediterranean Buffet click below.

Mark can be reached at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Too much information

“THE Procedure”

    I’m pretty much the head of the household. Have been for right at 40 years now. I’m the man in charge. Nothing occurs without my tacit approval. That’s how I approve stuff. With tacit.   

    I say that to say this. I’m losing it. And, I’m beginning to wonder if I ever had it. Sometimes I sense that I’m a pawn in a game of String-Mark-Along. And that Kay is pulling all the strings. I fear I may have married into the Corleone family.   

I had a procedure done last week. THE procedure. Upper GI with a colonoscopy twist. If you haven’t had that, get ready… unless you have no insurance, in which case you’ll have to wait till you find yourself carrying your colon around in a suitcase. Health Care System? Where’s that?

Anyway, before the event, I fasted while going through the entire gut flushing episode. Wasn’t fun or pretty. Photos at six. After a long, riotous night, Kay took me to the hospital the next day for THE procedure. She helped me fill out all the forms. She had to. I don’t know stuff?

Sooner than I expected, the nurse shouted my name into the waiting room. As I headed for the door I could hear people mumbling. “Oh, poor guy.” – “He’s gonna have a little lighter step when he comes outta there.” – Waiting rooms.

When I got to the door, the nurse asked if I’d like my wife to accompany me. I thought Kay was right behind me. I turn around and saw her reading National Geographic. Something about the Lost Penguins of the Maldives. 

“Kay!” I gave her my “This way” head gesture. It’s served me well. As she walked passed me, she gave me a swat on the rear with the National G. I’m sure nobody noticed.

I needed Kay there for the questions. Oh, the questions. “Mr. Hayter, was your prep successful?” I looked at Kay and she nodded. “Yes, ma’am the prep was a gas.”

“Mr. Hayter, do you have esophageal protuberance lucidity? Kay looks up from her penguin article and nods. “Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone?”

I won’t tease you with further details of the demoralizing, humiliating and shamefully puzzling procedure. But when it was over and I surfaced from the deep funk of anesthesia, Dr. Pearce came in and gave me the good news. A kind man who left no turn unstoned. I may have still been a little groggy.

I stopped listening after he said there was nothing to worry about. I did hear something about a clip inside me that will… I don’t remember. Disintegrate? Pass? Make its way out my left nostril? Who can remember? Kay can… and did.

Later that evening, Kay was giving a family member the lowdown on THE procedure. She rattled off a whole list of details. A polyp, cauterization, something in the esophagus. Nothing to worry about. Need to do this again in five years. Then she started talking about the misplaced penguins. The girl loves penguins. 

When Brad Meyer asked me about the results, I said, “Uh, I’ve got a clip in my stomach. I think.” It was more than he cared to know.

I don’t know how Kay remembers all the boring stuff of life. Stuff that eventually resurfaces as important. Me? I remember nothing. Yet, I’m the one in charge of the household.

On the way home from the hospital, I was really hungry… from “the prep.” I asked Kay to stop somewhere so I could get a burger and onions rings. She said, “No. You don’t want that.”

Wow. She knows what I want and don’t want even before I do. You can see what’s happening here, can’t you? Well, I wish you’d let me in on it, ‘cause after 40 years with Tricker Girl, I don’t know which end’s up… metaphorically speaking. I speak metaphoricals sometimes. 
   
END

Tune in to www.waymorefm.com  at 5 to 6 p.m. Monday through Thursday to catch Brad and Mark’s “You’re telling me” live program. You can contact Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com.

Missing lunch on the roof

“Lightening up”

    ROOFTOP – I dragged you up here this morning in search of happy thoughts. Kay thinks I need to lighten up. She picks up on every little signal. Drives me nuts.

    Anyway, I decided to placate her by sitting on the roof till I lighten up a bit. First thing I notice from up here is all the mole mounds below. Kidney bean shaped things. And, look at the tunnel protrusions in the grass. Irritating as all get out.

    Do you have any idea how many cats there are in my yard? I don’t either. A lot of ‘em. Might even be some up here with us. They’ve been known to climb.

How many of the cats belong to me? None. Zip, zilch, nada. Yet, I tolerate their activity ‘cause I figure they’ll keep varmints out. Moles, snakes, Gila monsters… the usual. Well, they’ve done wonders with the Gila monster population, but not so good with other stuff.

Cats are curious aren’t they?  Supposed to be. I’ve read books about curious cats. Not recently, but I’ve read some. Yet, the cats that congregate around my place don’t give a ripe fig for anything but birds. These stupid cats hear burrowing underground, and what do they do? They stalk birds. “Ah, the ground is vibrating. Time to catch a bird.”

Last week there was a two-foot coral snake by the back door. The red and yella kill a fella kind. I about lost my breakfast over the sighting. I appeared so shook that Kay asked if I wanted her to kill the snake. My entire feminine side was screaming, “Yes! Of course I do! What are you waiting for?”

But that one extra Y chromosome spoke up. “Nah. It’s a job for a guy. Let me get the shovel.” I didn’t enjoy dispatching the demon serpent. I’ve never seen a snake die easy. I’m only glad God didn’t give ‘em vocal cords. A snake scream would pretty much do me in.

That being said, the chance of a coral snake biting me on the ankle is slim. They’ve got small mouths. It’d have to bite me between the toes. I don’t go outside barefoot. Regardless, I couldn’t run the risk of losing one of my neighbors’ cats.  I couldn’t live with that.

Okay, what else do we see down there? Yes, the old Jungle Gym is still there. I’ll dismantle it this winter. Yes, I’ve been saying that for six years, but this time I really mean it. Probably mean it. Regardless, give it a rest will ya? I assure you, we’ll all miss the wooden contraption after it’s gone. It’s the way of things.

Whoa! Did you hear that? You’re right. It’s a rooster. Not much of one by the sound of it. The thing lives closeby. I don’t know if it’s a young rooster or a really old one. Either way, it needs some serious work on its crowing. It’s got the Cocka doodle down pretty well. But, the “do” part is so lacking.

“Cocka doodle squak.” Just pathetic. Isn’t that something? An embarrassment to fowldom. Seems to crow only when I step outside. Regardless of the time of day. A real loony.

I’m the luckiest man in the world. I’ve got moles, snakes, bird-chasing cats and an emasculated rooster. The world is not looking all that well from up here.

Except for that. Did you see it? Just flitted past us. Yep, a monarch butterfly. How do they do it? Fragile as a daydream, yet it will keep plugging away until it ends up somewhere in Mexico. Maybe not that particular butterfly, but one of its kids or grandkids. I don’t know what you call butterfly offspring, but you get the point.

What say we leave on the Monarch sighting. I’ll walk into the kitchen and show Kay that I’m chipper as a… cat trying to attack a cardinal. – “Scat! Leave the birds alone! Go eat a mole!” Doesn’t that beat all?

Well, I guess this minor tirade of mine means that we’ll have to stay up here a little longer. Back to work. We’re all on the lookout for happy stuff. Let’s all spreadout. Report your findings. And work fast, ‘cause I’m not missing lunch. Not this time. – Yes, I’ve been through this before.

END

You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Kay cooks for Cindy of Signing with Cindy Fame

“Kay's cooking episode”

Kay and I are going to do a cooking show together tomorrow. If that doesn’t scare you, it should.

One reason our marriage has lasted so long is ‘cause we know not to prepare meals together. We’ve also learned not to wash the car together, but that’s a whole different thing.

There was a time much earlier in our marriage when we could cook together, but that was back when I didn’t know how to cook. Kay would have to tell me what to chop or skin or stir. Now, I know all that stuff. And, when push comes to shove – which it usually does – I think I’m the better cook.

That’s because Kay doesn’t put enough stuff in what she cooks. She doesn’t put enough butter or oil; enough sugar, salt or cinnamon; or enough chocolate chips or icing. I always put just the right amount. That’s who I am.

The person producing our cooking segment is a good friend of ours Cindy Cochran. Do you remember a show that was on PBS several years back called “Signing with Cindy”? Well, Cindy is that Cindy.

I may have watched every segment of “Signing With Cindy.” I learned to sign the entire song “Sunshine on My Shoulder.” That may not impress you, but it astonished my students back when I was teaching. -- “Mr. Hayter, do you know anything by Journey?” I’d break into “Just a small town girl, living in a lonely woooorld…” – That’s a lie, I only knew the sunshine song, and it began to grate on my classes. – “Somebody stop him! He’s killin’ us!”

I don’t know where Cindy lived when she was SWC, but right now she lives in Montgomery County, and along with a bunch of other stuff, she’s starting a cooking show project and she wants Kay and me to participate. A foolish experiment for sure, but I’m just proud she’s coming to our kitchen.

Where was I. Oh, yeah, Cindy asked Kay and me to each cook something that has a little history behind it. Something we got from a good friend or family member. We’re supposed to tell the history of the dish and then cook it in front of the camera. That part doesn’t worry me so much, but I don’t know how Kay’s gonna handle it. I do know that whatever she does, she’ll be cute doing it. She’ll likely yell at me a few times, but she’ll look cute doing it. Always does.

Kay’s going to show viewers how to prepare Penoche-coated walnuts. It got it’s name from the Disney character Penocheo. Can you see how much I’m going to add to Kay’s cooking segment? I’m going to help her prepare stuff while acting like I know nothing about cooking. I’ll be acting my buns off, ‘cause you know how much I know. A little test for you. Who’s the better cook? Just checking. -- And, yes, Irma. I know. Who’s on first. Cute.

After Kay’s walnut coating fiasco, I’m going to prepare Uncle Ray’s beans, a dish ripe with history… and beans. Lots of beans. By the way some of you may remember that Uncle Ray was Kay’s dad. My father-in-law.

I called him Uncle Ray as a joke once. It was a joke that took root. One of the greatest guys I’ve ever known. Wish you could’ve known him. While that’s no longer possible, you will get to know his beans. They’re quick, they’re easy and they were created at a roadside park in Utah. That’s part of the history.

If you wish to see Cindy’s family recipes show -- and who wouldn’t – you can locate it on www.youtube.com/instantifame. If it’s not there now, be patient. Cindy probably had to do more editing than she had planned. I could see that happening.

Click on Kay to see show

END

Click on photo below to see Brad and Mark's review of Chuy's.

And, you can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Somebody's messin' with me.

“Return of the spoon”

    Something around this house is messing with me and I want it to stop. Are you hearing me?

    Half the time I’m walking around with one houseshoe on ‘cause somebody… or someTHING stole the other. Reading glasses mysteriously leave the room I’m in and go to where I’m not. And, the remote? Do I look like a guy who would toss the remote control behind the couch? Who does that?

    The latest wonderment is the real bat buster. A good while back Kay bought a set of four spoons. There were other eating implements in the box, but I only cared about the spoons. They were perfect, Jerry. 

    The part that goes in your mouth was rounded, not pointy. I like that. A pointy spoon makes the milk dribble down the side of your mouth when you’re eating cereal. Newton proved that even before spoons were invented. Did people listen?

    The new spoons were the perfect size, too. Oh, the set included larger mouthed spoons, but I couldn’t handle ‘em. The smaller ones were perfect. And, they’ve got long stems, good for stirring coffee in my tall, narrow coffee cup with the state-of-the-art lid.

    So the four spoons became my friends. Kay intended to get some more, but the Big Lots people never found another set in the dropped crates down at the docks. Apparently.

I treasured my four spoons for, oh, a couple of years when one of them went missing. You might think the dishwasher ate it, but I stopped using the dishwasher. When you have only four favorite spoons, one favorite cereal bowl, the perfect spatula and my futuristic coffee cup, well, you can’t have ‘em sittin’ in a dishwasher waiting for a full load. Know what I mean, Vern?

So, I was down to three favorite spoons. If one more went missing, there’d be a pattern. I was scared. I took an entire Saturday looking for the missing/stolen spoon. Oh, I took a break to take Kay to see “Sleepless in Seattle.” They only meet in the last five minutes? Give me a break.

Anyway, no luck. I even looked behind the stove. When is the last time you pulled your stove out? It’s scary. I found a tennis ball, Kay’s catcher’s mitt, Big Al’s hairbrush and one of Jimmy Hoffa’s socks. Looked about his size. No spoon.

I had to give up. I’ve been nursing the remaining three spoons for years now. During commercials I’ll even run to the drawer and check up on ‘em.

Well, this morning something freaky happened. As I was arranging a fisted-bundle of silverware into the drawer, I chunked in all the forks and knives and the pointy spoons and then I put four special spoons into the appropriate slot. Did you catch that? FOUR. The prodigal spoon had returned.

“Where have you been?” I asked. It wasn’t talkin’.  I ran to find Kay. “Kay, the spoon is back!” You know what she said? She said, “Oh, good.”

Oh, good? A missing cat would get more of a welcome. So, I ran to the kitchen and prepared my cocktail mix of Oatmeal Crisp, Wheat Chex and Nutty Nuggets, and I grabbed hold of my prodigal spoon. I had to take a bite with each of the four, ‘cause I wasn’t sure which one was the missing one. I should’ve labeled ‘em.

I’m still left with the why, what and where” of the spoon. The “how” would be good to know, too. I’ve got the “when” down. This morning.

Yep, either I’m goin’ nuts or something is messing with me. I’m pretty sure I’m not nuts. Would a crazy person continue to wear one houseshoe so he doesn’t have to look for it when the other one appears? Or, would he protect his favorite spoons by hiding them inside an empty box of Wheat Chex? I think not.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s review of Wang's Asian Fusion Restaurant, click on pic below.

You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Babysitting the Shaner

"Birds, bubbles and Shane"


ROOFTOP – I think we may be rushing this autumn thing a bit. It’s still too hot to be up here. We’re looking at 84 degrees with a hot breeze. And, if that’s not a line in a Country Western song, it oughtta be.

I’m just surprised you followed me up here. Figured you for more sense. Loyal, that’s what you are. Loyal with a touch of odd.

At least you didn’t bring coffee with you. Can you believe this? This is my second cup of the morning. Sweating like a Lebanese sumo wrestler, and drinking coffee. Jill has been trying to get me interested in iced coffee. It makes no sense to me. If coffee were meant to be consumed cold, they would have called it Java-ade.

I thought we’d face the front yard this morning. Hope you don’t mind. It was a little shadier on this portion of the roof. The big oak will likely obscure us from any passing motorists. Let’s hope.

Speaking of all the birds, someone told me the other day that hummingbirds will eventually settle down and share the feeder. I can’t see hummingbirds sharing anything. One will sit down and just dare another to sit on one of the three vacant stoops. Chases off anything that attempts to hover. I just wanna slap ‘em.

When the oriole wants to visit, the hummingbirds don’t pester it. I’m fairly sure it’s from Maryland. I thought it odd the first time I saw the bird balance on the tiny hummingbird feeder. I seldom see any orioles around here. I had no idea they liked sugar water. We’ve got the birdbath down there, but they occasionally like to hit the sweet stuff. Reminds me of me.

Oh, and speaking of Kay reminds me that we had to baby sit Virginia and Freeman’s great grandson last week. Shane is, what… almost a year old? He can’t walk, he’s not crazy about crawling, but he likes to bounce. When you stand him up, he bounces like Tigger on speed.

If you lay him on his back, he kicks and punches the air like he wants to bounce in space. It’s best not to try to tummy-gum an air-bouncer. Look at my nose. I think he broke it. Strange lad. Grins and giggles like a Ukrainian drunk. (I don’t know where that came from.)

Other than the facial breakage threat, the other aggravating thing about the kid is that he doesn’t like to nap even when he’s half asleep. And, he always likes to be with someone. He even enjoys MY company. What an idiot. But, he much prefers his Aunt Kay. She threw a blanket in the backyard, put Shane down on it and started playing with one of her many bubble making mixtures. Kay’s pretty much a bubble freak. I had no idea when I married her.

So, she blew bubbles at Shane and the kid would giggle and try to focus on one while dozens of ‘em were popping on his noggin. Kids are just nuts.

I don’t care to spread this around, but I halfway enjoyed Shane’s stay. The first couple of hours anyway. And, I do think it was a little too hot for me to be outside with him. Fortunately, Kay put some water in a spray bottle and sprayed us with it. I think I giggled as much as the kid did. I even started bouncing.

I wish I had thought to bring the spray bottle to the roof. I’m melting. Just look at me. Tell you what, let’s get off this metal furnace, get in the house, lose the coffee and hit the Dr Pepper. The ol’ sugar water. I think I’ve got some oriole in me.

Oh, and watch your step, people. When it gets cooler we’re gonna want to do this again. So, if you fall and break something, I’m sure not hauling your rear up here next time. Loyalty counts for just so much.

END

Watch Brad and Mark’s latest restaurant review clicking on photo below.

 You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

36 days until completion

Dad and Mom on left. Uncle A.B. and Aunt Bertha on right

“Favorite age”

    How old would you like to be? Would you care to go back to the puberty? Was that a lot of fun for you? How about the mid-twenties? How would that work?

    That’s what Brad asked me the other day. Brad is the local restaurant critic and reporter. Brad Meyer? Big guy? Mean? By the way, I want to thank those of you who commented on Facebook and by e-mail asking Brad to be nicer to me. It didn’t help a bit, but I appreciate the support.

    Anyway, I was driving us back from our latest restaurant experience when Brad asked what age I wanted to be. His question made me think about how much time I spend with the guy. Next to Kay, I talk to Brad Meyer more than anybody else in the realm of Mark. That just scares the willies out of me.

    The Plilers don’t have as much time for us anymore, ‘cause they’re with grandkids. You can never really assess the true value of one’s friendship until they have grandkids. I think William James said that. Or William Tell. One of the Williams.

    Point is, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Brad. Way too much time. Fortunately, he seldom says anything to me that requires a great deal of thought. So, you can see why I was genuinely surprised when he asked what my favorite age would be.

    Unfortunately, I spent too long thinking of my response. A nanosecond after asking the question, Brad started telling me his favorite age. Seems like it was 27. I wasn’t listening all that much. 

    Instead, I started thinking about my current age. It’s been on my mind quite a bit since my last birthday.. My 23rd, 33rd, 53rd and 62nd birthdays hit me hard. When I was a kid I thought that at the age of 23 I’d have everything figured out. I’d be smart, wise and on top of stuff. Instead, I was as confused as ever.

    At 33 I realized I had to get a move on, ‘cause time was really running out on me. At 53, time had run out on me. And, at my last birthday, 62, I realized that in late November I’d be as old as my dad was when he died.

    Dad died one year after taking disability retirement from Crown Refinery. I think it was the happiest year of his life. He and Mom did a little traveling, went out on dates, and spent a lot of time with their kids.

     We thought Dad just had minor heart trouble, and would be with us for many more years. One day in late March, while most of my siblings were visiting Big Al and me in Conroe, we got a call from Mom telling us to come to the hospital in Pasadena. Dad was gone by the time we got there. 

    That’s what I was thinking of when Brad was telling me his favorite age to be. I never told him how old I wanted to be, but I’m still glad he asked the question. It reminded of one of my goals. It was just over 15 months ago that I began writing a book about my life with Dad. Originally, my goal was to finish it by Christmas. Last Christmas. But, my lack of writing discipline forced me to move the deadline up to late November. November 18th, to be exact. That’s the day I’ll be exactly Dad’s age when he died. I had to do some serious math.

    I’ve completed 19 chapters of the book and have about six to go. I haven’t written on it for three weeks now. I’ve gotta get busy. Thanks to Brad’s unintentional prodding, I am now going to build a fire under my rear and finish the thing.

    I guess at some point I’ll get Brad to repeat his story about his favorite age. I’m not sure if he was telling me he liked being 27, or just wanted to go back and change some stuff he did at 27. While being 27 didn’t do much for Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison , Amy Winehouse and a host of others, it was probably a real gas for Brad. Just a guess.

    By the by, you can find the work in progress by logging onto www.rooftopwriter.com. Or you can wait till November 18, and read the entire thing. Unless Brad does something to really discourage me, I plan to be finished by then. 

END

To view Brad and Mark’s latest review of Guadalajara Hacienda and Grill click on picture.