neutrinos

A wonderment of science

I’ve always enjoyed science. I was the only Hayter kid to ever ask Santa for a microscope, telescope and chemistry set. Santa doled ‘em out to me over a period of about eight Christmases.

With the chemistry set, I learned to turn water blue. That’s about it. The telescope had trouble locating the moon. The microscope had three separate lenses. Only the lowest power lens worked. It was great, too. The things I found crawling around on grass and twigs and leaves would scare you to death. No telling how many tiny worms I ingested in my childhood.

Oh yeah, back to bragging --I was also the only Hayter kid to ever make a barometer. I’ll try to work that piece of information into the article’s ending. Barometer. Not sure it’s possible.

Regardless, with my obvious interest in science, one would think I would now be a scientist. Well, life is a rocky road, my friend. Too soon, I discovered that it takes more than an interest in science to pass physics. It wasn’t that I was dumb. I was smart as a nail. Unfortunately, in order to pass chemistry and physics you have to know a lot of math. I’m good at adding and multiplying; stuff like that, but there is some other stuff in math that is really complicated.

At any rate, I never lost interest in science. In fact I recently read an entire article about two guys who won the Nobel Prize in Physics. It was a long article, too. The winners were Takaaki Kajita of Poland and Arthur McDonald from Canada. -- Take that back. Takaaki is from Japan. McDonald is still a Canadian.

The gentlemen managed to prove something of which I knew nothing. So surprising. Instead of just coming out and telling you what they discovered, let me milk this a bit. I don’t know if you’re aware, but every second we are bombarded by trillions of neutrinos. Duck! Here comes another 10 trillion.

When a neutrinos hit you, they don’t stick around to fester. In fact, the things go right through you, and then continue on their way through the earth. They’re able to penetrate stuff, because they’re pretty much nothing. At least that’s what scientists thought before the Canadian and Pole came along. I mean Canadian and Japanese physicists.

McDonald and Kajita got the Nobel Prize in Physics because they discovered that neutrinos are more than nothing. They proved that neutrinos actually have mass... substance. Big whoop. That’s what I said when I read it. “Big whoop!” But, it is big because of what neutrinos are. Hold onto your socks.

Neutrinos are what are leftover when energy is spent. After an atomic bomb explosion, or while electricity is turning your fan blade, or lighting your room. Or the energy expended each time your heart beats, or your car engine is running. The biggest source of neutrinos anywhere around here is – drum roll – THE SUN. The sun burns hydrogen at a massive rate, so it’s sending the earth a manure load of neutrinos every second.

This is a picture of the sun taken through the earth
using "neutrino light" with the cameraq lens opened for about a year and a half.
Now, that's scary!

The thing that makes this such a big whoop, is the fact that we now have proof that energy doesn’t disappear when it’s through energizing. Its power becomes neutralized. It’s still a particle. I just has not power.

That’s where it got its name. Remember Enrico Fermi? Well, some of his grandkids do. He was an Italian physicist who worked on splitting atoms. When he mathematically proved the existence of neutrinos, he named them neutrinos, which is Italian for “Little Neutral Ones.” Isn’t that cute?

And do you know what else the Canadian and Japanese physicists proved? There are three types of neutrinos, and the guys discovered that each type of neutrino can switch back and forth to each of the other types. That means absolutely nothing to me, but I’ll bet there are people in this world who can take that info and do something with it. Like make an invisible man or shape-shifter, or a band aid that will actually stay stuck to your finger.

All of this is going to lead to something. Einstein and a few other smart people theorized, that all of the mass and energy in the universe has not increased or depleted one iota since creation. Mac and Kaj PROVED that energy has substance even after its power is sapped… and according to Einstein, mass can make energy. So, as energy burns up, mass still exists to make more energy. (Wow. For a second I almost understood that.)

Isn’t science a wonderment? I think if I had had just bit more encouragement in school, I could’ve become a scientist. In the fourth grade, we were assigned a science project. While other kids parents were making volcanoes and simulating earthquakes, I made a barometer out of a milk bottle, a balloon and a straw. And, get this, I didn’t even know what a barometer was. Not just anybody can do that. (There for a minute I didn’t think I could stick the barometer back into this thing. What did I tell you? Smart as a nail.)

end

Butterfly exlosion

Exiled to the roof

Netted basket filled with green chrysalises

ROOFTOP – What a day it’s been. And, you wanna know something? It’s not over. Not by a long shot.

You might notice that there are no exclamation marks in that intro. That’s ‘cause we’re supposed to be quiet up here this evening, while the birthing process takes place in the house. I was getting way too demonstrative to suit Kay. Her word – demonstrative. I don’t even think it’s the right word.

You may know me well enough to realize I’m not talking about birthing a real baby. That usually happens on the carport. No, it’s butterfly hatching that’s going on inside the house. Kay gets way too protective of her butterfly collection. She received the current collection of caterpillars from the same girl who gave us our first monarch caterpillar. Shannon. On this occasion, Shannon gave Kay 16 caterpillars. Shannon thought she could spare them, ‘cause she still has over fifty… inside her house! (Opps. I raised my voice.)

Each caterpillar in Kay’s collection entered the chrysalis stage about 10 days ago. Today, six of ‘em hatched. Not a boy among ‘em. I helped Kay take the first one outside. That’s when I apparently got too “demonstrative” for her. She can’t tolerate excessive demonstrativeness.

I’ve christened each of the newborns. Thus far, we’ve had Bookey, Cuepie, Dolchifina, Elsie, Fatima and Gertrude. All but Fatima are Protestants. I only got to see phone photos of them, ‘cause of my behavior… as if my being “demonstrative” is going to ruin the lives of a half dozen butterflies.

The remaining nine chrysalises (chrysali?) are getting darker, so they may hatch tomorrow. All but two of ‘em are camped inside an upside-down webbed basket. (That is the first appearance of that sentence in any language.) Two of the nine caterpillars escaped the netting. One formed a chrysalis on the underside of a shelf. The other roosted on the underside of one of the mini-blinds. What an idiot! It may well be our only boy.

For the purpose of shaming me, Kay enlisted the help of Michael, the kid next door, to help her release the last hatched. She told me that Michael was very gentle with the newborn. Like Michael is better than me. Why don’t you just knee me in the nards? -- Scratch that. Kay does not favor my use of testicular slang.  That’s what she said, “I do not favor…” La tee dah.

So, after that blow by blow account, you’ve probably guessed that I’ve been on the roof a good while. Butterflies don’t just appear and then fly off, you know. They’ve got to hang around until their butterfly-hearts pump enough butterfly-blood to their wings inorder to give them rigidities. (I’m pretty sure that’s a word, ‘cause spell-check let it slide. Rigidities.)

Kay took Beverly out too early. The poor thing slowly crawled from Kay’s finger to a milkweed plant. It was my idea for the early release. I was eager to get the show on the road. It was shortly after that I decided to hide up here. Can’t get into any trouble up here with you guys.

So, here we sit. Instead of witnessing the wonders of butterfly birth, we’re sitting up here on this metal roof somewhere between a kitchen vent and the satellite dish.

Speaking of which, what do you do with a satellite dish after you quit using it? DISH network never brought the subject up when we cancelled our service. It may have been an oversight… making me fear to remove the thing, I’ll probably get visited by two guys with black suits and dark sunglasses. “Okay, Mac, we can do this the hard way, or you can just tell us what you did with the dish.” The word “torture” would be thrown around a time or two.

Truth is, I’d have to give Kay up. I just do not do well under torture. Even the thought of torture. – “Oh, yeah, it was my wife. I begged her not to do it. But nooooo. She told me to get out of her way and quit being demonstrative.”

I don’t know if we’re sophisticated enough to possess a satellite dish. I have seen houses that still have those gigantic dishes, like the ones used around Hanger 51. The kind that can receive signals from the Zeta Prostatis Galaxy. The big dishes won’t receive TV signals anymore. Probably. But, they are great leaf catchers. Surely there’s some parts of the monstrosities that can be salvaged.

But then, what do I know about salvage? I can’t even salvage my image as head-of-the-house. I’m up here on the roof with you guys, ‘cause I apparently know nothing about birthing butterflies. I’ll have her know that I was the midwife of Annette, our firstborn monarch. Where was Kay during that birthing process? Out of town! (Oops. We’re yelling again. Hold it down, would you?)

I hope you realize I’m joking about not being the man of the house. Pretty much joking. Somewhat joking. I’m in charge, all right. But, I’ve found it best to pick my battles. I don’t mind giving in on this one, ‘cause the battle coming up involves the possible cancellation of HBO.

Kay thinks it’s ridiculous for us to pay $20 a month just so I can watch six episodes of “Game of Thrones” each year. I hate it when she uses logic against me. It boggles the mind how much this girl has advanced under my tutelage. Just makes me want to weep.

end
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Acting mean

I'm not a lecherous old man, and Al's not a preacher, but we play 'em in "Palliate."

I’m sure you would agree that I’m a really nice guy. I can see many of you nodding in

agreement at this very moment. “Nice” is the third best image to project. “Nice and buff” is the best.

Acting nice has come easy for me, because I’ve had such a sheltered life. When I was growing up, Mom dragged us to church twice on Sundays and once every Wednesday night. Yes, that caused me to miss the most epic TV programming ever, but it did make me to appear nice.

The Hayter kids were raised by a hard-working dad and a mother who stayed home caring for us. Part of the “caring” involved a lot of yelling and spanking. If we had been the only neighborhood kids who got spanked, we would’ve turned out so less nice.

At no time did I consider smoking, drinking, carousing or cussing. I think I frolicked once. I might’ve done that. Regardless, I was such a clean-cut person that while working my way through college at a factory, I was teased for being so square… so innocent. It was my first encounter with “raunchy” adults.

I absolutely hated the job. The only thing that made it bearable was the camaraderie with those raunchy men. Their teasing was good-natured, their work ethic admirable, and their thoughtfulness genuine. I didn’t pick up any of their bad language, but I did laugh at some of their crude jokes. There are some jokes, the humor of which, supersede all bounds of propriety. I’m not sure what that means, but it just might justify my reaction to the bawdy jokes.

The work experience left me a tad less naive. I did maintain my niceness, though. That’s very important. In fact, I can think of only two areas where being nice is not helpful. That is in writing and acting.

While writing fiction, I’ve always made my main characters out to be prime examples of morality; and the bad people to be really bad, without cursing. They can murder, pillage and plunder as long as they don’t curse. In other words, I have trouble making my characters real.

The same with acting. I don’t want a role where I have to cuss a lot. I would gladly play a mobster or a serial killer, but I don’t want to be a bad guy who cusses. While it’s only acceptable to be a murderer in a film if you don’t curse while you’re killing someone. That’s because, if you play a character who cusses, the actor must cuss. Easy to separate an actor from the role of murderer, but much harder to separate the actor from a character who swears.

With that in mind, I recently accepted a role as a lecherous, selfish, beer drinking old man who swears a lot. The theme is a good one, though. Something about the plight of caregivers who must take care of cantankerous parents. The director and writer of the script is someone I’ve worked with before. That being said, I’m sure I wasn’t his first choice for the role.

In order to preserve the semblance of niceness, I refused to say any of the “major” curse words. Regardless, my character was a real jerk, who possessed no redeeming quality. At first, it was difficult for me to deliver my lines in convincing manner. But, as time wore on, I got into character and it became less difficult.

And, speaking of beer, I’ve always hated the stuff. The smell was almost as bad as the taste. But, by the time scene 24 ended, I didn’t hate it anymore. I didn’t like it, but I managed to drink it without making a face. In total, I swallowed about a half can of lite beer. I got so tipsy.

My kid brother also had a part in the film. It was Al’s second role as a preacher. I’ve never visualized him as a preacher, but at least two casting directors have.

In his scene, Al was supposed to deliver a short fire-and-brimstone sermon. He was playing the stereotypical, hypocritical preacher who sermonized everyone straight to hell. Well, Al ended up writing his own sermon, and he changed it a bit. He stood in front of the congregation and talked about grace and love and seeking help from God. He even had tears in his eyes at one point.

One of the actors, sitting near me during the sermon, was supposed to appear angered at the preacher. However, after the scene, she told me that she started listening to Al and almost lost sight of the scene. The director even liked Al’s delivery. You see, my kid brother took the opportunity to change his character in a way that, I believe, improved the scene. Mom would’ve given him a big ol’ hug… and she would’ve spanked me.

I grew some as an actor as a result of playing such a jerk. And, I shed a little more of my naivete. Regardless, the filming is complete. All that’s left is the editing. The director hopes to enter “Palliate” at the South by Southwest Festival in Austin.

Realizing that you can make nearly anything sound justifiable, let me say that in scripture we read about some vile occurrences caused by both evil and godly people. God, being God, used honesty in the conveyance of His message. While my character was far removed from morality, he was crucial to the message of the film. That means something to me… but it would in no way keep Mom from giving me a spankin’. It was nearly impossible to justify bad behavior to Elsie.

end

mark@rooftopwriter.com

Jill's bicycle

It's a start -- Whatta start! -- Here's your ears!..  

Last time Jill visited she told me she wanted to buy a bicycle. “One of those three wheelers,” she said.  A three wheeler bicycle would be safer and it has big basket for carrying neat stuff.

 Right from the get-go I got on her bad side. I informed her that a three-wheeler is a tricycle not a bicycle; and that the difference can be determined by the numerical prefix.  Jill called me Mr. Smartypants, and then asked me what you call a bicycle with training wheels. I took that as a sign to get off the topic of wheels.

I kept waiting for Jill to solicit my advice about a bike purchase, but she never did. She kept going on and on about how a new bicycle might be the answer she was looking for. That’s when asked her what the question was that the bicycle might answer. In other words, “Why do you want a bicycle?”

Jill told that she was at a place in her life where she was so bored and lonely. She thought a bicycle might chase away her blues. In other words, she was seeking psychological help from something with a seat and handlebars.

That’s the moment I decided to tell my kid sister the fourth stupidest thing you can ever tell a lonely and bored person. I said, “Jill, loneliness and boredom are not where you are; it’s who you are.” (That’s coming from a guy who could write a book about being bored and lonely.)

Jill came very close to telling me, not WHO I was; but WHAT I was. Boy, did I deserve it. I tried to smooth things over by telling her that I was just trying to get her not to place a great deal of faith in a bicycle being a cure-all.

The good thing about Jill and me is that we don’t hold a grudge for over a week or two. It was right at a week later that Jill called to tell me about her new bicycle. My advice meant nothing to her. In fact, I think it drove her right into the front door of the bicycle store.

As of that moment, I can now say with all confidence that there is no one on this planet who gives two hoots about my advice. Kay still listens to my advice, but she wouldn’t take it if I paid her to. Al won’t even listen to my advice. Virginia would try to make gravy in a coke bottle if I advised her not to.

But, Jill? Jill used to ask me for advice all the time. Not about important stuff, you understand. Stuff like when to change the air filter on your air conditioner; and how you’re not supposed to buy the air conditioner filters made of fiberglass that are so porous you can stick a Popsicle stick through the gaps. And, how you’re supposed to hit the bottom of the pickle jar before trying to open it. Things like that.

But, she will no longer seek my advice. She says she just wants me to be a listener. If she wants to do something I don’t need to make suggestions. If she gets depressed, I don’t need to try to build her up. Don’t talk; just listen.

Ouch. That’s what I’ve been relegated to – the role of silent listener. What a kick in the tenders. That’s what it felt like when I first realized no one wanted to seek my advice. But, in a very short while – about three days – I discovered the relief associated with not being responsible for advice given. It’s like not having to roll up the hose. (Not really, but that came to mind.)

Now, when someone starts telling me about a problem, all I have to do is act like I’m listening.  And, as I get older, I won’t even have to act. Old people can get away with rudeness. – “Look, Shirtstain, your quest for someone who gives a hoot is not yet complete.”

I’m finally at peace with myself. Not with other people. People drive me nuts. But, I have inner peace, ‘cause my advice counts for bat guano.  People can marry the wrong spouse, spoil their kids rotten, open a jar of pickles all wrong… Doesn’t affect me ‘cause I’ve been decommissioned.

To tell the truth, I’m glad Jill bought a bicycle. She e-mailed me a picture of the thing, and it looks cool. Fortunately, it’s a two-wheeler, but only because the big tricycle cost a fortune. Oh, and her bike is baby-blue, with blue rims, a blue and white plaid seat, blue handle bars, yellow spokes, and a blue reed basket. Oh, and it’s a girl’s bike… a real dude magnet.

 Jill told me that when she was riding at the park, a kid yelled at her, “Hey! That’s a girl’s bike!” Jill smiled and nodded. Had she not been in a good mood, she would’ve ridden over and pushed the little snot down. That’s a sign that the bicycle might be improving Jill’s outlook.

The only bad thing I can see in all this is the fact that, now, Kay wants a bicycle. Or as I call it, “a garden hose holder with a seat.” And, do you think she has even pretended to care about my thoughts on the subject? -- You should be shaking your head right now. – Next time.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com

September roofsit

An epiphany... I think.

ROOFTOP – Did any of you notice how clean the siding of the house is? Well, by the time we’re through here, it’ll be too dark for you to see it, so climb down and take a look now. -- Yes, I’m joking. Sit back down. Don’t get me wrong, the siding looks great, but it’s not worth a double descent. Some of you haven’t fully recovered from your climb up here.

  Okay, back to the siding. Monday, a guy who works for a pressure-washing company came out and sprayed the daylights out of this place. Used an Eco-friendly brown oily stuff. In fact, I think that was the name of it. With oily stuff, algae is supposed to stay off the siding for seven years. And, the spray won’t kill the grass, the flowers or harm the neighbor’s cats. Shoot.

I signed up for a $100 spray job, but ended up paying more for Eco-friendliness and window spraying and porch-post-mildew-killing and for telephone line sagging. It’s the ol’ bait and switch thing. For what the job ended up costing me, I could have purchased my own spray washer and had Kay do the job.

But, let’s forget that. I’m sorry you even brought it up. We’re up here tonight to ponder, not to gripe. Some of you may have to remind me of that a time or two, ‘cause I tend to wander when I ponder. – What?

What’s been monopolizing my brain of late is something quite aggravating. But, I’m not griping about it, you understand? It’s just the thought that if I could remember half of the stuff I know, I’d be the smartest person up here.

Every single day I pack in a bunch of information. I’ve seen dozens… billions of documentaries about space, nature, history, math, uh… stuff. But, I can’t remember a fraction of what I know. It’s up there, all right; I just don’t know the password to bring it down. It’s like a joke. I’ll it hear it one minute and forget it the next. Just chaps my chapables.

A couple of you may recall an article I wrote about a conversation I had with Kay’s brother, Mike, a couple of years back. Actually, it was more of a lecture than a conversation. Mike was pontificating about the universe. The guy has a Masters Degree in Physics and Math. And, he’s blind! He has to keep all of the equations and theorems in his mind, ‘cause he can’t see ‘em written out.  He’s the smartest guy I know. I could just slap him.

Anyway, Mike was sitting across the kitchen table from me talking about the possibilities of us having more than just five senses. Say, 18. And we’re living in a place with 30 different dimensions. I was making all kinds faces at Mike while he was explaining this to me, because he was talking way over my head. And, because he couldn’t see me doing it. By the way, he’s got a great sense of humor.

But, at one point I quit making faces and started listening. That’s when I had an epiphany. You know, something that, uh, hits you that, uh…? Well, I don’t know what it is, but I had one. I latched onto that thought for about two seconds. Then it was gone.

But, for a moment, I understood the mysteries of faith, hope, fear, life, and spirituality. All the important stuff. And, I wasn’t on drugs. I was taking medication for gout, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the vanishing epiphany. The pills don’t even have much to do with my gout.

 Regardless, the brief realization that captured my mind is somewhere in my brain just waiting to be called to memory. The only way it’s going to resurface is when I’m falling off a cliff and seeing my life flash before my eyes. I have every confidence that’ll meet the ground just before the epiphany shows itself.

  So, that’s why I’m up here cogitating. Just trying to get a grip on things. Not a gripe; a grip. But, I’m also up here so I can apologize to monarch butterflies everywhere. I don’t see any at the moment, but they’re probably listening. Some of you may remember an article where I insulted monarch butterflies for being too selective in what they eat? They only eat milkweed. I hinted that that was the reason they’re numbers are down.

Well, I saw one of those nature shows yesterday, and learned that milkweed contains a toxin that doesn’t hurt monarch caterpillars, but it makes them taste terrible to predators. Sickening, even. Lizards, birds and snakes won’t eat monarchs. Polar bears can take ‘em or leave ‘em.

What I considered to be a factor in the near-eradication of monarchs, is actually something that’s kept them alive for centuries. If mama monarchs laid their eggs on the leaves of just any plant, the caterpillars would taste better and geckos would eat ‘em up. Vile-looking creatures, you ask me.

So, I now apologize to monarch butterflies for insulting them, and I apologize to their Maker for questioning His reasons for milkweed. I still don’t understand the purpose of lovebugs, but their place in the food chain is likely responsible for the preservation of orcas. --  I’m pretty sure all of that was covered in my epiphany… not that it’s doing me any good.  -- Next time.

end 

mark@rooftopwriter.com

Maybe Lost Maples

“Trip Planning”

Kay and I are going on a trip this fall, and it doesn’t matter what I say. That’s a good indication that at some point this fall I will be spending a couple nights in a bed other than my own.

I can deal with that. I HAVE dealt with that. I’ve slept in many a bed not my own. (I’ll revisit that statement later and probably edit it out.) Back in 1970, Fred Musgrove and I once spent the night in $6-a-night hotel in downtown Winnfield, Louisiana. We would’ve gotten separate rooms, but were too scared to room alone.

When we checked in, we were checked over by about 15 guys in the lobby who had 38 teeth among ‘em. I think they were curious by the fact that we were both wearing shirts. Truth is, we were doing some forestry research for SFA, and had spent all but $10 of our daily per diem on meals.

The restroom for the entire third floor of the hotel was about five doors down..  Speaking of doors, ours would not shut nor lock. Musgrove managed to wedge a chair against it. It was about 90 degrees in the fanless room, and we slept fully clothed atop the bedspread. Other than the heat and the smell, the only other disturbance came at around 3:00 a.m. when the ghost of Huey P. Long appeared in the corner of the room. I lost a lot of respect for Governor Long that night.

I brought up this story because it was related to sleeping in a different locale. It had nothing to do with the notion that Kay and I might visit Winnfield, Lousiana this fall. That’s not happening no matter what Kay says.

Point is, we don’t know where we’re going. Kay keeps mentioning a trip to Lost Maples State Natural Area. I thought it was a State Park, but it’s officially called a “Natural Area.” I’m assuming they changed the name after managing to clear out all of the unnatural stuff from the Park.

The Lost Maples aren’t really lost, you understand? They’re about eight miles north of Vanderpool. The only thing lost out there is the area north of Lost Maples. You’ll see next to nothing for the next 200 miles to Abilene.

To stay over night in the area of Lost Maples, I think you have to either camp out or rent a cabin near Vanderpool that has beds made out of cow horns. You ask me, “rustic” is not much of a draw. I was born and raised in rustic. And, I experienced the epitome of rustic while in Winnfield, LA. (See above.)

Lost Maples may be the best place for us. I just don’t know. Kay and I have been all over Texas. Other than the misplaced maples, I doubt there’s anything we haven’t seen in this state. I take that back. This evening we met some friends for a burger at JAX over on College Park. During our—What? Yes it was a good burger. May I continue?

During our two-hour visit, our friends mentioned the Five Painted Churches of Schulenburg. (The town name has several pronunciations. The most accurate I’ve found is “Shoe-limb-bursitis.” The very reason I didn’t take German in High School.) Kay and I have passed through Schulenberg more than once. We never spent a great deal of time looking at painted church buildings, though, ‘cause we just assumed ALL of them were painted. You see one painted church, you’ve seen ‘em all.

When we got home from the good burger place, I googled “Painted Churches.” (That’s a crime in most states.) Anyway, I discovered that practically all of the church buildings in Shoe Town are painted. It’s just that five of them are spectacularly ornate. Definitely worth seeing. So, there’s a chance we could visit both the Painted Churches and the Lost Maples in one trip. That way we’ll circumvent Winnfield, LA altogether.

You wanna know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy. Jill is also taking a Texas vacation this fall, and she’s going by herself. She enjoys travelling alone. Jill can stop anywhere she wants. She doesn’t have to argue over where to eat or what to see. And, she can get lost without yelling at herself. In fact, Jill told me that getting lost is part of the fun of a trip. Is it any wonder I love my sister?

Jill has had her route mapped out since February. Among her stops will be Cedar Creek, where she’ll see Ms. Pearl the Giant Squirrel. She’ll go to Elroy to see the giant smiley-face water tower. She plans to see a giant spider sculpture in Austin and an eight-acre corn maze in Rocky Creek. They even have a corn cannon. I’ve never seen a corn cannon. And, I’m sure I’ll be able to repeat that fact on my deathbed.

I used to plan trips pretty much the way Jill does. Somewhere down the line, I discovered that the actual trip never measured up to the planning. To keep from any further disappointment, I let Kay plan our trips. So far, she doesn’t know when we’re going or exactly where we’re going… just that we’re going. Lost Maples, Schulemberg, Pancake, Texas (Population 11)…

I’m leaning toward Pancake on a Friday night. I’m curious to see their high school marching band. – Next time.

end 

mark@rooftopwriter.com